Little Dorrit

LITTLE DORRIT

By Charles Dickens

CONTENTS

Preface to the 1857 Edition

BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY

1. Sun and Shadow
2. Fellow Travellers
3. Home
4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream
5. Family Affairs
6. The Father of the Marshalsea
7. The Child of the Marshalsea
8. The Lock
9. little Mother
10. Containing the whole Science of Government
11. Let Loose
12. Bleeding Heart Yard
13. Patriarchal
14. Little Dorrit’s Party
15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream
16. Nobody’s Weakness
17. Nobody’s Rival
18. Little Dorrit’s Lover
19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations
20. Moving in Society
21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint
22. A Puzzle
23. Machinery in Motion
24. Fortune-Telling
25. Conspirators and Others
26. Nobody’s State of Mind
27. Five-and-Twenty
28. Nobody’s Disappearance
29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming
30. The Word of a Gentleman
31. Spirit
32. More Fortune-Telling
33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint
34. A Shoal of Barnacles
35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand
36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES

1. Fellow Travellers
2. Mrs General
3. On the Road
4. A Letter from Little Dorrit
5. Something Wrong Somewhere
6. Something Right Somewhere
7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism
8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’
9. Appearance and Disappearance
10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken
11. A Letter from Little Dorrit
12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden
13. The Progress of an Epidemic
14. Taking Advice
15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons should not be joined together
16. Getting on
17. Missing
18. A Castle in the Air
19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air
20. Introduces the next
21. The History of a Self-Tormentor
22. Who Passes by this Road so late?
23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise, respecting her Dreams
24. The Evening of a Long Day
25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office
26. Reaping the Whirlwind
27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea
28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea
29. A Plea in the Marshalsea
30. Closing in
31. Closed
32. Going
33. Going!
34. Gone

PREFACE TO THE 1857 EDITION

I have been occupied with this story, during many working hours of two years. I must have been very ill employed, if I could not leave its merits and demerits as a whole, to express themselves on its being read as a whole. But, as it is not unreasonable to suppose that I may have held its threads with a more continuous attention than anyone else can have given them during its desultory publication, it is not unreasonable to ask that the weaving may be looked at in its completed state, and with the pattern finished.

If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention the unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good manners, in the days of a Russian war, and of a Court of Inquiry at Chelsea. If I might make so bold as to defend that extravagant conception, Mr Merdle, I would hint that it originated after the Railroad-share epoch, in the times of a certain Irish bank, and of one or two other equally laudable enterprises. If I were to plead anything in mitigation of the preposterous fancy that a bad design will sometimes claim to be a good and an expressly religious design, it would be the curious coincidence that it has been brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of the public examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But, I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these counts, if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority) that nothing like them was ever known in this land.

Some of my readers may have an interest in being informed whether or no any portions of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I did not know, myself, until the sixth of this present month, when I went to look. I found the outer front courtyard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and I then almost gave up every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering, however, down a certain adjacent ‘Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey’, I came to ‘Marshalsea Place:’ the houses in which I recognised, not only as the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that arose in my mind’s-eye when I became Little Dorrit’s biographer. The smallest boy I ever conversed with, carrying the largest baby I ever saw, offered a supernaturally intelligent explanation of the locality in its old uses, and was very nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I judge him to be) came by his information, I don’t know; he was a quarter of a century too young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed to the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her father lived so long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who tenanted that apartment at present? He said, ‘Tom Pythick.’ I asked him who was Tom Pythick? and he said, ‘Joe Pythick’s uncle.’

A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used to enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very paving-stones of the extinct Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard to the right and to the left, very little altered if at all, except that the walls were lowered when the place got free; will look upon rooms in which the debtors lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of many miserable years.

In the Preface to Bleak House I remarked that I had never had so many readers. In the Preface to its next successor, Little Dorrit, I have still to repeat the same words. Deeply sensible of the affection and confidence that have grown up between us, I add to this Preface, as I added to that, May we meet again!

London May 1857

BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY

CHAPTER 1. Sun and Shadow

Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.

A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France then, than at any other time, before or since. Everything in Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.

There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbour, or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demarcation between the two colours, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not pass; but it lay as quiet as the abominable pool, with which it never mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or day, for months. Hindoos, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade at Marseilles, sought the shade alike—taking refuge in any hiding-place from a sea too intensely blue to be looked at, and a sky of purple, set with one great flaming jewel of fire.

The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hill-side, stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted labourers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew, was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.

Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to keep out the stare. Grant it but a chink or keyhole, and it shot in like a white-hot arrow. The churches were the freest from it. To come out of the twilight of pillars and arches—dreamily dotted with winking lamps, dreamily peopled with ugly old shadows piously dozing, spitting, and begging—was to plunge into a fiery river, and swim for life to the nearest strip of shade. So, with people lounging and lying wherever shade was, with but little hum of tongues or barking of dogs, with occasional jangling of discordant church bells and rattling of vicious drums, Marseilles, a fact to be strongly smelt and tasted, lay broiling in the sun one day.

In Marseilles that day there was a villainous prison. In one of its chambers, so repulsive a place that even the obtrusive stare blinked at it, and left it to such refuse of reflected light as it could find for itself, were two men. Besides the two men, a notched and disfigured bench, immovable from the wall, with a draught-board rudely hacked upon it with a knife, a set of draughts, made of old buttons and soup bones, a set of dominoes, two mats, and two or three wine bottles. That was all the chamber held, exclusive of rats and other unseen vermin, in addition to the seen vermin, the two men.

It received such light as it got through a grating of iron bars fashioned like a pretty large window, by means of which it could be always inspected from the gloomy staircase on which the grating gave. There was a broad strong ledge of stone to this grating where the bottom of it was let into the masonry, three or four feet above the ground. Upon it, one of the two men lolled, half sitting and half lying, with his knees drawn up, and his feet and shoulders planted against the opposite sides of the aperture. The bars were wide enough apart to admit of his thrusting his arm through to the elbow; and so he held on negligently, for his greater ease.

A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the Indian ocean.

The man who lay on the ledge of the grating was even chilled. He jerked his great cloak more heavily upon him by an impatient movement of one shoulder, and growled, ‘To the devil with this Brigand of a Sun that never shines in here!’

He was waiting to be fed, looking sideways through the bars that he might see the further down the stairs, with much of the expression of a wild beast in similar expectation. But his eyes, too close together, were not so nobly set in his head as those of the king of beasts are in his, and they were sharp rather than bright—pointed weapons with little surface to betray them. They had no depth or change; they glittered, and they opened and shut. So far, and waiving their use to himself, a clockmaker could have made a better pair. He had a hook nose, handsome after its kind, but too high between the eyes by probably just as much as his eyes were too near to one another. For the rest, he was large and tall in frame, had thin lips, where his thick moustache showed them at all, and a quantity of dry hair, of no definable colour, in its shaggy state, but shot with red. The hand with which he held the grating (seamed all over the back with ugly scratches newly healed), was unusually small and plump; would have been unusually white but for the prison grime.

The other man was lying on the stone floor, covered with a coarse brown coat.

‘Get up, pig!’ growled the first. ‘Don’t sleep when I am hungry.’

‘It’s all one, master,’ said the pig, in a submissive manner, and not without cheerfulness; ‘I can wake when I will, I can sleep when I will. It’s all the same.’

As he said it, he rose, shook himself, scratched himself, tied his brown coat loosely round his neck by the sleeves (he had previously used it as a coverlet), and sat down upon the pavement yawning, with his back against the wall opposite to the grating.

‘Say what the hour is,’ grumbled the first man.

‘The mid-day bells will ring—in forty minutes.’ When he made the little pause, he had looked round the prison-room, as if for certain information.

‘You are a clock. How is it that you always know?’

‘How can I say? I always know what the hour is, and where I am. I was brought in here at night, and out of a boat, but I know where I am. See here! Marseilles harbour;’ on his knees on the pavement, mapping it all out with a swarthy forefinger; ‘Toulon (where the galleys are), Spain over there, Algiers over there. Creeping away to the left here, Nice. Round by the Cornice to Genoa. Genoa Mole and Harbour. Quarantine Ground. City there; terrace gardens blushing with the bella donna. Here, Porto Fino. Stand out for Leghorn. Out again for Civita Vecchia, so away to—hey! there’s no room for Naples;’ he had got to the wall by this time; ‘but it’s all one; it’s in there!’

He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and a knife in it.

‘Judge if I come back from Naples as I went! See here, my master! Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, Off Nice (which is in there), Marseilles, you and me. The apartment of the jailer and his keys is where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national razor in its case—the guillotine locked up.’

The other man spat suddenly on the pavement, and gurgled in his throat.

Some lock below gurgled in its throat immediately afterwards, and then a door crashed. Slow steps began ascending the stairs; the prattle of a sweet little voice mingled with the noise they made; and the prison-keeper appeared carrying his daughter, three or four years old, and a basket.

‘How goes the world this forenoon, gentlemen? My little one, you see, going round with me to have a peep at her father’s birds. Fie, then! Look at the birds, my pretty, look at the birds.’

He looked sharply at the birds himself, as he held the child up at the grate, especially at the little bird, whose activity he seemed to mistrust. ‘I have brought your bread, Signor John Baptist,’ said he (they all spoke in French, but the little man was an Italian); ‘and if I might recommend you not to game—’

‘You don’t recommend the master!’ said John Baptist, showing his teeth as he smiled.

‘Oh! but the master wins,’ returned the jailer, with a passing look of no particular liking at the other man, ‘and you lose. It’s quite another thing. You get husky bread and sour drink by it; and he gets sausage of Lyons, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good wine by it. Look at the birds, my pretty!’

‘Poor birds!’ said the child.

The fair little face, touched with divine compassion, as it peeped shrinkingly through the grate, was like an angel’s in the prison. John Baptist rose and moved towards it, as if it had a good attraction for him. The other bird remained as before, except for an impatient glance at the basket.

‘Stay!’ said the jailer, putting his little daughter on the outer ledge of the grate, ‘she shall feed the birds. This big loaf is for Signor John Baptist. We must break it to get it through into the cage. So, there’s a tame bird to kiss the little hand! This sausage in a vine leaf is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—this veal in savoury jelly is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—these three white little loaves are for Monsieur Rigaud. Again, this cheese—again, this wine—again, this tobacco—all for Monsieur Rigaud. Lucky bird!’

The child put all these things between the bars into the soft, Smooth, well-shaped hand, with evident dread—more than once drawing back her own and looking at the man with her fair brow roughened into an expression half of fright and half of anger. Whereas she had put the lump of coarse bread into the swart, scaled, knotted hands of John Baptist (who had scarcely as much nail on his eight fingers and two thumbs as would have made out one for Monsieur Rigaud), with ready confidence; and, when he kissed her hand, had herself passed it caressingly over his face. Monsieur Rigaud, indifferent to this distinction, propitiated the father by laughing and nodding at the daughter as often as she gave him anything; and, so soon as he had all his viands about him in convenient nooks of the ledge on which he rested, began to eat with an appetite.

When Monsieur Rigaud laughed, a change took place in his face, that was more remarkable than prepossessing. His moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache, in a very sinister and cruel manner.

‘There!’ said the jailer, turning his basket upside down to beat the crumbs out, ‘I have expended all the money I received; here is the note of it, and that’s a thing accomplished. Monsieur Rigaud, as I expected yesterday, the President will look for the pleasure of your society at an hour after mid-day, to-day.’

‘To try me, eh?’ said Rigaud, pausing, knife in hand and morsel in mouth.

‘You have said it. To try you.’

‘There is no news for me?’ asked John Baptist, who had begun, contentedly, to munch his bread.

The jailer shrugged his shoulders.

‘Lady of mine! Am I to lie here all my life, my father?’

‘What do I know!’ cried the jailer, turning upon him with southern quickness, and gesticulating with both his hands and all his fingers, as if he were threatening to tear him to pieces. ‘My friend, how is it possible for me to tell how long you are to lie here? What do I know, John Baptist Cavalletto? Death of my life! There are prisoners here sometimes, who are not in such a devil of a hurry to be tried.’

He seemed to glance obliquely at Monsieur Rigaud in this remark; but Monsieur Rigaud had already resumed his meal, though not with quite so quick an appetite as before.

‘Adieu, my birds!’ said the keeper of the prison, taking his pretty child in his arms, and dictating the words with a kiss.

‘Adieu, my birds!’ the pretty child repeated.

Her innocent face looked back so brightly over his shoulder, as he walked away with her, singing her the song of the child’s game:

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine! Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!’

that John Baptist felt it a point of honour to reply at the grate, and in good time and tune, though a little hoarsely:

‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Compagnon de la Majolaine! Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Always gay!’

Which accompanied them so far down the few steep stairs, that the prison-keeper had to stop at last for his little daughter to hear the song out, and repeat the Refrain while they were yet in sight. Then the child’s head disappeared, and the prison-keeper’s head disappeared, but the little voice prolonged the strain until the door clashed.

Monsieur Rigaud, finding the listening John Baptist in his way before the echoes had ceased (even the echoes were the weaker for imprisonment, and seemed to lag), reminded him with a push of his foot that he had better resume his own darker place. The little man sat down again upon the pavement with the negligent ease of one who was thoroughly accustomed to pavements; and placing three hunks of coarse bread before himself, and falling to upon a fourth, began contentedly to work his way through them as if to clear them off were a sort of game.

Perhaps he glanced at the Lyons sausage, and perhaps he glanced at the veal in savoury jelly, but they were not there long, to make his mouth water; Monsieur Rigaud soon dispatched them, in spite of the president and tribunal, and proceeded to suck his fingers as clean as he could, and to wipe them on his vine leaves. Then, as he paused in his drink to contemplate his fellow-prisoner, his moustache went up, and his nose came down.

‘How do you find the bread?’

‘A little dry, but I have my old sauce here,’ returned John Baptist, holding up his knife.

‘How sauce?’

‘I can cut my bread so—like a melon. Or so—like an omelette. Or so—like a fried fish. Or so—like Lyons sausage,’ said John Baptist, demonstrating the various cuts on the bread he held, and soberly chewing what he had in his mouth.

‘Here!’ cried Monsieur Rigaud. ‘You may drink. You may finish this.’

It was no great gift, for there was mighty little wine left; but Signor Cavalletto, jumping to his feet, received the bottle gratefully, turned it upside down at his mouth, and smacked his lips.

‘Put the bottle by with the rest,’ said Rigaud.

The little man obeyed his orders, and stood ready to give him a lighted match; for he was now rolling his tobacco into cigarettes by the aid of little squares of paper which had been brought in with it.

‘Here! You may have one.’

‘A thousand thanks, my master!’ John Baptist said in his own language, and with the quick conciliatory manner of his own countrymen.

Monsieur Rigaud arose, lighted a cigarette, put the rest of his stock into a breast-pocket, and stretched himself out at full length upon the bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement, holding one of his ankles in each hand, and smoking peacefully. There seemed to be some uncomfortable attraction of Monsieur Rigaud’s eyes to the immediate neighbourhood of that part of the pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. They were so drawn in that direction, that the Italian more than once followed them to and back from the pavement in some surprise.

‘What an infernal hole this is!’ said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long pause. ‘Look at the light of day. Day? the light of yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!’

It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen—nor anything else.

‘Cavalletto,’ said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, ‘you know me for a gentleman?’

‘Surely, surely!’

‘How long have we been here?’

‘I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.’

‘Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work?’

‘Never!’

‘Have you ever thought of looking to me to do any kind of work?’

John Baptist answered with that peculiar back-handed shake of the right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian language.

‘No! You knew from the first moment when you saw me here, that I was a gentleman?’

‘ALTRO!’ returned John Baptist, closing his eyes and giving his head a most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and fifty other things, became in the present instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, our familiar English ‘I believe you!’

‘Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am! And a gentleman I’ll live, and a gentleman I’ll die! It’s my intent to be a gentleman. It’s my game. Death of my soul, I play it out wherever I go!’

He changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air:

‘Here I am! See me! Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box into the company of a mere smuggler;—shut up with a poor little contraband trader, whose papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of besides, for placing his boat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at the disposition of other little people whose papers are wrong; and he instinctively recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It’s well done! By Heaven! I win, however the game goes.’

Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down.

‘What’s the hour now?’ he asked, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather difficult of association with merriment.

‘A little half-hour after mid-day.’

‘Good! The President will have a gentleman before him soon. Come! Shall I tell you on what accusation? It must be now, or never, for I shall not return here. Either I shall go free, or I shall go to be made ready for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.’

Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his parted lips, and showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected.

‘I am a’—Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it—‘I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss—Canton de Vaud. My mother was French by blood, English by birth. I myself was born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.’

His theatrical air, as he stood with one arm on his hip within the folds of his cloak, together with his manner of disregarding his companion and addressing the opposite wall instead, seemed to intimate that he was rehearsing for the President, whose examination he was shortly to undergo, rather than troubling himself merely to enlighten so small a person as John Baptist Cavalletto.

‘Call me five-and-thirty years of age. I have seen the world. I have lived here, and lived there, and lived like a gentleman everywhere. I have been treated and respected as a gentleman universally. If you try to prejudice me by making out that I have lived by my wits—how do your lawyers live—your politicians—your intriguers—your men of the Exchange?’

He kept his small smooth hand in constant requisition, as if it were a witness to his gentility that had often done him good service before.

‘Two years ago I came to Marseilles. I admit that I was poor; I had been ill. When your lawyers, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange fall ill, and have not scraped money together, they become poor. I put up at the Cross of Gold,—kept then by Monsieur Henri Barronneau—sixty-five at least, and in a failing state of health. I had lived in the house some four months when Monsieur Henri Barronneau had the misfortune to die;—at any rate, not a rare misfortune, that. It happens without any aid of mine, pretty often.’

John Baptist having smoked his cigarette down to his fingers’ ends, Monsieur Rigaud had the magnanimity to throw him another. He lighted the second at the ashes of the first, and smoked on, looking sideways at his companion, who, preoccupied with his own case, hardly looked at him.

‘Monsieur Barronneau left a widow. She was two-and-twenty. She had gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was beautiful. I continued to live at the Cross of Gold. I married Madame Barronneau. It is not for me to say whether there was any great disparity in such a match. Here I stand, with the contamination of a jail upon me; but it is possible that you may think me better suited to her than her former husband was.’

He had a certain air of being a handsome man—which he was not; and a certain air of being a well-bred man—which he was not. It was mere swagger and challenge; but in this particular, as in many others, blustering assertion goes for proof, half over the world.

‘Be it as it may, Madame Barronneau approved of me. That is not to prejudice me, I hope?’

His eye happening to light upon John Baptist with this inquiry, that little man briskly shook his head in the negative, and repeated in an argumentative tone under his breath, altro, altro, altro, altro—an infinite number of times.

‘Now came the difficulties of our position. I am proud. I say nothing in defence of pride, but I am proud. It is also my character to govern. I can’t submit; I must govern. Unfortunately, the property of Madame Rigaud was settled upon herself. Such was the insane act of her late husband. More unfortunately still, she had relations. When a wife’s relations interpose against a husband who is a gentleman, who is proud, and who must govern, the consequences are inimical to peace. There was yet another source of difference between us. Madame Rigaud was unfortunately a little vulgar. I sought to improve her manners and ameliorate her general tone; she (supported in this likewise by her relations) resented my endeavours. Quarrels began to arise between us; and, propagated and exaggerated by the slanders of the relations of Madame Rigaud, to become notorious to the neighbours. It has been said that I treated Madame Rigaud with cruelty. I may have been seen to slap her face—nothing more. I have a light hand; and if I have been seen apparently to correct Madame Rigaud in that manner, I have done it almost playfully.’

If the playfulness of Monsieur Rigaud were at all expressed by his smile at this point, the relations of Madame Rigaud might have said that they would have much preferred his correcting that unfortunate woman seriously.

‘I am sensitive and brave. I do not advance it as a merit to be sensitive and brave, but it is my character. If the male relations of Madame Rigaud had put themselves forward openly, I should have known how to deal with them. They knew that, and their machinations were conducted in secret; consequently, Madame Rigaud and I were brought into frequent and unfortunate collision. Even when I wanted any little sum of money for my personal expenses, I could not obtain it without collision—and I, too, a man whose character it is to govern! One night, Madame Rigaud and myself were walking amicably—I may say like lovers—on a height overhanging the sea. An evil star occasioned Madame Rigaud to advert to her relations; I reasoned with her on that subject, and remonstrated on the want of duty and devotion manifested in her allowing herself to be influenced by their jealous animosity towards her husband. Madame Rigaud retorted; I retorted; Madame Rigaud grew warm; I grew warm, and provoked her. I admit it. Frankness is a part of my character. At length, Madame Rigaud, in an access of fury that I must ever deplore, threw herself upon me with screams of passion (no doubt those that were overheard at some distance), tore my clothes, tore my hair, lacerated my hands, trampled and trod the dust, and finally leaped over, dashing herself to death upon the rocks below. Such is the train of incidents which malice has perverted into my endeavouring to force from Madame Rigaud a relinquishment of her rights; and, on her persistence in a refusal to make the concession I required, struggling with her—assassinating her!’

He stepped aside to the ledge where the vine leaves yet lay strewn about, collected two or three, and stood wiping his hands upon them, with his back to the light.

‘Well,’ he demanded after a silence, ‘have you nothing to say to all that?’

‘It’s ugly,’ returned the little man, who had risen, and was brightening his knife upon his shoe, as he leaned an arm against the wall.

‘What do you mean?’

John Baptist polished his knife in silence.

‘Do you mean that I have not represented the case correctly?’

‘Al-tro!’ returned John Baptist. The word was an apology now, and stood for ‘Oh, by no means!’

‘What then?’

‘Presidents and tribunals are so prejudiced.’

‘Well,’ cried the other, uneasily flinging the end of his cloak over his shoulder with an oath, ‘let them do their worst!’

‘Truly I think they will,’ murmured John Baptist to himself, as he bent his head to put his knife in his sash.

Nothing more was said on either side, though they both began walking to and fro, and necessarily crossed at every turn. Monsieur Rigaud sometimes stopped, as if he were going to put his case in a new light, or make some irate remonstrance; but Signor Cavalletto continuing to go slowly to and fro at a grotesque kind of jog-trot pace with his eyes turned downward, nothing came of these inclinings.

By-and-by the noise of the key in the lock arrested them both. The sound of voices succeeded, and the tread of feet. The door clashed, the voices and the feet came on, and the prison-keeper slowly ascended the stairs, followed by a guard of soldiers.

‘Now, Monsieur Rigaud,’ said he, pausing for a moment at the grate, with his keys in his hands, ‘have the goodness to come out.’

‘I am to depart in state, I see?’

‘Why, unless you did,’ returned the jailer, ‘you might depart in so many pieces that it would be difficult to get you together again. There’s a crowd, Monsieur Rigaud, and it doesn’t love you.’

He passed on out of sight, and unlocked and unbarred a low door in the corner of the chamber. ‘Now,’ said he, as he opened it and appeared within, ‘come out.’

There is no sort of whiteness in all the hues under the sun at all like the whiteness of Monsieur Rigaud’s face as it was then. Neither is there any expression of the human countenance at all like that expression in every little line of which the frightened heart is seen to beat. Both are conventionally compared with death; but the difference is the whole deep gulf between the struggle done, and the fight at its most desperate extremity.

He lighted another of his paper cigars at his companion’s; put it tightly between his teeth; covered his head with a soft slouched hat; threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder again; and walked out into the side gallery on which the door opened, without taking any further notice of Signor Cavalletto. As to that little man himself, his whole attention had become absorbed in getting near the door and looking out at it. Precisely as a beast might approach the opened gate of his den and eye the freedom beyond, he passed those few moments in watching and peering, until the door was closed upon him.

There was an officer in command of the soldiers; a stout, serviceable, profoundly calm man, with his drawn sword in his hand, smoking a cigar. He very briefly directed the placing of Monsieur Rigaud in the midst of the party, put himself with consummate indifference at their head, gave the word ‘march!’ and so they all went jingling down the staircase. The door clashed—the key turned—and a ray of unusual light, and a breath of unusual air, seemed to have passed through the jail, vanishing in a tiny wreath of smoke from the cigar.

Still, in his captivity, like a lower animal—like some impatient ape, or roused bear of the smaller species—the prisoner, now left solitary, had jumped upon the ledge, to lose no glimpse of this departure. As he yet stood clasping the grate with both hands, an uproar broke upon his hearing; yells, shrieks, oaths, threats, execrations, all comprehended in it, though (as in a storm) nothing but a raging swell of sound distinctly heard.

Excited into a still greater resemblance to a caged wild animal by his anxiety to know more, the prisoner leaped nimbly down, ran round the chamber, leaped nimbly up again, clasped the grate and tried to shake it, leaped down and ran, leaped up and listened, and never rested until the noise, becoming more and more distant, had died away. How many better prisoners have worn their noble hearts out so; no man thinking of it; not even the beloved of their souls realising it; great kings and governors, who had made them captive, careering in the sunlight jauntily, and men cheering them on. Even the said great personages dying in bed, making exemplary ends and sounding speeches; and polite history, more servile than their instruments, embalming them!

At last, John Baptist, now able to choose his own spot within the compass of those walls for the exercise of his faculty of going to sleep when he would, lay down upon the bench, with his face turned over on his crossed arms, and slumbered. In his submission, in his lightness, in his good humour, in his short-lived passion, in his easy contentment with hard bread and hard stones, in his ready sleep, in his fits and starts, altogether a true son of the land that gave him birth.

The wide stare stared itself out for one while; the Sun went down in a red, green, golden glory; the stars came out in the heavens, and the fire-flies mimicked them in the lower air, as men may feebly imitate the goodness of a better order of beings; the long dusty roads and the interminable plains were in repose—and so deep a hush was on the sea, that it scarcely whispered of the time when it shall give up its dead.

CHAPTER 2 Fellow Travellers

‘No more of yesterday’s howling over yonder to-day, Sir; is there?’

‘I have heard none.’

‘Then you may be sure there is none. When these people howl, they howl to be heard.’

‘Most people do, I suppose.’

‘Ah! but these people are always howling. Never happy otherwise.’

‘Do you mean the Marseilles people?’

‘I mean the French people. They’re always at it. As to Marseilles, we know what Marseilles is. It sent the most insurrectionary tune into the world that was ever composed. It couldn’t exist without allonging and marshonging to something or other—victory or death, or blazes, or something.’

The speaker, with a whimsical good humour upon him all the time, looked over the parapet-wall with the greatest disparagement of Marseilles; and taking up a determined position by putting his hands in his pockets and rattling his money at it, apostrophised it with a short laugh.

‘Allong and marshong, indeed. It would be more creditable to you, I think, to let other people allong and marshong about their lawful business, instead of shutting ‘em up in quarantine!’

‘Tiresome enough,’ said the other. ‘But we shall be out to-day.’

‘Out to-day!’ repeated the first. ‘It’s almost an aggravation of the enormity, that we shall be out to-day. Out! What have we ever been in for?’

‘For no very strong reason, I must say. But as we come from the East, and as the East is the country of the plague—’

‘The plague!’ repeated the other. ‘That’s my grievance. I have had the plague continually, ever since I have been here. I am like a sane man shut up in a madhouse; I can’t stand the suspicion of the thing. I came here as well as ever I was in my life; but to suspect me of the plague is to give me the plague. And I have had it—and I have got it.’

‘You bear it very well, Mr Meagles,’ said the second speaker, smiling.

‘No. If you knew the real state of the case, that’s the last observation you would think of making. I have been waking up night after night, and saying, now I have got it, now it has developed itself, now I am in for it, now these fellows are making out their case for their precautions. Why, I’d as soon have a spit put through me, and be stuck upon a card in a collection of beetles, as lead the life I have been leading here.’

‘Well, Mr Meagles, say no more about it now it’s over,’ urged a cheerful feminine voice.

‘Over!’ repeated Mr Meagles, who appeared (though without any ill-nature) to be in that peculiar state of mind in which the last word spoken by anybody else is a new injury. ‘Over! and why should I say no more about it because it’s over?’

It was Mrs Meagles who had spoken to Mr Meagles; and Mrs Meagles was, like Mr Meagles, comely and healthy, with a pleasant English face which had been looking at homely things for five-and-fifty years or more, and shone with a bright reflection of them.

‘There! Never mind, Father, never mind!’ said Mrs Meagles. ‘For goodness sake content yourself with Pet.’

‘With Pet?’ repeated Mr Meagles in his injured vein. Pet, however, being close behind him, touched him on the shoulder, and Mr Meagles immediately forgave Marseilles from the bottom of his heart.

Pet was about twenty. A fair girl with rich brown hair hanging free in natural ringlets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and wonderful eyes; so large, so soft, so bright, set to such perfection in her kind good head. She was round and fresh and dimpled and spoilt, and there was in Pet an air of timidity and dependence which was the best weakness in the world, and gave her the only crowning charm a girl so pretty and pleasant could have been without.

‘Now, I ask you,’ said Mr Meagles in the blandest confidence, falling back a step himself, and handing his daughter a step forward to illustrate his question: ‘I ask you simply, as between man and man, you know, DID you ever hear of such damned nonsense as putting Pet in quarantine?’

‘It has had the result of making even quarantine enjoyable.’

‘Come!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘that’s something to be sure. I am obliged to you for that remark. Now, Pet, my darling, you had better go along with Mother and get ready for the boat. The officer of health, and a variety of humbugs in cocked hats, are coming off to let us out of this at last: and all we jail-birds are to breakfast together in something approaching to a Christian style again, before we take wing for our different destinations. Tattycoram, stick you close to your young mistress.’

He spoke to a handsome girl with lustrous dark hair and eyes, and very neatly dressed, who replied with a half curtsey as she passed off in the train of Mrs Meagles and Pet. They crossed the bare scorched terrace all three together, and disappeared through a staring white archway. Mr Meagles’s companion, a grave dark man of forty, still stood looking towards this archway after they were gone; until Mr Meagles tapped him on the arm.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said he, starting.

‘Not at all,’ said Mr Meagles.

They took one silent turn backward and forward in the shade of the wall, getting, at the height on which the quarantine barracks are placed, what cool refreshment of sea breeze there was at seven in the morning. Mr Meagles’s companion resumed the conversation.

‘May I ask you,’ he said, ‘what is the name of—’

‘Tattycoram?’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I have not the least idea.’

‘I thought,’ said the other, ‘that—’

‘Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles again.

‘Thank you—that Tattycoram was a name; and I have several times wondered at the oddity of it.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘Mrs Meagles and myself are, you see, practical people.’

‘That you have frequently mentioned in the course of the agreeable and interesting conversations we have had together, walking up and down on these stones,’ said the other, with a half smile breaking through the gravity of his dark face.

‘Practical people. So one day, five or six years ago now, when we took Pet to church at the Foundling—you have heard of the Foundling Hospital in London? Similar to the Institution for the Found Children in Paris?’

‘I have seen it.’

‘Well! One day when we took Pet to church there to hear the music—because, as practical people, it is the business of our lives to show her everything that we think can please her—Mother (my usual name for Mrs Meagles) began to cry so, that it was necessary to take her out. “What’s the matter, Mother?” said I, when we had brought her a little round: “you are frightening Pet, my dear.” “Yes, I know that, Father,” says Mother, “but I think it’s through my loving her so much, that it ever came into my head.” “That ever what came into your head, Mother?” “O dear, dear!” cried Mother, breaking out again, “when I saw all those children ranged tier above tier, and appealing from the father none of them has ever known on earth, to the great Father of us all in Heaven, I thought, does any wretched mother ever come here, and look among those young faces, wondering which is the poor child she brought into this forlorn world, never through all its life to know her love, her kiss, her face, her voice, even her name!” Now that was practical in Mother, and I told her so. I said, “Mother, that’s what I call practical in you, my dear.”’

The other, not unmoved, assented.

‘So I said next day: Now, Mother, I have a proposition to make that I think you’ll approve of. Let us take one of those same little children to be a little maid to Pet. We are practical people. So if we should find her temper a little defective, or any of her ways a little wide of ours, we shall know what we have to take into account. We shall know what an immense deduction must be made from all the influences and experiences that have formed us—no parents, no child-brother or sister, no individuality of home, no Glass Slipper, or Fairy Godmother. And that’s the way we came by Tattycoram.’

‘And the name itself—’

‘By George!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I was forgetting the name itself. Why, she was called in the Institution, Harriet Beadle—an arbitrary name, of course. Now, Harriet we changed into Hattey, and then into Tatty, because, as practical people, we thought even a playful name might be a new thing to her, and might have a softening and affectionate kind of effect, don’t you see? As to Beadle, that I needn’t say was wholly out of the question. If there is anything that is not to be tolerated on any terms, anything that is a type of Jack-in-office insolence and absurdity, anything that represents in coats, waistcoats, and big sticks our English holding on by nonsense after every one has found it out, it is a beadle. You haven’t seen a beadle lately?’

‘As an Englishman who has been more than twenty years in China, no.’

‘Then,’ said Mr Meagles, laying his forefinger on his companion’s breast with great animation, ‘don’t you see a beadle, now, if you can help it. Whenever I see a beadle in full fig, coming down a street on a Sunday at the head of a charity school, I am obliged to turn and run away, or I should hit him. The name of Beadle being out of the question, and the originator of the Institution for these poor foundlings having been a blessed creature of the name of Coram, we gave that name to Pet’s little maid. At one time she was Tatty, and at one time she was Coram, until we got into a way of mixing the two names together, and now she is always Tattycoram.’

‘Your daughter,’ said the other, when they had taken another silent turn to and fro, and, after standing for a moment at the wall glancing down at the sea, had resumed their walk, ‘is your only child, I know, Mr Meagles. May I ask you—in no impertinent curiosity, but because I have had so much pleasure in your society, may never in this labyrinth of a world exchange a quiet word with you again, and wish to preserve an accurate remembrance of you and yours—may I ask you, if I have not gathered from your good wife that you have had other children?’

‘No. No,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not exactly other children. One other child.’

‘I am afraid I have inadvertently touched upon a tender theme.’

‘Never mind,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘If I am grave about it, I am not at all sorrowful. It quiets me for a moment, but does not make me unhappy. Pet had a twin sister who died when we could just see her eyes—exactly like Pet’s—above the table, as she stood on tiptoe holding by it.’

‘Ah! indeed, indeed!’

‘Yes, and being practical people, a result has gradually sprung up in the minds of Mrs Meagles and myself which perhaps you may—or perhaps you may not—understand. Pet and her baby sister were so exactly alike, and so completely one, that in our thoughts we have never been able to separate them since. It would be of no use to tell us that our dead child was a mere infant. We have changed that child according to the changes in the child spared to us and always with us. As Pet has grown, that child has grown; as Pet has become more sensible and womanly, her sister has become more sensible and womanly by just the same degrees. It would be as hard to convince me that if I was to pass into the other world to-morrow, I should not, through the mercy of God, be received there by a daughter, just like Pet, as to persuade me that Pet herself is not a reality at my side.’

‘I understand you,’ said the other, gently.

‘As to her,’ pursued her father, ‘the sudden loss of her little picture and playfellow, and her early association with that mystery in which we all have our equal share, but which is not often so forcibly presented to a child, has necessarily had some influence on her character. Then, her mother and I were not young when we married, and Pet has always had a sort of grown-up life with us, though we have tried to adapt ourselves to her. We have been advised more than once when she has been a little ailing, to change climate and air for her as often as we could—especially at about this time of her life—and to keep her amused. So, as I have no need to stick at a bank-desk now (though I have been poor enough in my time I assure you, or I should have married Mrs Meagles long before), we go trotting about the world. This is how you found us staring at the Nile, and the Pyramids, and the Sphinxes, and the Desert, and all the rest of it; and this is how Tattycoram will be a greater traveller in course of time than Captain Cook.’

‘I thank you,’ said the other, ‘very heartily for your confidence.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘I am sure you are quite welcome. And now, Mr Clennam, perhaps I may ask you whether you have yet come to a decision where to go next?’

‘Indeed, no. I am such a waif and stray everywhere, that I am liable to be drifted where any current may set.’

‘It’s extraordinary to me—if you’ll excuse my freedom in saying so—that you don’t go straight to London,’ said Mr Meagles, in the tone of a confidential adviser.

‘Perhaps I shall.’

‘Ay! But I mean with a will.’

‘I have no will. That is to say,’—he coloured a little,—‘next to none that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken, not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which I was never consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before I was of age, and exiled there until my father’s death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill I always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished before I could sound the words.’

‘Light ‘em up again!’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, had no existence. Strict people as the phrase is, professors of a stern religion, their very religion was a gloomy sacrifice of tastes and sympathies that were never their own, offered up as a part of a bargain for the security of their possessions. Austere faces, inexorable discipline, penance in this world and terror in the next—nothing graceful or gentle anywhere, and the void in my cowed heart everywhere—this was my childhood, if I may so misuse the word as to apply it to such a beginning of life.’

‘Really though?’ said Mr Meagles, made very uncomfortable by the picture offered to his imagination. ‘That was a tough commencement. But come! You must now study, and profit by, all that lies beyond it, like a practical man.’

‘If the people who are usually called practical, were practical in your direction—’

‘Why, so they are!’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Are they indeed?’

‘Well, I suppose so,’ returned Mr Meagles, thinking about it. ‘Eh? One can but be practical, and Mrs Meagles and myself are nothing else.’

‘My unknown course is easier and more helpful than I had expected to find it, then,’ said Clennam, shaking his head with his grave smile. ‘Enough of me. Here is the boat.’

The boat was filled with the cocked hats to which Mr Meagles entertained a national objection; and the wearers of those cocked hats landed and came up the steps, and all the impounded travellers congregated together. There was then a mighty production of papers on the part of the cocked hats, and a calling over of names, and great work of signing, sealing, stamping, inking, and sanding, with exceedingly blurred, gritty, and undecipherable results. Finally, everything was done according to rule, and the travellers were at liberty to depart whithersoever they would.

They made little account of stare and glare, in the new pleasure of recovering their freedom, but flitted across the harbour in gay boats, and reassembled at a great hotel, whence the sun was excluded by closed lattices, and where bare paved floors, lofty ceilings, and resounding corridors tempered the intense heat. There, a great table in a great room was soon profusely covered with a superb repast; and the quarantine quarters became bare indeed, remembered among dainty dishes, southern fruits, cooled wines, flowers from Genoa, snow from the mountain tops, and all the colours of the rainbow flashing in the mirrors.

‘But I bear those monotonous walls no ill-will now,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind; I dare say a prisoner begins to relent towards his prison, after he is let out.’

They were about thirty in company, and all talking; but necessarily in groups. Father and Mother Meagles sat with their daughter between them, the last three on one side of the table: on the opposite side sat Mr Clennam; a tall French gentleman with raven hair and beard, of a swart and terrible, not to say genteelly diabolical aspect, but who had shown himself the mildest of men; and a handsome young Englishwoman, travelling quite alone, who had a proud observant face, and had either withdrawn herself from the rest or been avoided by the rest—nobody, herself excepted perhaps, could have quite decided which. The rest of the party were of the usual materials: travellers on business, and travellers for pleasure; officers from India on leave; merchants in the Greek and Turkey trades; a clerical English husband in a meek strait-waistcoat, on a wedding trip with his young wife; a majestic English mama and papa, of the patrician order, with a family of three growing-up daughters, who were keeping a journal for the confusion of their fellow-creatures; and a deaf old English mother, tough in travel, with a very decidedly grown-up daughter indeed, which daughter went sketching about the universe in the expectation of ultimately toning herself off into the married state.

The reserved Englishwoman took up Mr Meagles in his last remark.

‘Do you mean that a prisoner forgives his prison?’ said she, slowly and with emphasis.

‘That was my speculation, Miss Wade. I don’t pretend to know positively how a prisoner might feel. I never was one before.’

‘Mademoiselle doubts,’ said the French gentleman in his own language, ‘it’s being so easy to forgive?’

‘I do.’

Pet had to translate this passage to Mr Meagles, who never by any accident acquired any knowledge whatever of the language of any country into which he travelled. ‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Dear me! But that’s a pity, isn’t it?’

‘That I am not credulous?’ said Miss Wade.

‘Not exactly that. Put it another way. That you can’t believe it easy to forgive.’

‘My experience,’ she quietly returned, ‘has been correcting my belief in many respects, for some years. It is our natural progress, I have heard.’

‘Well, well! But it’s not natural to bear malice, I hope?’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily.

‘If I had been shut up in any place to pine and suffer, I should always hate that place and wish to burn it down, or raze it to the ground. I know no more.’

‘Strong, sir?’ said Mr Meagles to the Frenchman; it being another of his habits to address individuals of all nations in idiomatic English, with a perfect conviction that they were bound to understand it somehow. ‘Rather forcible in our fair friend, you’ll agree with me, I think?’

The French gentleman courteously replied, ‘Plait-il?’ To which Mr Meagles returned with much satisfaction, ‘You are right. My opinion.’

The breakfast beginning by-and-by to languish, Mr Meagles made the company a speech. It was short enough and sensible enough, considering that it was a speech at all, and hearty. It merely went to the effect that as they had all been thrown together by chance, and had all preserved a good understanding together, and were now about to disperse, and were not likely ever to find themselves all together again, what could they do better than bid farewell to one another, and give one another good-speed in a simultaneous glass of cool champagne all round the table? It was done, and with a general shaking of hands the assembly broke up for ever.

The solitary young lady all this time had said no more. She rose with the rest, and silently withdrew to a remote corner of the great room, where she sat herself on a couch in a window, seeming to watch the reflection of the water as it made a silver quivering on the bars of the lattice. She sat, turned away from the whole length of the apartment, as if she were lonely of her own haughty choice. And yet it would have been as difficult as ever to say, positively, whether she avoided the rest, or was avoided.

The shadow in which she sat, falling like a gloomy veil across her forehead, accorded very well with the character of her beauty. One could hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the arched dark eyebrows, and the folds of dark hair, without wondering what its expression would be if a change came over it. That it could soften or relent, appeared next to impossible. That it could deepen into anger or any extreme of defiance, and that it must change in that direction when it changed at all, would have been its peculiar impression upon most observers. It was dressed and trimmed into no ceremony of expression. Although not an open face, there was no pretence in it. ‘I am self-contained and self-reliant; your opinion is nothing to me; I have no interest in you, care nothing for you, and see and hear you with indifference’—this it said plainly. It said so in the proud eyes, in the lifted nostril, in the handsome but compressed and even cruel mouth. Cover either two of those channels of expression, and the third would have said so still. Mask them all, and the mere turn of the head would have shown an unsubduable nature.

Pet had moved up to her (she had been the subject of remark among her family and Mr Clennam, who were now the only other occupants of the room), and was standing at her side.

‘Are you’—she turned her eyes, and Pet faltered—‘expecting any one to meet you here, Miss Wade?’

‘I? No.’

‘Father is sending to the Poste Restante. Shall he have the pleasure of directing the messenger to ask if there are any letters for you?’

‘I thank him, but I know there can be none.’

‘We are afraid,’ said Pet, sitting down beside her, shyly and half tenderly, ‘that you will feel quite deserted when we are all gone.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Not,’ said Pet, apologetically and embarrassed by her eyes, ‘not, of course, that we are any company to you, or that we have been able to be so, or that we thought you wished it.’

‘I have not intended to make it understood that I did wish it.’

‘No. Of course. But—in short,’ said Pet, timidly touching her hand as it lay impassive on the sofa between them, ‘will you not allow Father to tender you any slight assistance or service? He will be very glad.’

‘Very glad,’ said Mr Meagles, coming forward with his wife and Clennam. ‘Anything short of speaking the language, I shall be delighted to undertake, I am sure.’

‘I am obliged to you,’ she returned, ‘but my arrangements are made, and I prefer to go my own way in my own manner.’

‘Do you?’ said Mr Meagles to himself, as he surveyed her with a puzzled look. ‘Well! There’s character in that, too.’

‘I am not much used to the society of young ladies, and I am afraid I may not show my appreciation of it as others might. A pleasant journey to you. Good-bye!’

She would not have put out her hand, it seemed, but that Mr Meagles put out his so straight before her that she could not pass it. She put hers in it, and it lay there just as it had lain upon the couch.

‘Good-bye!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘This is the last good-bye upon the list, for Mother and I have just said it to Mr Clennam here, and he only waits to say it to Pet. Good-bye! We may never meet again.’

‘In our course through life we shall meet the people who are coming to meet us, from many strange places and by many strange roads,’ was the composed reply; ‘and what it is set to us to do to them, and what it is set to them to do to us, will all be done.’

There was something in the manner of these words that jarred upon Pet’s ear. It implied that what was to be done was necessarily evil, and it caused her to say in a whisper, ‘O Father!’ and to shrink childishly, in her spoilt way, a little closer to him. This was not lost on the speaker.

‘Your pretty daughter,’ she said, ‘starts to think of such things. Yet,’ looking full upon her, ‘you may be sure that there are men and women already on their road, who have their business to do with you, and who will do it. Of a certainty they will do it. They may be coming hundreds, thousands, of miles over the sea there; they may be close at hand now; they may be coming, for anything you know or anything you can do to prevent it, from the vilest sweepings of this very town.’

With the coldest of farewells, and with a certain worn expression on her beauty that gave it, though scarcely yet in its prime, a wasted look, she left the room.

Now, there were many stairs and passages that she had to traverse in passing from that part of the spacious house to the chamber she had secured for her own occupation. When she had almost completed the journey, and was passing along the gallery in which her room was, she heard an angry sound of muttering and sobbing. A door stood open, and within she saw the attendant upon the girl she had just left; the maid with the curious name.

She stood still, to look at this maid. A sullen, passionate girl! Her rich black hair was all about her face, her face was flushed and hot, and as she sobbed and raged, she plucked at her lips with an unsparing hand.

‘Selfish brutes!’ said the girl, sobbing and heaving between whiles. ‘Not caring what becomes of me! Leaving me here hungry and thirsty and tired, to starve, for anything they care! Beasts! Devils! Wretches!’

‘My poor girl, what is the matter?’

She looked up suddenly, with reddened eyes, and with her hands suspended, in the act of pinching her neck, freshly disfigured with great scarlet blots. ‘It’s nothing to you what’s the matter. It don’t signify to any one.’

‘O yes it does; I am sorry to see you so.’

‘You are not sorry,’ said the girl. ‘You are glad. You know you are glad. I never was like this but twice over in the quarantine yonder; and both times you found me. I am afraid of you.’

‘Afraid of me?’

‘Yes. You seem to come like my own anger, my own malice, my own—whatever it is—I don’t know what it is. But I am ill-used, I am ill-used, I am ill-used!’ Here the sobs and the tears, and the tearing hand, which had all been suspended together since the first surprise, went on together anew.

The visitor stood looking at her with a strange attentive smile. It was wonderful to see the fury of the contest in the girl, and the bodily struggle she made as if she were rent by the Demons of old.

‘I am younger than she is by two or three years, and yet it’s me that looks after her, as if I was old, and it’s she that’s always petted and called Baby! I detest the name. I hate her! They make a fool of her, they spoil her. She thinks of nothing but herself, she thinks no more of me than if I was a stock and a stone!’ So the girl went on.

‘You must have patience.’

‘I won’t have patience!’

‘If they take much care of themselves, and little or none of you, you must not mind it.’

I will mind it.’

‘Hush! Be more prudent. You forget your dependent position.’

‘I don’t care for that. I’ll run away. I’ll do some mischief. I won’t bear it; I can’t bear it; I shall die if I try to bear it!’

The observer stood with her hand upon her own bosom, looking at the girl, as one afflicted with a diseased part might curiously watch the dissection and exposition of an analogous case.

The girl raged and battled with all the force of her youth and fulness of life, until by little and little her passionate exclamations trailed off into broken murmurs as if she were in pain. By corresponding degrees she sank into a chair, then upon her knees, then upon the ground beside the bed, drawing the coverlet with her, half to hide her shamed head and wet hair in it, and half, as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have nothing to take to her repentant breast.

‘Go away from me, go away from me! When my temper comes upon me, I am mad. I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough, and sometimes I do try hard enough, and at other times I don’t and won’t. What have I said! I knew when I said it, it was all lies. They think I am being taken care of somewhere, and have all I want. They are nothing but good to me. I love them dearly; no people could ever be kinder to a thankless creature than they always are to me. Do, do go away, for I am afraid of you. I am afraid of myself when I feel my temper coming, and I am as much afraid of you. Go away from me, and let me pray and cry myself better!’

The day passed on; and again the wide stare stared itself out; and the hot night was on Marseilles; and through it the caravan of the morning, all dispersed, went their appointed ways. And thus ever by day and night, under the sun and under the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another, move all we restless travellers through the pilgrimage of life.

CHAPTER 3. Home

It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous. Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling, as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round. Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient world—all taboo with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind, or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it—or the worst, according to the probabilities.

At such a happy time, so propitious to the interests of religion and morality, Mr Arthur Clennam, newly arrived from Marseilles by way of Dover, and by Dover coach the Blue-eyed Maid, sat in the window of a coffee-house on Ludgate Hill. Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded him, frowning as heavily on the streets they composed, as if they were every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender’s story, who blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night. Fifty thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night, would be corrupt on Sunday morning; albeit my lord, their county member, was amazed that they failed to sleep in company with their butcher’s meat. Miles of close wells and pits of houses, where the inhabitants gasped for air, stretched far away towards every point of the compass. Through the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed, in the place of a fine fresh river. What secular want could the million or so of human beings whose daily labour, six days in the week, lay among these Arcadian objects, from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape between the cradle and the grave—what secular want could they possibly have upon their seventh day? Clearly they could want nothing but a stringent policeman.

Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee-house on Ludgate Hill, counting one of the neighbouring bells, making sentences and burdens of songs out of it in spite of himself, and wondering how many sick people it might be the death of in the course of the year. As the hour approached, its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating. At the quarter, it went off into a condition of deadly-lively importunity, urging the populace in a voluble manner to Come to church, Come to church, Come to church! At the ten minutes, it became aware that the congregation would be scanty, and slowly hammered out in low spirits, They won’t come, they won’t come, they won’t come! At the five minutes, it abandoned hope, and shook every house in the neighbourhood for three hundred seconds, with one dismal swing per second, as a groan of despair.

‘Thank Heaven!’ said Clennam, when the hour struck, and the bell stopped.

But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays, and the procession would not stop with the bell, but continued to march on. ‘Heaven forgive me,’ said he, ‘and those who trained me. How I have hated this day!’

There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood, when he sat with his hands before him, scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which commenced business with the poor child by asking him in its title, why he was going to Perdition?—a piece of curiosity that he really, in a frock and drawers, was not in a condition to satisfy—and which, for the further attraction of his infant mind, had a parenthesis in every other line with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 & 7. There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood, when, like a military deserter, he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times a day, morally handcuffed to another boy; and when he would willingly have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh. There was the interminable Sunday of his nonage; when his mother, stern of face and unrelenting of heart, would sit all day behind a Bible—bound, like her own construction of it, in the hardest, barest, and straitest boards, with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain, and a wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves—as if it, of all books! were a fortification against sweetness of temper, natural affection, and gentle intercourse. There was the resentful Sunday of a little later, when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy length of the day, with a sullen sense of injury in his heart, and no more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than if he had been bred among idolaters. There was a legion of Sundays, all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification, slowly passing before him.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said a brisk waiter, rubbing the table. ‘Wish see bed-room?’

‘Yes. I have just made up my mind to do it.’

‘Chaymaid!’ cried the waiter. ‘Gelen box num seven wish see room!’

‘Stay!’ said Clennam, rousing himself. ‘I was not thinking of what I said; I answered mechanically. I am not going to sleep here. I am going home.’

‘Deed, sir? Chaymaid! Gelen box num seven, not go sleep here, gome.’

He sat in the same place as the day died, looking at the dull houses opposite, and thinking, if the disembodied spirits of former inhabitants were ever conscious of them, how they must pity themselves for their old places of imprisonment. Sometimes a face would appear behind the dingy glass of a window, and would fade away into the gloom as if it had seen enough of life and had vanished out of it. Presently the rain began to fall in slanting lines between him and those houses, and people began to collect under cover of the public passage opposite, and to look out hopelessly at the sky as the rain dropped thicker and faster. Then wet umbrellas began to appear, draggled skirts, and mud. What the mud had been doing with itself, or where it came from, who could say? But it seemed to collect in a moment, as a crowd will, and in five minutes to have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam. The lamplighter was going his rounds now; and as the fiery jets sprang up under his touch, one might have fancied them astonished at being suffered to introduce any show of brightness into such a dismal scene.

Mr Arthur Clennam took up his hat and buttoned his coat, and walked out. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to the gutters.

He crossed by St Paul’s and went down, at a long angle, almost to the water’s edge, through some of the crooked and descending streets which lie (and lay more crookedly and closely then) between the river and Cheapside. Passing, now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful Company, now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church that seemed to be waiting for some adventurous Belzoni to dig it out and discover its history; passing silent warehouses and wharves, and here and there a narrow alley leading to the river, where a wretched little bill, FOUND DROWNED, was weeping on the wet wall; he came at last to the house he sought. An old brick house, so dingy as to be all but black, standing by itself within a gateway. Before it, a square court-yard where a shrub or two and a patch of grass were as rank (which is saying much) as the iron railings enclosing them were rusty; behind it, a jumble of roots. It was a double house, with long, narrow, heavily-framed windows. Many years ago, it had had it in its mind to slide down sideways; it had been propped up, however, and was leaning on some half-dozen gigantic crutches: which gymnasium for the neighbouring cats, weather-stained, smoke-blackened, and overgrown with weeds, appeared in these latter days to be no very sure reliance.

‘Nothing changed,’ said the traveller, stopping to look round. ‘Dark and miserable as ever. A light in my mother’s window, which seems never to have been extinguished since I came home twice a year from school, and dragged my box over this pavement. Well, well, well!’

He went up to the door, which had a projecting canopy in carved work of festooned jack-towels and children’s heads with water on the brain, designed after a once-popular monumental pattern, and knocked. A shuffling step was soon heard on the stone floor of the hall, and the door was opened by an old man, bent and dried, but with keen eyes.

He had a candle in his hand, and he held it up for a moment to assist his keen eyes. ‘Ah, Mr Arthur?’ he said, without any emotion, ‘you are come at last? Step in.’

Mr Arthur stepped in and shut the door.

‘Your figure is filled out, and set,’ said the old man, turning to look at him with the light raised again, and shaking his head; ‘but you don’t come up to your father in my opinion. Nor yet your mother.’

‘How is my mother?’

‘She is as she always is now. Keeps her room when not actually bedridden, and hasn’t been out of it fifteen times in as many years, Arthur.’ They had walked into a spare, meagre dining-room. The old man had put the candlestick upon the table, and, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, was smoothing his leathern jaws while he looked at the visitor. The visitor offered his hand. The old man took it coldly enough, and seemed to prefer his jaws, to which he returned as soon as he could.

‘I doubt if your mother will approve of your coming home on the Sabbath, Arthur,’ he said, shaking his head warily.

‘You wouldn’t have me go away again?’

‘Oh! I? I? I am not the master. It’s not what I would have. I have stood between your father and mother for a number of years. I don’t pretend to stand between your mother and you.’

‘Will you tell her that I have come home?’

‘Yes, Arthur, yes. Oh, to be sure! I’ll tell her that you have come home. Please to wait here. You won’t find the room changed.’ He took another candle from a cupboard, lighted it, left the first on the table, and went upon his errand. He was a short, bald old man, in a high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches, and long drab gaiters. He might, from his dress, have been either clerk or servant, and in fact had long been both. There was nothing about him in the way of decoration but a watch, which was lowered into the depths of its proper pocket by an old black ribbon, and had a tarnished copper key moored above it, to show where it was sunk. His head was awry, and he had a one-sided, crab-like way with him, as if his foundations had yielded at about the same time as those of the house, and he ought to have been propped up in a similar manner.

‘How weak am I,’ said Arthur Clennam, when he was gone, ‘that I could shed tears at this reception! I, who have never experienced anything else; who have never expected anything else.’

He not only could, but did. It was the momentary yielding of a nature that had been disappointed from the dawn of its perceptions, but had not quite given up all its hopeful yearnings yet. He subdued it, took up the candle, and examined the room. The old articles of furniture were in their old places; the Plagues of Egypt, much the dimmer for the fly and smoke plagues of London, were framed and glazed upon the walls. There was the old cellaret with nothing in it, lined with lead, like a sort of coffin in compartments; there was the old dark closet, also with nothing in it, of which he had been many a time the sole contents, in days of punishment, when he had regarded it as the veritable entrance to that bourne to which the tract had found him galloping. There was the large, hard-featured clock on the sideboard, which he used to see bending its figured brows upon him with a savage joy when he was behind-hand with his lessons, and which, when it was wound up once a week with an iron handle, used to sound as if it were growling in ferocious anticipation of the miseries into which it would bring him. But here was the old man come back, saying, ‘Arthur, I’ll go before and light you.’

Arthur followed him up the staircase, which was panelled off into spaces like so many mourning tablets, into a dim bed-chamber, the floor of which had gradually so sunk and settled, that the fire-place was in a dell. On a black bier-like sofa in this hollow, propped up behind with one great angular black bolster like the block at a state execution in the good old times, sat his mother in a widow’s dress.

She and his father had been at variance from his earliest remembrance. To sit speechless himself in the midst of rigid silence, glancing in dread from the one averted face to the other, had been the peacefullest occupation of his childhood. She gave him one glassy kiss, and four stiff fingers muffled in worsted. This embrace concluded, he sat down on the opposite side of her little table. There was a fire in the grate, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a kettle on the hob, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a little mound of damped ashes on the top of the fire, and another little mound swept together under the grate, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a smell of black dye in the airless room, which the fire had been drawing out of the crape and stuff of the widow’s dress for fifteen months, and out of the bier-like sofa for fifteen years.

‘Mother, this is a change from your old active habits.’

‘The world has narrowed to these dimensions, Arthur,’ she replied, glancing round the room. ‘It is well for me that I never set my heart upon its hollow vanities.’

The old influence of her presence and her stern strong voice, so gathered about her son, that he felt conscious of a renewal of the timid chill and reserve of his childhood.

‘Do you never leave your room, mother?’

‘What with my rheumatic affection, and what with its attendant debility or nervous weakness—names are of no matter now—I have lost the use of my limbs. I never leave my room. I have not been outside this door for—tell him for how long,’ she said, speaking over her shoulder.

‘A dozen year next Christmas,’ returned a cracked voice out of the dimness behind.

‘Is that Affery?’ said Arthur, looking towards it.

The cracked voice replied that it was Affery: and an old woman came forward into what doubtful light there was, and kissed her hand once; then subsided again into the dimness.

‘I am able,’ said Mrs Clennam, with a slight motion of her worsted-muffled right hand toward a chair on wheels, standing before a tall writing cabinet close shut up, ‘I am able to attend to my business duties, and I am thankful for the privilege. It is a great privilege. But no more of business on this day. It is a bad night, is it not?’

‘Yes, mother.’

‘Does it snow?’

‘Snow, mother? And we only yet in September?’

‘All seasons are alike to me,’ she returned, with a grim kind of luxuriousness. ‘I know nothing of summer and winter, shut up here. The Lord has been pleased to put me beyond all that.’ With her cold grey eyes and her cold grey hair, and her immovable face, as stiff as the folds of her stony head-dress,—her being beyond the reach of the seasons seemed but a fit sequence to her being beyond the reach of all changing emotions.

On her little table lay two or three books, her handkerchief, a pair of steel spectacles newly taken off, and an old-fashioned gold watch in a heavy double case. Upon this last object her son’s eyes and her own now rested together.

‘I see that you received the packet I sent you on my father’s death, safely, mother.’

‘You see.’

‘I never knew my father to show so much anxiety on any subject, as that his watch should be sent straight to you.’

‘I keep it here as a remembrance of your father.’

‘It was not until the last, that he expressed the wish; when he could only put his hand upon it, and very indistinctly say to me “your mother.” A moment before, I thought him wandering in his mind, as he had been for many hours—I think he had no consciousness of pain in his short illness—when I saw him turn himself in his bed and try to open it.’

‘Was your father, then, not wandering in his mind when he tried to open it?’

‘No. He was quite sensible at that time.’

Mrs Clennam shook her head; whether in dismissal of the deceased or opposing herself to her son’s opinion, was not clearly expressed.

‘After my father’s death I opened it myself, thinking there might be, for anything I knew, some memorandum there. However, as I need not tell you, mother, there was nothing but the old silk watch-paper worked in beads, which you found (no doubt) in its place between the cases, where I found and left it.’

Mrs Clennam signified assent; then added, ‘No more of business on this day,’ and then added, ‘Affery, it is nine o’clock.’

Upon this, the old woman cleared the little table, went out of the room, and quickly returned with a tray on which was a dish of little rusks and a small precise pat of butter, cool, symmetrical, white, and plump. The old man who had been standing by the door in one attitude during the whole interview, looking at the mother up-stairs as he had looked at the son down-stairs, went out at the same time, and, after a longer absence, returned with another tray on which was the greater part of a bottle of port wine (which, to judge by his panting, he had brought from the cellar), a lemon, a sugar-basin, and a spice box. With these materials and the aid of the kettle, he filled a tumbler with a hot and odorous mixture, measured out and compounded with as much nicety as a physician’s prescription. Into this mixture Mrs Clennam dipped certain of the rusks, and ate them; while the old woman buttered certain other of the rusks, which were to be eaten alone. When the invalid had eaten all the rusks and drunk all the mixture, the two trays were removed; and the books and the candle, watch, handkerchief, and spectacles were replaced upon the table. She then put on the spectacles and read certain passages aloud from a book—sternly, fiercely, wrathfully—praying that her enemies (she made them by her tone and manner expressly hers) might be put to the edge of the sword, consumed by fire, smitten by plagues and leprosy, that their bones might be ground to dust, and that they might be utterly exterminated. As she read on, years seemed to fall away from her son like the imaginings of a dream, and all the old dark horrors of his usual preparation for the sleep of an innocent child to overshadow him.

She shut the book and remained for a little time with her face shaded by her hand. So did the old man, otherwise still unchanged in attitude; so, probably, did the old woman in her dimmer part of the room. Then the sick woman was ready for bed.

‘Good night, Arthur. Affery will see to your accommodation. Only touch me, for my hand is tender.’ He touched the worsted muffling of her hand—that was nothing; if his mother had been sheathed in brass there would have been no new barrier between them—and followed the old man and woman down-stairs.

The latter asked him, when they were alone together among the heavy shadows of the dining-room, would he have some supper?

‘No, Affery, no supper.’

‘You shall if you like,’ said Affery. ‘There’s her tomorrow’s partridge in the larder—her first this year; say the word and I’ll cook it.’

No, he had not long dined, and could eat nothing.

‘Have something to drink, then,’ said Affery; ‘you shall have some of her bottle of port, if you like. I’ll tell Jeremiah that you ordered me to bring it you.’

No; nor would he have that, either.

‘It’s no reason, Arthur,’ said the old woman, bending over him to whisper, ‘that because I am afeared of my life of ‘em, you should be. You’ve got half the property, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Well then, don’t you be cowed. You’re clever, Arthur, an’t you?’

He nodded, as she seemed to expect an answer in the affirmative.

‘Then stand up against them! She’s awful clever, and none but a clever one durst say a word to her. He’s a clever one—oh, he’s a clever one!—and he gives it her when he has a mind to’t, he does!’

‘Your husband does?’

‘Does? It makes me shake from head to foot, to hear him give it her. My husband, Jeremiah Flintwinch, can conquer even your mother. What can he be but a clever one to do that!’

His shuffling footstep coming towards them caused her to retreat to the other end of the room. Though a tall, hard-favoured, sinewy old woman, who in her youth might have enlisted in the Foot Guards without much fear of discovery, she collapsed before the little keen-eyed crab-like old man.

‘Now, Affery,’ said he, ‘now, woman, what are you doing? Can’t you find Master Arthur something or another to pick at?’

Master Arthur repeated his recent refusal to pick at anything.

‘Very well, then,’ said the old man; ‘make his bed. Stir yourself.’ His neck was so twisted that the knotted ends of his white cravat usually dangled under one ear; his natural acerbity and energy, always contending with a second nature of habitual repression, gave his features a swollen and suffused look; and altogether, he had a weird appearance of having hanged himself at one time or other, and of having gone about ever since, halter and all, exactly as some timely hand had cut him down.

‘You’ll have bitter words together to-morrow, Arthur; you and your mother,’ said Jeremiah. ‘Your having given up the business on your father’s death—which she suspects, though we have left it to you to tell her—won’t go off smoothly.’

‘I have given up everything in life for the business, and the time came for me to give up that.’

‘Good!’ cried Jeremiah, evidently meaning Bad. ‘Very good! only don’t expect me to stand between your mother and you, Arthur. I stood between your mother and your father, fending off this, and fending off that, and getting crushed and pounded betwixt em; and I’ve done with such work.’

‘You will never be asked to begin it again for me, Jeremiah.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it; because I should have had to decline it, if I had been. That’s enough—as your mother says—and more than enough of such matters on a Sabbath night. Affery, woman, have you found what you want yet?’

She had been collecting sheets and blankets from a press, and hastened to gather them up, and to reply, ‘Yes, Jeremiah.’ Arthur Clennam helped her by carrying the load himself, wished the old man good night, and went up-stairs with her to the top of the house.

They mounted up and up, through the musty smell of an old close house, little used, to a large garret bed-room. Meagre and spare, like all the other rooms, it was even uglier and grimmer than the rest, by being the place of banishment for the worn-out furniture. Its movables were ugly old chairs with worn-out seats, and ugly old chairs without any seats; a threadbare patternless carpet, a maimed table, a crippled wardrobe, a lean set of fire-irons like the skeleton of a set deceased, a washing-stand that looked as if it had stood for ages in a hail of dirty soapsuds, and a bedstead with four bare atomies of posts, each terminating in a spike, as if for the dismal accommodation of lodgers who might prefer to impale themselves. Arthur opened the long low window, and looked out upon the old blasted and blackened forest of chimneys, and the old red glare in the sky, which had seemed to him once upon a time but a nightly reflection of the fiery environment that was presented to his childish fancy in all directions, let it look where it would.

He drew in his head again, sat down at the bedside, and looked on at Affery Flintwinch making the bed.

‘Affery, you were not married when I went away.’

She screwed her mouth into the form of saying ‘No,’ shook her head, and proceeded to get a pillow into its case.

‘How did it happen?’

‘Why, Jeremiah, o’ course,’ said Affery, with an end of the pillow-case between her teeth.

‘Of course he proposed it, but how did it all come about? I should have thought that neither of you would have married; least of all should I have thought of your marrying each other.’

‘No more should I,’ said Mrs Flintwinch, tying the pillow tightly in its case.

‘That’s what I mean. When did you begin to think otherwise?’

‘Never begun to think otherwise at all,’ said Mrs Flintwinch.

Seeing, as she patted the pillow into its place on the bolster, that he was still looking at her as if waiting for the rest of her reply, she gave it a great poke in the middle, and asked, ‘How could I help myself?’

‘How could you help yourself from being married!’

‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Flintwinch. ‘It was no doing o’ mine. I’d never thought of it. I’d got something to do, without thinking, indeed! She kept me to it (as well as he) when she could go about, and she could go about then.’

‘Well?’

‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch. ‘That’s what I said myself. Well! What’s the use of considering? If them two clever ones have made up their minds to it, what’s left for me to do? Nothing.’

‘Was it my mother’s project, then?’

‘The Lord bless you, Arthur, and forgive me the wish!’ cried Affery, speaking always in a low tone. ‘If they hadn’t been both of a mind in it, how could it ever have been? Jeremiah never courted me; t’ant likely that he would, after living in the house with me and ordering me about for as many years as he’d done. He said to me one day, he said, “Affery,” he said, “now I am going to tell you something. What do you think of the name of Flintwinch?” “What do I think of it?” I says. “Yes,” he said, “because you’re going to take it,” he said. “Take it?” I says. “Jere-mi-ah?” Oh! he’s a clever one!’

Mrs Flintwinch went on to spread the upper sheet over the bed, and the blanket over that, and the counterpane over that, as if she had quite concluded her story.

‘Well?’ said Arthur again.

‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch again. ‘How could I help myself? He said to me, “Affery, you and me must be married, and I’ll tell you why. She’s failing in health, and she’ll want pretty constant attendance up in her room, and we shall have to be much with her, and there’ll be nobody about now but ourselves when we’re away from her, and altogether it will be more convenient. She’s of my opinion,” he said, “so if you’ll put your bonnet on next Monday morning at eight, we’ll get it over.”’ Mrs Flintwinch tucked up the bed.

‘Well?’

‘Well?’ repeated Mrs Flintwinch, ‘I think so! I sits me down and says it. Well!—Jeremiah then says to me, “As to banns, next Sunday being the third time of asking (for I’ve put ‘em up a fortnight), is my reason for naming Monday. She’ll speak to you about it herself, and now she’ll find you prepared, Affery.” That same day she spoke to me, and she said, “So, Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man.” What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been—a smothering instead of a wedding,’ Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind with great pains for this form of expression, ‘I couldn’t have said a word upon it, against them two clever ones.’

‘In good faith, I believe so.’

‘And so you may, Arthur.’

‘Affery, what girl was that in my mother’s room just now?’

‘Girl?’ said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key.

‘It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you—almost hidden in the dark corner?’

‘Oh! She? Little Dorrit? She‘s nothing; she’s a whim of—hers.’ It was a peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam by name. ‘But there’s another sort of girls than that about. Have you forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I’ll be bound.’

‘I suffered enough from my mother’s separating us, to remember her. I recollect her very well.’

‘Have you got another?’

‘No.’

‘Here’s news for you, then. She’s well to do now, and a widow. And if you like to have her, why you can.’

‘And how do you know that, Affery?’

‘Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.—There’s Jeremiah on the stairs!’ She was gone in a moment.

Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy’s love had found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined, to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window, and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man’s life—so much was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better directed and happier to speculate upon—to make him a dreamer, after all.

CHAPTER 4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream

When Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, she usually dreamed, unlike the son of her old mistress, with her eyes shut. She had a curiously vivid dream that night, and before she had left the son of her old mistress many hours. In fact it was not at all like a dream; it was so very real in every respect. It happened in this wise.

The bed-chamber occupied by Mr and Mrs Flintwinch was within a few paces of that to which Mrs Clennam had been so long confined. It was not on the same floor, for it was a room at the side of the house, which was approached by a steep descent of a few odd steps, diverging from the main staircase nearly opposite to Mrs Clennam’s door. It could scarcely be said to be within call, the walls, doors, and panelling of the old place were so cumbrous; but it was within easy reach, in any undress, at any hour of the night, in any temperature. At the head of the bed and within a foot of Mrs Flintwinch’s ear, was a bell, the line of which hung ready to Mrs Clennam’s hand. Whenever this bell rang, up started Affery, and was in the sick room before she was awake.

Having got her mistress into bed, lighted her lamp, and given her good night, Mrs Flintwinch went to roost as usual, saving that her lord had not yet appeared. It was her lord himself who became—unlike the last theme in the mind, according to the observation of most philosophers—the subject of Mrs Flintwinch’s dream.

It seemed to her that she awoke after sleeping some hours, and found Jeremiah not yet abed. That she looked at the candle she had left burning, and, measuring the time like King Alfred the Great, was confirmed by its wasted state in her belief that she had been asleep for some considerable period. That she arose thereupon, muffled herself up in a wrapper, put on her shoes, and went out on the staircase, much surprised, to look for Jeremiah.

The staircase was as wooden and solid as need be, and Affery went straight down it without any of those deviations peculiar to dreams. She did not skim over it, but walked down it, and guided herself by the banisters on account of her candle having died out. In one corner of the hall, behind the house-door, there was a little waiting-room, like a well-shaft, with a long narrow window in it as if it had been ripped up. In this room, which was never used, a light was burning.

Mrs Flintwinch crossed the hall, feeling its pavement cold to her stockingless feet, and peeped in between the rusty hinges on the door, which stood a little open. She expected to see Jeremiah fast asleep or in a fit, but he was calmly seated in a chair, awake, and in his usual health. But what—hey?—Lord forgive us!—Mrs Flintwinch muttered some ejaculation to this effect, and turned giddy.

For, Mr Flintwinch awake, was watching Mr Flintwinch asleep. He sat on one side of the small table, looking keenly at himself on the other side with his chin sunk on his breast, snoring. The waking Flintwinch had his full front face presented to his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was in profile. The waking Flintwinch was the old original; the sleeping Flintwinch was the double, just as she might have distinguished between a tangible object and its reflection in a glass, Affery made out this difference with her head going round and round.

If she had had any doubt which was her own Jeremiah, it would have been resolved by his impatience. He looked about him for an offensive weapon, caught up the snuffers, and, before applying them to the cabbage-headed candle, lunged at the sleeper as though he would have run him through the body.

‘Who’s that? What’s the matter?’ cried the sleeper, starting.

Mr Flintwinch made a movement with the snuffers, as if he would have enforced silence on his companion by putting them down his throat; the companion, coming to himself, said, rubbing his eyes, ‘I forgot where I was.’

‘You have been asleep,’ snarled Jeremiah, referring to his watch, ‘two hours. You said you would be rested enough if you had a short nap.’

‘I have had a short nap,’ said Double.

‘Half-past two o’clock in the morning,’ muttered Jeremiah. ‘Where’s your hat? Where’s your coat? Where’s the box?’

‘All here,’ said Double, tying up his throat with sleepy carefulness in a shawl. ‘Stop a minute. Now give me the sleeve—not that sleeve, the other one. Ha! I’m not as young as I was.’ Mr Flintwinch had pulled him into his coat with vehement energy. ‘You promised me a second glass after I was rested.’

‘Drink it!’ returned Jeremiah, ‘and—choke yourself, I was going to say—but go, I mean.’ At the same time he produced the identical port-wine bottle, and filled a wine-glass.

‘Her port-wine, I believe?’ said Double, tasting it as if he were in the Docks, with hours to spare. ‘Her health.’

He took a sip.

‘Your health!’

He took another sip.

‘His health!’

He took another sip.

‘And all friends round St Paul’s.’ He emptied and put down the wine-glass half-way through this ancient civic toast, and took up the box. It was an iron box some two feet square, which he carried under his arms pretty easily. Jeremiah watched his manner of adjusting it, with jealous eyes; tried it with his hands, to be sure that he had a firm hold of it; bade him for his life be careful what he was about; and then stole out on tiptoe to open the door for him. Affery, anticipating the last movement, was on the staircase. The sequence of things was so ordinary and natural, that, standing there, she could hear the door open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside.

But now came the most remarkable part of the dream. She felt so afraid of her husband, that being on the staircase, she had not the power to retreat to her room (which she might easily have done before he had fastened the door), but stood there staring. Consequently when he came up the staircase to bed, candle in hand, he came full upon her. He looked astonished, but said not a word. He kept his eyes upon her, and kept advancing; and she, completely under his influence, kept retiring before him. Thus, she walking backward and he walking forward, they came into their own room. They were no sooner shut in there, than Mr Flintwinch took her by the throat, and shook her until she was black in the face.

‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘What have you been dreaming of? Wake up, wake up! What’s the matter?’

‘The—the matter, Jeremiah?’ gasped Mrs Flintwinch, rolling her eyes.

‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery! You have been getting out of bed in your sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself, below, and find you in your wrapper here, with the nightmare. Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive countenance, ‘if you ever have a dream of this sort again, it’ll be a sign of your being in want of physic. And I’ll give you such a dose, old woman—such a dose!’

Mrs Flintwinch thanked him and crept into bed.

CHAPTER 5. Family Affairs

As the city clocks struck nine on Monday morning, Mrs Clennam was wheeled by Jeremiah Flintwinch of the cut-down aspect to her tall cabinet. When she had unlocked and opened it, and had settled herself at its desk, Jeremiah withdrew—as it might be, to hang himself more effectually—and her son appeared.

‘Are you any better this morning, mother?’

She shook her head, with the same austere air of luxuriousness that she had shown over-night when speaking of the weather. ‘I shall never be better any more. It is well for me, Arthur, that I know it and can bear it.’

Sitting with her hands laid separately upon the desk, and the tall cabinet towering before her, she looked as if she were performing on a dumb church organ. Her son thought so (it was an old thought with him), while he took his seat beside it.

She opened a drawer or two, looked over some business papers, and put them back again. Her severe face had no thread of relaxation in it, by which any explorer could have been guided to the gloomy labyrinth of her thoughts.

‘Shall I speak of our affairs, mother? Are you inclined to enter upon business?’

‘Am I inclined, Arthur? Rather, are you? Your father has been dead a year and more. I have been at your disposal, and waiting your pleasure, ever since.’

‘There was much to arrange before I could leave; and when I did leave, I travelled a little for rest and relief.’

She turned her face towards him, as not having heard or understood his last words.

‘For rest and relief.’

She glanced round the sombre room, and appeared from the motion of her lips to repeat the words to herself, as calling it to witness how little of either it afforded her.

‘Besides, mother, you being sole executrix, and having the direction and management of the estate, there remained little business, or I might say none, that I could transact, until you had had time to arrange matters to your satisfaction.’

‘The accounts are made out,’ she returned. ‘I have them here. The vouchers have all been examined and passed. You can inspect them when you like, Arthur; now, if you please.’

‘It is quite enough, mother, to know that the business is completed. Shall I proceed then?’

‘Why not?’ she said, in her frozen way.

‘Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our dealings have been progressively on the decline. We have never shown much confidence, or invited much; we have attached no people to us; the track we have kept is not the track of the time; and we have been left far behind. I need not dwell on this to you, mother. You know it necessarily.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she answered, in a qualified tone.

‘Even this old house in which we speak,’ pursued her son, ‘is an instance of what I say. In my father’s earlier time, and in his uncle’s time before him, it was a place of business—really a place of business, and business resort. Now, it is a mere anomaly and incongruity here, out of date and out of purpose. All our consignments have long been made to Rovinghams’ the commission-merchants; and although, as a check upon them, and in the stewardship of my father’s resources, your judgment and watchfulness have been actively exerted, still those qualities would have influenced my father’s fortunes equally, if you had lived in any private dwelling: would they not?’

‘Do you consider,’ she returned, without answering his question, ‘that a house serves no purpose, Arthur, in sheltering your infirm and afflicted—justly infirm and righteously afflicted—mother?’

‘I was speaking only of business purposes.’

‘With what object?’

‘I am coming to it.’

‘I foresee,’ she returned, fixing her eyes upon him, ‘what it is. But the Lord forbid that I should repine under any visitation. In my sinfulness I merit bitter disappointment, and I accept it.’

‘Mother, I grieve to hear you speak like this, though I have had my apprehensions that you would—’

‘You knew I would. You knew me,’ she interrupted.

Her son paused for a moment. He had struck fire out of her, and was surprised. ‘Well!’ she said, relapsing into stone. ‘Go on. Let me hear.’

‘You have anticipated, mother, that I decide for my part, to abandon the business. I have done with it. I will not take upon myself to advise you; you will continue it, I see. If I had any influence with you, I would simply use it to soften your judgment of me in causing you this disappointment: to represent to you that I have lived the half of a long term of life, and have never before set my own will against yours. I cannot say that I have been able to conform myself, in heart and spirit, to your rules; I cannot say that I believe my forty years have been profitable or pleasant to myself, or any one; but I have habitually submitted, and I only ask you to remember it.’

Woe to the suppliant, if such a one there were or ever had been, who had any concession to look for in the inexorable face at the cabinet. Woe to the defaulter whose appeal lay to the tribunal where those severe eyes presided. Great need had the rigid woman of her mystical religion, veiled in gloom and darkness, with lightnings of cursing, vengeance, and destruction, flashing through the sable clouds. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, was a prayer too poor in spirit for her. Smite Thou my debtors, Lord, wither them, crush them; do Thou as I would do, and Thou shalt have my worship: this was the impious tower of stone she built up to scale Heaven.

‘Have you finished, Arthur, or have you anything more to say to me? I think there can be nothing else. You have been short, but full of matter!’

‘Mother, I have yet something more to say. It has been upon my mind, night and day, this long time. It is far more difficult to say than what I have said. That concerned myself; this concerns us all.’

‘Us all! Who are us all?’

‘Yourself, myself, my dead father.’

She took her hands from the desk; folded them in her lap; and sat looking towards the fire, with the impenetrability of an old Egyptian sculpture.

‘You knew my father infinitely better than I ever knew him; and his reserve with me yielded to you. You were much the stronger, mother, and directed him. As a child, I knew it as well as I know it now. I knew that your ascendancy over him was the cause of his going to China to take care of the business there, while you took care of it here (though I do not even now know whether these were really terms of separation that you agreed upon); and that it was your will that I should remain with you until I was twenty, and then go to him as I did. You will not be offended by my recalling this, after twenty years?’

‘I am waiting to hear why you recall it.’

He lowered his voice, and said, with manifest reluctance, and against his will:

‘I want to ask you, mother, whether it ever occurred to you to suspect—’

At the word Suspect, she turned her eyes momentarily upon her son, with a dark frown. She then suffered them to seek the fire, as before; but with the frown fixed above them, as if the sculptor of old Egypt had indented it in the hard granite face, to frown for ages.

‘—that he had any secret remembrance which caused him trouble of mind—remorse? Whether you ever observed anything in his conduct suggesting that; or ever spoke to him upon it, or ever heard him hint at such a thing?’

‘I do not understand what kind of secret remembrance you mean to infer that your father was a prey to,’ she returned, after a silence. ‘You speak so mysteriously.’

‘Is it possible, mother,’ her son leaned forward to be the nearer to her while he whispered it, and laid his hand nervously upon her desk, ‘is it possible, mother, that he had unhappily wronged any one, and made no reparation?’

Looking at him wrathfully, she bent herself back in her chair to keep him further off, but gave him no reply.

‘I am deeply sensible, mother, that if this thought has never at any time flashed upon you, it must seem cruel and unnatural in me, even in this confidence, to breathe it. But I cannot shake it off. Time and change (I have tried both before breaking silence) do nothing to wear it out. Remember, I was with my father. Remember, I saw his face when he gave the watch into my keeping, and struggled to express that he sent it as a token you would understand, to you. Remember, I saw him at the last with the pencil in his failing hand, trying to write some word for you to read, but to which he could give no shape. The more remote and cruel this vague suspicion that I have, the stronger the circumstances that could give it any semblance of probability to me. For Heaven’s sake, let us examine sacredly whether there is any wrong entrusted to us to set right. No one can help towards it, mother, but you.’

Still so recoiling in her chair that her overpoised weight moved it, from time to time, a little on its wheels, and gave her the appearance of a phantom of fierce aspect gliding away from him, she interposed her left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand towards her face, between herself and him, and looked at him in a fixed silence.

‘In grasping at money and in driving hard bargains—I have begun, and I must speak of such things now, mother—some one may have been grievously deceived, injured, ruined. You were the moving power of all this machinery before my birth; your stronger spirit has been infused into all my father’s dealings for more than two score years. You can set these doubts at rest, I think, if you will really help me to discover the truth. Will you, mother?’

He stopped in the hope that she would speak. But her grey hair was not more immovable in its two folds, than were her firm lips.

‘If reparation can be made to any one, if restitution can be made to any one, let us know it and make it. Nay, mother, if within my means, let me make it. I have seen so little happiness come of money; it has brought within my knowledge so little peace to this house, or to any one belonging to it, that it is worth less to me than to another. It can buy me nothing that will not be a reproach and misery to me, if I am haunted by a suspicion that it darkened my father’s last hours with remorse, and that it is not honestly and justly mine.’

There was a bell-rope hanging on the panelled wall, some two or three yards from the cabinet. By a swift and sudden action of her foot, she drove her wheeled chair rapidly back to it and pulled it violently—still holding her arm up in its shield-like posture, as if he were striking at her, and she warding off the blow.

A girl came hurrying in, frightened.

‘Send Flintwinch here!’

In a moment the girl had withdrawn, and the old man stood within the door. ‘What! You’re hammer and tongs, already, you two?’ he said, coolly stroking his face. ‘I thought you would be. I was pretty sure of it.’

‘Flintwinch!’ said the mother, ‘look at my son. Look at him!’

‘Well, I am looking at him,’ said Flintwinch.

She stretched out the arm with which she had shielded herself, and as she went on, pointed at the object of her anger.

‘In the very hour of his return almost—before the shoe upon his foot is dry—he asperses his father’s memory to his mother! Asks his mother to become, with him, a spy upon his father’s transactions through a lifetime! Has misgivings that the goods of this world which we have painfully got together early and late, with wear and tear and toil and self-denial, are so much plunder; and asks to whom they shall be given up, as reparation and restitution!’

Although she said this raging, she said it in a voice so far from being beyond her control that it was even lower than her usual tone. She also spoke with great distinctness.

‘Reparation!’ said she. ‘Yes, truly! It is easy for him to talk of reparation, fresh from journeying and junketing in foreign lands, and living a life of vanity and pleasure. But let him look at me, in prison, and in bonds here. I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed that I shall so make reparation for my sins. Reparation! Is there none in this room? Has there been none here this fifteen years?’

Thus was she always balancing her bargains with the Majesty of heaven, posting up the entries to her credit, strictly keeping her set-off, and claiming her due. She was only remarkable in this, for the force and emphasis with which she did it. Thousands upon thousands do it, according to their varying manner, every day.

‘Flintwinch, give me that book!’

The old man handed it to her from the table. She put two fingers between the leaves, closed the book upon them, and held it up to her son in a threatening way.

‘In the days of old, Arthur, treated of in this commentary, there were pious men, beloved of the Lord, who would have cursed their sons for less than this: who would have sent them forth, and sent whole nations forth, if such had supported them, to be avoided of God and man, and perish, down to the baby at the breast. But I only tell you that if you ever renew that theme with me, I will renounce you; I will so dismiss you through that doorway, that you had better have been motherless from your cradle. I will never see or know you more. And if, after all, you were to come into this darkened room to look upon me lying dead, my body should bleed, if I could make it, when you came near me.’

In part relieved by the intensity of this threat, and in part (monstrous as the fact is) by a general impression that it was in some sort a religious proceeding, she handed back the book to the old man, and was silent.

‘Now,’ said Jeremiah; ‘premising that I’m not going to stand between you two, will you let me ask (as I have been called in, and made a third) what is all this about?’

‘Take your version of it,’ returned Arthur, finding it left to him to speak, ‘from my mother. Let it rest there. What I have said, was said to my mother only.’

‘Oh!’ returned the old man. ‘From your mother? Take it from your mother? Well! But your mother mentioned that you had been suspecting your father. That’s not dutiful, Mr Arthur. Who will you be suspecting next?’

‘Enough,’ said Mrs Clennam, turning her face so that it was addressed for the moment to the old man only. ‘Let no more be said about this.’

‘Yes, but stop a bit, stop a bit,’ the old man persisted. ‘Let us see how we stand. Have you told Mr Arthur that he mustn’t lay offences at his father’s door? That he has no right to do it? That he has no ground to go upon?’

‘I tell him so now.’

‘Ah! Exactly,’ said the old man. ‘You tell him so now. You hadn’t told him so before, and you tell him so now. Ay, ay! That’s right! You know I stood between you and his father so long, that it seems as if death had made no difference, and I was still standing between you. So I will, and so in fairness I require to have that plainly put forward. Arthur, you please to hear that you have no right to mistrust your father, and have no ground to go upon.’

He put his hands to the back of the wheeled chair, and muttering to himself, slowly wheeled his mistress back to her cabinet. ‘Now,’ he resumed, standing behind her: ‘in case I should go away leaving things half done, and so should be wanted again when you come to the other half and get into one of your flights, has Arthur told you what he means to do about the business?’

‘He has relinquished it.’

‘In favour of nobody, I suppose?’

Mrs Clennam glanced at her son, leaning against one of the windows. He observed the look and said, ‘To my mother, of course. She does what she pleases.’

‘And if any pleasure,’ she said after a short pause, ‘could arise for me out of the disappointment of my expectations that my son, in the prime of his life, would infuse new youth and strength into it, and make it of great profit and power, it would be in advancing an old and faithful servant. Jeremiah, the captain deserts the ship, but you and I will sink or float with it.’

Jeremiah, whose eyes glistened as if they saw money, darted a sudden look at the son, which seemed to say, ‘I owe you no thanks for this; you have done nothing towards it!’ and then told the mother that he thanked her, and that Affery thanked her, and that he would never desert her, and that Affery would never desert her. Finally, he hauled up his watch from its depths, and said, ‘Eleven. Time for your oysters!’ and with that change of subject, which involved no change of expression or manner, rang the bell.

But Mrs Clennam, resolved to treat herself with the greater rigour for having been supposed to be unacquainted with reparation, refused to eat her oysters when they were brought. They looked tempting; eight in number, circularly set out on a white plate on a tray covered with a white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered French roll, and a little compact glass of cool wine and water; but she resisted all persuasions, and sent them down again—placing the act to her credit, no doubt, in her Eternal Day-Book.

This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the girl who had appeared when the bell was rung; the same who had been in the dimly-lighted room last night. Now that he had an opportunity of observing her, Arthur found that her diminutive figure, small features, and slight spare dress, gave her the appearance of being much younger than she was. A woman, probably of not less than two-and-twenty, she might have been passed in the street for little more than half that age. Not that her face was very youthful, for in truth there was more consideration and care in it than naturally belonged to her utmost years; but she was so little and light, so noiseless and shy, and appeared so conscious of being out of place among the three hard elders, that she had all the manner and much of the appearance of a subdued child.

In a hard way, and in an uncertain way that fluctuated between patronage and putting down, the sprinkling from a watering-pot and hydraulic pressure, Mrs Clennam showed an interest in this dependent. Even in the moment of her entrance, upon the violent ringing of the bell, when the mother shielded herself with that singular action from the son, Mrs Clennam’s eyes had had some individual recognition in them, which seemed reserved for her. As there are degrees of hardness in the hardest metal, and shades of colour in black itself, so, even in the asperity of Mrs Clennam’s demeanour towards all the rest of humanity and towards Little Dorrit, there was a fine gradation.

Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day—or at so little—from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was a mystery.

Another of the moral phenomena of Little Dorrit. Besides her consideration money, her daily contract included meals. She had an extraordinary repugnance to dining in company; would never do so, if it were possible to escape. Would always plead that she had this bit of work to begin first, or that bit of work to finish first; and would, of a certainty, scheme and plan—not very cunningly, it would seem, for she deceived no one—to dine alone. Successful in this, happy in carrying off her plate anywhere, to make a table of her lap, or a box, or the ground, or even as was supposed, to stand on tip-toe, dining moderately at a mantel-shelf; the great anxiety of Little Dorrit’s day was set at rest.

It was not easy to make out Little Dorrit’s face; she was so retiring, plied her needle in such removed corners, and started away so scared if encountered on the stairs. But it seemed to be a pale transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature, its soft hazel eyes excepted. A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands, and a shabby dress—it must needs have been very shabby to look at all so, being so neat—were Little Dorrit as she sat at work.

For these particulars or generalities concerning Little Dorrit, Mr Arthur was indebted in the course of the day to his own eyes and to Mrs Affery’s tongue. If Mrs Affery had had any will or way of her own, it would probably have been unfavourable to Little Dorrit. But as ‘them two clever ones’—Mrs Affery’s perpetual reference, in whom her personality was swallowed up—were agreed to accept Little Dorrit as a matter of course, she had nothing for it but to follow suit. Similarly, if the two clever ones had agreed to murder Little Dorrit by candlelight, Mrs Affery, being required to hold the candle, would no doubt have done it.

In the intervals of roasting the partridge for the invalid chamber, and preparing a baking-dish of beef and pudding for the dining-room, Mrs Affery made the communications above set forth; invariably putting her head in at the door again after she had taken it out, to enforce resistance to the two clever ones. It appeared to have become a perfect passion with Mrs Flintwinch, that the only son should be pitted against them.

In the course of the day, too, Arthur looked through the whole house. Dull and dark he found it. The gaunt rooms, deserted for years upon years, seemed to have settled down into a gloomy lethargy from which nothing could rouse them again. The furniture, at once spare and lumbering, hid in the rooms rather than furnished them, and there was no colour in all the house; such colour as had ever been there, had long ago started away on lost sunbeams—got itself absorbed, perhaps, into flowers, butterflies, plumage of birds, precious stones, what not. There was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old women might have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea; the dead-cold hearths showed no traces of having ever been warmed but in heaps of soot that had tumbled down the chimneys, and eddied about in little dusky whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what had once been a drawing-room, there were a pair of meagre mirrors, with dismal processions of black figures carrying black garlands, walking round the frames; but even these were short of heads and legs, and one undertaker-like Cupid had swung round on its own axis and got upside down, and another had fallen off altogether. The room Arthur Clennam’s deceased father had occupied for business purposes, when he first remembered him, was so unaltered that he might have been imagined still to keep it invisibly, as his visible relict kept her room up-stairs; Jeremiah Flintwinch still going between them negotiating. His picture, dark and gloomy, earnestly speechless on the wall, with the eyes intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from them, seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted; but as to any yielding on the part of his mother, he had now no hope, and as to any other means of setting his distrust at rest, he had abandoned hope a long time. Down in the cellars, as up in the bed-chambers, old objects that he well remembered were changed by age and decay, but were still in their old places; even to empty beer-casks hoary with cobwebs, and empty wine-bottles with fur and fungus choking up their throats. There, too, among unusual bottle-racks and pale slants of light from the yard above, was the strong room stored with old ledgers, which had as musty and corrupt a smell as if they were regularly balanced, in the dead small hours, by a nightly resurrection of old book-keepers.

The baking-dish was served up in a penitential manner on a shrunken cloth at an end of the dining-table, at two o’clock, when he dined with Mr Flintwinch, the new partner. Mr Flintwinch informed him that his mother had recovered her equanimity now, and that he need not fear her again alluding to what had passed in the morning. ‘And don’t you lay offences at your father’s door, Mr Arthur,’ added Jeremiah, ‘once for all, don’t do it! Now, we have done with the subject.’

Mr Flintwinch had been already rearranging and dusting his own particular little office, as if to do honour to his accession to new dignity. He resumed this occupation when he was replete with beef, had sucked up all the gravy in the baking-dish with the flat of his knife, and had drawn liberally on a barrel of small beer in the scullery. Thus refreshed, he tucked up his shirt-sleeves and went to work again; and Mr Arthur, watching him as he set about it, plainly saw that his father’s picture, or his father’s grave, would be as communicative with him as this old man.

‘Now, Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, as she crossed the hall. ‘You hadn’t made Mr Arthur’s bed when I was up there last. Stir yourself. Bustle.’

But Mr Arthur found the house so blank and dreary, and was so unwilling to assist at another implacable consignment of his mother’s enemies (perhaps himself among them) to mortal disfigurement and immortal ruin, that he announced his intention of lodging at the coffee-house where he had left his luggage. Mr Flintwinch taking kindly to the idea of getting rid of him, and his mother being indifferent, beyond considerations of saving, to most domestic arrangements that were not bounded by the walls of her own chamber, he easily carried this point without new offence. Daily business hours were agreed upon, which his mother, Mr Flintwinch, and he, were to devote together to a necessary checking of books and papers; and he left the home he had so lately found, with depressed heart.

But Little Dorrit?

The business hours, allowing for intervals of invalid regimen of oysters and partridges, during which Clennam refreshed himself with a walk, were from ten to six for about a fortnight. Sometimes Little Dorrit was employed at her needle, sometimes not, sometimes appeared as a humble visitor: which must have been her character on the occasion of his arrival. His original curiosity augmented every day, as he watched for her, saw or did not see her, and speculated about her. Influenced by his predominant idea, he even fell into a habit of discussing with himself the possibility of her being in some way associated with it. At last he resolved to watch Little Dorrit and know more of her story.

CHAPTER 6. The Father of the Marshalsea

Thirty years ago there stood, a few doors short of the church of Saint George, in the borough of Southwark, on the left-hand side of the way going southward, the Marshalsea Prison. It had stood there many years before, and it remained there some years afterwards; but it is gone now, and the world is none the worse without it.

It was an oblong pile of barrack building, partitioned into squalid houses standing back to back, so that there were no back rooms; environed by a narrow paved yard, hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at top. Itself a close and confined prison for debtors, it contained within it a much closer and more confined jail for smugglers. Offenders against the revenue laws, and defaulters to excise or customs who had incurred fines which they were unable to pay, were supposed to be incarcerated behind an iron-plated door closing up a second prison, consisting of a strong cell or two, and a blind alley some yard and a half wide, which formed the mysterious termination of the very limited skittle-ground in which the Marshalsea debtors bowled down their troubles.

Supposed to be incarcerated there, because the time had rather outgrown the strong cells and the blind alley. In practice they had come to be considered a little too bad, though in theory they were quite as good as ever; which may be observed to be the case at the present day with other cells that are not at all strong, and with other blind alleys that are stone-blind. Hence the smugglers habitually consorted with the debtors (who received them with open arms), except at certain constitutional moments when somebody came from some Office, to go through some form of overlooking something which neither he nor anybody else knew anything about. On these truly British occasions, the smugglers, if any, made a feint of walking into the strong cells and the blind alley, while this somebody pretended to do his something: and made a reality of walking out again as soon as he hadn’t done it—neatly epitomising the administration of most of the public affairs in our right little, tight little, island.

There had been taken to the Marshalsea Prison, long before the day when the sun shone on Marseilles and on the opening of this narrative, a debtor with whom this narrative has some concern.

He was, at that time, a very amiable and very helpless middle-aged gentleman, who was going out again directly. Necessarily, he was going out again directly, because the Marshalsea lock never turned upon a debtor who was not. He brought in a portmanteau with him, which he doubted its being worth while to unpack; he was so perfectly clear—like all the rest of them, the turnkey on the lock said—that he was going out again directly.

He was a shy, retiring man; well-looking, though in an effeminate style; with a mild voice, curling hair, and irresolute hands—rings upon the fingers in those days—which nervously wandered to his trembling lip a hundred times in the first half-hour of his acquaintance with the jail. His principal anxiety was about his wife.

‘Do you think, sir,’ he asked the turnkey, ‘that she will be very much shocked, if she should come to the gate to-morrow morning?’

The turnkey gave it as the result of his experience that some of ‘em was and some of ‘em wasn’t. In general, more no than yes. ‘What like is she, you see?’ he philosophically asked: ‘that’s what it hinges on.’

‘She is very delicate and inexperienced indeed.’

‘That,’ said the turnkey, ‘is agen her.’

‘She is so little used to go out alone,’ said the debtor, ‘that I am at a loss to think how she will ever make her way here, if she walks.’

‘P’raps,’ quoth the turnkey, ‘she’ll take a ackney coach.’

‘Perhaps.’ The irresolute fingers went to the trembling lip. ‘I hope she will. She may not think of it.’

‘Or p’raps,’ said the turnkey, offering his suggestions from the the top of his well-worn wooden stool, as he might have offered them to a child for whose weakness he felt a compassion, ‘p’raps she’ll get her brother, or her sister, to come along with her.’

‘She has no brother or sister.’

‘Niece, nevy, cousin, serwant, young ‘ooman, greengrocer.—Dash it! One or another on ‘em,’ said the turnkey, repudiating beforehand the refusal of all his suggestions.

‘I fear—I hope it is not against the rules—that she will bring the children.’

‘The children?’ said the turnkey. ‘And the rules? Why, lord set you up like a corner pin, we’ve a reg’lar playground o’ children here. Children! Why we swarm with ‘em. How many a you got?’

‘Two,’ said the debtor, lifting his irresolute hand to his lip again, and turning into the prison.

The turnkey followed him with his eyes. ‘And you another,’ he observed to himself, ‘which makes three on you. And your wife another, I’ll lay a crown. Which makes four on you. And another coming, I’ll lay half-a-crown. Which’ll make five on you. And I’ll go another seven and sixpence to name which is the helplessest, the unborn baby or you!’

He was right in all his particulars. She came next day with a little boy of three years old, and a little girl of two, and he stood entirely corroborated.

‘Got a room now; haven’t you?’ the turnkey asked the debtor after a week or two.

‘Yes, I have got a very good room.’

‘Any little sticks a coming to furnish it?’ said the turnkey.

‘I expect a few necessary articles of furniture to be delivered by the carrier, this afternoon.’

‘Missis and little ‘uns a coming to keep you company?’ asked the turnkey.

‘Why, yes, we think it better that we should not be scattered, even for a few weeks.’

‘Even for a few weeks, of course,’ replied the turnkey. And he followed him again with his eyes, and nodded his head seven times when he was gone.

The affairs of this debtor were perplexed by a partnership, of which he knew no more than that he had invested money in it; by legal matters of assignment and settlement, conveyance here and conveyance there, suspicion of unlawful preference of creditors in this direction, and of mysterious spiriting away of property in that; and as nobody on the face of the earth could be more incapable of explaining any single item in the heap of confusion than the debtor himself, nothing comprehensible could be made of his case. To question him in detail, and endeavour to reconcile his answers; to closet him with accountants and sharp practitioners, learned in the wiles of insolvency and bankruptcy; was only to put the case out at compound interest and incomprehensibility. The irresolute fingers fluttered more and more ineffectually about the trembling lip on every such occasion, and the sharpest practitioners gave him up as a hopeless job.

‘Out?’ said the turnkey, ‘he‘ll never get out, unless his creditors take him by the shoulders and shove him out.’

He had been there five or six months, when he came running to this turnkey one forenoon to tell him, breathless and pale, that his wife was ill.

‘As anybody might a known she would be,’ said the turnkey.

‘We intended,’ he returned, ‘that she should go to a country lodging only to-morrow. What am I to do! Oh, good heaven, what am I to do!’

‘Don’t waste your time in clasping your hands and biting your fingers,’ responded the practical turnkey, taking him by the elbow, ‘but come along with me.’

The turnkey conducted him—trembling from head to foot, and constantly crying under his breath, What was he to do! while his irresolute fingers bedabbled the tears upon his face—up one of the common staircases in the prison to a door on the garret story. Upon which door the turnkey knocked with the handle of his key.

‘Come in!’ cried a voice inside.

The turnkey, opening the door, disclosed in a wretched, ill-smelling little room, two hoarse, puffy, red-faced personages seated at a rickety table, playing at all-fours, smoking pipes, and drinking brandy.

‘Doctor,’ said the turnkey, ‘here’s a gentleman’s wife in want of you without a minute’s loss of time!’

The doctor’s friend was in the positive degree of hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy; the doctor in the comparative—hoarser, puffier, more red-faced, more all-fourey, tobaccoer, dirtier, and brandier. The doctor was amazingly shabby, in a torn and darned rough-weather sea-jacket, out at elbows and eminently short of buttons (he had been in his time the experienced surgeon carried by a passenger ship), the dirtiest white trousers conceivable by mortal man, carpet slippers, and no visible linen. ‘Childbed?’ said the doctor. ‘I’m the boy!’ With that the doctor took a comb from the chimney-piece and stuck his hair upright—which appeared to be his way of washing himself—produced a professional chest or case, of most abject appearance, from the cupboard where his cup and saucer and coals were, settled his chin in the frowsy wrapper round his neck, and became a ghastly medical scarecrow.

The doctor and the debtor ran down-stairs, leaving the turnkey to return to the lock, and made for the debtor’s room. All the ladies in the prison had got hold of the news, and were in the yard. Some of them had already taken possession of the two children, and were hospitably carrying them off; others were offering loans of little comforts from their own scanty store; others were sympathising with the greatest volubility. The gentlemen prisoners, feeling themselves at a disadvantage, had for the most part retired, not to say sneaked, to their rooms; from the open windows of which some of them now complimented the doctor with whistles as he passed below, while others, with several stories between them, interchanged sarcastic references to the prevalent excitement.

It was a hot summer day, and the prison rooms were baking between the high walls. In the debtor’s confined chamber, Mrs Bangham, charwoman and messenger, who was not a prisoner (though she had been once), but was the popular medium of communication with the outer world, had volunteered her services as fly-catcher and general attendant. The walls and ceiling were blackened with flies. Mrs Bangham, expert in sudden device, with one hand fanned the patient with a cabbage leaf, and with the other set traps of vinegar and sugar in gallipots; at the same time enunciating sentiments of an encouraging and congratulatory nature, adapted to the occasion.

‘The flies trouble you, don’t they, my dear?’ said Mrs Bangham. ‘But p’raps they’ll take your mind off of it, and do you good. What between the buryin ground, the grocer’s, the waggon-stables, and the paunch trade, the Marshalsea flies gets very large. P’raps they’re sent as a consolation, if we only know’d it. How are you now, my dear? No better? No, my dear, it ain’t to be expected; you’ll be worse before you’re better, and you know it, don’t you? Yes. That’s right! And to think of a sweet little cherub being born inside the lock! Now ain’t it pretty, ain’t that something to carry you through it pleasant? Why, we ain’t had such a thing happen here, my dear, not for I couldn’t name the time when. And you a crying too?’ said Mrs Bangham, to rally the patient more and more. ‘You! Making yourself so famous! With the flies a falling into the gallipots by fifties! And everything a going on so well! And here if there ain’t,’ said Mrs Bangham as the door opened, ‘if there ain’t your dear gentleman along with Dr Haggage! And now indeed we are complete, I think!’

The doctor was scarcely the kind of apparition to inspire a patient with a sense of absolute completeness, but as he presently delivered the opinion, ‘We are as right as we can be, Mrs Bangham, and we shall come out of this like a house afire;’ and as he and Mrs Bangham took possession of the poor helpless pair, as everybody else and anybody else had always done, the means at hand were as good on the whole as better would have been. The special feature in Dr Haggage’s treatment of the case, was his determination to keep Mrs Bangham up to the mark. As thus:

‘Mrs Bangham,’ said the doctor, before he had been there twenty minutes, ‘go outside and fetch a little brandy, or we shall have you giving in.’

‘Thank you, sir. But none on my accounts,’ said Mrs Bangham.

‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am in professional attendance on this lady, and don’t choose to allow any discussion on your part. Go outside and fetch a little brandy, or I foresee that you’ll break down.’

‘You’re to be obeyed, sir,’ said Mrs Bangham, rising. ‘If you was to put your own lips to it, I think you wouldn’t be the worse, for you look but poorly, sir.’

‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am not your business, thank you, but you are mine. Never you mind me, if you please. What you have got to do, is, to do as you are told, and to go and get what I bid you.’

Mrs Bangham submitted; and the doctor, having administered her potion, took his own. He repeated the treatment every hour, being very determined with Mrs Bangham. Three or four hours passed; the flies fell into the traps by hundreds; and at length one little life, hardly stronger than theirs, appeared among the multitude of lesser deaths.

‘A very nice little girl indeed,’ said the doctor; ‘little, but well-formed. Halloa, Mrs Bangham! You’re looking queer! You be off, ma’am, this minute, and fetch a little more brandy, or we shall have you in hysterics.’

By this time, the rings had begun to fall from the debtor’s irresolute hands, like leaves from a wintry tree. Not one was left upon them that night, when he put something that chinked into the doctor’s greasy palm. In the meantime Mrs Bangham had been out on an errand to a neighbouring establishment decorated with three golden balls, where she was very well known.

‘Thank you,’ said the doctor, ‘thank you. Your good lady is quite composed. Doing charmingly.’

‘I am very happy and very thankful to know it,’ said the debtor, ‘though I little thought once, that—’

‘That a child would be born to you in a place like this?’ said the doctor. ‘Bah, bah, sir, what does it signify? A little more elbow-room is all we want here. We are quiet here; we don’t get badgered here; there’s no knocker here, sir, to be hammered at by creditors and bring a man’s heart into his mouth. Nobody comes here to ask if a man’s at home, and to say he’ll stand on the door mat till he is. Nobody writes threatening letters about money to this place. It’s freedom, sir, it’s freedom! I have had to-day’s practice at home and abroad, on a march, and aboard ship, and I’ll tell you this: I don’t know that I have ever pursued it under such quiet circumstances as here this day. Elsewhere, people are restless, worried, hurried about, anxious respecting one thing, anxious respecting another. Nothing of the kind here, sir. We have done all that—we know the worst of it; we have got to the bottom, we can’t fall, and what have we found? Peace. That’s the word for it. Peace.’ With this profession of faith, the doctor, who was an old jail-bird, and was more sodden than usual, and had the additional and unusual stimulus of money in his pocket, returned to his associate and chum in hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy.

Now, the debtor was a very different man from the doctor, but he had already begun to travel, by his opposite segment of the circle, to the same point. Crushed at first by his imprisonment, he had soon found a dull relief in it. He was under lock and key; but the lock and key that kept him in, kept numbers of his troubles out. If he had been a man with strength of purpose to face those troubles and fight them, he might have broken the net that held him, or broken his heart; but being what he was, he languidly slipped into this smooth descent, and never more took one step upward.

When he was relieved of the perplexed affairs that nothing would make plain, through having them returned upon his hands by a dozen agents in succession who could make neither beginning, middle, nor end of them or him, he found his miserable place of refuge a quieter refuge than it had been before. He had unpacked the portmanteau long ago; and his elder children now played regularly about the yard, and everybody knew the baby, and claimed a kind of proprietorship in her.

‘Why, I’m getting proud of you,’ said his friend the turnkey, one day. ‘You’ll be the oldest inhabitant soon. The Marshalsea wouldn’t be like the Marshalsea now, without you and your family.’

The turnkey really was proud of him. He would mention him in laudatory terms to new-comers, when his back was turned. ‘You took notice of him,’ he would say, ‘that went out of the lodge just now?’

New-comer would probably answer Yes.

‘Brought up as a gentleman, he was, if ever a man was. Ed’cated at no end of expense. Went into the Marshal’s house once to try a new piano for him. Played it, I understand, like one o’clock—beautiful! As to languages—speaks anything. We’ve had a Frenchman here in his time, and it’s my opinion he knowed more French than the Frenchman did. We’ve had an Italian here in his time, and he shut him up in about half a minute. You’ll find some characters behind other locks, I don’t say you won’t; but if you want the top sawyer in such respects as I’ve mentioned, you must come to the Marshalsea.’

When his youngest child was eight years old, his wife, who had long been languishing away—of her own inherent weakness, not that she retained any greater sensitiveness as to her place of abode than he did—went upon a visit to a poor friend and old nurse in the country, and died there. He remained shut up in his room for a fortnight afterwards; and an attorney’s clerk, who was going through the Insolvent Court, engrossed an address of condolence to him, which looked like a Lease, and which all the prisoners signed. When he appeared again he was greyer (he had soon begun to turn grey); and the turnkey noticed that his hands went often to his trembling lips again, as they had used to do when he first came in. But he got pretty well over it in a month or two; and in the meantime the children played about the yard as regularly as ever, but in black.

Then Mrs Bangham, long popular medium of communication with the outer world, began to be infirm, and to be found oftener than usual comatose on pavements, with her basket of purchases spilt, and the change of her clients ninepence short. His son began to supersede Mrs Bangham, and to execute commissions in a knowing manner, and to be of the prison prisonous, of the streets streety.

Time went on, and the turnkey began to fail. His chest swelled, and his legs got weak, and he was short of breath. The well-worn wooden stool was ‘beyond him,’ he complained. He sat in an arm-chair with a cushion, and sometimes wheezed so, for minutes together, that he couldn’t turn the key. When he was overpowered by these fits, the debtor often turned it for him.

‘You and me,’ said the turnkey, one snowy winter’s night when the lodge, with a bright fire in it, was pretty full of company, ‘is the oldest inhabitants. I wasn’t here myself above seven year before you. I shan’t last long. When I’m off the lock for good and all, you’ll be the Father of the Marshalsea.’

The turnkey went off the lock of this world next day. His words were remembered and repeated; and tradition afterwards handed down from generation to generation—a Marshalsea generation might be calculated as about three months—that the shabby old debtor with the soft manner and the white hair, was the Father of the Marshalsea.

And he grew to be proud of the title. If any impostor had arisen to claim it, he would have shed tears in resentment of the attempt to deprive him of his rights. A disposition began to be perceived in him to exaggerate the number of years he had been there; it was generally understood that you must deduct a few from his account; he was vain, the fleeting generations of debtors said.

All new-comers were presented to him. He was punctilious in the exaction of this ceremony. The wits would perform the office of introduction with overcharged pomp and politeness, but they could not easily overstep his sense of its gravity. He received them in his poor room (he disliked an introduction in the mere yard, as informal—a thing that might happen to anybody), with a kind of bowed-down beneficence. They were welcome to the Marshalsea, he would tell them. Yes, he was the Father of the place. So the world was kind enough to call him; and so he was, if more than twenty years of residence gave him a claim to the title. It looked small at first, but there was very good company there—among a mixture—necessarily a mixture—and very good air.

It became a not unusual circumstance for letters to be put under his door at night, enclosing half-a-crown, two half-crowns, now and then at long intervals even half-a-sovereign, for the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘With the compliments of a collegian taking leave.’ He received the gifts as tributes, from admirers, to a public character. Sometimes these correspondents assumed facetious names, as the Brick, Bellows, Old Gooseberry, Wideawake, Snooks, Mops, Cutaway, the Dogs-meat Man; but he considered this in bad taste, and was always a little hurt by it.

In the fulness of time, this correspondence showing signs of wearing out, and seeming to require an effort on the part of the correspondents to which in the hurried circumstances of departure many of them might not be equal, he established the custom of attending collegians of a certain standing, to the gate, and taking leave of them there. The collegian under treatment, after shaking hands, would occasionally stop to wrap up something in a bit of paper, and would come back again calling ‘Hi!’

He would look round surprised.’Me?’ he would say, with a smile.

By this time the collegian would be up with him, and he would paternally add, VWhat have you forgotten? What can I do for you?’

‘I forgot to leave this,’ the collegian would usually return, ‘for the Father of the Marshalsea.’

‘My good sir,’ he would rejoin, ‘he is infinitely obliged to you.’ But, to the last, the irresolute hand of old would remain in the pocket into which he had slipped the money during two or three turns about the yard, lest the transaction should be too conspicuous to the general body of collegians.

One afternoon he had been doing the honours of the place to a rather large party of collegians, who happened to be going out, when, as he was coming back, he encountered one from the poor side who had been taken in execution for a small sum a week before, had ‘settled’ in the course of that afternoon, and was going out too. The man was a mere Plasterer in his working dress; had his wife with him, and a bundle; and was in high spirits.

‘God bless you, sir,’ he said in passing.

‘And you,’ benignantly returned the Father of the Marshalsea.

They were pretty far divided, going their several ways, when the Plasterer called out, ‘I say!—sir!’ and came back to him.

‘It ain’t much,’ said the Plasterer, putting a little pile of halfpence in his hand, ‘but it’s well meant.’

The Father of the Marshalsea had never been offered tribute in copper yet. His children often had, and with his perfect acquiescence it had gone into the common purse to buy meat that he had eaten, and drink that he had drunk; but fustian splashed with white lime, bestowing halfpence on him, front to front, was new.

‘How dare you!’ he said to the man, and feebly burst into tears.

The Plasterer turned him towards the wall, that his face might not be seen; and the action was so delicate, and the man was so penetrated with repentance, and asked pardon so honestly, that he could make him no less acknowledgment than, ‘I know you meant it kindly. Say no more.’

‘Bless your soul, sir,’ urged the Plasterer, ‘I did indeed. I’d do more by you than the rest of ‘em do, I fancy.’

‘What would you do?’ he asked.

‘I’d come back to see you, after I was let out.’

‘Give me the money again,’ said the other, eagerly, ‘and I’ll keep it, and never spend it. Thank you for it, thank you! I shall see you again?’

‘If I live a week you shall.’

They shook hands and parted. The collegians, assembled in Symposium in the Snuggery that night, marvelled what had happened to their Father; he walked so late in the shadows of the yard, and seemed so downcast.

CHAPTER 7. The Child of the Marshalsea

The baby whose first draught of air had been tinctured with Doctor Haggage’s brandy, was handed down among the generations of collegians, like the tradition of their common parent. In the earlier stages of her existence, she was handed down in a literal and prosaic sense; it being almost a part of the entrance footing of every new collegian to nurse the child who had been born in the college.

‘By rights,’ remarked the turnkey when she was first shown to him, ‘I ought to be her godfather.’

The debtor irresolutely thought of it for a minute, and said, ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t object to really being her godfather?’

‘Oh! I don’t object,’ replied the turnkey, ‘if you don’t.’

Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when the turnkey, being relieved, was off the lock; and that the turnkey went up to the font of Saint George’s Church, and promised and vowed and renounced on her behalf, as he himself related when he came back, ‘like a good ‘un.’

This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child, over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and talk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by the high fender of the lodge fire-place; liked to have her company when he was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come and talk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey that she would come climbing up the lodge-steps of her own accord at all hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket-handkerchief; and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll which soon came to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock, and to bear a horrible family resemblance to Mrs Bangham—he would contemplate her from the top of his stool with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing these things, the collegians would express an opinion that the turnkey, who was a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the turnkey thanked them, and said, ‘No, on the whole it was enough to see other people’s children there.’

At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceive that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow yards surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, would be a difficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creature indeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge that her clasp of her father’s hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great key opened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it, his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive look, with which she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young, was perhaps a part of this discovery.

With a pitiful and plaintive look for everything, indeed, but with something in it for only him that was like protection, this Child of the Marshalsea and the child of the Father of the Marshalsea, sat by her friend the turnkey in the lodge, kept the family room, or wandered about the prison-yard, for the first eight years of her life. With a pitiful and plaintive look for her wayward sister; for her idle brother; for the high blank walls; for the faded crowd they shut in; for the games of the prison children as they whooped and ran, and played at hide-and-seek, and made the iron bars of the inner gateway ‘Home.’

Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too.

‘Thinking of the fields,’ the turnkey said once, after watching her, ‘ain’t you?’

‘Where are they?’ she inquired.

‘Why, they’re—over there, my dear,’ said the turnkey, with a vague flourish of his key. ‘Just about there.’

‘Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?’

The turnkey was discomfited. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Not in general.’

‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, by his own particular request and instruction.

‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups, and there’s daisies, and there’s’—the turnkey hesitated, being short of floral nomenclature—‘there’s dandelions, and all manner of games.’

‘Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?’

‘Prime,’ said the turnkey.

‘Was father ever there?’

‘Hem!’ coughed the turnkey. ‘O yes, he was there, sometimes.’

‘Is he sorry not to be there now?’

‘N-not particular,’ said the turnkey.

‘Nor any of the people?’ she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. ‘O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?’

At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed the subject to hard-bake: always his last resource when he found his little friend getting him into a political, social, or theological corner. But this was the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two curious companions made together. They used to issue from the lodge on alternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadows or green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in the course of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards, there were tea-gardens, shrimps, ale, and other delicacies; and then they would come back hand in hand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

In those early days, the turnkey first began profoundly to consider a question which cost him so much mental labour, that it remained undetermined on the day of his death. He decided to will and bequeath his little property of savings to his godchild, and the point arose how could it be so ‘tied up’ as that only she should have the benefit of it? His experience on the lock gave him such an acute perception of the enormous difficulty of ‘tying up’ money with any approach to tightness, and contrariwise of the remarkable ease with which it got loose, that through a series of years he regularly propounded this knotty point to every new insolvent agent and other professional gentleman who passed in and out.

‘Supposing,’ he would say, stating the case with his key on the professional gentleman’s waistcoat; ‘supposing a man wanted to leave his property to a young female, and wanted to tie it up so that nobody else should ever be able to make a grab at it; how would you tie up that property?’

‘Settle it strictly on herself,’ the professional gentleman would complacently answer.

‘But look here,’ quoth the turnkey. ‘Supposing she had, say a brother, say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at that property when she came into it—how about that?’

‘It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim on it than you,’ would be the professional answer.

‘Stop a bit,’ said the turnkey. ‘Supposing she was tender-hearted, and they came over her. Where’s your law for tying it up then?’

The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded, was unable to produce his law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it all his life, and died intestate after all.

But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen. The first half of that space of her life was only just accomplished, when her pitiful and plaintive look saw her father a widower. From that time the protection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards him, became embodied in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon herself a new relation towards the Father.

At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through this little gate, she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world.

What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of the wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her; lies hidden with many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and laborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life!

With no earthly friend to help her, or so much as to see her, but the one so strangely assorted; with no knowledge even of the common daily tone and habits of the common members of the free community who are not shut up in prisons; born and bred in a social condition, false even with a reference to the falsest condition outside the walls; drinking from infancy of a well whose waters had their own peculiar stain, their own unwholesome and unnatural taste; the Child of the Marshalsea began her womanly life.

No matter through what mistakes and discouragements, what ridicule (not unkindly meant, but deeply felt) of her youth and little figure, what humble consciousness of her own babyhood and want of strength, even in the matter of lifting and carrying; through how much weariness and hopelessness, and how many secret tears; she drudged on, until recognised as useful, even indispensable. That time came. She took the place of eldest of the three, in all things but precedence; was the head of the fallen family; and bore, in her own heart, its anxieties and shames.

At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts, that is, could put down in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister and brother sent to day-schools by desultory starts, during three or four years. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knew well—no one better—that a man so broken as to be the Father of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children.

To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own contriving. Once, among the heterogeneous crowd of inmates there appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the dancing-master’s art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and preferred her humble petition.

‘If you please, I was born here, sir.’

‘Oh! You are the young lady, are you?’ said the dancing-master, surveying the small figure and uplifted face.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what can I do for you?’ said the dancing-master.

‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you,’ anxiously undrawing the strings of the little bag; ‘but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap—’

‘My child, I’ll teach her for nothing,’ said the dancing-master, shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so apt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant leisure to bestow upon her (for it took him a matter of ten weeks to set to his creditors, lead off, turn the Commissioners, and right and left back to his professional pursuits), that wonderful progress was made. Indeed the dancing-master was so proud of it, and so wishful to display it before he left to a few select friends among the collegians, that at six o’clock on a certain fine morning, a minuet de la cour came off in the yard—the college-rooms being of too confined proportions for the purpose—in which so much ground was covered, and the steps were so conscientiously executed, that the dancing-master, having to play the kit besides, was thoroughly blown.

The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master’s continuing his instruction after his release, emboldened the poor child to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the fulness of time a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own behalf.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she said, looking timidly round the door of the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: ‘but I was born here.’

Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the dancing-master had said:

‘Oh! You are the child, are you?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I am sorry I haven’t got anything for you,’ said the milliner, shaking her head.

‘It’s not that, ma’am. If you please I want to learn needle-work.’

‘Why should you do that,’ returned the milliner, ‘with me before you? It has not done me much good.’

‘Nothing—whatever it is—seems to have done anybody much good who comes here,’ she returned in all simplicity; ‘but I want to learn just the same.’

‘I am afraid you are so weak, you see,’ the milliner objected.

‘I don’t think I am weak, ma’am.’

‘And you are so very, very little, you see,’ the milliner objected.

‘Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed,’ returned the Child of the Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers, which came so often in her way. The milliner—who was not morose or hard-hearted, only newly insolvent—was touched, took her in hand with goodwill, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her a cunning work-woman in course of time.

In course of time, and in the very self-same course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new flower of character. The more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea, and the more dependent he became on the contributions of his changing family, the greater stand he made by his forlorn gentility. With the same hand that he pocketed a collegian’s half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his daughters’ earning their bread. So, over and above other daily cares, the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving the genteel fiction that they were all idle beggars together.

The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family group—ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable certainty—on whom her protection devolved. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined at the time when that calamity fell upon him, further than that he left off washing himself when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any more. He had been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days; and when he fell with his brother, resorted for support to playing a clarionet as dirty as himself in a small Theatre Orchestra. It was the theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving as her escort and guardian, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast, starvation—anything but soap.

To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with the Father.

‘Fanny is not going to live with us just now, father. She will be here a good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle.’

‘You surprise me. Why?’

‘I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to, and looked after.’

‘A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend to him and look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You all go out so much; you all go out so much.’

This was to keep up the ceremony and pretence of his having no idea that Amy herself went out by the day to work.

‘But we are always glad to come home, father; now, are we not? And as to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care of him, it may be as well for her not quite to live here, always. She was not born here as I was, you know, father.’

‘Well, Amy, well. I don’t quite follow you, but it’s natural I suppose that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should, too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way. Good, good. I’ll not meddle; don’t mind me.’

To get her brother out of the prison; out of the succession to Mrs Bangham in executing commissions, and out of the slang interchange with very doubtful companions consequent upon both; was her hardest task. At eighteen he would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison from whom he derived anything useful or good, and she could find no patron for him but her old friend and godfather.

‘Dear Bob,’ said she, ‘what is to become of poor Tip?’ His name was Edward, and Ted had been transformed into Tip, within the walls.

The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting their fulfilment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency of running away and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked him, and said he didn’t seem to care for his country.

‘Well, my dear,’ said the turnkey, ‘something ought to be done with him. Suppose I try and get him into the law?’

‘That would be so good of you, Bob!’

The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen as they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly that a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office of an attorney in a great National Palladium called the Palace Court; at that time one of a considerable list of everlasting bulwarks to the dignity and safety of Albion, whose places know them no more.

Tip languished in Clifford’s Inns for six months, and at the expiration of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, and incidentally observed to his sister that he was not going back again.

‘Not going back again?’ said the poor little anxious Child of the Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank of her charges.

‘I am so tired of it,’ said Tip, ‘that I have cut it.’

Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, and Mrs Bangham succession, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop trade, into the law again, into an auctioneers, into a brewery, into a stockbroker’s, into the law again, into a coach office, into a waggon office, into the law again, into a general dealer’s, into a distillery, into the law again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the Billingsgate trade, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it. Wherever he went, this foredoomed Tip appeared to take the prison walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; and to prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slip-shod, purposeless, down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted their fascination over him, and brought him back.

Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her brother’s rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes, she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her bosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a straight course at last.

‘God bless you, dear Tip. Don’t be too proud to come and see us, when you have made your fortune.’

‘All right!’ said Tip, and went.

But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk back again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired than ever.

At length, after another interval of successorship to Mrs Bangham, he found a pursuit for himself, and announced it.

‘Amy, I have got a situation.’

‘Have you really and truly, Tip?’

‘All right. I shall do now. You needn’t look anxious about me any more, old girl.’

‘What is it, Tip?’

‘Why, you know Slingo by sight?’

‘Not the man they call the dealer?’

‘That’s the chap. He’ll be out on Monday, and he’s going to give me a berth.’

‘What is he a dealer in, Tip?’

‘Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy.’

She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him once. A whisper passed among the elder collegians that he had been seen at a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for massive silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in bank notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at work—standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above the wall—when he opened the door and walked in.

She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any questions. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.

‘I am afraid, Amy, you’ll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!’

‘I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?’

‘Why—yes.’

‘Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip.’

‘Ah! But that’s not the worst of it.’

‘Not the worst of it?’

‘Don’t look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back, you see; but—don’t look so startled—I have come back in what I may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, as one of the regulars.’

‘Oh! Don’t say you are a prisoner, Tip! Don’t, don’t!’

‘Well, I don’t want to say it,’ he returned in a reluctant tone; ‘but if you can’t understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am in for forty pound odd.’

For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip’s graceless feet.

It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring him to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside himself if he knew the truth. The thing was incomprehensible to Tip, and altogether a fanciful notion. He yielded to it in that light only, when he submitted to her entreaties, backed by those of his uncle and sister. There was no want of precedent for his return; it was accounted for to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better comprehension of the pious fraud than Tip, supported it loyally.

This was the life, and this the history, of the child of the Marshalsea at twenty-two. With a still surviving attachment to the one miserable yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and fro in it shrinkingly now, with a womanly consciousness that she was pointed out to every one. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, she had found it necessary to conceal where she lived, and to come and go as secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, outside of which she had never slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown with this concealment, and her light step and her little figure shunned the thronged streets while they passed along them.

Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, and the prison, and the turbid living river that flowed through it and flowed on.

This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; now going home upon a dull September evening, observed at a distance by Arthur Clennam. This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; turning at the end of London Bridge, recrossing it, going back again, passing on to Saint George’s Church, turning back suddenly once more, and flitting in at the open outer gate and little court-yard of the Marshalsea.

CHAPTER 8. The Lock

Arthur Clennam stood in the street, waiting to ask some passer-by what place that was. He suffered a few people to pass him in whose face there was no encouragement to make the inquiry, and still stood pausing in the street, when an old man came up and turned into the courtyard.

He stooped a good deal, and plodded along in a slow pre-occupied manner, which made the bustling London thoroughfares no very safe resort for him. He was dirtily and meanly dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue, reaching to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, where it vanished in the pale ghost of a velvet collar. A piece of red cloth with which that phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime was now laid bare, and poked itself up, at the back of the old man’s neck, into a confusion of grey hair and rusty stock and buckle which altogether nearly poked his hat off. A greasy hat it was, and a napless; impending over his eyes, cracked and crumpled at the brim, and with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief dangling out below it. His trousers were so long and loose, and his shoes so clumsy and large, that he shuffled like an elephant; though how much of this was gait, and how much trailing cloth and leather, no one could have told. Under one arm he carried a limp and worn-out case, containing some wind instrument; in the same hand he had a pennyworth of snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, from which he slowly comforted his poor blue old nose with a lengthened-out pinch, as Arthur Clennam looked at him.

To this old man crossing the court-yard, he preferred his inquiry, touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped and looked round, with the expression in his weak grey eyes of one whose thoughts had been far off, and who was a little dull of hearing also.

‘Pray, sir,’ said Arthur, repeating his question, ‘what is this place?’

‘Ay! This place?’ returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. ‘This is the Marshalsea, sir.’

‘The debtors’ prison?’

‘Sir,’ said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary to insist upon that designation, ‘the debtors’ prison.’

He turned himself about, and went on.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Arthur, stopping him once more, ‘but will you allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?’

‘Any one can go in,’ replied the old man; plainly adding by the significance of his emphasis, ‘but it is not every one who can go out.’

‘Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?’

‘Sir,’ returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him. ‘I am.’

‘I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?’

‘My name, sir,’ replied the old man most unexpectedly, ‘is Dorrit.’

Arthur pulled off his hat to him. ‘Grant me the favour of half-a-dozen words. I was wholly unprepared for your announcement, and hope that assurance is my sufficient apology for having taken the liberty of addressing you. I have recently come home to England after a long absence. I have seen at my mother’s—Mrs Clennam in the city—a young woman working at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken of as Little Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have had a great desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a minute before you came up, pass in at that door.’

The old man looked at him attentively. ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ he asked. He seemed a little disappointed by the shake of the head that replied to him. ‘Not a sailor? I judged from your sunburnt face that you might be. Are you in earnest, sir?’

‘I do assure you that I am, and do entreat you to believe that I am, in plain earnest.’

‘I know very little of the world, sir,’ returned the other, who had a weak and quavering voice. ‘I am merely passing on, like the shadow over the sun-dial. It would be worth no man’s while to mislead me; it would really be too easy—too poor a success, to yield any satisfaction. The young woman whom you saw go in here is my brother’s child. My brother is William Dorrit; I am Frederick. You say you have seen her at your mother’s (I know your mother befriends her), you have felt an interest in her, and you wish to know what she does here. Come and see.’

He went on again, and Arthur accompanied him.

‘My brother,’ said the old man, pausing on the step and slowly facing round again, ‘has been here many years; and much that happens even among ourselves, out of doors, is kept from him for reasons that I needn’t enter upon now. Be so good as to say nothing of my niece’s working at her needle. Be so good as to say nothing that goes beyond what is said among us. If you keep within our bounds, you cannot well be wrong. Now! Come and see.’

Arthur followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key was turned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them into a lodge or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another door and a grating into the prison. The old man always plodding on before, turned round, in his slow, stiff, stooping manner, when they came to the turnkey on duty, as if to present his companion. The turnkey nodded; and the companion passed in without being asked whom he wanted.

The night was dark; and the prison lamps in the yard, and the candles in the prison windows faintly shining behind many sorts of wry old curtain and blind, had not the air of making it lighter. A few people loitered about, but the greater part of the population was within doors. The old man, taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third or fourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs. ‘They are rather dark, sir, but you will not find anything in the way.’

He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second story. He had no sooner turned the handle than the visitor saw Little Dorrit, and saw the reason of her setting so much store by dining alone.

She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself, and was already warming it on a gridiron over the fire for her father, clad in an old grey gown and a black cap, awaiting his supper at the table. A clean cloth was spread before him, with knife, fork, and spoon, salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter ale-pot. Such zests as his particular little phial of cayenne pepper and his pennyworth of pickles in a saucer, were not wanting.

She started, coloured deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more with his eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand, entreated her to be reassured and to trust him.

‘I found this gentleman,’ said the uncle—‘Mr Clennam, William, son of Amy’s friend—at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying his respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not. This is my brother William, sir.’

‘I hope,’ said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, ‘that my respect for your daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented to you, sir.’

‘Mr Clennam,’ returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in the flat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, ‘you do me honour. You are welcome, sir;’ with a low bow. ‘Frederick, a chair. Pray sit down, Mr Clennam.’

He put his black cap on again as he had taken it off, and resumed his own seat. There was a wonderful air of benignity and patronage in his manner. These were the ceremonies with which he received the collegians.

‘You are welcome to the Marshalsea, sir. I have welcomed many gentlemen to these walls. Perhaps you are aware—my daughter Amy may have mentioned that I am the Father of this place.’

‘I—so I have understood,’ said Arthur, dashing at the assertion.

‘You know, I dare say, that my daughter Amy was born here. A good girl, sir, a dear girl, and long a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear, put this dish on; Mr Clennam will excuse the primitive customs to which we are reduced here. Is it a compliment to ask you if you would do me the honour, sir, to—’

‘Thank you,’ returned Arthur. ‘Not a morsel.’

He felt himself quite lost in wonder at the manner of the man, and that the probability of his daughter’s having had a reserve as to her family history, should be so far out of his mind.

She filled his glass, put all the little matters on the table ready to his hand, and then sat beside him while he ate his supper. Evidently in observance of their nightly custom, she put some bread before herself, and touched his glass with her lips; but Arthur saw she was troubled and took nothing. Her look at her father, half admiring him and proud of him, half ashamed for him, all devoted and loving, went to his inmost heart.

The Father of the Marshalsea condescended towards his brother as an amiable, well-meaning man; a private character, who had not arrived at distinction. ‘Frederick,’ said he, ‘you and Fanny sup at your lodgings to-night, I know. What have you done with Fanny, Frederick?’

‘She is walking with Tip.’

‘Tip—as you may know—is my son, Mr Clennam. He has been a little wild, and difficult to settle, but his introduction to the world was rather’—he shrugged his shoulders with a faint sigh, and looked round the room—‘a little adverse. Your first visit here, sir?’

‘My first.’

‘You could hardly have been here since your boyhood without my knowledge. It very seldom happens that anybody—of any pretensions—any pretensions—comes here without being presented to me.’

‘As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,’ said Frederick, faintly lighting up with a ray of pride.

‘Yes!’ the Father of the Marshalsea assented. ‘We have even exceeded that number. On a fine Sunday in term time, it is quite a Levee—quite a Levee. Amy, my dear, I have been trying half the day to remember the name of the gentleman from Camberwell who was introduced to me last Christmas week by that agreeable coal-merchant who was remanded for six months.’

‘I don’t remember his name, father.’

‘Frederick, do you remember his name?’

Frederick doubted if he had ever heard it. No one could doubt that Frederick was the last person upon earth to put such a question to, with any hope of information.

‘I mean,’ said his brother, ‘the gentleman who did that handsome action with so much delicacy. Ha! Tush! The name has quite escaped me. Mr Clennam, as I have happened to mention handsome and delicate action, you may like, perhaps, to know what it was.’

‘Very much,’ said Arthur, withdrawing his eyes from the delicate head beginning to droop and the pale face with a new solicitude stealing over it.

‘It is so generous, and shows so much fine feeling, that it is almost a duty to mention it. I said at the time that I always would mention it on every suitable occasion, without regard to personal sensitiveness. A—well—a—it’s of no use to disguise the fact—you must know, Mr Clennam, that it does sometimes occur that people who come here desire to offer some little—Testimonial—to the Father of the place.’

To see her hand upon his arm in mute entreaty half-repressed, and her timid little shrinking figure turning away, was to see a sad, sad sight.

‘Sometimes,’ he went on in a low, soft voice, agitated, and clearing his throat every now and then; ‘sometimes—hem—it takes one shape and sometimes another; but it is generally—ha—Money. And it is, I cannot but confess it, it is too often—hem—acceptable. This gentleman that I refer to, was presented to me, Mr Clennam, in a manner highly gratifying to my feelings, and conversed not only with great politeness, but with great—ahem—information.’ All this time, though he had finished his supper, he was nervously going about his plate with his knife and fork, as if some of it were still before him. ‘It appeared from his conversation that he had a garden, though he was delicate of mentioning it at first, as gardens are—hem—are not accessible to me. But it came out, through my admiring a very fine cluster of geranium—beautiful cluster of geranium to be sure—which he had brought from his conservatory. On my taking notice of its rich colour, he showed me a piece of paper round it, on which was written, “For the Father of the Marshalsea,” and presented it to me. But this was—hem—not all. He made a particular request, on taking leave, that I would remove the paper in half an hour. I—ha—I did so; and I found that it contained—ahem—two guineas. I assure you, Mr Clennam, I have received—hem—Testimonials in many ways, and of many degrees of value, and they have always been—ha—unfortunately acceptable; but I never was more pleased than with this—ahem—this particular Testimonial.’

Arthur was in the act of saying the little he could say on such a theme, when a bell began to ring, and footsteps approached the door. A pretty girl of a far better figure and much more developed than Little Dorrit, though looking much younger in the face when the two were observed together, stopped in the doorway on seeing a stranger; and a young man who was with her, stopped too.

‘Mr Clennam, Fanny. My eldest daughter and my son, Mr Clennam. The bell is a signal for visitors to retire, and so they have come to say good night; but there is plenty of time, plenty of time. Girls, Mr Clennam will excuse any household business you may have together. He knows, I dare say, that I have but one room here.’

‘I only want my clean dress from Amy, father,’ said the second girl.

‘And I my clothes,’ said Tip.

Amy opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture that was a chest of drawers above and a bedstead below, and produced two little bundles, which she handed to her brother and sister. ‘Mended and made up?’ Clennam heard the sister ask in a whisper. To which Amy answered ‘Yes.’ He had risen now, and took the opportunity of glancing round the room. The bare walls had been coloured green, evidently by an unskilled hand, and were poorly decorated with a few prints. The window was curtained, and the floor carpeted; and there were shelves and pegs, and other such conveniences, that had accumulated in the course of years. It was a close, confined room, poorly furnished; and the chimney smoked to boot, or the tin screen at the top of the fireplace was superfluous; but constant pains and care had made it neat, and even, after its kind, comfortable.

All the while the bell was ringing, and the uncle was anxious to go. ‘Come, Fanny, come, Fanny,’ he said, with his ragged clarionet case under his arm; ‘the lock, child, the lock!’

Fanny bade her father good night, and whisked off airily. Tip had already clattered down-stairs. ‘Now, Mr Clennam,’ said the uncle, looking back as he shuffled out after them, ‘the lock, sir, the lock.’

Mr Clennam had two things to do before he followed; one, to offer his testimonial to the Father of the Marshalsea, without giving pain to his child; the other to say something to that child, though it were but a word, in explanation of his having come there.

‘Allow me,’ said the Father, ‘to see you down-stairs.’

She had slipped out after the rest, and they were alone. ‘Not on any account,’ said the visitor, hurriedly. ‘Pray allow me to—’ chink, chink, chink.

‘Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘I am deeply, deeply—’ But his visitor had shut up his hand to stop the clinking, and had gone down-stairs with great speed.

He saw no Little Dorrit on his way down, or in the yard. The last two or three stragglers were hurrying to the lodge, and he was following, when he caught sight of her in the doorway of the first house from the entrance. He turned back hastily.

‘Pray forgive me,’ he said, ‘for speaking to you here; pray forgive me for coming here at all! I followed you to-night. I did so, that I might endeavour to render you and your family some service. You know the terms on which I and my mother are, and may not be surprised that I have preserved our distant relations at her house, lest I should unintentionally make her jealous, or resentful, or do you any injury in her estimation. What I have seen here, in this short time, has greatly increased my heartfelt wish to be a friend to you. It would recompense me for much disappointment if I could hope to gain your confidence.’

She was scared at first, but seemed to take courage while he spoke to her.

‘You are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But I—but I wish you had not watched me.’

He understood the emotion with which she said it, to arise in her father’s behalf; and he respected it, and was silent.

‘Mrs Clennam has been of great service to me; I don’t know what we should have done without the employment she has given me; I am afraid it may not be a good return to become secret with her; I can say no more to-night, sir. I am sure you mean to be kind to us. Thank you, thank you.’

‘Let me ask you one question before I leave. Have you known my mother long?’

‘I think two years, sir,—The bell has stopped.’

‘How did you know her first? Did she send here for you?’

‘No. She does not even know that I live here. We have a friend, father and I—a poor labouring man, but the best of friends—and I wrote out that I wished to do needlework, and gave his address. And he got what I wrote out displayed at a few places where it cost nothing, and Mrs Clennam found me that way, and sent for me. The gate will be locked, sir!’

She was so tremulous and agitated, and he was so moved by compassion for her, and by deep interest in her story as it dawned upon him, that he could scarcely tear himself away. But the stoppage of the bell, and the quiet in the prison, were a warning to depart; and with a few hurried words of kindness he left her gliding back to her father.

But he remained too late. The inner gate was locked, and the lodge closed. After a little fruitless knocking with his hand, he was standing there with the disagreeable conviction upon him that he had got to get through the night, when a voice accosted him from behind.

‘Caught, eh?’ said the voice. ‘You won’t go home till morning. Oh! It’s you, is it, Mr Clennam?’

The voice was Tip’s; and they stood looking at one another in the prison-yard, as it began to rain.

‘You’ve done it,’ observed Tip; ‘you must be sharper than that next time.’

‘But you are locked in too,’ said Arthur.

‘I believe I am!’ said Tip, sarcastically. ‘About! But not in your way. I belong to the shop, only my sister has a theory that our governor must never know it. I don’t see why, myself.’

‘Can I get any shelter?’ asked Arthur. ‘What had I better do?’

‘We had better get hold of Amy first of all,’ said Tip, referring any difficulty to her as a matter of course.

‘I would rather walk about all night—it’s not much to do—than give that trouble.’

‘You needn’t do that, if you don’t mind paying for a bed. If you don’t mind paying, they’ll make you up one on the Snuggery table, under the circumstances. If you’ll come along, I’ll introduce you there.’

As they passed down the yard, Arthur looked up at the window of the room he had lately left, where the light was still burning. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tip, following his glance. ‘That’s the governor’s. She’ll sit with him for another hour reading yesterday’s paper to him, or something of that sort; and then she’ll come out like a little ghost, and vanish away without a sound.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘The governor sleeps up in the room, and she has a lodging at the turnkey’s. First house there,’ said Tip, pointing out the doorway into which she had retired. ‘First house, sky parlour. She pays twice as much for it as she would for one twice as good outside. But she stands by the governor, poor dear girl, day and night.’

This brought them to the tavern-establishment at the upper end of the prison, where the collegians had just vacated their social evening club. The apartment on the ground-floor in which it was held, was the Snuggery in question; the presidential tribune of the chairman, the pewter-pots, glasses, pipes, tobacco-ashes, and general flavour of members, were still as that convivial institution had left them on its adjournment. The Snuggery had two of the qualities popularly held to be essential to grog for ladies, in respect that it was hot and strong; but in the third point of analogy, requiring plenty of it, the Snuggery was defective; being but a cooped-up apartment.

The unaccustomed visitor from outside, naturally assumed everybody here to be prisoners—landlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy, and all. Whether they were or not, did not appear; but they all had a weedy look. The keeper of a chandler’s shop in a front parlour, who took in gentlemen boarders, lent his assistance in making the bed. He had been a tailor in his time, and had kept a phaeton, he said. He boasted that he stood up litigiously for the interests of the college; and he had undefined and undefinable ideas that the marshal intercepted a ‘Fund,’ which ought to come to the collegians. He liked to believe this, and always impressed the shadowy grievance on new-comers and strangers; though he could not, for his life, have explained what Fund he meant, or how the notion had got rooted in his soul. He had fully convinced himself, notwithstanding, that his own proper share of the Fund was three and ninepence a week; and that in this amount he, as an individual collegian, was swindled by the marshal, regularly every Monday. Apparently, he helped to make the bed, that he might not lose an opportunity of stating this case; after which unloading of his mind, and after announcing (as it seemed he always did, without anything coming of it) that he was going to write a letter to the papers and show the marshal up, he fell into miscellaneous conversation with the rest. It was evident from the general tone of the whole party, that they had come to regard insolvency as the normal state of mankind, and the payment of debts as a disease that occasionally broke out.

In this strange scene, and with these strange spectres flitting about him, Arthur Clennam looked on at the preparations as if they were part of a dream. Pending which, the long-initiated Tip, with an awful enjoyment of the Snuggery’s resources, pointed out the common kitchen fire maintained by subscription of collegians, the boiler for hot water supported in like manner, and other premises generally tending to the deduction that the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise, was to come to the Marshalsea.

The two tables put together in a corner, were, at length, converted into a very fair bed; and the stranger was left to the Windsor chairs, the presidential tribune, the beery atmosphere, sawdust, pipe-lights, spittoons and repose. But the last item was long, long, long, in linking itself to the rest. The novelty of the place, the coming upon it without preparation, the sense of being locked up, the remembrance of that room up-stairs, of the two brothers, and above all of the retiring childish form, and the face in which he now saw years of insufficient food, if not of want, kept him waking and unhappy.

Speculations, too, bearing the strangest relations towards the prison, but always concerning the prison, ran like nightmares through his mind while he lay awake. Whether coffins were kept ready for people who might die there, where they were kept, how they were kept, where people who died in the prison were buried, how they were taken out, what forms were observed, whether an implacable creditor could arrest the dead? As to escaping, what chances there were of escape? Whether a prisoner could scale the walls with a cord and grapple, how he would descend upon the other side? whether he could alight on a housetop, steal down a staircase, let himself out at a door, and get lost in the crowd? As to Fire in the prison, if one were to break out while he lay there?

And these involuntary starts of fancy were, after all, but the setting of a picture in which three people kept before him. His father, with the steadfast look with which he had died, prophetically darkened forth in the portrait; his mother, with her arm up, warding off his suspicion; Little Dorrit, with her hand on the degraded arm, and her drooping head turned away.

What if his mother had an old reason she well knew for softening to this poor girl! What if the prisoner now sleeping quietly—Heaven grant it!—by the light of the great Day of judgment should trace back his fall to her. What if any act of hers and of his father’s, should have even remotely brought the grey heads of those two brothers so low!

A swift thought shot into his mind. In that long imprisonment here, and in her own long confinement to her room, did his mother find a balance to be struck? ‘I admit that I was accessory to that man’s captivity. I have suffered for it in kind. He has decayed in his prison: I in mine. I have paid the penalty.’

When all the other thoughts had faded out, this one held possession of him. When he fell asleep, she came before him in her wheeled chair, warding him off with this justification. When he awoke, and sprang up causelessly frightened, the words were in his ears, as if her voice had slowly spoken them at his pillow, to break his rest: ‘He withers away in his prison; I wither away in mine; inexorable justice is done; what do I owe on this score!’

CHAPTER 9. Little Mother

The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in at the Snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with it. But the equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea, and the impartial south-west wind, in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow Marshalsea. While it roared through the steeple of St George’s Church, and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them.

Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though his bed had been in a more private situation, and less affected by the raking out of yesterday’s fire, the kindling of to-day’s under the collegiate boiler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the sweeping and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations. Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two heavy hours before the gate was opened.

The walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning of sea-sickness to look up at the gusty sky. The rain, carried aslant by flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central building which he had visited last night, but left a narrow dry trough under the lee of the wall, where he walked up and down among the waits of straw and dust and paper, the waste droppings of the pump, and the stray leaves of yesterday’s greens. It was as haggard a view of life as a man need look upon.

Nor was it relieved by any glimpse of the little creature who had brought him there. Perhaps she glided out of her doorway and in at that where her father lived, while his face was turned from both; but he saw nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; to have seen him once, was to have seen enough of him to know that he would be sluggish to leave whatever frowsy bed he occupied at night; so, as Arthur Clennam walked up and down, waiting for the gate to open, he cast about in his mind for future rather than for present means of pursuing his discoveries.

At last the lodge-gate turned, and the turnkey, standing on the step, taking an early comb at his hair, was ready to let him out. With a joyful sense of release he passed through the lodge, and found himself again in the little outer court-yard where he had spoken to the brother last night.

There was a string of people already straggling in, whom it was not difficult to identify as the nondescript messengers, go-betweens, and errand-bearers of the place. Some of them had been lounging in the rain until the gate should open; others, who had timed their arrival with greater nicety, were coming up now, and passing in with damp whitey-brown paper bags from the grocers, loaves of bread, lumps of butter, eggs, milk, and the like. The shabbiness of these attendants upon shabbiness, the poverty of these insolvent waiters upon insolvency, was a sight to see. Such threadbare coats and trousers, such fusty gowns and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such umbrellas and walking-sticks, never were seen in Rag Fair. All of them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women, were made up of patches and pieces of other people’s individuality, and had no sartorial existence of their own proper. Their walk was the walk of a race apart. They had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking round the corner, as if they were eternally going to the pawnbroker’s. When they coughed, they coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on doorsteps and in draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink, which gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental disturbance and no satisfaction. As they eyed the stranger in passing, they eyed him with borrowing eyes—hungry, sharp, speculative as to his softness if they were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his standing something handsome. Mendicity on commission stooped in their high shoulders, shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and darned and dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out of their figures in dirty little ends of tape, and issued from their mouths in alcoholic breathings.

As these people passed him standing still in the court-yard, and one of them turned back to inquire if he could assist him with his services, it came into Arthur Clennam’s mind that he would speak to Little Dorrit again before he went away. She would have recovered her first surprise, and might feel easier with him. He asked this member of the fraternity (who had two red herrings in his hand, and a loaf and a blacking brush under his arm), where was the nearest place to get a cup of coffee at. The nondescript replied in encouraging terms, and brought him to a coffee-shop in the street within a stone’s throw.

‘Do you know Miss Dorrit?’ asked the new client.

The nondescript knew two Miss Dorrits; one who was born inside—That was the one! That was the one? The nondescript had known her many years. In regard of the other Miss Dorrit, the nondescript lodged in the same house with herself and uncle.

This changed the client’s half-formed design of remaining at the coffee-shop until the nondescript should bring him word that Dorrit had issued forth into the street. He entrusted the nondescript with a confidential message to her, importing that the visitor who had waited on her father last night, begged the favour of a few words with her at her uncle’s lodging; he obtained from the same source full directions to the house, which was very near; dismissed the nondescript gratified with half-a-crown; and having hastily refreshed himself at the coffee-shop, repaired with all speed to the clarionet-player’s dwelling.

There were so many lodgers in this house that the doorpost seemed to be as full of bell-handles as a cathedral organ is of stops. Doubtful which might be the clarionet-stop, he was considering the point, when a shuttlecock flew out of the parlour window, and alighted on his hat. He then observed that in the parlour window was a blind with the inscription, MR CRIPPLES’s ACADEMY; also in another line, EVENING TUITION; and behind the blind was a little white-faced boy, with a slice of bread-and-butter and a battledore. The window being accessible from the footway, he looked in over the blind, returned the shuttlecock, and put his question.

‘Dorrit?’ said the little white-faced boy (Master Cripples in fact). ‘Mr Dorrit? Third bell and one knock.’

The pupils of Mr Cripples appeared to have been making a copy-book of the street-door, it was so extensively scribbled over in pencil. The frequency of the inscriptions, ‘Old Dorrit,’ and ‘Dirty Dick,’ in combination, suggested intentions of personality on the part Of Mr Cripples’s pupils. There was ample time to make these observations before the door was opened by the poor old man himself.

‘Ha!’ said he, very slowly remembering Arthur, ‘you were shut in last night?’

‘Yes, Mr Dorrit. I hope to meet your niece here presently.’

‘Oh!’ said he, pondering. ‘Out of my brother’s way? True. Would you come up-stairs and wait for her?’

‘Thank you.’

Turning himself as slowly as he turned in his mind whatever he heard or said, he led the way up the narrow stairs. The house was very close, and had an unwholesome smell. The little staircase windows looked in at the back windows of other houses as unwholesome as itself, with poles and lines thrust out of them, on which unsightly linen hung; as if the inhabitants were angling for clothes, and had had some wretched bites not worth attending to. In the back garret—a sickly room, with a turn-up bedstead in it, so hastily and recently turned up that the blankets were boiling over, as it were, and keeping the lid open—a half-finished breakfast of coffee and toast for two persons was jumbled down anyhow on a rickety table.

There was no one there. The old man mumbling to himself, after some consideration, that Fanny had run away, went to the next room to fetch her back. The visitor, observing that she held the door on the inside, and that, when the uncle tried to open it, there was a sharp adjuration of ‘Don’t, stupid!’ and an appearance of loose stocking and flannel, concluded that the young lady was in an undress. The uncle, without appearing to come to any conclusion, shuffled in again, sat down in his chair, and began warming his hands at the fire; not that it was cold, or that he had any waking idea whether it was or not.

‘What did you think of my brother, sir?’ he asked, when he by-and-by discovered what he was doing, left off, reached over to the chimney-piece, and took his clarionet case down.

‘I was glad,’ said Arthur, very much at a loss, for his thoughts were on the brother before him; ‘to find him so well and cheerful.’

‘Ha!’ muttered the old man, ‘yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’

Arthur wondered what he could possibly want with the clarionet case. He did not want it at all. He discovered, in due time, that it was not the little paper of snuff (which was also on the chimney-piece), put it back again, took down the snuff instead, and solaced himself with a pinch. He was as feeble, spare, and slow in his pinches as in everything else, but a certain little trickling of enjoyment of them played in the poor worn nerves about the corners of his eyes and mouth.

‘Amy, Mr Clennam. What do you think of her?’

‘I am much impressed, Mr Dorrit, by all that I have seen of her and thought of her.’

‘My brother would have been quite lost without Amy,’ he returned. ‘We should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good girl, Amy. She does her duty.’

Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of custom, which he had heard from the father last night with an inward protest and feeling of antagonism. It was not that they stinted her praises, or were insensible to what she did for them; but that they were lazily habituated to her, as they were to all the rest of their condition. He fancied that although they had before them, every day, the means of comparison between her and one another and themselves, they regarded her as being in her necessary place; as holding a position towards them all which belonged to her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they viewed her, not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to expect, and nothing more.

Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was Amy, he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with as vivid a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn face, and decayed figure, as if he were still drooping in his chair.

She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat faster than usual.

‘Mr Clennam, Amy,’ said her uncle, ‘has been expecting you some time.’

‘I took the liberty of sending you a message.’

‘I received the message, sir.’

‘Are you going to my mother’s this morning? I think not, for it is past your usual hour.’

‘Not to-day, sir. I am not wanted to-day.’

‘Will you allow Me to walk a little way in whatever direction you may be going? I can then speak to you as we walk, both without detaining you here, and without intruding longer here myself.’

She looked embarrassed, but said, if he pleased. He made a pretence of having mislaid his walking-stick, to give her time to set the bedstead right, to answer her sister’s impatient knock at the wall, and to say a word softly to her uncle. Then he found it, and they went down-stairs; she first, he following; the uncle standing at the stair-head, and probably forgetting them before they had reached the ground floor.

Mr Cripples’s pupils, who were by this time coming to school, desisted from their morning recreation of cuffing one another with bags and books, to stare with all the eyes they had at a stranger who had been to see Dirty Dick. They bore the trying spectacle in silence, until the mysterious visitor was at a safe distance; when they burst into pebbles and yells, and likewise into reviling dances, and in all respects buried the pipe of peace with so many savage ceremonies, that, if Mr Cripples had been the chief of the Cripplewayboo tribe with his war-paint on, they could scarcely have done greater justice to their education.

In the midst of this homage, Mr Arthur Clennam offered his arm to Little Dorrit, and Little Dorrit took it. ‘Will you go by the Iron Bridge,’ said he, ‘where there is an escape from the noise of the street?’ Little Dorrit answered, if he pleased, and presently ventured to hope that he would ‘not mind’ Mr Cripples’s boys, for she had herself received her education, such as it was, in Mr Cripples’s evening academy. He returned, with the best will in the world, that Mr Cripples’s boys were forgiven out of the bottom of his soul. Thus did Cripples unconsciously become a master of the ceremonies between them, and bring them more naturally together than Beau Nash might have done if they had lived in his golden days, and he had alighted from his coach and six for the purpose.

The morning remained squally, and the streets were miserably muddy, but no rain fell as they walked towards the Iron Bridge. The little creature seemed so young in his eyes, that there were moments when he found himself thinking of her, if not speaking to her, as if she were a child. Perhaps he seemed as old in her eyes as she seemed young in his.

‘I am sorry to hear you were so inconvenienced last night, sir, as to be locked in. It was very unfortunate.’

It was nothing, he returned. He had had a very good bed.

‘Oh yes!’ she said quickly; ‘she believed there were excellent beds at the coffee-house.’ He noticed that the coffee-house was quite a majestic hotel to her, and that she treasured its reputation.

‘I believe it is very expensive,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘but my father has told me that quite beautiful dinners may be got there. And wine,’ she added timidly.

‘Were you ever there?’

‘Oh no! Only into the kitchen to fetch hot water.’

To think of growing up with a kind of awe upon one as to the luxuries of that superb establishment, the Marshalsea Hotel!

‘I asked you last night,’ said Clennam, ‘how you had become acquainted with my mother. Did you ever hear her name before she sent for you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you think your father ever did?’

‘No, sir.’

He met her eyes raised to his with so much wonder in them (she was scared when the encounter took place, and shrunk away again), that he felt it necessary to say:

‘I have a reason for asking, which I cannot very well explain; but you must, on no account, suppose it to be of a nature to cause you the least alarm or anxiety. Quite the reverse. And you think that at no time of your father’s life was my name of Clennam ever familiar to him?’

‘No, sir.’

He felt, from the tone in which she spoke, that she was glancing up at him with those parted lips; therefore he looked before him, rather than make her heart beat quicker still by embarrassing her afresh.

Thus they emerged upon the Iron Bridge, which was as quiet after the roaring streets as though it had been open country. The wind blew roughly, the wet squalls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on the road and pavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds raced on furiously in the lead-coloured sky, the smoke and mist raced after them, the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction. Little Dorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven’s creatures.

‘Let me put you in a coach,’ said Clennam, very nearly adding ‘my poor child.’

She hurriedly declined, saying that wet or dry made little difference to her; she was used to go about in all weathers. He knew it to be so, and was touched with more pity; thinking of the slight figure at his side, making its nightly way through the damp dark boisterous streets to such a place of rest.

‘You spoke so feelingly to me last night, sir, and I found afterwards that you had been so generous to my father, that I could not resist your message, if it was only to thank you; especially as I wished very much to say to you—’ she hesitated and trembled, and tears rose in her eyes, but did not fall.

‘To say to me—?’

‘That I hope you will not misunderstand my father. Don’t judge him, sir, as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been there so long! I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must have grown different in some things since.’

‘My thoughts will never be unjust or harsh towards him, believe me.’

‘Not,’ she said, with a prouder air, as the misgiving evidently crept upon her that she might seem to be abandoning him, ‘not that he has anything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to be ashamed of for him. He only requires to be understood. I only ask for him that his life may be fairly remembered. All that he said was quite true. It all happened just as he related it. He is very much respected. Everybody who comes in, is glad to know him. He is more courted than anyone else. He is far more thought of than the Marshal is.’

If ever pride were innocent, it was innocent in Little Dorrit when she grew boastful of her father.

‘It is often said that his manners are a true gentleman’s, and quite a study. I see none like them in that place, but he is admitted to be superior to all the rest. This is quite as much why they make him presents, as because they know him to be needy. He is not to be blamed for being in need, poor love. Who could be in prison a quarter of a century, and be prosperous!’

What affection in her words, what compassion in her repressed tears, what a great soul of fidelity within her, how true the light that shed false brightness round him!

‘If I have found it best to conceal where my home is, it is not because I am ashamed of him. God forbid! Nor am I so much ashamed of the place itself as might be supposed. People are not bad because they come there. I have known numbers of good, persevering, honest people come there through misfortune. They are almost all kind-hearted to one another. And it would be ungrateful indeed in me, to forget that I have had many quiet, comfortable hours there; that I had an excellent friend there when I was quite a baby, who was very very fond of me; that I have been taught there, and have worked there, and have slept soundly there. I think it would be almost cowardly and cruel not to have some little attachment for it, after all this.’

She had relieved the faithful fulness of her heart, and modestly said, raising her eyes appealingly to her new friend’s, ‘I did not mean to say so much, nor have I ever but once spoken about this before. But it seems to set it more right than it was last night. I said I wished you had not followed me, sir. I don’t wish it so much now, unless you should think—indeed I don’t wish it at all, unless I should have spoken so confusedly, that—that you can scarcely understand me, which I am afraid may be the case.’

He told her with perfect truth that it was not the case; and putting himself between her and the sharp wind and rain, sheltered her as well as he could.

‘I feel permitted now,’ he said, ‘to ask you a little more concerning your father. Has he many creditors?’

‘Oh! a great number.’

‘I mean detaining creditors, who keep him where he is?’

‘Oh yes! a great number.’

‘Can you tell me—I can get the information, no doubt, elsewhere, if you cannot—who is the most influential of them?’

Little Dorrit said, after considering a little, that she used to hear long ago of Mr Tite Barnacle as a man of great power. He was a commissioner, or a board, or a trustee, ‘or something.’ He lived in Grosvenor Square, she thought, or very near it. He was under Government—high in the Circumlocution Office. She appeared to have acquired, in her infancy, some awful impression of the might of this formidable Mr Tite Barnacle of Grosvenor Square, or very near it, and the Circumlocution Office, which quite crushed her when she mentioned him.

‘It can do no harm,’ thought Arthur, ‘if I see this Mr Tite Barnacle.’

The thought did not present itself so quietly but that her quickness intercepted it. ‘Ah!’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the mild despair of a lifetime. ‘Many people used to think once of getting my poor father out, but you don’t know how hopeless it is.’

She forgot to be shy at the moment, in honestly warning him away from the sunken wreck he had a dream of raising; and looked at him with eyes which assuredly, in association with her patient face, her fragile figure, her spare dress, and the wind and rain, did not turn him from his purpose of helping her.

‘Even if it could be done,’ said she—‘and it never can be done now—where could father live, or how could he live? I have often thought that if such a change could come, it might be anything but a service to him now. People might not think so well of him outside as they do there. He might not be so gently dealt with outside as he is there. He might not be so fit himself for the life outside as he is for that.’

Here for the first time she could not restrain her tears from falling; and the little thin hands he had watched when they were so busy, trembled as they clasped each other.

‘It would be a new distress to him even to know that I earn a little money, and that Fanny earns a little money. He is so anxious about us, you see, feeling helplessly shut up there. Such a good, good father!’

He let the little burst of feeling go by before he spoke. It was soon gone. She was not accustomed to think of herself, or to trouble any one with her emotions. He had but glanced away at the piles of city roofs and chimneys among which the smoke was rolling heavily, and at the wilderness of masts on the river, and the wilderness of steeples on the shore, indistinctly mixed together in the stormy haze, when she was again as quiet as if she had been plying her needle in his mother’s room.

‘You would be glad to have your brother set at liberty?’

‘Oh very, very glad, sir!’

‘Well, we will hope for him at least. You told me last night of a friend you had?’

His name was Plornish, Little Dorrit said.

And where did Plornish live? Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. He was ‘only a plasterer,’ Little Dorrit said, as a caution to him not to form high social expectations of Plornish. He lived at the last house in Bleeding Heart Yard, and his name was over a little gateway.

Arthur took down the address and gave her his. He had now done all he sought to do for the present, except that he wished to leave her with a reliance upon him, and to have something like a promise from her that she would cherish it.

‘There is one friend!’ he said, putting up his pocketbook. ‘As I take you back—you are going back?’

‘Oh yes! going straight home.’

‘—As I take you back,’ the word home jarred upon him, ‘let me ask you to persuade yourself that you have another friend. I make no professions, and say no more.’

‘You are truly kind to me, sir. I am sure I need no more.’

They walked back through the miserable muddy streets, and among the poor, mean shops, and were jostled by the crowds of dirty hucksters usual to a poor neighbourhood. There was nothing, by the short way, that was pleasant to any of the five senses. Yet it was not a common passage through common rain, and mire, and noise, to Clennam, having this little, slender, careful creature on his arm. How young she seemed to him, or how old he to her; or what a secret either to the other, in that beginning of the destined interweaving of their stories, matters not here. He thought of her having been born and bred among these scenes, and shrinking through them now, familiar yet misplaced; he thought of her long acquaintance with the squalid needs of life, and of her innocence; of her solicitude for others, and her few years, and her childish aspect.

They were come into the High Street, where the prison stood, when a voice cried, ‘Little mother, little mother!’ Little Dorrit stopping and looking back, an excited figure of a strange kind bounced against them (still crying ‘little mother’), fell down, and scattered the contents of a large basket, filled with potatoes, in the mud.

‘Oh, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘what a clumsy child you are!’

Maggy was not hurt, but picked herself up immediately, and then began to pick up the potatoes, in which both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam helped. Maggy picked up very few potatoes and a great quantity of mud; but they were all recovered, and deposited in the basket. Maggy then smeared her muddy face with her shawl, and presenting it to Mr Clennam as a type of purity, enabled him to see what she was like.

She was about eight-and-twenty, with large bones, large features, large feet and hands, large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were limpid and almost colourless; they seemed to be very little affected by light, and to stand unnaturally still. There was also that attentive listening expression in her face, which is seen in the faces of the blind; but she was not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. Her face was not exceedingly ugly, though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile; a good-humoured smile, and pleasant in itself, but rendered pitiable by being constantly there. A great white cap, with a quantity of opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy’s baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a gipsy’s baby. A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.

Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one saying, ‘May I ask who this is?’ Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy, still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words (they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had rolled).

‘This is Maggy, sir.’

‘Maggy, sir,’ echoed the personage presented. ‘Little mother!’

‘She is the grand-daughter—’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Grand-daughter,’ echoed Maggy.

‘Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are you?’

‘Ten, mother,’ said Maggy.

‘You can’t think how good she is, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, with infinite tenderness.

‘Good she is,’ echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most expressive way from herself to her little mother.

‘Or how clever,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘She goes on errands as well as any one.’ Maggy laughed. ‘And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England.’ Maggy laughed. ‘She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!’ said Little Dorrit, in a lower and triumphant tone. ‘Really does!’

‘What is her history?’ asked Clennam.

‘Think of that, Maggy?’ said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands and clapping them together. ‘A gentleman from thousands of miles away, wanting to know your history!’

‘My history?’ cried Maggy. ‘Little mother.’

‘She means me,’ said Little Dorrit, rather confused; ‘she is very much attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should have been; was she, Maggy?’

Maggy shook her head, made a drinking vessel of her clenched left hand, drank out of it, and said, ‘Gin.’ Then beat an imaginary child, and said, ‘Broom-handles and pokers.’

‘When Maggy was ten years old,’ said Little Dorrit, watching her face while she spoke, ‘she had a bad fever, sir, and she has never grown any older ever since.’

‘Ten years old,’ said Maggy, nodding her head. ‘But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, wasn’t it? Oh so nice it was. Such a Ev’nly place!’

‘She had never been at peace before, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, turning towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, ‘and she always runs off upon that.’

‘Such beds there is there!’ cried Maggy. ‘Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such d’licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, AIN’T it a delightful place to go and stop at!’

‘So Maggy stopped there as long as she could,’ said Little Dorrit, in her former tone of telling a child’s story; the tone designed for Maggy’s ear, ‘and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however long she lived—’

‘However long she lived,’ echoed Maggy.

‘—And because she was very weak; indeed was so weak that when she began to laugh she couldn’t stop herself—which was a great pity—’

(Maggy mighty grave of a sudden.)

‘—Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some years was very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggy began to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive and very industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as often as she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does support herself. And that,’ said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great hands together again, ‘is Maggy’s history, as Maggy knows!’

Ah! But Arthur would have known what was wanting to its completeness, though he had never heard of the words Little mother; though he had never seen the fondling of the small spare hand; though he had had no sight for the tears now standing in the colourless eyes; though he had had no hearing for the sob that checked the clumsy laugh. The dirty gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and the basket of muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, never seemed the common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by these lights. Never, never!

They were very near the end of their walk, and they now came out of the gateway to finish it. Nothing would serve Maggy but that they must stop at a grocer’s window, short of their destination, for her to show her learning. She could read after a sort; and picked out the fat figures in the tickets of prices, for the most part correctly. She also stumbled, with a large balance of success against her failures, through various philanthropic recommendations to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black, Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, challenging competition at the head of Flowery Teas; and various cautions to the public against spurious establishments and adulterated articles. When he saw how pleasure brought a rosy tint into Little Dorrit’s face when Maggy made a hit, he felt that he could have stood there making a library of the grocer’s window until the rain and wind were tired.

The court-yard received them at last, and there he said goodbye to Little Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less than ever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea lodge passage, the little mother attended by her big child.

The cage door opened, and when the small bird, reared in captivity, had tamely fluttered in, he saw it shut again; and then he came away.

CHAPTER 10. Containing the whole Science of Government

The Circumlocution Office was (as everybody knows without being told) the most important Department under Government. No public business of any kind could possibly be done at any time without the acquiescence of the Circumlocution Office. Its finger was in the largest public pie, and in the smallest public tart. It was equally impossible to do the plainest right and to undo the plainest wrong without the express authority of the Circumlocution Office. If another Gunpowder Plot had been discovered half an hour before the lighting of the match, nobody would have been justified in saving the parliament until there had been half a score of boards, half a bushel of minutes, several sacks of official memoranda, and a family-vault full of ungrammatical correspondence, on the part of the Circumlocution Office.

This glorious establishment had been early in the field, when the one sublime principle involving the difficult art of governing a country, was first distinctly revealed to statesmen. It had been foremost to study that bright revelation and to carry its shining influence through the whole of the official proceedings. Whatever was required to be done, the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments in the art of perceiving—HOW NOT TO DO IT.

Through this delicate perception, through the tact with which it invariably seized it, and through the genius with which it always acted on it, the Circumlocution Office had risen to overtop all the public departments; and the public condition had risen to be—what it was.

It is true that How not to do it was the great study and object of all public departments and professional politicians all round the Circumlocution Office. It is true that every new premier and every new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their utmost faculties to discovering How not to do it. It is true that from the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had been raving on hustings because it hadn’t been done, and who had been asking the friends of the honourable gentleman in the opposite interest on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn’t been done, and who had been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found out; and with the blessing of Providence upon the harvest (natural, not political), I now dismiss you. All this is true, but the Circumlocution Office went beyond it.

Because the Circumlocution Office went on mechanically, every day, keeping this wonderful, all-sufficient wheel of statesmanship, How not to do it, in motion. Because the Circumlocution Office was down upon any ill-advised public servant who was going to do it, or who appeared to be by any surprising accident in remote danger of doing it, with a minute, and a memorandum, and a letter of instructions that extinguished him. It was this spirit of national efficiency in the Circumlocution Office that had gradually led to its having something to do with everything. Mechanicians, natural philosophers, soldiers, sailors, petitioners, memorialists, people with grievances, people who wanted to prevent grievances, people who wanted to redress grievances, jobbing people, jobbed people, people who couldn’t get rewarded for merit, and people who couldn’t get punished for demerit, were all indiscriminately tucked up under the foolscap paper of the Circumlocution Office.

Numbers of people were lost in the Circumlocution Office. Unfortunates with wrongs, or with projects for the general welfare (and they had better have had wrongs at first, than have taken that bitter English recipe for certainly getting them), who in slow lapse of time and agony had passed safely through other public departments; who, according to rule, had been bullied in this, over-reached by that, and evaded by the other; got referred at last to the Circumlocution Office, and never reappeared in the light of day. Boards sat upon them, secretaries minuted upon them, commissioners gabbled about them, clerks registered, entered, checked, and ticked them off, and they melted away. In short, all the business of the country went through the Circumlocution Office, except the business that never came out of it; and its name was Legion.

Sometimes, angry spirits attacked the Circumlocution Office. Sometimes, parliamentary questions were asked about it, and even parliamentary motions made or threatened about it by demagogues so low and ignorant as to hold that the real recipe of government was, How to do it. Then would the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, in whose department it was to defend the Circumlocution Office, put an orange in his pocket, and make a regular field-day of the occasion. Then would he come down to that house with a slap upon the table, and meet the honourable gentleman foot to foot. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that the Circumlocution Office not only was blameless in this matter, but was commendable in this matter, was extollable to the skies in this matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that, although the Circumlocution Office was invariably right and wholly right, it never was so right as in this matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that it would have been more to his honour, more to his credit, more to his good taste, more to his good sense, more to half the dictionary of commonplaces, if he had left the Circumlocution Office alone, and never approached this matter. Then would he keep one eye upon a coach or crammer from the Circumlocution Office sitting below the bar, and smash the honourable gentleman with the Circumlocution Office account of this matter. And although one of two things always happened; namely, either that the Circumlocution Office had nothing to say and said it, or that it had something to say of which the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, blundered one half and forgot the other; the Circumlocution Office was always voted immaculate by an accommodating majority.

Such a nursery of statesmen had the Department become in virtue of a long career of this nature, that several solemn lords had attained the reputation of being quite unearthly prodigies of business, solely from having practised, How not to do it, as the head of the Circumlocution Office. As to the minor priests and acolytes of that temple, the result of all this was that they stood divided into two classes, and, down to the junior messenger, either believed in the Circumlocution Office as a heaven-born institution that had an absolute right to do whatever it liked; or took refuge in total infidelity, and considered it a flagrant nuisance.

The Barnacle family had for some time helped to administer the Circumlocution Office. The Tite Barnacle Branch, indeed, considered themselves in a general way as having vested rights in that direction, and took it ill if any other family had much to say to it. The Barnacles were a very high family, and a very large family. They were dispersed all over the public offices, and held all sorts of public places. Either the nation was under a load of obligation to the Barnacles, or the Barnacles were under a load of obligation to the nation. It was not quite unanimously settled which; the Barnacles having their opinion, the nation theirs.

The Mr Tite Barnacle who at the period now in question usually coached or crammed the statesman at the head of the Circumlocution Office, when that noble or right honourable individual sat a little uneasily in his saddle by reason of some vagabond making a tilt at him in a newspaper, was more flush of blood than money. As a Barnacle he had his place, which was a snug thing enough; and as a Barnacle he had of course put in his son Barnacle Junior in the office. But he had intermarried with a branch of the Stiltstalkings, who were also better endowed in a sanguineous point of view than with real or personal property, and of this marriage there had been issue, Barnacle junior and three young ladies. What with the patrician requirements of Barnacle junior, the three young ladies, Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, and himself, Mr Tite Barnacle found the intervals between quarter day and quarter day rather longer than he could have desired; a circumstance which he always attributed to the country’s parsimony.

For Mr Tite Barnacle, Mr Arthur Clennam made his fifth inquiry one day at the Circumlocution Office; having on previous occasions awaited that gentleman successively in a hall, a glass case, a waiting room, and a fire-proof passage where the Department seemed to keep its wind. On this occasion Mr Barnacle was not engaged, as he had been before, with the noble prodigy at the head of the Department; but was absent. Barnacle Junior, however, was announced as a lesser star, yet visible above the office horizon.

With Barnacle junior, he signified his desire to confer; and found that young gentleman singeing the calves of his legs at the parental fire, and supporting his spine against the mantel-shelf. It was a comfortable room, handsomely furnished in the higher official manner; and presenting stately suggestions of the absent Barnacle, in the thick carpet, the leather-covered desk to sit at, the leather-covered desk to stand at, the formidable easy-chair and hearth-rug, the interposed screen, the torn-up papers, the dispatch-boxes with little labels sticking out of them, like medicine bottles or dead game, the pervading smell of leather and mahogany, and a general bamboozling air of How not to do it.

The present Barnacle, holding Mr Clennam’s card in his hand, had a youthful aspect, and the fluffiest little whisker, perhaps, that ever was seen. Such a downy tip was on his callow chin, that he seemed half fledged like a young bird; and a compassionate observer might have urged that, if he had not singed the calves of his legs, he would have died of cold. He had a superior eye-glass dangling round his neck, but unfortunately had such flat orbits to his eyes and such limp little eyelids that it wouldn’t stick in when he put it up, but kept tumbling out against his waistcoat buttons with a click that discomposed him very much.

‘Oh, I say. Look here! My father’s not in the way, and won’t be in the way to-day,’ said Barnacle Junior. ‘Is this anything that I can do?’

(Click! Eye-glass down. Barnacle Junior quite frightened and feeling all round himself, but not able to find it.)

‘You are very good,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘I wish however to see Mr Barnacle.’

‘But I say. Look here! You haven’t got any appointment, you know,’ said Barnacle Junior.

(By this time he had found the eye-glass, and put it up again.)

‘No,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘That is what I wish to have.’

‘But I say. Look here! Is this public business?’ asked Barnacle junior.

(Click! Eye-glass down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of search after it that Mr Clennam felt it useless to reply at present.)

‘Is it,’ said Barnacle junior, taking heed of his visitor’s brown face, ‘anything about—Tonnage—or that sort of thing?’

(Pausing for a reply, he opened his right eye with his hand, and stuck his glass in it, in that inflammatory manner that his eye began watering dreadfully.)

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it is nothing about tonnage.’

‘Then look here. Is it private business?’

‘I really am not sure. It relates to a Mr Dorrit.’

‘Look here, I tell you what! You had better call at our house, if you are going that way. Twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. My father’s got a slight touch of the gout, and is kept at home by it.’

(The misguided young Barnacle evidently going blind on his eye-glass side, but ashamed to make any further alteration in his painful arrangements.)

‘Thank you. I will call there now. Good morning.’ Young Barnacle seemed discomfited at this, as not having at all expected him to go.

‘You are quite sure,’ said Barnacle junior, calling after him when he got to the door, unwilling wholly to relinquish the bright business idea he had conceived; ‘that it’s nothing about Tonnage?’

‘Quite sure.’

With such assurance, and rather wondering what might have taken place if it had been anything about tonnage, Mr Clennam withdrew to pursue his inquiries.

Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, was not absolutely Grosvenor Square itself, but it was very near it. It was a hideous little street of dead wall, stables, and dunghills, with lofts over coach-houses inhabited by coachmen’s families, who had a passion for drying clothes and decorating their window-sills with miniature turnpike-gates. The principal chimney-sweep of that fashionable quarter lived at the blind end of Mews Street; and the same corner contained an establishment much frequented about early morning and twilight for the purchase of wine-bottles and kitchen-stuff. Punch’s shows used to lean against the dead wall in Mews Street, while their proprietors were dining elsewhere; and the dogs of the neighbourhood made appointments to meet in the same locality. Yet there were two or three small airless houses at the entrance end of Mews Street, which went at enormous rents on account of their being abject hangers-on to a fashionable situation; and whenever one of these fearful little coops was to be let (which seldom happened, for they were in great request), the house agent advertised it as a gentlemanly residence in the most aristocratic part of town, inhabited solely by the elite of the beau monde.

If a gentlemanly residence coming strictly within this narrow margin had not been essential to the blood of the Barnacles, this particular branch would have had a pretty wide selection among, let us say, ten thousand houses, offering fifty times the accommodation for a third of the money. As it was, Mr Barnacle, finding his gentlemanly residence extremely inconvenient and extremely dear, always laid it, as a public servant, at the door of the country, and adduced it as another instance of the country’s parsimony.

Arthur Clennam came to a squeezed house, with a ramshackle bowed front, little dingy windows, and a little dark area like a damp waistcoat-pocket, which he found to be number twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. To the sense of smell the house was like a sort of bottle filled with a strong distillation of Mews; and when the footman opened the door, he seemed to take the stopper out.

The footman was to the Grosvenor Square footmen, what the house was to the Grosvenor Square houses. Admirable in his way, his way was a back and a bye way. His gorgeousness was not unmixed with dirt; and both in complexion and consistency he had suffered from the closeness of his pantry. A sallow flabbiness was upon him when he took the stopper out, and presented the bottle to Mr Clennam’s nose.

‘Be so good as to give that card to Mr Tite Barnacle, and to say that I have just now seen the younger Mr Barnacle, who recommended me to call here.’

The footman (who had as many large buttons with the Barnacle crest upon them on the flaps of his pockets, as if he were the family strong box, and carried the plate and jewels about with him buttoned up) pondered over the card a little; then said, ‘Walk in.’ It required some judgment to do it without butting the inner hall-door open, and in the consequent mental confusion and physical darkness slipping down the kitchen stairs. The visitor, however, brought himself up safely on the door-mat.

Still the footman said ‘Walk in,’ so the visitor followed him. At the inner hall-door, another bottle seemed to be presented and another stopper taken out. This second vial appeared to be filled with concentrated provisions and extract of Sink from the pantry. After a skirmish in the narrow passage, occasioned by the footman’s opening the door of the dismal dining-room with confidence, finding some one there with consternation, and backing on the visitor with disorder, the visitor was shut up, pending his announcement, in a close back parlour. There he had an opportunity of refreshing himself with both the bottles at once, looking out at a low blinding wall three feet off, and speculating on the number of Barnacle families within the bills of mortality who lived in such hutches of their own free flunkey choice.

Mr Barnacle would see him. Would he walk up-stairs? He would, and he did; and in the drawing-room, with his leg on a rest, he found Mr Barnacle himself, the express image and presentment of How not to do it.

Mr Barnacle dated from a better time, when the country was not so parsimonious and the Circumlocution Office was not so badgered. He wound and wound folds of white cravat round his neck, as he wound and wound folds of tape and paper round the neck of the country. His wristbands and collar were oppressive; his voice and manner were oppressive. He had a large watch-chain and bunch of seals, a coat buttoned up to inconvenience, a waistcoat buttoned up to inconvenience, an unwrinkled pair of trousers, a stiff pair of boots. He was altogether splendid, massive, overpowering, and impracticable. He seemed to have been sitting for his portrait to Sir Thomas Lawrence all the days of his life.

‘Mr Clennam?’ said Mr Barnacle. ‘Be seated.’

Mr Clennam became seated.

‘You have called on me, I believe,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘at the Circumlocution—’ giving it the air of a word of about five-and-twenty syllables—‘Office.’

‘I have taken that liberty.’

Mr Barnacle solemnly bent his head as who should say, ‘I do not deny that it is a liberty; proceed to take another liberty, and let me know your business.’

‘Allow me to observe that I have been for some years in China, am quite a stranger at home, and have no personal motive or interest in the inquiry I am about to make.’

Mr Barnacle tapped his fingers on the table, and, as if he were now sitting for his portrait to a new and strange artist, appeared to say to his visitor, ‘If you will be good enough to take me with my present lofty expression, I shall feel obliged.’

‘I have found a debtor in the Marshalsea Prison of the name of Dorrit, who has been there many years. I wish to investigate his confused affairs so far as to ascertain whether it may not be possible, after this lapse of time, to ameliorate his unhappy condition. The name of Mr Tite Barnacle has been mentioned to me as representing some highly influential interest among his creditors. Am I correctly informed?’

It being one of the principles of the Circumlocution Office never, on any account whatever, to give a straightforward answer, Mr Barnacle said, ‘Possibly.’

‘On behalf of the Crown, may I ask, or as private individual?’

‘The Circumlocution Department, sir,’ Mr Barnacle replied, ‘may have possibly recommended—possibly—I cannot say—that some public claim against the insolvent estate of a firm or copartnership to which this person may have belonged, should be enforced. The question may have been, in the course of official business, referred to the Circumlocution Department for its consideration. The Department may have either originated, or confirmed, a Minute making that recommendation.’

‘I assume this to be the case, then.’

‘The Circumlocution Department,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘is not responsible for any gentleman’s assumptions.’

‘May I inquire how I can obtain official information as to the real state of the case?’

‘It is competent,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘to any member of the—Public,’ mentioning that obscure body with reluctance, as his natural enemy, ‘to memorialise the Circumlocution Department. Such formalities as are required to be observed in so doing, may be known on application to the proper branch of that Department.’

‘Which is the proper branch?’

‘I must refer you,’ returned Mr Barnacle, ringing the bell, ‘to the Department itself for a formal answer to that inquiry.’

‘Excuse my mentioning—’

‘The Department is accessible to the—Public,’ Mr Barnacle was always checked a little by that word of impertinent signification, ‘if the—Public approaches it according to the official forms; if the—Public does not approach it according to the official forms, the—Public has itself to blame.’

Mr Barnacle made him a severe bow, as a wounded man of family, a wounded man of place, and a wounded man of a gentlemanly residence, all rolled into one; and he made Mr Barnacle a bow, and was shut out into Mews Street by the flabby footman.

Having got to this pass, he resolved as an exercise in perseverance, to betake himself again to the Circumlocution Office, and try what satisfaction he could get there. So he went back to the Circumlocution Office, and once more sent up his card to Barnacle junior by a messenger who took it very ill indeed that he should come back again, and who was eating mashed potatoes and gravy behind a partition by the hall fire.

He was readmitted to the presence of Barnacle junior, and found that young gentleman singeing his knees now, and gaping his weary way on to four o’clock.

‘I say. Look here. You stick to us in a devil of a manner,’ Said Barnacle junior, looking over his shoulder.

‘I want to know—’

‘Look here. Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know,’ remonstrated Barnacle junior, turning about and putting up the eye-glass.

‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam, who had made up his mind to persistence in one short form of words, ‘the precise nature of the claim of the Crown against a prisoner for debt, named Dorrit.’

‘I say. Look here. You really are going it at a great pace, you know. Egad, you haven’t got an appointment,’ said Barnacle junior, as if the thing were growing serious.

‘I want to know,’ said Arthur, and repeated his case.

Barnacle junior stared at him until his eye-glass fell out, and then put it in again and stared at him until it fell out again. ‘You have no right to come this sort of move,’ he then observed with the greatest weakness. ‘Look here. What do you mean? You told me you didn’t know whether it was public business or not.’

‘I have now ascertained that it is public business,’ returned the suitor, ‘and I want to know’—and again repeated his monotonous inquiry.

Its effect upon young Barnacle was to make him repeat in a defenceless way, ‘Look here! Upon my SOUL you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know!’ The effect of that upon Arthur Clennam was to make him repeat his inquiry in exactly the same words and tone as before. The effect of that upon young Barnacle was to make him a wonderful spectacle of failure and helplessness.

‘Well, I tell you what. Look here. You had better try the Secretarial Department,’ he said at last, sidling to the bell and ringing it. ‘Jenkinson,’ to the mashed potatoes messenger, ‘Mr Wobbler!’

Arthur Clennam, who now felt that he had devoted himself to the storming of the Circumlocution Office, and must go through with it, accompanied the messenger to another floor of the building, where that functionary pointed out Mr Wobbler’s room. He entered that apartment, and found two gentlemen sitting face to face at a large and easy desk, one of whom was polishing a gun-barrel on his pocket-handkerchief, while the other was spreading marmalade on bread with a paper-knife.

‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor.

Both gentlemen glanced at him, and seemed surprised at his assurance.

‘So he went,’ said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an extremely deliberate speaker, ‘down to his cousin’s place, and took the Dog with him by rail. Inestimable Dog. Flew at the porter fellow when he was put into the dog-box, and flew at the guard when he was taken out. He got half-a-dozen fellows into a Barn, and a good supply of Rats, and timed the Dog. Finding the Dog able to do it immensely, made the match, and heavily backed the Dog. When the match came off, some devil of a fellow was bought over, Sir, Dog was made drunk, Dog’s master was cleaned out.’

‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor.

The gentleman who was spreading the marmalade returned, without looking up from that occupation, ‘What did he call the Dog?’

‘Called him Lovely,’ said the other gentleman. ‘Said the Dog was the perfect picture of the old aunt from whom he had expectations. Found him particularly like her when hocussed.’

‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor.

Both gentlemen laughed for some time. The gentleman with the gun-barrel, considering it, on inspection, in a satisfactory state, referred it to the other; receiving confirmation of his views, he fitted it into its place in the case before him, and took out the stock and polished that, softly whistling.

‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor.

‘What’s the matter?’ then said Mr Wobbler, with his mouth full.

‘I want to know—’ and Arthur Clennam again mechanically set forth what he wanted to know.

‘Can’t inform you,’ observed Mr Wobbler, apparently to his lunch. ‘Never heard of it. Nothing at all to do with it. Better try Mr Clive, second door on the left in the next passage.’

‘Perhaps he will give me the same answer.’

‘Very likely. Don’t know anything about it,’ said Mr Wobbler.

The suitor turned away and had left the room, when the gentleman with the gun called out ‘Mister! Hallo!’

He looked in again.

‘Shut the door after you. You’re letting in a devil of a draught here!’

A few steps brought him to the second door on the left in the next passage. In that room he found three gentlemen; number one doing nothing particular, number two doing nothing particular, number three doing nothing particular. They seemed, however, to be more directly concerned than the others had been in the effective execution of the great principle of the office, as there was an awful inner apartment with a double door, in which the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be assembled in council, and out of which there was an imposing coming of papers, and into which there was an imposing going of papers, almost constantly; wherein another gentleman, number four, was the active instrument.

‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam,—and again stated his case in the same barrel-organ way. As number one referred him to number two, and as number two referred him to number three, he had occasion to state it three times before they all referred him to number four, to whom he stated it again.

Number four was a vivacious, well-looking, well-dressed, agreeable young fellow—he was a Barnacle, but on the more sprightly side of the family—and he said in an easy way, ‘Oh! you had better not bother yourself about it, I think.’

‘Not bother myself about it?’

‘No! I recommend you not to bother yourself about it.’

This was such a new point of view that Arthur Clennam found himself at a loss how to receive it.

‘You can if you like. I can give you plenty of forms to fill up. Lots of ‘em here. You can have a dozen if you like. But you’ll never go on with it,’ said number four.

‘Would it be such hopeless work? Excuse me; I am a stranger in England.’

‘I don’t say it would be hopeless,’ returned number four, with a frank smile. ‘I don’t express an opinion about that; I only express an opinion about you. I don’t think you’d go on with it. However, of course, you can do as you like. I suppose there was a failure in the performance of a contract, or something of that kind, was there?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Well! That you can find out. Then you’ll find out what Department the contract was in, and then you’ll find out all about it there.’

‘I beg your pardon. How shall I find out?’

‘Why, you’ll—you’ll ask till they tell you. Then you’ll memorialise that Department (according to regular forms which you’ll find out) for leave to memorialise this Department. If you get it (which you may after a time), that memorial must be entered in that Department, sent to be registered in this Department, sent back to be signed by that Department, sent back to be countersigned by this Department, and then it will begin to be regularly before that Department. You’ll find out when the business passes through each of these stages by asking at both Departments till they tell you.’

‘But surely this is not the way to do the business,’ Arthur Clennam could not help saying.

This airy young Barnacle was quite entertained by his simplicity in supposing for a moment that it was. This light in hand young Barnacle knew perfectly that it was not. This touch and go young Barnacle had ‘got up’ the Department in a private secretaryship, that he might be ready for any little bit of fat that came to hand; and he fully understood the Department to be a politico-diplomatic hocus pocus piece of machinery for the assistance of the nobs in keeping off the snobs. This dashing young Barnacle, in a word, was likely to become a statesman, and to make a figure.

‘When the business is regularly before that Department, whatever it is,’ pursued this bright young Barnacle, ‘then you can watch it from time to time through that Department. When it comes regularly before this Department, then you must watch it from time to time through this Department. We shall have to refer it right and left; and when we refer it anywhere, then you’ll have to look it up. When it comes back to us at any time, then you had better look us up. When it sticks anywhere, you’ll have to try to give it a jog. When you write to another Department about it, and then to this Department about it, and don’t hear anything satisfactory about it, why then you had better—keep on writing.’

Arthur Clennam looked very doubtful indeed. ‘But I am obliged to you at any rate,’ said he, ‘for your politeness.’

‘Not at all,’ replied this engaging young Barnacle. ‘Try the thing, and see how you like it. It will be in your power to give it up at any time, if you don’t like it. You had better take a lot of forms away with you. Give him a lot of forms!’ With which instruction to number two, this sparkling young Barnacle took a fresh handful of papers from numbers one and three, and carried them into the sanctuary to offer to the presiding Idol of the Circumlocution Office.

Arthur Clennam put his forms in his pocket gloomily enough, and went his way down the long stone passage and the long stone staircase. He had come to the swing doors leading into the street, and was waiting, not over patiently, for two people who were between him and them to pass out and let him follow, when the voice of one of them struck familiarly on his ear. He looked at the speaker and recognised Mr Meagles. Mr Meagles was very red in the face—redder than travel could have made him—and collaring a short man who was with him, said, ‘come out, you rascal, come Out!’

It was such an unexpected hearing, and it was also such an unexpected sight to see Mr Meagles burst the swing doors open, and emerge into the street with the short man, who was of an unoffending appearance, that Clennam stood still for the moment exchanging looks of surprise with the porter. He followed, however, quickly; and saw Mr Meagles going down the street with his enemy at his side. He soon came up with his old travelling companion, and touched him on the back. The choleric face which Mr Meagles turned upon him smoothed when he saw who it was, and he put out his friendly hand.

‘How are you?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘How d’ye do? I have only just come over from abroad. I am glad to see you.’

‘And I am rejoiced to see you.’

‘Thank’ee. Thank’ee!’

‘Mrs Meagles and your daughter—?’

‘Are as well as possible,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I only wish you had come upon me in a more prepossessing condition as to coolness.’

Though it was anything but a hot day, Mr Meagles was in a heated state that attracted the attention of the passersby; more particularly as he leaned his back against a railing, took off his hat and cravat, and heartily rubbed his steaming head and face, and his reddened ears and neck, without the least regard for public opinion.

‘Whew!’ said Mr Meagles, dressing again. ‘That’s comfortable. Now I am cooler.’

‘You have been ruffled, Mr Meagles. What is the matter?’

‘Wait a bit, and I’ll tell you. Have you leisure for a turn in the Park?’

‘As much as you please.’

‘Come along then. Ah! you may well look at him.’ He happened to have turned his eyes towards the offender whom Mr Meagles had so angrily collared. ‘He’s something to look at, that fellow is.’

He was not much to look at, either in point of size or in point of dress; being merely a short, square, practical looking man, whose hair had turned grey, and in whose face and forehead there were deep lines of cogitation, which looked as though they were carved in hard wood. He was dressed in decent black, a little rusty, and had the appearance of a sagacious master in some handicraft. He had a spectacle-case in his hand, which he turned over and over while he was thus in question, with a certain free use of the thumb that is never seen but in a hand accustomed to tools.

‘You keep with us,’ said Mr Meagles, in a threatening kind of Way, ‘and I’ll introduce you presently. Now then!’

Clennam wondered within himself, as they took the nearest way to the Park, what this unknown (who complied in the gentlest manner) could have been doing. His appearance did not at all justify the suspicion that he had been detected in designs on Mr Meagles’s pocket-handkerchief; nor had he any appearance of being quarrelsome or violent. He was a quiet, plain, steady man; made no attempt to escape; and seemed a little depressed, but neither ashamed nor repentant. If he were a criminal offender, he must surely be an incorrigible hypocrite; and if he were no offender, why should Mr Meagles have collared him in the Circumlocution Office? He perceived that the man was not a difficulty in his own mind alone, but in Mr Meagles’s too; for such conversation as they had together on the short way to the Park was by no means well sustained, and Mr Meagles’s eye always wandered back to the man, even when he spoke of something very different.

At length they being among the trees, Mr Meagles stopped short, and said:

‘Mr Clennam, will you do me the favour to look at this man? His name is Doyce, Daniel Doyce. You wouldn’t suppose this man to be a notorious rascal; would you?’

‘I certainly should not.’ It was really a disconcerting question, with the man there.

‘No. You would not. I know you would not. You wouldn’t suppose him to be a public offender; would you?’

‘No.’

‘No. But he is. He is a public offender. What has he been guilty of? Murder, manslaughter, arson, forgery, swindling, house-breaking, highway robbery, larceny, conspiracy, fraud? Which should you say, now?’

‘I should say,’ returned Arthur Clennam, observing a faint smile in Daniel Doyce’s face, ‘not one of them.’

‘You are right,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘But he has been ingenious, and he has been trying to turn his ingenuity to his country’s service. That makes him a public offender directly, sir.’

Arthur looked at the man himself, who only shook his head.

‘This Doyce,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is a smith and engineer. He is not in a large way, but he is well known as a very ingenious man. A dozen years ago, he perfects an invention (involving a very curious secret process) of great importance to his country and his fellow-creatures. I won’t say how much money it cost him, or how many years of his life he had been about it, but he brought it to perfection a dozen years ago. Wasn’t it a dozen?’ said Mr Meagles, addressing Doyce. ‘He is the most exasperating man in the world; he never complains!’

‘Yes. Rather better than twelve years ago.’

‘Rather better?’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you mean rather worse. Well, Mr Clennam, he addresses himself to the Government. The moment he addresses himself to the Government, he becomes a public offender! Sir,’ said Mr Meagles, in danger of making himself excessively hot again, ‘he ceases to be an innocent citizen, and becomes a culprit. He is treated from that instant as a man who has done some infernal action. He is a man to be shirked, put off, brow-beaten, sneered at, handed over by this highly-connected young or old gentleman, to that highly-connected young or old gentleman, and dodged back again; he is a man with no rights in his own time, or his own property; a mere outlaw, whom it is justifiable to get rid of anyhow; a man to be worn out by all possible means.’

It was not so difficult to believe, after the morning’s experience, as Mr Meagles supposed.

‘Don’t stand there, Doyce, turning your spectacle-case over and over,’ cried Mr Meagles, ‘but tell Mr Clennam what you confessed to me.’

‘I undoubtedly was made to feel,’ said the inventor, ‘as if I had committed an offence. In dancing attendance at the various offices, I was always treated, more or less, as if it was a very bad offence. I have frequently found it necessary to reflect, for my own self-support, that I really had not done anything to bring myself into the Newgate Calendar, but only wanted to effect a great saving and a great improvement.’

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Judge whether I exaggerate. Now you’ll be able to believe me when I tell you the rest of the case.’

With this prelude, Mr Meagles went through the narrative; the established narrative, which has become tiresome; the matter-of-course narrative which we all know by heart. How, after interminable attendance and correspondence, after infinite impertinences, ignorances, and insults, my lords made a Minute, number three thousand four hundred and seventy-two, allowing the culprit to make certain trials of his invention at his own expense. How the trials were made in the presence of a board of six, of whom two ancient members were too blind to see it, two other ancient members were too deaf to hear it, one other ancient member was too lame to get near it, and the final ancient member was too pig-headed to look at it. How there were more years; more impertinences, ignorances, and insults. How my lords then made a Minute, number five thousand one hundred and three, whereby they resigned the business to the Circumlocution Office. How the Circumlocution Office, in course of time, took up the business as if it were a bran new thing of yesterday, which had never been heard of before; muddled the business, addled the business, tossed the business in a wet blanket. How the impertinences, ignorances, and insults went through the multiplication table. How there was a reference of the invention to three Barnacles and a Stiltstalking, who knew nothing about it; into whose heads nothing could be hammered about it; who got bored about it, and reported physical impossibilities about it. How the Circumlocution Office, in a Minute, number eight thousand seven hundred and forty, ‘saw no reason to reverse the decision at which my lords had arrived.’ How the Circumlocution Office, being reminded that my lords had arrived at no decision, shelved the business. How there had been a final interview with the head of the Circumlocution Office that very morning, and how the Brazen Head had spoken, and had been, upon the whole, and under all the circumstances, and looking at it from the various points of view, of opinion that one of two courses was to be pursued in respect of the business: that was to say, either to leave it alone for evermore, or to begin it all over again.

‘Upon which,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘as a practical man, I then and there, in that presence, took Doyce by the collar, and told him it was plain to me that he was an infamous rascal and treasonable disturber of the government peace, and took him away. I brought him out of the office door by the collar, that the very porter might know I was a practical man who appreciated the official estimate of such characters; and here we are!’

If that airy young Barnacle had been there, he would have frankly told them perhaps that the Circumlocution Office had achieved its function. That what the Barnacles had to do, was to stick on to the national ship as long as they could. That to trim the ship, lighten the ship, clean the ship, would be to knock them off; that they could but be knocked off once; and that if the ship went down with them yet sticking to it, that was the ship’s look out, and not theirs.

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘now you know all about Doyce. Except, which I own does not improve my state of mind, that even now you don’t hear him complain.’

‘You must have great patience,’ said Arthur Clennam, looking at him with some wonder, ‘great forbearance.’

‘No,’ he returned, ‘I don’t know that I have more than another man.’

‘By the Lord, you have more than I have, though!’ cried Mr Meagles.

Doyce smiled, as he said to Clennam, ‘You see, my experience of these things does not begin with myself. It has been in my way to know a little about them from time to time. Mine is not a particular case. I am not worse used than a hundred others who have put themselves in the same position—than all the others, I was going to say.’

‘I don’t know that I should find that a consolation, if it were my case; but I am very glad that you do.’

‘Understand me! I don’t say,’ he replied in his steady, planning way, and looking into the distance before him as if his grey eye were measuring it, ‘that it’s recompense for a man’s toil and hope; but it’s a certain sort of relief to know that I might have counted on this.’

He spoke in that quiet deliberate manner, and in that undertone, which is often observable in mechanics who consider and adjust with great nicety. It belonged to him like his suppleness of thumb, or his peculiar way of tilting up his hat at the back every now and then, as if he were contemplating some half-finished work of his hand and thinking about it.

‘Disappointed?’ he went on, as he walked between them under the trees. ‘Yes. No doubt I am disappointed. Hurt? Yes. No doubt I am hurt. That’s only natural. But what I mean when I say that people who put themselves in the same position are mostly used in the same way—’

‘In England,’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Oh! of course I mean in England. When they take their inventions into foreign countries, that’s quite different. And that’s the reason why so many go there.’

Mr Meagles very hot indeed again.

‘What I mean is, that however this comes to be the regular way of our government, it is its regular way. Have you ever heard of any projector or inventor who failed to find it all but inaccessible, and whom it did not discourage and ill-treat?’

‘I cannot say that I ever have.’

‘Have you ever known it to be beforehand in the adoption of any useful thing? Ever known it to set an example of any useful kind?’

‘I am a good deal older than my friend here,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and I’ll answer that. Never.’

‘But we all three have known, I expect,’ said the inventor, ‘a pretty many cases of its fixed determination to be miles upon miles, and years upon years, behind the rest of us; and of its being found out persisting in the use of things long superseded, even after the better things were well known and generally taken up?’

They all agreed upon that.

‘Well then,’ said Doyce, with a sigh, ‘as I know what such a metal will do at such a temperature, and such a body under such a pressure, so I may know (if I will only consider), how these great lords and gentlemen will certainly deal with such a matter as mine. I have no right to be surprised, with a head upon my shoulders, and memory in it, that I fall into the ranks with all who came before me. I ought to have let it alone. I have had warning enough, I am sure.’

With that he put up his spectacle-case, and said to Arthur, ‘If I don’t complain, Mr Clennam, I can feel gratitude; and I assure you that I feel it towards our mutual friend. Many’s the day, and many’s the way in which he has backed me.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Mr Meagles.

Arthur could not but glance at Daniel Doyce in the ensuing silence. Though it was evidently in the grain of his character, and of his respect for his own case, that he should abstain from idle murmuring, it was evident that he had grown the older, the sterner, and the poorer, for his long endeavour. He could not but think what a blessed thing it would have been for this man, if he had taken a lesson from the gentlemen who were so kind as to take a nation’s affairs in charge, and had learnt How not to do it.

Mr Meagles was hot and despondent for about five minutes, and then began to cool and clear up.

‘Come, come!’ said he. ‘We shall not make this the better by being grim. Where do you think of going, Dan?’

‘I shall go back to the factory,’ said Dan.

‘Why then, we’ll all go back to the factory, or walk in that direction,’ returned Mr Meagles cheerfully. ‘Mr Clennam won’t be deterred by its being in Bleeding Heart Yard.’

‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Clennam. ‘I want to go there.’

‘So much the better,’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Come along!’

As they went along, certainly one of the party, and probably more than one, thought that Bleeding Heart Yard was no inappropriate destination for a man who had been in official correspondence with my lords and the Barnacles—and perhaps had a misgiving also that Britannia herself might come to look for lodgings in Bleeding Heart Yard some ugly day or other, if she over-did the Circumlocution Office.

CHAPTER 11. Let Loose

A late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected the clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there, as if they were half curious, and half afraid, to see their darkening pictures in the water. The flat expanse of country about Chalons lay a long heavy streak, occasionally made a little ragged by a row of poplar trees against the wrathful sunset. On the banks of the river Saone it was wet, depressing, solitary; and the night deepened fast.

One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.

He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he limped on again, toiling and muttering.

‘To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!’

And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and looking into the distance before him, stopped again.

‘I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!’

But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town, brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier, and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood looking about him.

There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of cooking; there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling of dominoes; there was the dyer’s with its strips of red cloth on the doorposts; there was the silversmith’s with its earrings, and its offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer’s with its lively group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels, and the faint lamps slung across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the public cistern at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial embellishment of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play billiards; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings, whether one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day door, and limped in.

He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among her cloudy bottles of syrups, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for glasses, working at her needle.

Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside him.

‘One can lodge here to-night, madame?’

‘Perfectly!’ said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice.

‘Good. One can dine—sup—what you please to call it?’

‘Ah, perfectly!’ cried the landlady as before.

‘Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.’

‘It is very bad weather, monsieur,’ said the landlady.

‘Cursed weather.’

‘And a very long road.’

‘A cursed road.’

His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew crust, until such time as his repast should be ready.

There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the stove, and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one another, which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing at him, and were talking again.

‘That’s the true reason,’ said one of them, bringing a story he had been telling, to a close, ‘that’s the true reason why they said that the devil was let loose.’ The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the discussion—especially as the devil was in question.

The landlady having given her directions for the new guest’s entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, but without looking up from her work.

‘Ah Heaven, then,’ said she. ‘When the boat came up from Lyons, and brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles, some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.’

‘Madame, you are always right,’ returned the tall Swiss. ‘Doubtless you were enraged against that man, madame?’

‘Ay, yes, then!’ cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work, opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. ‘Naturally, yes.’

‘He was a bad subject.’

‘He was a wicked wretch,’ said the landlady, ‘and well merited what he had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.’

‘Stay, madame! Let us see,’ returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning his cigar between his lips. ‘It may have been his unfortunate destiny. He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out. Philosophical philanthropy teaches—’

The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day.

‘Hold there, you and your philanthropy,’ cried the smiling landlady, nodding her head more than ever. ‘Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself. And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women both, unfortunately) who have no good in them—none. That there are people whom it is necessary to detest without compromise. That there are people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this man—whatever they call him, I forget his name—is one of them.’

The landlady’s lively speech was received with greater favour at the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer Great Britain.

‘My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,’ said the landlady, putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger’s soup from her husband, who appeared with it at a side door, ‘puts anybody at the mercy of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn’t worth a sou.’

As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.

‘Well!’ said the previous speaker, ‘let us come back to our subject. Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant; nothing more.’

‘How do they call him?’ said the landlady. ‘Biraud, is it not?’

‘Rigaud, madame,’ returned the tall Swiss.

‘Rigaud! To be sure.’

The traveller’s soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance.

The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees, and not being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking by the stove, warming his ragged feet.

‘Pardon me, madame—that Biraud.’

‘Rigaud, monsieur.’

‘Rigaud. Pardon me again—has contracted your displeasure, how?’

The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife.

‘Ay, ay? Death of my life, that’s a criminal indeed. But how do you know it?’

‘All the world knows it.’

‘Hah! And yet he escaped justice?’

‘Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction. So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.’

‘Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?’ said the guest. ‘Haha!’

The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was not ill-looking after all.

‘Did you mention, madame—or was it mentioned among the gentlemen—what became of him?’

The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational stage at which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the worse.

The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression that might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting conclusion on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy moustache.

‘May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?’

Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue; but it was a large chamber with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between whiles, ‘Hola, my husband!’ out at the side door.

My husband answered at length, ‘It is I, my wife!’ and presenting himself in his cook’s cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary reference to the pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads on opposite sides. Here ‘my husband’ put down the candle he carried, and with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly gave him the instruction, ‘The bed to the right!’ and left him to his repose. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had fully made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow.

The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. ‘One must eat,’ he muttered to himself, ‘but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other man to-morrow!’

As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm, the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man was covered up warm, and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing, still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and cravat, became at length a strong provocative to curiosity, and incentive to get a glimpse of the sleeper’s face.

The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller’s bed, until he stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put his smooth white hand (such a treacherous hand it looked, as it went creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away.

‘Death of my soul!’ he whispered, falling back, ‘here’s Cavalletto!’

The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At first they were not awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly at his old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and alarm, sprang out of bed.

‘Hush! What’s the matter? Keep quiet! It’s I. You know me?’ cried the other, in a suppressed voice.

But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck, manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back upon the door, and set his shoulders against it.

‘Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you used to call me—don’t use that—Lagnier, say Lagnier!’

John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width, made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term of his life.

‘Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch the hand of a gentleman!’

Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his hand in his patron’s. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.

‘Then you were—’ faltered John Baptist.

‘Not shaved? No. See here!’ cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; ‘as tight on as your own.’

John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key in the door, and then sat down upon his bed.

‘Look!’ he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. ‘That’s a poor trim for a gentleman, you’ll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I’ll mend it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!’

John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor at the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time.

‘That’s well!’ cried Lagnier. ‘Now we might be in the old infernal hole again, hey? How long have you been out?’

‘Two days after you, my master.’

‘How do you come here?’

‘I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once, and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and ends at Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.’ As he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon the floor.

‘And where are you going?’

‘Going, my master?’

‘Ay!’

John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing how. ‘By Bacchus!’ he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, ‘I have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.’

‘Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps to England. We’ll go together.’

The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement.

‘We’ll go together,’ repeated Lagnier. ‘You shall see how soon I will force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by it. It is agreed? Are we one?’

‘Oh, surely, surely!’ said the little man.

‘Then you shall hear before I sleep—and in six words, for I want sleep—how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the other.’

‘Altro, altro! Not Ri----’ Before John Baptist could finish the name, his comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth.

‘Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon and stoned? Do you want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You don’t imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go? Don’t think it!’

There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his friend’s jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier would so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman Monsieur Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made.

‘I am a man,’ said Monsieur Lagnier, ‘whom society has deeply wronged since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities in me? I have been shrieked at through the streets. I have been guarded through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in prison for security, with the place of my confinement kept a secret, lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my house; and, with a beggar’s pittance in my pocket, I have walked through vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled—look at them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon me, possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to possess. But society shall pay for it.’

All this he said in his companion’s ear, and with his hand before his lips.

‘Even here,’ he went on in the same way, ‘even in this mean drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are treasured in this breast.’

To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the suppressed hoarse voice, said from time to time, ‘Surely, surely!’ tossing his head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against society that perfect candour could make out.

‘Put my shoes there,’ continued Lagnier. ‘Hang my cloak to dry there by the door. Take my hat.’ He obeyed each instruction, as it was given. ‘And this is the bed to which society consigns me, is it? Hah. Very well!’

As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did.

‘Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box again into your company, eh? By Heaven! So much the better for you. You’ll profit by it. I shall need a long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.’

John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to undress; but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot, saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck, to get through the night.

When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in the door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was astir there but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and madame’s little counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid madame his little note at it over night, and wanted to see nobody—wanted nothing but to get on his shoes and his knapsack, open the door, and run away.

He prospered in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief looked out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full disc above the flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out of the long muddy vista of paved road with its weary avenue of little trees, a black speck moved along the road and splashed among the flaming pools of rain-water, which black speck was John Baptist Cavalletto running away from his patron.

CHAPTER 12. Bleeding Heart Yard

In London itself, though in the old rustic road towards a suburb of note where in the days of William Shakespeare, author and stage-player, there were Royal hunting-seats—howbeit no sport is left there now but for hunters of men—Bleeding Heart Yard was to be found; a place much changed in feature and in fortune, yet with some relish of ancient greatness about it. Two or three mighty stacks of chimneys, and a few large dark rooms which had escaped being walled and subdivided out of the recognition of their old proportions, gave the Yard a character. It was inhabited by poor people, who set up their rest among its faded glories, as Arabs of the desert pitch their tents among the fallen stones of the Pyramids; but there was a family sentimental feeling prevalent in the Yard, that it had a character.

As if the aspiring city had become puffed up in the very ground on which it stood, the ground had so risen about Bleeding Heart Yard that you got into it down a flight of steps which formed no part of the original approach, and got out of it by a low gateway into a maze of shabby streets, which went about and about, tortuously ascending to the level again. At this end of the Yard and over the gateway, was the factory of Daniel Doyce, often heavily beating like a bleeding heart of iron, with the clink of metal upon metal.

The opinion of the Yard was divided respecting the derivation of its name. The more practical of its inmates abided by the tradition of a murder; the gentler and more imaginative inhabitants, including the whole of the tender sex, were loyal to the legend of a young lady of former times closely imprisoned in her chamber by a cruel father for remaining true to her own true love, and refusing to marry the suitor he chose for her. The legend related how that the young lady used to be seen up at her window behind the bars, murmuring a love-lorn song of which the burden was, ‘Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away,’ until she died. It was objected by the murderous party that this Refrain was notoriously the invention of a tambour-worker, a spinster and romantic, still lodging in the Yard. But, forasmuch as all favourite legends must be associated with the affections, and as many more people fall in love than commit murder—which it may be hoped, howsoever bad we are, will continue until the end of the world to be the dispensation under which we shall live—the Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away story, carried the day by a great majority. Neither party would listen to the antiquaries who delivered learned lectures in the neighbourhood, showing the Bleeding Heart to have been the heraldic cognisance of the old family to whom the property had once belonged. And, considering that the hour-glass they turned from year to year was filled with the earthiest and coarsest sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders had reason enough for objecting to be despoiled of the one little golden grain of poetry that sparkled in it.

Down in to the Yard, by way of the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr Meagles, and Clennam. Passing along the Yard, and between the open doors on either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children nursing heavy ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the gateway. Here Arthur Clennam stopped to look about him for the domicile of Plornish, plasterer, whose name, according to the custom of Londoners, Daniel Doyce had never seen or heard of to that hour.

It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said; over a lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish kept a ladder and a barrel or two. The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard which she had described as his place of habitation, was a large house, let off to various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted that he lived in the parlour, by means of a painted hand under his name, the forefinger of which hand (on which the artist had depicted a ring and a most elaborate nail of the genteelest form) referred all inquirers to that apartment.

Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting with Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with his knuckles at the parlour-door. It was opened presently by a woman with a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily rearranging the upper part of her dress. This was Mrs Plornish, and this maternal action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large part of her waking existence.

Was Mr Plornish at home? ‘Well, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish, a civil woman, ‘not to deceive you, he’s gone to look for a job.’

‘Not to deceive you’ was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish. She would deceive you, under any circumstances, as little as might be; but she had a trick of answering in this provisional form.

‘Do you think he will be back soon, if I wait for him?’

‘I have been expecting him,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘this half an hour, at any minute of time. Walk in, sir.’

Arthur entered the rather dark and close parlour (though it was lofty too), and sat down in the chair she placed for him.

‘Not to deceive you, sir, I notice it,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘and I take it kind of you.’

He was at a loss to understand what she meant; and by expressing as much in his looks, elicited her explanation.

‘It ain’t many that comes into a poor place, that deems it worth their while to move their hats,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘But people think more of it than people think.’

Clennam returned, with an uncomfortable feeling in so very slight a courtesy being unusual, Was that all! And stooping down to pinch the cheek of another young child who was sitting on the floor, staring at him, asked Mrs Plornish how old that fine boy was?

‘Four year just turned, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘He is a fine little fellow, ain’t he, sir? But this one is rather sickly.’ She tenderly hushed the baby in her arms, as she said it. ‘You wouldn’t mind my asking if it happened to be a job as you was come about, sir, would you?’ asked Mrs Plornish wistfully.

She asked it so anxiously, that if he had been in possession of any kind of tenement, he would have had it plastered a foot deep rather than answer No. But he was obliged to answer No; and he saw a shade of disappointment on her face, as she checked a sigh, and looked at the low fire. Then he saw, also, that Mrs Plornish was a young woman, made somewhat slatternly in herself and her belongings by poverty; and so dragged at by poverty and the children together, that their united forces had already dragged her face into wrinkles.

‘All such things as jobs,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘seems to me to have gone underground, they do indeed.’ (Herein Mrs Plornish limited her remark to the plastering trade, and spoke without reference to the Circumlocution Office and the Barnacle Family.)

‘Is it so difficult to get work?’ asked Arthur Clennam.

‘Plornish finds it so,’ she returned. ‘He is quite unfortunate. Really he is.’

Really he was. He was one of those many wayfarers on the road of life, who seem to be afflicted with supernatural corns, rendering it impossible for them to keep up even with their lame competitors. A willing, working, soft hearted, not hard-headed fellow, Plornish took his fortune as smoothly as could be expected; but it was a rough one. It so rarely happened that anybody seemed to want him, it was such an exceptional case when his powers were in any request, that his misty mind could not make out how it happened. He took it as it came, therefore; he tumbled into all kinds of difficulties, and tumbled out of them; and, by tumbling through life, got himself considerably bruised.

‘It’s not for want of looking after jobs, I am sure,’ said Mrs Plornish, lifting up her eyebrows, and searching for a solution of the problem between the bars of the grate; ‘nor yet for want of working at them when they are to be got. No one ever heard my husband complain of work.’

Somehow or other, this was the general misfortune of Bleeding Heart Yard. From time to time there were public complaints, pathetically going about, of labour being scarce—which certain people seemed to take extraordinarily ill, as though they had an absolute right to it on their own terms—but Bleeding Heart Yard, though as willing a Yard as any in Britain, was never the better for the demand. That high old family, the Barnacles, had long been too busy with their great principle to look into the matter; and indeed the matter had nothing to do with their watchfulness in out-generalling all other high old families except the Stiltstalkings.

While Mrs Plornish spoke in these words of her absent lord, her lord returned. A smooth-cheeked, fresh-coloured, sandy-whiskered man of thirty. Long in the legs, yielding at the knees, foolish in the face, flannel-jacketed, lime-whitened.

‘This is Plornish, sir.’

‘I came,’ said Clennam, rising, ‘to beg the favour of a little conversation with you on the subject of the Dorrit family.’

Plornish became suspicious. Seemed to scent a creditor. Said, ‘Ah, yes. Well. He didn’t know what satisfaction he could give any gentleman, respecting that family. What might it be about, now?’

‘I know you better,’ said Clennam, smiling, ‘than you suppose.’

Plornish observed, not smiling in return, And yet he hadn’t the pleasure of being acquainted with the gentleman, neither.

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘I know your kind offices at second hand, but on the best authority; through Little Dorrit.—I mean,’ he explained, ‘Miss Dorrit.’

‘Mr Clennam, is it? Oh! I’ve heard of you, Sir.’

‘And I of you,’ said Arthur.

‘Please to sit down again, Sir, and consider yourself welcome.—Why, yes,’ said Plornish, taking a chair, and lifting the elder child upon his knee, that he might have the moral support of speaking to a stranger over his head, ‘I have been on the wrong side of the Lock myself, and in that way we come to know Miss Dorrit. Me and my wife, we are well acquainted with Miss Dorrit.’

‘Intimate!’ cried Mrs Plornish. Indeed, she was so proud of the acquaintance, that she had awakened some bitterness of spirit in the Yard by magnifying to an enormous amount the sum for which Miss Dorrit’s father had become insolvent. The Bleeding Hearts resented her claiming to know people of such distinction.

‘It was her father that I got acquainted with first. And through getting acquainted with him, you see—why—I got acquainted with her,’ said Plornish tautologically.

‘I see.’

‘Ah! And there’s manners! There’s polish! There’s a gentleman to have run to seed in the Marshalsea jail! Why, perhaps you are not aware,’ said Plornish, lowering his voice, and speaking with a perverse admiration of what he ought to have pitied or despised, ‘not aware that Miss Dorrit and her sister dursn’t let him know that they work for a living. No!’ said Plornish, looking with a ridiculous triumph first at his wife, and then all round the room. ‘Dursn’t let him know it, they dursn’t!’

‘Without admiring him for that,’ Clennam quietly observed, ‘I am very sorry for him.’ The remark appeared to suggest to Plornish, for the first time, that it might not be a very fine trait of character after all. He pondered about it for a moment, and gave it up.

‘As to me,’ he resumed, ‘certainly Mr Dorrit is as affable with me, I am sure, as I can possibly expect. Considering the differences and distances betwixt us, more so. But it’s Miss Dorrit that we were speaking of.’

‘True. Pray how did you introduce her at my mother’s!’

Mr Plornish picked a bit of lime out of his whisker, put it between his lips, turned it with his tongue like a sugar-plum, considered, found himself unequal to the task of lucid explanation, and appealing to his wife, said, ‘Sally, you may as well mention how it was, old woman.’

‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Sally, hushing the baby from side to side, and laying her chin upon the little hand as it tried to disarrange the gown again, ‘came here one afternoon with a bit of writing, telling that how she wished for needlework, and asked if it would be considered any ill-conwenience in case she was to give her address here.’ (Plornish repeated, her address here, in a low voice, as if he were making responses at church.) ‘Me and Plornish says, No, Miss Dorrit, no ill-conwenience,’ (Plornish repeated, no ill-conwenience,) ‘and she wrote it in, according. Which then me and Plornish says, Ho Miss Dorrit!’ (Plornish repeated, Ho Miss Dorrit.) ‘Have you thought of copying it three or four times, as the way to make it known in more places than one? No, says Miss Dorrit, I have not, but I will. She copied it out according, on this table, in a sweet writing, and Plornish, he took it where he worked, having a job just then,’ (Plornish repeated job just then,) ‘and likewise to the landlord of the Yard; through which it was that Mrs Clennam first happened to employ Miss Dorrit.’ Plornish repeated, employ Miss Dorrit; and Mrs Plornish having come to an end, feigned to bite the fingers of the little hand as she kissed it.

‘The landlord of the Yard,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘is—’

‘He is Mr Casby, by name, he is,’ said Plornish, ‘and Pancks, he collects the rents. That,’ added Mr Plornish, dwelling on the subject with a slow thoughtfulness that appeared to have no connection with any specific object, and to lead him nowhere, ‘that is about what they are, you may believe me or not, as you think proper.’

‘Ay?’ returned Clennam, thoughtful in his turn. ‘Mr Casby, too! An old acquaintance of mine, long ago!’

Mr Plornish did not see his road to any comment on this fact, and made none. As there truly was no reason why he should have the least interest in it, Arthur Clennam went on to the present purport of his visit; namely, to make Plornish the instrument of effecting Tip’s release, with as little detriment as possible to the self-reliance and self-helpfulness of the young man, supposing him to possess any remnant of those qualities: without doubt a very wide stretch of supposition. Plornish, having been made acquainted with the cause of action from the Defendant’s own mouth, gave Arthur to understand that the Plaintiff was a ‘Chaunter’—meaning, not a singer of anthems, but a seller of horses—and that he (Plornish) considered that ten shillings in the pound ‘would settle handsome,’ and that more would be a waste of money. The Principal and instrument soon drove off together to a stable-yard in High Holborn, where a remarkably fine grey gelding, worth, at the lowest figure, seventy-five guineas (not taking into account the value of the shot he had been made to swallow for the improvement of his form), was to be parted with for a twenty-pound note, in consequence of his having run away last week with Mrs Captain Barbary of Cheltenham, who wasn’t up to a horse of his courage, and who, in mere spite, insisted on selling him for that ridiculous sum: or, in other words, on giving him away. Plornish, going up this yard alone and leaving his Principal outside, found a gentleman with tight drab legs, a rather old hat, a little hooked stick, and a blue neckerchief (Captain Maroon of Gloucestershire, a private friend of Captain Barbary); who happened to be there, in a friendly way, to mention these little circumstances concerning the remarkably fine grey gelding to any real judge of a horse and quick snapper-up of a good thing, who might look in at that address as per advertisement. This gentleman, happening also to be the Plaintiff in the Tip case, referred Mr Plornish to his solicitor, and declined to treat with Mr Plornish, or even to endure his presence in the yard, unless he appeared there with a twenty-pound note: in which case only, the gentleman would augur from appearances that he meant business, and might be induced to talk to him. On this hint, Mr Plornish retired to communicate with his Principal, and presently came back with the required credentials. Then said Captain Maroon, ‘Now, how much time do you want to make the other twenty in? Now, I’ll give you a month.’ Then said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell what I’ll do with you. You shall get me a good bill at four months, made payable at a banking-house, for the other twenty!’ Then said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, come; Here’s the last I’ve got to say to you. You shall give me another ten down, and I’ll run my pen clean through it.’ Then said Captain Maroon when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell you what it is, and this shuts it up; he has used me bad, but I’ll let him off for another five down and a bottle of wine; and if you mean done, say done, and if you don’t like it, leave it.’ Finally said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit either, ‘Hand over, then!’—And in consideration of the first offer, gave a receipt in full and discharged the prisoner.

‘Mr Plornish,’ said Arthur, ‘I trust to you, if you please, to keep my secret. If you will undertake to let the young man know that he is free, and to tell him that you were employed to compound for the debt by some one whom you are not at liberty to name, you will not only do me a service, but may do him one, and his sister also.’

‘The last reason, sir,’ said Plornish, ‘would be quite sufficient. Your wishes shall be attended to.’

‘A Friend has obtained his discharge, you can say if you please. A Friend who hopes that for his sister’s sake, if for no one else’s, he will make good use of his liberty.’

‘Your wishes, sir, shall be attended to.’

‘And if you will be so good, in your better knowledge of the family, as to communicate freely with me, and to point out to me any means by which you think I may be delicately and really useful to Little Dorrit, I shall feel under an obligation to you.’

‘Don’t name it, sir,’ returned Plornish, ‘it’ll be ekally a pleasure an a—it’l be ekally a pleasure and a—’ Finding himself unable to balance his sentence after two efforts, Mr Plornish wisely dropped it. He took Clennam’s card and appropriate pecuniary compliment.

He was earnest to finish his commission at once, and his Principal was in the same mind. So his Principal offered to set him down at the Marshalsea Gate, and they drove in that direction over Blackfriars Bridge. On the way, Arthur elicited from his new friend a confused summary of the interior life of Bleeding Heart Yard. They was all hard up there, Mr Plornish said, uncommon hard up, to be sure. Well, he couldn’t say how it was; he didn’t know as anybody could say how it was; all he know’d was, that so it was. When a man felt, on his own back and in his own belly, that poor he was, that man (Mr Plornish gave it as his decided belief) know’d well that he was poor somehow or another, and you couldn’t talk it out of him, no more than you could talk Beef into him. Then you see, some people as was better off said, and a good many such people lived pretty close up to the mark themselves if not beyond it so he’d heerd, that they was ‘improvident’ (that was the favourite word) down the Yard. For instance, if they see a man with his wife and children going to Hampton Court in a Wan, perhaps once in a year, they says, ‘Hallo! I thought you was poor, my improvident friend!’ Why, Lord, how hard it was upon a man! What was a man to do? He couldn’t go mollancholy mad, and even if he did, you wouldn’t be the better for it. In Mr Plornish’s judgment you would be the worse for it. Yet you seemed to want to make a man mollancholy mad. You was always at it—if not with your right hand, with your left. What was they a doing in the Yard? Why, take a look at ‘em and see. There was the girls and their mothers a working at their sewing, or their shoe-binding, or their trimming, or their waistcoat making, day and night and night and day, and not more than able to keep body and soul together after all—often not so much. There was people of pretty well all sorts of trades you could name, all wanting to work, and yet not able to get it. There was old people, after working all their lives, going and being shut up in the workhouse, much worse fed and lodged and treated altogether, than—Mr Plornish said manufacturers, but appeared to mean malefactors. Why, a man didn’t know where to turn himself for a crumb of comfort. As to who was to blame for it, Mr Plornish didn’t know who was to blame for it. He could tell you who suffered, but he couldn’t tell you whose fault it was. It wasn’t his place to find out, and who’d mind what he said, if he did find out? He only know’d that it wasn’t put right by them what undertook that line of business, and that it didn’t come right of itself. And, in brief, his illogical opinion was, that if you couldn’t do nothing for him, you had better take nothing from him for doing of it; so far as he could make out, that was about what it come to. Thus, in a prolix, gently-growling, foolish way, did Plornish turn the tangled skein of his estate about and about, like a blind man who was trying to find some beginning or end to it; until they reached the prison gate. There, he left his Principal alone; to wonder, as he rode away, how many thousand Plornishes there might be within a day or two’s journey of the Circumlocution Office, playing sundry curious variations on the same tune, which were not known by ear in that glorious institution.

CHAPTER 13. Patriarchal

The mention of Mr Casby again revived in Clennam’s memory the smouldering embers of curiosity and interest which Mrs Flintwinch had fanned on the night of his arrival. Flora Casby had been the beloved of his boyhood; and Flora was the daughter and only child of wooden-headed old Christopher (so he was still occasionally spoken of by some irreverent spirits who had had dealings with him, and in whom familiarity had bred its proverbial result perhaps), who was reputed to be rich in weekly tenants, and to get a good quantity of blood out of the stones of several unpromising courts and alleys.

After some days of inquiry and research, Arthur Clennam became convinced that the case of the Father of the Marshalsea was indeed a hopeless one, and sorrowfully resigned the idea of helping him to freedom again. He had no hopeful inquiry to make at present, concerning Little Dorrit either; but he argued with himself that it might—for anything he knew—it might be serviceable to the poor child, if he renewed this acquaintance. It is hardly necessary to add that beyond all doubt he would have presented himself at Mr Casby’s door, if there had been no Little Dorrit in existence; for we all know how we all deceive ourselves—that is to say, how people in general, our profounder selves excepted, deceive themselves—as to motives of action.

With a comfortable impression upon him, and quite an honest one in its way, that he was still patronising Little Dorrit in doing what had no reference to her, he found himself one afternoon at the corner of Mr Casby’s street. Mr Casby lived in a street in the Gray’s Inn Road, which had set off from that thoroughfare with the intention of running at one heat down into the valley, and up again to the top of Pentonville Hill; but which had run itself out of breath in twenty yards, and had stood still ever since. There is no such place in that part now; but it remained there for many years, looking with a baulked countenance at the wilderness patched with unfruitful gardens and pimpled with eruptive summerhouses, that it had meant to run over in no time.

‘The house,’ thought Clennam, as he crossed to the door, ‘is as little changed as my mother’s, and looks almost as gloomy. But the likeness ends outside. I know its staid repose within. The smell of its jars of old rose-leaves and lavender seems to come upon me even here.’

When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape brought a woman-servant to the door, those faded scents in truth saluted him like wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it of the bygone spring. He stepped into the sober, silent, air-tight house—one might have fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in the Eastern manner—and the door, closing again, seemed to shut out sound and motion. The furniture was formal, grave, and quaker-like, but well-kept; and had as prepossessing an aspect as anything, from a human creature to a wooden stool, that is meant for much use and is preserved for little, can ever wear. There was a grave clock, ticking somewhere up the staircase; and there was a songless bird in the same direction, pecking at his cage, as if he were ticking too. The parlour-fire ticked in the grate. There was only one person on the parlour-hearth, and the loud watch in his pocket ticked audibly.

The servant-maid had ticked the two words ‘Mr Clennam’ so softly that she had not been heard; and he consequently stood, within the door she had closed, unnoticed. The figure of a man advanced in life, whose smooth grey eyebrows seemed to move to the ticking as the fire-light flickered on them, sat in an arm-chair, with his list shoes on the rug, and his thumbs slowly revolving over one another. This was old Christopher Casby—recognisable at a glance—as unchanged in twenty years and upward as his own solid furniture—as little touched by the influence of the varying seasons as the old rose-leaves and old lavender in his porcelain jars.

Perhaps there never was a man, in this troublesome world, so troublesome for the imagination to picture as a boy. And yet he had changed very little in his progress through life. Confronting him, in the room in which he sat, was a boy’s portrait, which anybody seeing him would have identified as Master Christopher Casby, aged ten: though disguised with a haymaking rake, for which he had had, at any time, as much taste or use as for a diving-bell; and sitting (on one of his own legs) upon a bank of violets, moved to precocious contemplation by the spire of a village church. There was the same smooth face and forehead, the same calm blue eye, the same placid air. The shining bald head, which looked so very large because it shone so much; and the long grey hair at its sides and back, like floss silk or spun glass, which looked so very benevolent because it was never cut; were not, of course, to be seen in the boy as in the old man. Nevertheless, in the Seraphic creature with the haymaking rake, were clearly to be discerned the rudiments of the Patriarch with the list shoes.

Patriarch was the name which many people delighted to give him. Various old ladies in the neighbourhood spoke of him as The Last of the Patriarchs. So grey, so slow, so quiet, so impassionate, so very bumpy in the head, Patriarch was the word for him. He had been accosted in the streets, and respectfully solicited to become a Patriarch for painters and for sculptors; with so much importunity, in sooth, that it would appear to be beyond the Fine Arts to remember the points of a Patriarch, or to invent one. Philanthropists of both sexes had asked who he was, and on being informed, ‘Old Christopher Casby, formerly Town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle,’ had cried in a rapture of disappointment, ‘Oh! why, with that head, is he not a benefactor to his species! Oh! why, with that head, is he not a father to the orphan and a friend to the friendless!’ With that head, however, he remained old Christopher Casby, proclaimed by common report rich in house property; and with that head, he now sat in his silent parlour. Indeed it would be the height of unreason to expect him to be sitting there without that head.

Arthur Clennam moved to attract his attention, and the grey eyebrows turned towards him.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Clennam, ‘I fear you did not hear me announced?’

‘No, sir, I did not. Did you wish to see me, sir?’

‘I wished to pay my respects.’

Mr Casby seemed a feather’s weight disappointed by the last words, having perhaps prepared himself for the visitor’s wishing to pay something else. ‘Have I the pleasure, sir,’ he proceeded—‘take a chair, if you please—have I the pleasure of knowing—? Ah! truly, yes, I think I have! I believe I am not mistaken in supposing that I am acquainted with those features? I think I address a gentleman of whose return to this country I was informed by Mr Flintwinch?’

‘That is your present visitor.’

‘Really! Mr Clennam?’

‘No other, Mr Casby.’

‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. How have you been since we met?’

Without thinking it worth while to explain that in the course of some quarter of a century he had experienced occasional slight fluctuations in his health and spirits, Clennam answered generally that he had never been better, or something equally to the purpose; and shook hands with the possessor of ‘that head’ as it shed its patriarchal light upon him.

‘We are older, Mr Clennam,’ said Christopher Casby.

‘We are—not younger,’ said Clennam. After this wise remark he felt that he was scarcely shining with brilliancy, and became aware that he was nervous.

‘And your respected father,’ said Mr Casby, ‘is no more! I was grieved to hear it, Mr Clennam, I was grieved.’

Arthur replied in the usual way that he felt infinitely obliged to him.

‘There was a time,’ said Mr Casby, ‘when your parents and myself were not on friendly terms. There was a little family misunderstanding among us. Your respected mother was rather jealous of her son, maybe; when I say her son, I mean your worthy self, your worthy self.’

His smooth face had a bloom upon it like ripe wall-fruit. What with his blooming face, and that head, and his blue eyes, he seemed to be delivering sentiments of rare wisdom and virtue. In like manner, his physiognomical expression seemed to teem with benignity. Nobody could have said where the wisdom was, or where the virtue was, or where the benignity was; but they all seemed to be somewhere about him.

‘Those times, however,’ pursued Mr Casby, ‘are past and gone, past and gone. I do myself the pleasure of making a visit to your respected mother occasionally, and of admiring the fortitude and strength of mind with which she bears her trials, bears her trials.’

When he made one of these little repetitions, sitting with his hands crossed before him, he did it with his head on one side, and a gentle smile, as if he had something in his thoughts too sweetly profound to be put into words. As if he denied himself the pleasure of uttering it, lest he should soar too high; and his meekness therefore preferred to be unmeaning.

‘I have heard that you were kind enough on one of those occasions,’ said Arthur, catching at the opportunity as it drifted past him, ‘to mention Little Dorrit to my mother.’

‘Little—? Dorrit? That’s the seamstress who was mentioned to me by a small tenant of mine? Yes, yes. Dorrit? That’s the name. Ah, yes, yes! You call her Little Dorrit?’

No road in that direction. Nothing came of the cross-cut. It led no further.

‘My daughter Flora,’ said Mr Casby, ‘as you may have heard probably, Mr Clennam, was married and established in life, several years ago. She had the misfortune to lose her husband when she had been married a few months. She resides with me again. She will be glad to see you, if you will permit me to let her know that you are here.’

‘By all means,’ returned Clennam. ‘I should have preferred the request, if your kindness had not anticipated me.’

Upon this Mr Casby rose up in his list shoes, and with a slow, heavy step (he was of an elephantine build), made for the door. He had a long wide-skirted bottle-green coat on, and a bottle-green pair of trousers, and a bottle-green waistcoat. The Patriarchs were not dressed in bottle-green broadcloth, and yet his clothes looked patriarchal.

He had scarcely left the room, and allowed the ticking to become audible again, when a quick hand turned a latchkey in the house-door, opened it, and shut it. Immediately afterwards, a quick and eager short dark man came into the room with so much way upon him that he was within a foot of Clennam before he could stop.

‘Halloa!’ he said.

Clennam saw no reason why he should not say ‘Halloa!’ too.

‘What’s the matter?’ said the short dark man.

‘I have not heard that anything is the matter,’ returned Clennam.

‘Where’s Mr Casby?’ asked the short dark man, looking about.

‘He will be here directly, if you want him.’

‘I want him?’ said the short dark man. ‘Don’t you?’

This elicited a word or two of explanation from Clennam, during the delivery of which the short dark man held his breath and looked at him. He was dressed in black and rusty iron grey; had jet black beads of eyes; a scrubby little black chin; wiry black hair striking out from his head in prongs, like forks or hair-pins; and a complexion that was very dingy by nature, or very dirty by art, or a compound of nature and art. He had dirty hands and dirty broken nails, and looked as if he had been in the coals; he was in a perspiration, and snorted and sniffed and puffed and blew, like a little labouring steam-engine.

‘Oh!’ said he, when Arthur told him how he came to be there. ‘Very well. That’s right. If he should ask for Pancks, will you be so good as to say that Pancks is come in?’ And so, with a snort and a puff, he worked out by another door.

Now, in the old days at home, certain audacious doubts respecting the last of the Patriarchs, which were afloat in the air, had, by some forgotten means, come in contact with Arthur’s sensorium. He was aware of motes and specks of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time; seen through which medium, Christopher Casby was a mere Inn signpost, without any Inn—an invitation to rest and be thankful, when there was no place to put up at, and nothing whatever to be thankful for. He knew that some of these specks even represented Christopher as capable of harbouring designs in ‘that head,’ and as being a crafty impostor. Other motes there were which showed him as a heavy, selfish, drifting Booby, who, having stumbled, in the course of his unwieldy jostlings against other men, on the discovery that to get through life with ease and credit, he had but to hold his tongue, keep the bald part of his head well polished, and leave his hair alone, had had just cunning enough to seize the idea and stick to it. It was said that his being town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was referable, not to his having the least business capacity, but to his looking so supremely benignant that nobody could suppose the property screwed or jobbed under such a man; also, that for similar reasons he now got more money out of his own wretched lettings, unquestioned, than anybody with a less nobby and less shining crown could possibly have done. In a word, it was represented (Clennam called to mind, alone in the ticking parlour) that many people select their models, much as the painters, just now mentioned, select theirs; and that, whereas in the Royal Academy some evil old ruffian of a Dog-stealer will annually be found embodying all the cardinal virtues, on account of his eyelashes, or his chin, or his legs (thereby planting thorns of confusion in the breasts of the more observant students of nature), so, in the great social Exhibition, accessories are often accepted in lieu of the internal character.

Calling these things to mind, and ranging Mr Pancks in a row with them, Arthur Clennam leaned this day to the opinion, without quite deciding on it, that the last of the Patriarchs was the drifting Booby aforesaid, with the one idea of keeping the bald part of his head highly polished: and that, much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames river may sometimes be seen heavily driving with the tide, broadside on, stern first, in its own way and in the way of everything else, though making a great show of navigation, when all of a sudden, a little coaly steam-tug will bear down upon it, take it in tow, and bustle off with it; similarly the cumbrous Patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks, and was now following in the wake of that dingy little craft.

The return of Mr Casby with his daughter Flora, put an end to these meditations. Clennam’s eyes no sooner fell upon the subject of his old passion than it shivered and broke to pieces.

Most men will be found sufficiently true to themselves to be true to an old idea. It is no proof of an inconstant mind, but exactly the opposite, when the idea will not bear close comparison with the reality, and the contrast is a fatal shock to it. Such was Clennam’s case. In his youth he had ardently loved this woman, and had heaped upon her all the locked-up wealth of his affection and imagination. That wealth had been, in his desert home, like Robinson Crusoe’s money; exchangeable with no one, lying idle in the dark to rust, until he poured it out for her. Ever since that memorable time, though he had, until the night of his arrival, as completely dismissed her from any association with his Present or Future as if she had been dead (which she might easily have been for anything he knew), he had kept the old fancy of the Past unchanged, in its old sacred place. And now, after all, the last of the Patriarchs coolly walked into the parlour, saying in effect, ‘Be good enough to throw it down and dance upon it. This is Flora.’

Flora, always tall, had grown to be very broad too, and short of breath; but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had become a peony; but that was not much. Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all she said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much. Flora, who had been spoiled and artless long ago, was determined to be spoiled and artless now. That was a fatal blow.

This is Flora!

‘I am sure,’ giggled Flora, tossing her head with a caricature of her girlish manner, such as a mummer might have presented at her own funeral, if she had lived and died in classical antiquity, ‘I am ashamed to see Mr Clennam, I am a mere fright, I know he’ll find me fearfully changed, I am actually an old woman, it’s shocking to be found out, it’s really shocking!’

He assured her that she was just what he had expected and that time had not stood still with himself.

‘Oh! But with a gentleman it’s so different and really you look so amazingly well that you have no right to say anything of the kind, while, as to me, you know—oh!’ cried Flora with a little scream, ‘I am dreadful!’

The Patriarch, apparently not yet understanding his own part in the drama under representation, glowed with vacant serenity.

‘But if we talk of not having changed,’ said Flora, who, whatever she said, never once came to a full stop, ‘look at Papa, is not Papa precisely what he was when you went away, isn’t it cruel and unnatural of Papa to be such a reproach to his own child, if we go on in this way much longer people who don’t know us will begin to suppose that I am Papa’s Mama!’

That must be a long time hence, Arthur considered.

‘Oh Mr Clennam you insincerest of creatures,’ said Flora, ‘I perceive already you have not lost your old way of paying compliments, your old way when you used to pretend to be so sentimentally struck you know—at least I don’t mean that, I—oh I don’t know what I mean!’ Here Flora tittered confusedly, and gave him one of her old glances.

The Patriarch, as if he now began to perceive that his part in the piece was to get off the stage as soon as might be, rose, and went to the door by which Pancks had worked out, hailing that Tug by name. He received an answer from some little Dock beyond, and was towed out of sight directly.

‘You mustn’t think of going yet,’ said Flora—Arthur had looked at his hat, being in a ludicrous dismay, and not knowing what to do: ‘you could never be so unkind as to think of going, Arthur—I mean Mr Arthur—or I suppose Mr Clennam would be far more proper—but I am sure I don’t know what I am saying—without a word about the dear old days gone for ever, when I come to think of it I dare say it would be much better not to speak of them and it’s highly probable that you have some much more agreeable engagement and pray let Me be the last person in the world to interfere with it though there was a time, but I am running into nonsense again.’

Was it possible that Flora could have been such a chatterer in the days she referred to? Could there have been anything like her present disjointed volubility in the fascinations that had captivated him?

‘Indeed I have little doubt,’ said Flora, running on with astonishing speed, and pointing her conversation with nothing but commas, and very few of them, ‘that you are married to some Chinese lady, being in China so long and being in business and naturally desirous to settle and extend your connection nothing was more likely than that you should propose to a Chinese lady and nothing was more natural I am sure than that the Chinese lady should accept you and think herself very well off too, I only hope she’s not a Pagodian dissenter.’

‘I am not,’ returned Arthur, smiling in spite of himself, ‘married to any lady, Flora.’

‘Oh good gracious me I hope you never kept yourself a bachelor so long on my account!’ tittered Flora; ‘but of course you never did why should you, pray don’t answer, I don’t know where I’m running to, oh do tell me something about the Chinese ladies whether their eyes are really so long and narrow always putting me in mind of mother-of-pearl fish at cards and do they really wear tails down their back and plaited too or is it only the men, and when they pull their hair so very tight off their foreheads don’t they hurt themselves, and why do they stick little bells all over their bridges and temples and hats and things or don’t they really do it?’ Flora gave him another of her old glances. Instantly she went on again, as if he had spoken in reply for some time.

‘Then it’s all true and they really do! good gracious Arthur!—pray excuse me—old habit—Mr Clennam far more proper—what a country to live in for so long a time, and with so many lanterns and umbrellas too how very dark and wet the climate ought to be and no doubt actually is, and the sums of money that must be made by those two trades where everybody carries them and hangs them everywhere, the little shoes too and the feet screwed back in infancy is quite surprising, what a traveller you are!’

In his ridiculous distress, Clennam received another of the old glances without in the least knowing what to do with it.

‘Dear dear,’ said Flora, ‘only to think of the changes at home Arthur—cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr Clennam far more proper—since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language which I am persuaded you speak like a Native if not better for you were always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur—I am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper—as no one could have believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs Finching when I can’t imagine it myself!’

‘Is that your married name?’ asked Arthur, struck, in the midst of all this, by a certain warmth of heart that expressed itself in her tone when she referred, however oddly, to the youthful relation in which they had stood to one another. ‘Finching?’

‘Finching oh yes isn’t it a dreadful name, but as Mr F. said when he proposed to me which he did seven times and handsomely consented I must say to be what he used to call on liking twelve months, after all, he wasn’t answerable for it and couldn’t help it could he, Excellent man, not at all like you but excellent man!’

Flora had at last talked herself out of breath for one moment. One moment; for she recovered breath in the act of raising a minute corner of her pocket-handkerchief to her eye, as a tribute to the ghost of the departed Mr F., and began again.

‘No one could dispute, Arthur—Mr Clennam—that it’s quite right you should be formally friendly to me under the altered circumstances and indeed you couldn’t be anything else, at least I suppose not you ought to know, but I can’t help recalling that there was a time when things were very different.’

‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur began, struck by the good tone again.

‘Oh not that nasty ugly name, say Flora!’

‘Flora. I assure you, Flora, I am happy in seeing you once more, and in finding that, like me, you have not forgotten the old foolish dreams, when we saw all before us in the light of our youth and hope.’

‘You don’t seem so,’ pouted Flora, ‘you take it very coolly, but however I know you are disappointed in me, I suppose the Chinese ladies—Mandarinesses if you call them so—are the cause or perhaps I am the cause myself, it’s just as likely.’

‘No, no,’ Clennam entreated, ‘don’t say that.’

‘Oh I must you know,’ said Flora, in a positive tone, ‘what nonsense not to, I know I am not what you expected, I know that very well.’

In the midst of her rapidity, she had found that out with the quick perception of a cleverer woman. The inconsistent and profoundly unreasonable way in which she instantly went on, nevertheless, to interweave their long-abandoned boy and girl relations with their present interview, made Clennam feel as if he were light-headed.

‘One remark,’ said Flora, giving their conversation, without the slightest notice and to the great terror of Clennam, the tone of a love-quarrel, ‘I wish to make, one explanation I wish to offer, when your Mama came and made a scene of it with my Papa and when I was called down into the little breakfast-room where they were looking at one another with your Mama’s parasol between them seated on two chairs like mad bulls what was I to do?’

‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ urged Clennam—‘all so long ago and so long concluded, is it worth while seriously to—’

‘I can’t Arthur,’ returned Flora, ‘be denounced as heartless by the whole society of China without setting myself right when I have the opportunity of doing so, and you must be very well aware that there was Paul and Virginia which had to be returned and which was returned without note or comment, not that I mean to say you could have written to me watched as I was but if it had only come back with a red wafer on the cover I should have known that it meant Come to Pekin Nankeen and What’s the third place, barefoot.’

‘My dear Mrs Finching, you were not to blame, and I never blamed you. We were both too young, too dependent and helpless, to do anything but accept our separation.—Pray think how long ago,’ gently remonstrated Arthur.

‘One more remark,’ proceeded Flora with unslackened volubility, ‘I wish to make, one more explanation I wish to offer, for five days I had a cold in the head from crying which I passed entirely in the back drawing-room—there is the back drawing-room still on the first floor and still at the back of the house to confirm my words—when that dreary period had passed a lull succeeded years rolled on and Mr F. became acquainted with us at a mutual friend’s, he was all attention he called next day he soon began to call three evenings a week and to send in little things for supper it was not love on Mr F.’s part it was adoration, Mr F. proposed with the full approval of Papa and what could I do?’

‘Nothing whatever,’ said Arthur, with the cheerfulest readiness, ‘but what you did. Let an old friend assure you of his full conviction that you did quite right.’

‘One last remark,’ proceeded Flora, rejecting commonplace life with a wave of her hand, ‘I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer, there was a time ere Mr F. first paid attentions incapable of being mistaken, but that is past and was not to be, dear Mr Clennam you no longer wear a golden chain you are free I trust you may be happy, here is Papa who is always tiresome and putting in his nose everywhere where he is not wanted.’

With these words, and with a hasty gesture fraught with timid caution—such a gesture had Clennam’s eyes been familiar with in the old time—poor Flora left herself at eighteen years of age, a long long way behind again; and came to a full stop at last.

Or rather, she left about half of herself at eighteen years of age behind, and grafted the rest on to the relict of the late Mr F.; thus making a moral mermaid of herself, which her once boy-lover contemplated with feelings wherein his sense of the sorrowful and his sense of the comical were curiously blended.

For example. As if there were a secret understanding between herself and Clennam of the most thrilling nature; as if the first of a train of post-chaises and four, extending all the way to Scotland, were at that moment round the corner; and as if she couldn’t (and wouldn’t) have walked into the Parish Church with him, under the shade of the family umbrella, with the Patriarchal blessing on her head, and the perfect concurrence of all mankind; Flora comforted her soul with agonies of mysterious signalling, expressing dread of discovery. With the sensation of becoming more and more light-headed every minute, Clennam saw the relict of the late Mr F. enjoying herself in the most wonderful manner, by putting herself and him in their old places, and going through all the old performances—now, when the stage was dusty, when the scenery was faded, when the youthful actors were dead, when the orchestra was empty, when the lights were out. And still, through all this grotesque revival of what he remembered as having once been prettily natural to her, he could not but feel that it revived at sight of him, and that there was a tender memory in it.

The Patriarch insisted on his staying to dinner, and Flora signalled ‘Yes!’ Clennam so wished he could have done more than stay to dinner—so heartily wished he could have found the Flora that had been, or that never had been—that he thought the least atonement he could make for the disappointment he almost felt ashamed of, was to give himself up to the family desire. Therefore, he stayed to dinner.

Pancks dined with them. Pancks steamed out of his little dock at a quarter before six, and bore straight down for the Patriarch, who happened to be then driving, in an inane manner, through a stagnant account of Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks instantly made fast to him and hauled him out.

‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Pancks, with a puff and a snort. ‘It’s a troublesome property. Don’t pay you badly, but rents are very hard to get there. You have more trouble with that one place than with all the places belonging to you.’

Just as the big ship in tow gets the credit, with most spectators, of being the powerful object, so the Patriarch usually seemed to have said himself whatever Pancks said for him.

‘Indeed?’ returned Clennam, upon whom this impression was so efficiently made by a mere gleam of the polished head that he spoke the ship instead of the Tug. ‘The people are so poor there?’

‘You can’t say, you know,’ snorted Pancks, taking one of his dirty hands out of his rusty iron-grey pockets to bite his nails, if he could find any, and turning his beads of eyes upon his employer, ‘whether they’re poor or not. They say they are, but they all say that. When a man says he’s rich, you’re generally sure he isn’t. Besides, if they are poor, you can’t help it. You’d be poor yourself if you didn’t get your rents.’

‘True enough,’ said Arthur.

‘You’re not going to keep open house for all the poor of London,’ pursued Pancks. ‘You’re not going to lodge ‘em for nothing. You’re not going to open your gates wide and let ‘em come free. Not if you know it, you ain’t.’

Mr Casby shook his head, in Placid and benignant generality.

‘If a man takes a room of you at half-a-crown a week, and when the week comes round hasn’t got the half-crown, you say to that man, Why have you got the room, then? If you haven’t got the one thing, why have you got the other? What have you been and done with your money? What do you mean by it? What are you up to? That’s what you say to a man of that sort; and if you didn’t say it, more shame for you!’ Mr Pancks here made a singular and startling noise, produced by a strong blowing effort in the region of the nose, unattended by any result but that acoustic one.

‘You have some extent of such property about the east and north-east here, I believe?’ said Clennam, doubtful which of the two to address.

‘Oh, pretty well,’ said Pancks. ‘You’re not particular to east or north-east, any point of the compass will do for you. What you want is a good investment and a quick return. You take it where you can find it. You ain’t nice as to situation—not you.’

There was a fourth and most original figure in the Patriarchal tent, who also appeared before dinner. This was an amazing little old woman, with a face like a staring wooden doll too cheap for expression, and a stiff yellow wig perched unevenly on the top of her head, as if the child who owned the doll had driven a tack through it anywhere, so that it only got fastened on. Another remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that the same child seemed to have damaged her face in two or three places with some blunt instrument in the nature of a spoon; her countenance, and particularly the tip of her nose, presenting the phenomena of several dints, generally answering to the bowl of that article. A further remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that she had no name but Mr F.’s Aunt.

She broke upon the visitor’s view under the following circumstances: Flora said when the first dish was being put on the table, perhaps Mr Clennam might not have heard that Mr F. had left her a legacy? Clennam in return implied his hope that Mr F. had endowed the wife whom he adored, with the greater part of his worldly substance, if not with all. Flora said, oh yes, she didn’t mean that, Mr F. had made a beautiful will, but he had left her as a separate legacy, his Aunt. She then went out of the room to fetch the legacy, and, on her return, rather triumphantly presented ‘Mr F.’s Aunt.’

The major characteristics discoverable by the stranger in Mr F.’s Aunt, were extreme severity and grim taciturnity; sometimes interrupted by a propensity to offer remarks in a deep warning voice, which, being totally uncalled for by anything said by anybody, and traceable to no association of ideas, confounded and terrified the Mind. Mr F.’s Aunt may have thrown in these observations on some system of her own, and it may have been ingenious, or even subtle: but the key to it was wanted.

The neatly-served and well-cooked dinner (for everything about the Patriarchal household promoted quiet digestion) began with some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes. The conversation still turned on the receipt of rents. Mr F.’s Aunt, after regarding the company for ten minutes with a malevolent gaze, delivered the following fearful remark:

‘When we lived at Henley, Barnes’s gander was stole by tinkers.’

Mr Pancks courageously nodded his head and said, ‘All right, ma’am.’ But the effect of this mysterious communication upon Clennam was absolutely to frighten him. And another circumstance invested this old lady with peculiar terrors. Though she was always staring, she never acknowledged that she saw any individual. The polite and attentive stranger would desire, say, to consult her inclinations on the subject of potatoes. His expressive action would be hopelessly lost upon her, and what could he do? No man could say, ‘Mr F.’s Aunt, will you permit me?’ Every man retired from the spoon, as Clennam did, cowed and baffled.

There was mutton, a steak, and an apple-pie—nothing in the remotest way connected with ganders—and the dinner went on like a disenchanted feast, as it truly was. Once upon a time Clennam had sat at that table taking no heed of anything but Flora; now the principal heed he took of Flora was to observe, against his will, that she was very fond of porter, that she combined a great deal of sherry with sentiment, and that if she were a little overgrown, it was upon substantial grounds. The last of the Patriarchs had always been a mighty eater, and he disposed of an immense quantity of solid food with the benignity of a good soul who was feeding some one else. Mr Pancks, who was always in a hurry, and who referred at intervals to a little dirty notebook which he kept beside him (perhaps containing the names of the defaulters he meant to look up by way of dessert), took in his victuals much as if he were coaling; with a good deal of noise, a good deal of dropping about, and a puff and a snort occasionally, as if he were nearly ready to steam away.

All through dinner, Flora combined her present appetite for eating and drinking with her past appetite for romantic love, in a way that made Clennam afraid to lift his eyes from his plate; since he could not look towards her without receiving some glance of mysterious meaning or warning, as if they were engaged in a plot. Mr F.’s Aunt sat silently defying him with an aspect of the greatest bitterness, until the removal of the cloth and the appearance of the decanters, when she originated another observation—struck into the conversation like a clock, without consulting anybody.

Flora had just said, ‘Mr Clennam, will you give me a glass of port for Mr F.’s Aunt?’

‘The Monument near London Bridge,’ that lady instantly proclaimed, ‘was put up arter the Great Fire of London; and the Great Fire of London was not the fire in which your uncle George’s workshops was burned down.’

Mr Pancks, with his former courage, said, ‘Indeed, ma’am? All right!’ But appearing to be incensed by imaginary contradiction, or other ill-usage, Mr F.’s Aunt, instead of relapsing into silence, made the following additional proclamation:

‘I hate a fool!’

She imparted to this sentiment, in itself almost Solomonic, so extremely injurious and personal a character by levelling it straight at the visitor’s head, that it became necessary to lead Mr F.’s Aunt from the room. This was quietly done by Flora; Mr F.’s Aunt offering no resistance, but inquiring on her way out, ‘What he come there for, then?’ with implacable animosity.

When Flora returned, she explained that her legacy was a clever old lady, but was sometimes a little singular, and ‘took dislikes’—peculiarities of which Flora seemed to be proud rather than otherwise. As Flora’s good nature shone in the case, Clennam had no fault to find with the old lady for eliciting it, now that he was relieved from the terrors of her presence; and they took a glass or two of wine in peace. Foreseeing then that the Pancks would shortly get under weigh, and that the Patriarch would go to sleep, he pleaded the necessity of visiting his mother, and asked Mr Pancks in which direction he was going?

‘Citywards, sir,’ said Pancks.

‘Shall we walk together?’ said Arthur.

‘Quite agreeable,’ said Pancks.

Meanwhile Flora was murmuring in rapid snatches for his ear, that there was a time and that the past was a yawning gulf however and that a golden chain no longer bound him and that she revered the memory of the late Mr F. and that she should be at home to-morrow at half-past one and that the decrees of Fate were beyond recall and that she considered nothing so improbable as that he ever walked on the north-west side of Gray’s-Inn Gardens at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon. He tried at parting to give his hand in frankness to the existing Flora—not the vanished Flora, or the mermaid—but Flora wouldn’t have it, couldn’t have it, was wholly destitute of the power of separating herself and him from their bygone characters. He left the house miserably enough; and so much more light-headed than ever, that if it had not been his good fortune to be towed away, he might, for the first quarter of an hour, have drifted anywhere.

When he began to come to himself, in the cooler air and the absence of Flora, he found Pancks at full speed, cropping such scanty pasturage of nails as he could find, and snorting at intervals. These, in conjunction with one hand in his pocket and his roughened hat hind side before, were evidently the conditions under which he reflected.

‘A fresh night!’ said Arthur.

‘Yes, it’s pretty fresh,’ assented Pancks. ‘As a stranger you feel the climate more than I do, I dare say. Indeed I haven’t got time to feel it.’

‘You lead such a busy life?’

‘Yes, I have always some of ‘em to look up, or something to look after. But I like business,’ said Pancks, getting on a little faster. ‘What’s a man made for?’

‘For nothing else?’ said Clennam.

Pancks put the counter question, ‘What else?’ It packed up, in the smallest compass, a weight that had rested on Clennam’s life; and he made no answer.

‘That’s what I ask our weekly tenants,’ said Pancks. ‘Some of ‘em will pull long faces to me, and say, Poor as you see us, master, we’re always grinding, drudging, toiling, every minute we’re awake. I say to them, What else are you made for? It shuts them up. They haven’t a word to answer. What else are you made for? That clinches it.’

‘Ah dear, dear, dear!’ sighed Clennam.

‘Here am I,’ said Pancks, pursuing his argument with the weekly tenant. ‘What else do you suppose I think I am made for? Nothing. Rattle me out of bed early, set me going, give me as short a time as you like to bolt my meals in, and keep me at it. Keep me always at it, and I’ll keep you always at it, you keep somebody else always at it. There you are with the Whole Duty of Man in a commercial country.’

When they had walked a little further in silence, Clennam said: ‘Have you no taste for anything, Mr Pancks?’

‘What’s taste?’ drily retorted Pancks.

‘Let us say inclination.’

‘I have an inclination to get money, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you will show me how.’ He blew off that sound again, and it occurred to his companion for the first time that it was his way of laughing. He was a singular man in all respects; he might not have been quite in earnest, but that the short, hard, rapid manner in which he shot out these cinders of principles, as if it were done by mechanical revolvency, seemed irreconcilable with banter.

‘You are no great reader, I suppose?’ said Clennam.

‘Never read anything but letters and accounts. Never collect anything but advertisements relative to next of kin. If that’s a taste, I have got that. You’re not of the Clennams of Cornwall, Mr Clennam?’

‘Not that I ever heard of.’

‘I know you’re not. I asked your mother, sir. She has too much character to let a chance escape her.’

‘Supposing I had been of the Clennams of Cornwall?’

‘You’d have heard of something to your advantage.’

‘Indeed! I have heard of little enough to my advantage for some time.’

‘There’s a Cornish property going a begging, sir, and not a Cornish Clennam to have it for the asking,’ said Pancks, taking his note-book from his breast pocket and putting it in again. ‘I turn off here. I wish you good night.’

‘Good night!’ said Clennam. But the Tug, suddenly lightened, and untrammelled by having any weight in tow, was already puffing away into the distance.

They had crossed Smithfield together, and Clennam was left alone at the corner of Barbican. He had no intention of presenting himself in his mother’s dismal room that night, and could not have felt more depressed and cast away if he had been in a wilderness. He turned slowly down Aldersgate Street, and was pondering his way along towards Saint Paul’s, purposing to come into one of the great thoroughfares for the sake of their light and life, when a crowd of people flocked towards him on the same pavement, and he stood aside against a shop to let them pass. As they came up, he made out that they were gathered around a something that was carried on men’s shoulders. He soon saw that it was a litter, hastily made of a shutter or some such thing; and a recumbent figure upon it, and the scraps of conversation in the crowd, and a muddy bundle carried by one man, and a muddy hat carried by another, informed him that an accident had occurred. The litter stopped under a lamp before it had passed him half-a-dozen paces, for some readjustment of the burden; and, the crowd stopping too, he found himself in the midst of the array.

‘An accident going to the Hospital?’ he asked an old man beside him, who stood shaking his head, inviting conversation.

‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘along of them Mails. They ought to be prosecuted and fined, them Mails. They come a racing out of Lad Lane and Wood Street at twelve or fourteen mile a hour, them Mails do. The only wonder is, that people ain’t killed oftener by them Mails.’

‘This person is not killed, I hope?’

‘I don’t know!’ said the man, ‘it an’t for the want of a will in them Mails, if he an’t.’ The speaker having folded his arms, and set in comfortably to address his depreciation of them Mails to any of the bystanders who would listen, several voices, out of pure sympathy with the sufferer, confirmed him; one voice saying to Clennam, ‘They’re a public nuisance, them Mails, sir;’ another, ‘I see one on ‘em pull up within half a inch of a boy, last night;’ another, ‘I see one on ‘em go over a cat, sir—and it might have been your own mother;’ and all representing, by implication, that if he happened to possess any public influence, he could not use it better than against them Mails.

‘Why, a native Englishman is put to it every night of his life, to save his life from them Mails,’ argued the first old man; ‘and he knows when they’re a coming round the corner, to tear him limb from limb. What can you expect from a poor foreigner who don’t know nothing about ‘em!’

‘Is this a foreigner?’ said Clennam, leaning forward to look.

In the midst of such replies as ‘Frenchman, sir,’ ‘Porteghee, sir,’ ‘Dutchman, sir,’ ‘Prooshan, sir,’ and other conflicting testimony, he now heard a feeble voice asking, both in Italian and in French, for water. A general remark going round, in reply, of ‘Ah, poor fellow, he says he’ll never get over it; and no wonder!’ Clennam begged to be allowed to pass, as he understood the poor creature. He was immediately handed to the front, to speak to him.

‘First, he wants some water,’ said he, looking round. (A dozen good fellows dispersed to get it.) ‘Are you badly hurt, my friend?’ he asked the man on the litter, in Italian.

‘Yes, sir; yes, yes, yes. It’s my leg, it’s my leg. But it pleases me to hear the old music, though I am very bad.’

‘You are a traveller! Stay! See, the water! Let me give you some.’

They had rested the litter on a pile of paving stones. It was at a convenient height from the ground, and by stooping he could lightly raise the head with one hand and hold the glass to his lips with the other. A little, muscular, brown man, with black hair and white teeth. A lively face, apparently. Earrings in his ears.

‘That’s well. You are a traveller?’

‘Surely, sir.’

‘A stranger in this city?’

‘Surely, surely, altogether. I am arrived this unhappy evening.’

‘From what country?’

‘Marseilles.’

‘Why, see there! I also! Almost as much a stranger here as you, though born here, I came from Marseilles a little while ago. Don’t be cast down.’ The face looked up at him imploringly, as he rose from wiping it, and gently replaced the coat that covered the writhing figure. ‘I won’t leave you till you shall be well taken care of. Courage! You will be very much better half an hour hence.’

‘Ah! Altro, Altro!’ cried the poor little man, in a faintly incredulous tone; and as they took him up, hung out his right hand to give the forefinger a back-handed shake in the air.

Arthur Clennam turned; and walking beside the litter, and saying an encouraging word now and then, accompanied it to the neighbouring hospital of Saint Bartholomew. None of the crowd but the bearers and he being admitted, the disabled man was soon laid on a table in a cool, methodical way, and carefully examined by a surgeon who was as near at hand, and as ready to appear as Calamity herself. ‘He hardly knows an English word,’ said Clennam; ‘is he badly hurt?’

‘Let us know all about it first,’ said the surgeon, continuing his examination with a businesslike delight in it, ‘before we pronounce.’

After trying the leg with a finger, and two fingers, and one hand and two hands, and over and under, and up and down, and in this direction and in that, and approvingly remarking on the points of interest to another gentleman who joined him, the surgeon at last clapped the patient on the shoulder, and said, ‘He won’t hurt. He’ll do very well. It’s difficult enough, but we shall not want him to part with his leg this time.’ Which Clennam interpreted to the patient, who was full of gratitude, and, in his demonstrative way, kissed both the interpreter’s hand and the surgeon’s several times.

‘It’s a serious injury, I suppose?’ said Clennam.

‘Ye-es,’ replied the surgeon, with the thoughtful pleasure of an artist contemplating the work upon his easel. ‘Yes, it’s enough. There’s a compound fracture above the knee, and a dislocation below. They are both of a beautiful kind.’ He gave the patient a friendly clap on the shoulder again, as if he really felt that he was a very good fellow indeed, and worthy of all commendation for having broken his leg in a manner interesting to science.

‘He speaks French?’ said the surgeon.

‘Oh yes, he speaks French.’

‘He’ll be at no loss here, then.—You have only to bear a little pain like a brave fellow, my friend, and to be thankful that all goes as well as it does,’ he added, in that tongue, ‘and you’ll walk again to a marvel. Now, let us see whether there’s anything else the matter, and how our ribs are?’

There was nothing else the matter, and our ribs were sound. Clennam remained until everything possible to be done had been skilfully and promptly done—the poor belated wanderer in a strange land movingly besought that favour of him—and lingered by the bed to which he was in due time removed, until he had fallen into a doze. Even then he wrote a few words for him on his card, with a promise to return to-morrow, and left it to be given to him when he should awake.

All these proceedings occupied so long that it struck eleven o’clock at night as he came out at the Hospital Gate. He had hired a lodging for the present in Covent Garden, and he took the nearest way to that quarter, by Snow Hill and Holborn.

Left to himself again, after the solicitude and compassion of his last adventure, he was naturally in a thoughtful mood. As naturally, he could not walk on thinking for ten minutes without recalling Flora. She necessarily recalled to him his life, with all its misdirection and little happiness.

When he got to his lodging, he sat down before the dying fire, as he had stood at the window of his old room looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys, and turned his gaze back upon the gloomy vista by which he had come to that stage in his existence. So long, so bare, so blank. No childhood; no youth, except for one remembrance; that one remembrance proved, only that day, to be a piece of folly.

It was a misfortune to him, trifle as it might have been to another. For, while all that was hard and stern in his recollection, remained Reality on being proved—was obdurate to the sight and touch, and relaxed nothing of its old indomitable grimness—the one tender recollection of his experience would not bear the same test, and melted away. He had foreseen this, on the former night, when he had dreamed with waking eyes, but he had not felt it then; and he had now.

He was a dreamer in such wise, because he was a man who had, deep-rooted in his nature, a belief in all the gentle and good things his life had been without. Bred in meanness and hard dealing, this had rescued him to be a man of honourable mind and open hand. Bred in coldness and severity, this had rescued him to have a warm and sympathetic heart. Bred in a creed too darkly audacious to pursue, through its process of reserving the making of man in the image of his Creator to the making of his Creator in the image of an erring man, this had rescued him to judge not, and in humility to be merciful, and have hope and charity.

And this saved him still from the whimpering weakness and cruel selfishness of holding that because such a happiness or such a virtue had not come into his little path, or worked well for him, therefore it was not in the great scheme, but was reducible, when found in appearance, to the basest elements. A disappointed mind he had, but a mind too firm and healthy for such unwholesome air. Leaving himself in the dark, it could rise into the light, seeing it shine on others and hailing it.

Therefore, he sat before his dying fire, sorrowful to think upon the way by which he had come to that night, yet not strewing poison on the way by which other men had come to it. That he should have missed so much, and at his time of life should look so far about him for any staff to bear him company upon his downward journey and cheer it, was a just regret. He looked at the fire from which the blaze departed, from which the afterglow subsided, in which the ashes turned grey, from which they dropped to dust, and thought, ‘How soon I too shall pass through such changes, and be gone!’

To review his life was like descending a green tree in fruit and flower, and seeing all the branches wither and drop off, one by one, as he came down towards them.

‘From the unhappy suppression of my youngest days, through the rigid and unloving home that followed them, through my departure, my long exile, my return, my mother’s welcome, my intercourse with her since, down to the afternoon of this day with poor Flora,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘what have I found!’

His door was softly opened, and these spoken words startled him, and came as if they were an answer:

‘Little Dorrit.’

CHAPTER 14. Little Dorrit’s Party

Arthur Clennam rose hastily, and saw her standing at the door. This history must sometimes see with Little Dorrit’s eyes, and shall begin that course by seeing him.

Little Dorrit looked into a dim room, which seemed a spacious one to her, and grandly furnished. Courtly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place with famous coffee-houses, where gentlemen wearing gold-laced coats and swords had quarrelled and fought duels; costly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there were flowers in winter at guineas a-piece, pine-apples at guineas a pound, and peas at guineas a pint; picturesque ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there was a mighty theatre, showing wonderful and beautiful sights to richly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and which was for ever far beyond the reach of poor Fanny or poor uncle; desolate ideas of Covent Garden, as having all those arches in it, where the miserable children in rags among whom she had just now passed, like young rats, slunk and hid, fed on offal, huddled together for warmth, and were hunted about (look to the rats young and old, all ye Barnacles, for before God they are eating away our foundations, and will bring the roofs on our heads!); teeming ideas of Covent Garden, as a place of past and present mystery, romance, abundance, want, beauty, ugliness, fair country gardens, and foul street gutters; all confused together,—made the room dimmer than it was in Little Dorrit’s eyes, as they timidly saw it from the door.

At first in the chair before the gone-out fire, and then turned round wondering to see her, was the gentleman whom she sought. The brown, grave gentleman, who smiled so pleasantly, who was so frank and considerate in his manner, and yet in whose earnestness there was something that reminded her of his mother, with the great difference that she was earnest in asperity and he in gentleness. Now he regarded her with that attentive and inquiring look before which Little Dorrit’s eyes had always fallen, and before which they fell still.

‘My poor child! Here at midnight?’

‘I said Little Dorrit, sir, on purpose to prepare you. I knew you must be very much surprised.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘No sir, I have got Maggy with me.’

Considering her entrance sufficiently prepared for by this mention of her name, Maggy appeared from the landing outside, on the broad grin. She instantly suppressed that manifestation, however, and became fixedly solemn.

‘And I have no fire,’ said Clennam. ‘And you are—’ He was going to say so lightly clad, but stopped himself in what would have been a reference to her poverty, saying instead, ‘And it is so cold.’

Putting the chair from which he had risen nearer to the grate, he made her sit down in it; and hurriedly bringing wood and coal, heaped them together and got a blaze.

‘Your foot is like marble, my child;’ he had happened to touch it, while stooping on one knee at his work of kindling the fire; ‘put it nearer the warmth.’ Little Dorrit thanked him hastily. It was quite warm, it was very warm! It smote upon his heart to feel that she hid her thin, worn shoe.

Little Dorrit was not ashamed of her poor shoes. He knew her story, and it was not that. Little Dorrit had a misgiving that he might blame her father, if he saw them; that he might think, ‘why did he dine to-day, and leave this little creature to the mercy of the cold stones!’ She had no belief that it would have been a just reflection; she simply knew, by experience, that such delusions did sometimes present themselves to people. It was a part of her father’s misfortunes that they did.

‘Before I say anything else,’ Little Dorrit began, sitting before the pale fire, and raising her eyes again to the face which in its harmonious look of interest, and pity, and protection, she felt to be a mystery far above her in degree, and almost removed beyond her guessing at; ‘may I tell you something, sir?’

‘Yes, my child.’

A slight shade of distress fell upon her, at his so often calling her a child. She was surprised that he should see it, or think of such a slight thing; but he said directly:

‘I wanted a tender word, and could think of no other. As you just now gave yourself the name they give you at my mother’s, and as that is the name by which I always think of you, let me call you Little Dorrit.’

‘Thank you, sir, I should like it better than any name.’

‘Little Dorrit.’

‘Little mother,’ Maggy (who had been falling asleep) put in, as a correction.

‘It’s all the same, Maggy,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘all the same.’

‘Is it all the same, mother?’

‘Just the same.’

Maggy laughed, and immediately snored. In Little Dorrit’s eyes and ears, the uncouth figure and the uncouth sound were as pleasant as could be. There was a glow of pride in her big child, overspreading her face, when it again met the eyes of the grave brown gentleman. She wondered what he was thinking of, as he looked at Maggy and her. She thought what a good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and cherish his daughter.

‘What I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘is, that my brother is at large.’

Arthur was rejoiced to hear it, and hoped he would do well.

‘And what I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling in all her little figure and in her voice, ‘is, that I am not to know whose generosity released him—am never to ask, and am never to be told, and am never to thank that gentleman with all my grateful heart!’

He would probably need no thanks, Clennam said. Very likely he would be thankful himself (and with reason), that he had had the means and chance of doing a little service to her, who well deserved a great one.

‘And what I was going to say, sir, is,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling more and more, ‘that if I knew him, and I might, I would tell him that he can never, never know how I feel his goodness, and how my good father would feel it. And what I was going to say, sir, is, that if I knew him, and I might—but I don’t know him and I must not—I know that!—I would tell him that I shall never any more lie down to sleep without having prayed to Heaven to bless him and reward him. And if I knew him, and I might, I would go down on my knees to him, and take his hand and kiss it and ask him not to draw it away, but to leave it—O to leave it for a moment—and let my thankful tears fall on it; for I have no other thanks to give him!’

Little Dorrit had put his hand to her lips, and would have kneeled to him, but he gently prevented her, and replaced her in her chair. Her eyes, and the tones of her voice, had thanked him far better than she thought. He was not able to say, quite as composedly as usual, ‘There, Little Dorrit, there, there, there! We will suppose that you did know this person, and that you might do all this, and that it was all done. And now tell me, Who am quite another person—who am nothing more than the friend who begged you to trust him—why you are out at midnight, and what it is that brings you so far through the streets at this late hour, my slight, delicate,’ child was on his lips again, ‘Little Dorrit!’

‘Maggy and I have been to-night,’ she answered, subduing herself with the quiet effort that had long been natural to her, ‘to the theatre where my sister is engaged.’

‘And oh ain’t it a Ev’nly place,’ suddenly interrupted Maggy, who seemed to have the power of going to sleep and waking up whenever she chose. ‘Almost as good as a hospital. Only there ain’t no Chicking in it.’

Here she shook herself, and fell asleep again.

‘We went there,’ said Little Dorrit, glancing at her charge, ‘because I like sometimes to know, of my own knowledge, that my sister is doing well; and like to see her there, with my own eyes, when neither she nor Uncle is aware. It is very seldom indeed that I can do that, because when I am not out at work, I am with my father, and even when I am out at work, I hurry home to him. But I pretend to-night that I am at a party.’

As she made the confession, timidly hesitating, she raised her eyes to the face, and read its expression so plainly that she answered it.

‘Oh no, certainly! I never was at a party in my life.’

She paused a little under his attentive look, and then said, ‘I hope there is no harm in it. I could never have been of any use, if I had not pretended a little.’

She feared that he was blaming her in his mind for so devising to contrive for them, think for them, and watch over them, without their knowledge or gratitude; perhaps even with their reproaches for supposed neglect. But what was really in his mind, was the weak figure with its strong purpose, the thin worn shoes, the insufficient dress, and the pretence of recreation and enjoyment. He asked where the suppositious party was? At a place where she worked, answered Little Dorrit, blushing. She had said very little about it; only a few words to make her father easy. Her father did not believe it to be a grand party—indeed he might suppose that. And she glanced for an instant at the shawl she wore.

‘It is the first night,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I have ever been away from home. And London looks so large, so barren, and so wild.’ In Little Dorrit’s eyes, its vastness under the black sky was awful; a tremor passed over her as she said the words.

‘But this is not,’ she added, with the quiet effort again, ‘what I have come to trouble you with, sir. My sister’s having found a friend, a lady she has told me of and made me rather anxious about, was the first cause of my coming away from home. And being away, and coming (on purpose) round by where you lived and seeing a light in the window—’

Not for the first time. No, not for the first time. In Little Dorrit’s eyes, the outside of that window had been a distant star on other nights than this. She had toiled out of her way, tired and troubled, to look up at it, and wonder about the grave, brown gentleman from so far off, who had spoken to her as a friend and protector.

‘There were three things,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I thought I would like to say, if you were alone and I might come up-stairs. First, what I have tried to say, but never can—never shall—’

‘Hush, hush! That is done with, and disposed of. Let us pass to the second,’ said Clennam, smiling her agitation away, making the blaze shine upon her, and putting wine and cake and fruit towards her on the table.

‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit—‘this is the second thing, sir—I think Mrs Clennam must have found out my secret, and must know where I come from and where I go to. Where I live, I mean.’

‘Indeed!’ returned Clennam quickly. He asked her, after short consideration, why she supposed so.

‘I think,’ replied Little Dorrit, ‘that Mr Flintwinch must have watched me.’

And why, Clennam asked, as he turned his eyes upon the fire, bent his brows, and considered again; why did she suppose that?

‘I have met him twice. Both times near home. Both times at night, when I was going back. Both times I thought (though that may easily be my mistake), that he hardly looked as if he had met me by accident.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No; he only nodded and put his head on one side.’

‘The devil take his head!’ mused Clennam, still looking at the fire; ‘it’s always on one side.’

He roused himself to persuade her to put some wine to her lips, and to touch something to eat—it was very difficult, she was so timid and shy—and then said, musing again:

‘Is my mother at all changed to you?’

‘Oh, not at all. She is just the same. I wondered whether I had better tell her my history. I wondered whether I might—I mean, whether you would like me to tell her. I wondered,’ said Little Dorrit, looking at him in a suppliant way, and gradually withdrawing her eyes as he looked at her, ‘whether you would advise me what I ought to do.’

‘Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam; and the phrase had already begun, between these two, to stand for a hundred gentle phrases, according to the varying tone and connection in which it was used; ‘do nothing. I will have some talk with my old friend, Mrs Affery. Do nothing, Little Dorrit—except refresh yourself with such means as there are here. I entreat you to do that.’

‘Thank you, I am not hungry. Nor,’ said Little Dorrit, as he softly put her glass towards her, ‘nor thirsty.—I think Maggy might like something, perhaps.’

‘We will make her find pockets presently for all there is here,’ said Clennam: ‘but before we awake her, there was a third thing to say.’

‘Yes. You will not be offended, sir?’

‘I promise that, unreservedly.’

‘It will sound strange. I hardly know how to say it. Don’t think it unreasonable or ungrateful in me,’ said Little Dorrit, with returning and increasing agitation.

‘No, no, no. I am sure it will be natural and right. I am not afraid that I shall put a wrong construction on it, whatever it is.’

‘Thank you. You are coming back to see my father again?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have been so good and thoughtful as to write him a note, saying that you are coming to-morrow?’

‘Oh, that was nothing! Yes.’

‘Can you guess,’ said Little Dorrit, folding her small hands tight in one another, and looking at him with all the earnestness of her soul looking steadily out of her eyes, ‘what I am going to ask you not to do?’

‘I think I can. But I may be wrong.’

‘No, you are not wrong,’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head. ‘If we should want it so very, very badly that we cannot do without it, let me ask you for it.’

‘I Will,—I Will.’

‘Don’t encourage him to ask. Don’t understand him if he does ask. Don’t give it to him. Save him and spare him that, and you will be able to think better of him!’

Clennam said—not very plainly, seeing those tears glistening in her anxious eyes—that her wish should be sacred with him.

‘You don’t know what he is,’ she said; ‘you don’t know what he really is. How can you, seeing him there all at once, dear love, and not gradually, as I have done! You have been so good to us, so delicately and truly good, that I want him to be better in your eyes than in anybody’s. And I cannot bear to think,’ cried Little Dorrit, covering her tears with her hands, ‘I cannot bear to think that you of all the world should see him in his only moments of degradation.’

‘Pray,’ said Clennam, ‘do not be so distressed. Pray, pray, Little Dorrit! This is quite understood now.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you! I have tried very much to keep myself from saying this; I have thought about it, days and nights; but when I knew for certain you were coming again, I made up my mind to speak to you. Not because I am ashamed of him,’ she dried her tears quickly, ‘but because I know him better than any one does, and love him, and am proud of him.’

Relieved of this weight, Little Dorrit was nervously anxious to be gone. Maggy being broad awake, and in the act of distantly gloating over the fruit and cakes with chuckles of anticipation, Clennam made the best diversion in his power by pouring her out a glass of wine, which she drank in a series of loud smacks; putting her hand upon her windpipe after every one, and saying, breathless, with her eyes in a prominent state, ‘Oh, ain’t it d’licious! Ain’t it hospitally!’ When she had finished the wine and these encomiums, he charged her to load her basket (she was never without her basket) with every eatable thing upon the table, and to take especial care to leave no scrap behind. Maggy’s pleasure in doing this and her little mother’s pleasure in seeing Maggy pleased, was as good a turn as circumstances could have given to the late conversation.

‘But the gates will have been locked long ago,’ said Clennam, suddenly remembering it. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I am going to Maggy’s lodging,’ answered Little Dorrit. ‘I shall be quite safe, quite well taken care of.’

‘I must accompany you there,’ said Clennam, ‘I cannot let you go alone.’

‘Yes, pray leave us to go there by ourselves. Pray do!’ begged Little Dorrit.

She was so earnest in the petition, that Clennam felt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon her: the rather, because he could well understand that Maggy’s lodging was of the obscurest sort. ‘Come, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit cheerily, ‘we shall do very well; we know the way by this time, Maggy?’

‘Yes, yes, little mother; we know the way,’ chuckled Maggy. And away they went. Little Dorrit turned at the door to say, ‘God bless you!’ She said it very softly, but perhaps she may have been as audible above—who knows!—as a whole cathedral choir.

Arthur Clennam suffered them to pass the corner of the street before he followed at a distance; not with any idea of encroaching a second time on Little Dorrit’s privacy, but to satisfy his mind by seeing her secure in the neighbourhood to which she was accustomed. So diminutive she looked, so fragile and defenceless against the bleak damp weather, flitting along in the shuffling shadow of her charge, that he felt, in his compassion, and in his habit of considering her a child apart from the rest of the rough world, as if he would have been glad to take her up in his arms and carry her to her journey’s end.

In course of time she came into the leading thoroughfare where the Marshalsea was, and then he saw them slacken their pace, and soon turn down a by-street. He stopped, felt that he had no right to go further, and slowly left them. He had no suspicion that they ran any risk of being houseless until morning; had no idea of the truth until long, long afterwards.

But, said Little Dorrit, when they stopped at a poor dwelling all in darkness, and heard no sound on listening at the door, ‘Now, this is a good lodging for you, Maggy, and we must not give offence. Consequently, we will only knock twice, and not very loud; and if we cannot wake them so, we must walk about till day.’

Once, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. Twice, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. All was close and still. ‘Maggy, we must do the best we can, my dear. We must be patient, and wait for day.’

It was a chill dark night, with a damp wind blowing, when they came out into the leading street again, and heard the clocks strike half-past one. ‘In only five hours and a half,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘we shall be able to go home.’ To speak of home, and to go and look at it, it being so near, was a natural sequence. They went to the closed gate, and peeped through into the court-yard. ‘I hope he is sound asleep,’ said Little Dorrit, kissing one of the bars, ‘and does not miss me.’

The gate was so familiar, and so like a companion, that they put down Maggy’s basket in a corner to serve for a seat, and keeping close together, rested there for some time. While the street was empty and silent, Little Dorrit was not afraid; but when she heard a footstep at a distance, or saw a moving shadow among the street lamps, she was startled, and whispered, ‘Maggy, I see some one. Come away!’ Maggy would then wake up more or less fretfully, and they would wander about a little, and come back again.

As long as eating was a novelty and an amusement, Maggy kept up pretty well. But that period going by, she became querulous about the cold, and shivered and whimpered. ‘It will soon be over, dear,’ said Little Dorrit patiently. ‘Oh it’s all very fine for you, little mother,’ returned Maggy, ‘but I’m a poor thing, only ten years old.’ At last, in the dead of the night, when the street was very still indeed, Little Dorrit laid the heavy head upon her bosom, and soothed her to sleep. And thus she sat at the gate, as it were alone; looking up at the stars, and seeing the clouds pass over them in their wild flight—which was the dance at Little Dorrit’s party.

‘If it really was a party!’ she thought once, as she sat there. ‘If it was light and warm and beautiful, and it was our house, and my poor dear was its master, and had never been inside these walls. And if Mr Clennam was one of our visitors, and we were dancing to delightful music, and were all as gay and light-hearted as ever we could be! I wonder—’ Such a vista of wonder opened out before her, that she sat looking up at the stars, quite lost, until Maggy was querulous again, and wanted to get up and walk.

Three o’clock, and half-past three, and they had passed over London Bridge. They had heard the rush of the tide against obstacles; and looked down, awed, through the dark vapour on the river; had seen little spots of lighted water where the bridge lamps were reflected, shining like demon eyes, with a terrible fascination in them for guilt and misery. They had shrunk past homeless people, lying coiled up in nooks. They had run from drunkards. They had started from slinking men, whistling and signing to one another at bye corners, or running away at full speed. Though everywhere the leader and the guide, Little Dorrit, happy for once in her youthful appearance, feigned to cling to and rely upon Maggy. And more than once some voice, from among a knot of brawling or prowling figures in their path, had called out to the rest to ‘let the woman and the child go by!’

So, the woman and the child had gone by, and gone on, and five had sounded from the steeples. They were walking slowly towards the east, already looking for the first pale streak of day, when a woman came after them.

‘What are you doing with the child?’ she said to Maggy.

She was young—far too young to be there, Heaven knows!—and neither ugly nor wicked-looking. She spoke coarsely, but with no naturally coarse voice; there was even something musical in its sound.

‘What are you doing with yourself?’ retorted Maggy, for want of a better answer.

‘Can’t you see, without my telling you?’

‘I don’t know as I can,’ said Maggy.

‘Killing myself! Now I have answered you, answer me. What are you doing with the child?’

The supposed child kept her head drooped down, and kept her form close at Maggy’s side.

‘Poor thing!’ said the woman. ‘Have you no feeling, that you keep her out in the cruel streets at such a time as this? Have you no eyes, that you don’t see how delicate and slender she is? Have you no sense (you don’t look as if you had much) that you don’t take more pity on this cold and trembling little hand?’

She had stepped across to that side, and held the hand between her own two, chafing it. ‘Kiss a poor lost creature, dear,’ she said, bending her face, ‘and tell me where’s she taking you.’

Little Dorrit turned towards her.

‘Why, my God!’ she said, recoiling, ‘you’re a woman!’

‘Don’t mind that!’ said Little Dorrit, clasping one of her hands that had suddenly released hers. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

‘Then you had better be,’ she answered. ‘Have you no mother?’

‘No.’

‘No father?’

‘Yes, a very dear one.’

‘Go home to him, and be afraid of me. Let me go. Good night!’

‘I must thank you first; let me speak to you as if I really were a child.’

‘You can’t do it,’ said the woman. ‘You are kind and innocent; but you can’t look at me out of a child’s eyes. I never should have touched you, but I thought that you were a child.’ And with a strange, wild cry, she went away.

No day yet in the sky, but there was day in the resounding stones of the streets; in the waggons, carts, and coaches; in the workers going to various occupations; in the opening of early shops; in the traffic at markets; in the stir of the riverside. There was coming day in the flaring lights, with a feebler colour in them than they would have had at another time; coming day in the increased sharpness of the air, and the ghastly dying of the night.

They went back again to the gate, intending to wait there now until it should be opened; but the air was so raw and cold that Little Dorrit, leading Maggy about in her sleep, kept in motion. Going round by the Church, she saw lights there, and the door open; and went up the steps and looked in.

‘Who’s that?’ cried a stout old man, who was putting on a nightcap as if he were going to bed in a vault.

‘It’s no one particular, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Stop!’ cried the man. ‘Let’s have a look at you!’

This caused her to turn back again in the act of going out, and to present herself and her charge before him.

‘I thought so!’ said he. ‘I know you.’

‘We have often seen each other,’ said Little Dorrit, recognising the sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, ‘when I have been at church here.’

‘More than that, we’ve got your birth in our Register, you know; you’re one of our curiosities.’

‘Indeed!’ said Little Dorrit.

‘To be sure. As the child of the—by-the-bye, how did you get out so early?’

‘We were shut out last night, and are waiting to get in.’

‘You don’t mean it? And there’s another hour good yet! Come into the vestry. You’ll find a fire in the vestry, on account of the painters. I’m waiting for the painters, or I shouldn’t be here, you may depend upon it. One of our curiosities mustn’t be cold when we have it in our power to warm her up comfortable. Come along.’

He was a very good old fellow, in his familiar way; and having stirred the vestry fire, he looked round the shelves of registers for a particular volume. ‘Here you are, you see,’ he said, taking it down and turning the leaves. ‘Here you’ll find yourself, as large as life. Amy, daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born, Marshalsea Prison, Parish of St George. And we tell people that you have lived there, without so much as a day’s or a night’s absence, ever since. Is it true?’

‘Quite true, till last night.’

‘Lord!’ But his surveying her with an admiring gaze suggested Something else to him, to wit: ‘I am sorry to see, though, that you are faint and tired. Stay a bit. I’ll get some cushions out of the church, and you and your friend shall lie down before the fire. Don’t be afraid of not going in to join your father when the gate opens. I’ll call you.’

He soon brought in the cushions, and strewed them on the ground.

‘There you are, you see. Again as large as life. Oh, never mind thanking. I’ve daughters of my own. And though they weren’t born in the Marshalsea Prison, they might have been, if I had been, in my ways of carrying on, of your father’s breed. Stop a bit. I must put something under the cushion for your head. Here’s a burial volume, just the thing! We have got Mrs Bangham in this book. But what makes these books interesting to most people is—not who’s in ‘em, but who isn’t—who’s coming, you know, and when. That’s the interesting question.’

Commendingly looking back at the pillow he had improvised, he left them to their hour’s repose. Maggy was snoring already, and Little Dorrit was soon fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate, untroubled by its mysterious blank leaves.

This was Little Dorrit’s party. The shame, desertion, wretchedness, and exposure of the great capital; the wet, the cold, the slow hours, and the swift clouds of the dismal night. This was the party from which Little Dorrit went home, jaded, in the first grey mist of a rainy morning.

CHAPTER 15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream

The debilitated old house in the city, wrapped in its mantle of soot, and leaning heavily on the crutches that had partaken of its decay and worn out with it, never knew a healthy or a cheerful interval, let what would betide. If the sun ever touched it, it was but with a ray, and that was gone in half an hour; if the moonlight ever fell upon it, it was only to put a few patches on its doleful cloak, and make it look more wretched. The stars, to be sure, coldly watched it when the nights and the smoke were clear enough; and all bad weather stood by it with a rare fidelity. You should alike find rain, hail, frost, and thaw lingering in that dismal enclosure when they had vanished from other places; and as to snow, you should see it there for weeks, long after it had changed from yellow to black, slowly weeping away its grimy life. The place had no other adherents. As to street noises, the rumbling of wheels in the lane merely rushed in at the gateway in going past, and rushed out again: making the listening Mistress Affery feel as if she were deaf, and recovered the sense of hearing by instantaneous flashes. So with whistling, singing, talking, laughing, and all pleasant human sounds. They leaped the gap in a moment, and went upon their way.

The varying light of fire and candle in Mrs Clennam’s room made the greatest change that ever broke the dead monotony of the spot. In her two long narrow windows, the fire shone sullenly all day, and sullenly all night. On rare occasions it flashed up passionately, as she did; but for the most part it was suppressed, like her, and preyed upon itself evenly and slowly. During many hours of the short winter days, however, when it was dusk there early in the afternoon, changing distortions of herself in her wheeled chair, of Mr Flintwinch with his wry neck, of Mistress Affery coming and going, would be thrown upon the house wall that was over the gateway, and would hover there like shadows from a great magic lantern. As the room-ridden invalid settled for the night, these would gradually disappear: Mistress Affery’s magnified shadow always flitting about, last, until it finally glided away into the air, as though she were off upon a witch excursion. Then the solitary light would burn unchangingly, until it burned pale before the dawn, and at last died under the breath of Mrs Affery, as her shadow descended on it from the witch-region of sleep.

Strange, if the little sick-room fire were in effect a beacon fire, summoning some one, and that the most unlikely some one in the world, to the spot that must be come to. Strange, if the little sick-room light were in effect a watch-light, burning in that place every night until an appointed event should be watched out! Which of the vast multitude of travellers, under the sun and the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another; which of the host may, with no suspicion of the journey’s end, be travelling surely hither?

Time shall show us. The post of honour and the post of shame, the general’s station and the drummer’s, a peer’s statue in Westminster Abbey and a seaman’s hammock in the bosom of the deep, the mitre and the workhouse, the woolsack and the gallows, the throne and the guillotine—the travellers to all are on the great high road, but it has wonderful divergencies, and only Time shall show us whither each traveller is bound.

On a wintry afternoon at twilight, Mrs Flintwinch, having been heavy all day, dreamed this dream:

She thought she was in the kitchen getting the kettle ready for tea, and was warming herself with her feet upon the fender and the skirt of her gown tucked up, before the collapsed fire in the middle of the grate, bordered on either hand by a deep cold black ravine. She thought that as she sat thus, musing upon the question whether life was not for some people a rather dull invention, she was frightened by a sudden noise behind her. She thought that she had been similarly frightened once last week, and that the noise was of a mysterious kind—a sound of rustling and of three or four quick beats like a rapid step; while a shock or tremble was communicated to her heart, as if the step had shaken the floor, or even as if she had been touched by some awful hand. She thought that this revived within her certain old fears of hers that the house was haunted; and that she flew up the kitchen stairs without knowing how she got up, to be nearer company.

Mistress Affery thought that on reaching the hall, she saw the door of her liege lord’s office standing open, and the room empty. That she went to the ripped-up window in the little room by the street door to connect her palpitating heart, through the glass, with living things beyond and outside the haunted house. That she then saw, on the wall over the gateway, the shadows of the two clever ones in conversation above. That she then went upstairs with her shoes in her hand, partly to be near the clever ones as a match for most ghosts, and partly to hear what they were talking about.

‘None of your nonsense with me,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘I won’t take it from you.’

Mrs Flintwinch dreamed that she stood behind the door, which was just ajar, and most distinctly heard her husband say these bold words.

‘Flintwinch,’ returned Mrs Clennam, in her usual strong low voice, ‘there is a demon of anger in you. Guard against it.’

‘I don’t care whether there’s one or a dozen,’ said Mr Flintwinch, forcibly suggesting in his tone that the higher number was nearer the mark. ‘If there was fifty, they should all say, None of your nonsense with me, I won’t take it from you—I’d make ‘em say it, whether they liked it or not.’

‘What have I done, you wrathful man?’ her strong voice asked.

‘Done?’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Dropped down upon me.’

‘If you mean, remonstrated with you—’

‘Don’t put words into my mouth that I don’t mean,’ said Jeremiah, sticking to his figurative expression with tenacious and impenetrable obstinacy: ‘I mean dropped down upon me.’

‘I remonstrated with you,’ she began again, ‘because—’

‘I won’t have it!’ cried Jeremiah. ‘You dropped down upon me.’

‘I dropped down upon you, then, you ill-conditioned man,’ (Jeremiah chuckled at having forced her to adopt his phrase,) ‘for having been needlessly significant to Arthur that morning. I have a right to complain of it as almost a breach of confidence. You did not mean it—’

‘I won’t have it!’ interposed the contradictory Jeremiah, flinging back the concession. ‘I did mean it.’

‘I suppose I must leave you to speak in soliloquy if you choose,’ she replied, after a pause that seemed an angry one. ‘It is useless my addressing myself to a rash and headstrong old man who has a set purpose not to hear me.’

‘Now, I won’t take that from you either,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I have no such purpose. I have told you I did mean it. Do you wish to know why I meant it, you rash and headstrong old woman?’

‘After all, you only restore me my own words,’ she said, struggling with her indignation. ‘Yes.’

‘This is why, then. Because you hadn’t cleared his father to him, and you ought to have done it. Because, before you went into any tantrum about yourself, who are—’

‘Hold there, Flintwinch!’ she cried out in a changed voice: ‘you may go a word too far.’

The old man seemed to think so. There was another pause, and he had altered his position in the room, when he spoke again more mildly:

‘I was going to tell you why it was. Because, before you took your own part, I thought you ought to have taken the part of Arthur’s father. Arthur’s father! I had no particular love for Arthur’s father. I served Arthur’s father’s uncle, in this house, when Arthur’s father was not much above me—was poorer as far as his pocket went—and when his uncle might as soon have left me his heir as have left him. He starved in the parlour, and I starved in the kitchen; that was the principal difference in our positions; there was not much more than a flight of breakneck stairs between us. I never took to him in those times; I don’t know that I ever took to him greatly at any time. He was an undecided, irresolute chap, who had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young. And when he brought you home here, the wife his uncle had named for him, I didn’t need to look at you twice (you were a good-looking woman at that time) to know who’d be master. You have stood of your own strength ever since. Stand of your own strength now. Don’t lean against the dead.’

‘I do not—as you call it—lean against the dead.’

‘But you had a mind to do it, if I had submitted,’ growled Jeremiah, ‘and that’s why you drop down upon me. You can’t forget that I didn’t submit. I suppose you are astonished that I should consider it worth my while to have justice done to Arthur’s father? Hey? It doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because I know you are, and you know you are. Come, then, I’ll tell you how it is. I may be a bit of an oddity in point of temper, but this is my temper—I can’t let anybody have entirely their own way. You are a determined woman, and a clever woman; and when you see your purpose before you, nothing will turn you from it. Who knows that better than I do?’

‘Nothing will turn me from it, Flintwinch, when I have justified it to myself. Add that.’

‘Justified it to yourself? I said you were the most determined woman on the face of the earth (or I meant to say so), and if you are determined to justify any object you entertain, of course you’ll do it.’

‘Man! I justify myself by the authority of these Books,’ she cried, with stern emphasis, and appearing from the sound that followed to strike the dead-weight of her arm upon the table.

‘Never mind that,’ returned Jeremiah calmly, ‘we won’t enter into that question at present. However that may be, you carry out your purposes, and you make everything go down before them. Now, I won’t go down before them. I have been faithful to you, and useful to you, and I am attached to you. But I can’t consent, and I won’t consent, and I never did consent, and I never will consent to be lost in you. Swallow up everybody else, and welcome. The peculiarity of my temper is, ma’am, that I won’t be swallowed up alive.’

Perhaps this had originally been the mainspring of the understanding between them. Descrying thus much of force of character in Mr Flintwinch, perhaps Mrs Clennam had deemed alliance with him worth her while.

‘Enough and more than enough of the subject,’ said she gloomily.

‘Unless you drop down upon me again,’ returned the persistent Flintwinch, ‘and then you must expect to hear of it again.’

Mistress Affery dreamed that the figure of her lord here began walking up and down the room, as if to cool his spleen, and that she ran away; but that, as he did not issue forth when she had stood listening and trembling in the shadowy hall a little time, she crept up-stairs again, impelled as before by ghosts and curiosity, and once more cowered outside the door.

‘Please to light the candle, Flintwinch,’ Mrs Clennam was saying, apparently wishing to draw him back into their usual tone. ‘It is nearly time for tea. Little Dorrit is coming, and will find me in the dark.’

Mr Flintwinch lighted the candle briskly, and said as he put it down upon the table:

‘What are you going to do with Little Dorrit? Is she to come to work here for ever? To come to tea here for ever? To come backwards and forwards here, in the same way, for ever?’

‘How can you talk about “for ever” to a maimed creature like me? Are we not all cut down like the grass of the field, and was not I shorn by the scythe many years ago: since when I have been lying here, waiting to be gathered into the barn?’

‘Ay, ay! But since you have been lying here—not near dead—nothing like it—numbers of children and young people, blooming women, strong men, and what not, have been cut down and carried; and still here are you, you see, not much changed after all. Your time and mine may be a long one yet. When I say for ever, I mean (though I am not poetical) through all our time.’ Mr Flintwinch gave this explanation with great calmness, and calmly waited for an answer.

‘So long as Little Dorrit is quiet and industrious, and stands in need of the slight help I can give her, and deserves it; so long, I suppose, unless she withdraws of her own act, she will continue to come here, I being spared.’

‘Nothing more than that?’ said Flintwinch, stroking his mouth and chin.

‘What should there be more than that! What could there be more than that!’ she ejaculated in her sternly wondering way.

Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, that, for the space of a minute or two, they remained looking at each other with the candle between them, and that she somehow derived an impression that they looked at each other fixedly.

‘Do you happen to know, Mrs Clennam,’ Affery’s liege lord then demanded in a much lower voice, and with an amount of expression that seemed quite out of proportion to the simple purpose of his words, ‘where she lives?’

‘No.’

‘Would you—now, would you like to know?’ said Jeremiah with a pounce as if he had sprung upon her.

‘If I cared to know, I should know already. Could I not have asked her any day?’

‘Then you don’t care to know?’

‘I do not.’

Mr Flintwinch, having expelled a long significant breath said, with his former emphasis, ‘For I have accidentally—mind!—found out.’

‘Wherever she lives,’ said Mrs Clennam, speaking in one unmodulated hard voice, and separating her words as distinctly as if she were reading them off from separate bits of metal that she took up one by one, ‘she has made a secret of it, and she shall always keep her secret from me.’

‘After all, perhaps you would rather not have known the fact, any how?’ said Jeremiah; and he said it with a twist, as if his words had come out of him in his own wry shape.

‘Flintwinch,’ said his mistress and partner, flashing into a sudden energy that made Affery start, ‘why do you goad me? Look round this room. If it is any compensation for my long confinement within these narrow limits—not that I complain of being afflicted; you know I never complain of that—if it is any compensation to me for long confinement to this room, that while I am shut up from all pleasant change I am also shut up from the knowledge of some things that I may prefer to avoid knowing, why should you, of all men, grudge me that belief?’

‘I don’t grudge it to you,’ returned Jeremiah.

‘Then say no more. Say no more. Let Little Dorrit keep her secret from me, and do you keep it from me also. Let her come and go, unobserved and unquestioned. Let me suffer, and let me have what alleviation belongs to my condition. Is it so much, that you torment me like an evil spirit?’

‘I asked you a question. That’s all.’

‘I have answered it. So, say no more. Say no more.’ Here the sound of the wheeled chair was heard upon the floor, and Affery’s bell rang with a hasty jerk.

More afraid of her husband at the moment than of the mysterious sound in the kitchen, Affery crept away as lightly and as quickly as she could, descended the kitchen stairs almost as rapidly as she had ascended them, resumed her seat before the fire, tucked up her skirt again, and finally threw her apron over her head. Then the bell rang once more, and then once more, and then kept on ringing; in despite of which importunate summons, Affery still sat behind her apron, recovering her breath.

At last Mr Flintwinch came shuffling down the staircase into the hall, muttering and calling ‘Affery woman!’ all the way. Affery still remaining behind her apron, he came stumbling down the kitchen stairs, candle in hand, sidled up to her, twitched her apron off, and roused her.

‘Oh Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, waking. ‘What a start you gave me!’

‘What have you been doing, woman?’ inquired Jeremiah. ‘You’ve been rung for fifty times.’

‘Oh Jeremiah,’ said Mistress Affery, ‘I have been a-dreaming!’

Reminded of her former achievement in that way, Mr Flintwinch held the candle to her head, as if he had some idea of lighting her up for the illumination of the kitchen.

‘Don’t you know it’s her tea-time?’ he demanded with a vicious grin, and giving one of the legs of Mistress Affery’s chair a kick.

‘Jeremiah? Tea-time? I don’t know what’s come to me. But I got such a dreadful turn, Jeremiah, before I went—off a-dreaming, that I think it must be that.’

‘Yoogh! Sleepy-Head!’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘what are you talking about?’

‘Such a strange noise, Jeremiah, and such a curious movement. In the kitchen here—just here.’

Jeremiah held up his light and looked at the blackened ceiling, held down his light and looked at the damp stone floor, turned round with his light and looked about at the spotted and blotched walls.

‘Rats, cats, water, drains,’ said Jeremiah.

Mistress Affery negatived each with a shake of her head. ‘No, Jeremiah; I have felt it before. I have felt it up-stairs, and once on the staircase as I was going from her room to ours in the night—a rustle and a sort of trembling touch behind me.’

‘Affery, my woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch grimly, after advancing his nose to that lady’s lips as a test for the detection of spirituous liquors, ‘if you don’t get tea pretty quick, old woman, you’ll become sensible of a rustle and a touch that’ll send you flying to the other end of the kitchen.’

This prediction stimulated Mrs Flintwinch to bestir herself, and to hasten up-stairs to Mrs Clennam’s chamber. But, for all that, she now began to entertain a settled conviction that there was something wrong in the gloomy house. Henceforth, she was never at peace in it after daylight departed; and never went up or down stairs in the dark without having her apron over her head, lest she should see something.

What with these ghostly apprehensions and her singular dreams, Mrs Flintwinch fell that evening into a haunted state of mind, from which it may be long before this present narrative descries any trace of her recovery. In the vagueness and indistinctness of all her new experiences and perceptions, as everything about her was mysterious to herself she began to be mysterious to others: and became as difficult to be made out to anybody’s satisfaction as she found the house and everything in it difficult to make out to her own.

She had not yet finished preparing Mrs Clennam’s tea, when the soft knock came to the door which always announced Little Dorrit. Mistress Affery looked on at Little Dorrit taking off her homely bonnet in the hall, and at Mr Flintwinch scraping his jaws and contemplating her in silence, as expecting some wonderful consequence to ensue which would frighten her out of her five wits or blow them all three to pieces.

After tea there came another knock at the door, announcing Arthur. Mistress Affery went down to let him in, and he said on entering, ‘Affery, I am glad it’s you. I want to ask you a question.’ Affery immediately replied, ‘For goodness sake don’t ask me nothing, Arthur! I am frightened out of one half of my life, and dreamed out of the other. Don’t ask me nothing! I don’t know which is which, or what is what!’—and immediately started away from him, and came near him no more.

Mistress Affery having no taste for reading, and no sufficient light for needlework in the subdued room, supposing her to have the inclination, now sat every night in the dimness from which she had momentarily emerged on the evening of Arthur Clennam’s return, occupied with crowds of wild speculations and suspicions respecting her mistress and her husband and the noises in the house. When the ferocious devotional exercises were engaged in, these speculations would distract Mistress Affery’s eyes towards the door, as if she expected some dark form to appear at those propitious moments, and make the party one too many.

Otherwise, Affery never said or did anything to attract the attention of the two clever ones towards her in any marked degree, except on certain occasions, generally at about the quiet hour towards bed-time, when she would suddenly dart out of her dim corner, and whisper with a face of terror to Mr Flintwinch, reading the paper near Mrs Clennam’s little table:

‘There, Jeremiah! Now! What’s that noise?’

Then the noise, if there were any, would have ceased, and Mr Flintwinch would snarl, turning upon her as if she had cut him down that moment against his will, ‘Affery, old woman, you shall have a dose, old woman, such a dose! You have been dreaming again!’

CHAPTER 16. Nobody’s Weakness

The time being come for the renewal of his acquaintance with the Meagles family, Clennam, pursuant to contract made between himself and Mr Meagles within the precincts of Bleeding Heart Yard, turned his face on a certain Saturday towards Twickenham, where Mr Meagles had a cottage-residence of his own. The weather being fine and dry, and any English road abounding in interest for him who had been so long away, he sent his valise on by the coach, and set out to walk. A walk was in itself a new enjoyment to him, and one that had rarely diversified his life afar off.

He went by Fulham and Putney, for the pleasure of strolling over the heath. It was bright and shining there; and when he found himself so far on his road to Twickenham, he found himself a long way on his road to a number of airier and less substantial destinations. They had risen before him fast, in the healthful exercise and the pleasant road. It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something. And he had plenty of unsettled subjects to meditate upon, though he had been walking to the Land’s End.

First, there was the subject seldom absent from his mind, the question, what he was to do henceforth in life; to what occupation he should devote himself, and in what direction he had best seek it. He was far from rich, and every day of indecision and inaction made his inheritance a source of greater anxiety to him. As often as he began to consider how to increase this inheritance, or to lay it by, so often his misgiving that there was some one with an unsatisfied claim upon his justice, returned; and that alone was a subject to outlast the longest walk. Again, there was the subject of his relations with his mother, which were now upon an equable and peaceful but never confidential footing, and whom he saw several times a week. Little Dorrit was a leading and a constant subject: for the circumstances of his life, united to those of her own story, presented the little creature to him as the only person between whom and himself there were ties of innocent reliance on one hand, and affectionate protection on the other; ties of compassion, respect, unselfish interest, gratitude, and pity. Thinking of her, and of the possibility of her father’s release from prison by the unbarring hand of death—the only change of circumstance he could foresee that might enable him to be such a friend to her as he wished to be, by altering her whole manner of life, smoothing her rough road, and giving her a home—he regarded her, in that perspective, as his adopted daughter, his poor child of the Marshalsea hushed to rest. If there were a last subject in his thoughts, and it lay towards Twickenham, its form was so indefinite that it was little more than the pervading atmosphere in which these other subjects floated before him.

He had crossed the heath and was leaving it behind when he gained upon a figure which had been in advance of him for some time, and which, as he gained upon it, he thought he knew. He derived this impression from something in the turn of the head, and in the figure’s action of consideration, as it went on at a sufficiently sturdy walk. But when the man—for it was a man’s figure—pushed his hat up at the back of his head, and stopped to consider some object before him, he knew it to be Daniel Doyce.

‘How do you do, Mr Doyce?’ said Clennam, overtaking him. ‘I am glad to see you again, and in a healthier place than the Circumlocution Office.’

‘Ha! Mr Meagles’s friend!’ exclaimed that public criminal, coming out of some mental combinations he had been making, and offering his hand. ‘I am glad to see you, sir. Will you excuse me if I forget your name?’

‘Readily. It’s not a celebrated name. It’s not Barnacle.’

‘No, no,’ said Daniel, laughing. ‘And now I know what it is. It’s Clennam. How do you do, Mr Clennam?’

‘I have some hope,’ said Arthur, as they walked on together, ‘that we may be going to the same place, Mr Doyce.’

‘Meaning Twickenham?’ returned Daniel. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

They were soon quite intimate, and lightened the way with a variety of conversation. The ingenious culprit was a man of great modesty and good sense; and, though a plain man, had been too much accustomed to combine what was original and daring in conception with what was patient and minute in execution, to be by any means an ordinary man. It was at first difficult to lead him to speak about himself, and he put off Arthur’s advances in that direction by admitting slightly, oh yes, he had done this, and he had done that, and such a thing was of his making, and such another thing was his discovery, but it was his trade, you see, his trade; until, as he gradually became assured that his companion had a real interest in his account of himself, he frankly yielded to it. Then it appeared that he was the son of a north-country blacksmith, and had originally been apprenticed by his widowed mother to a lock-maker; that he had ‘struck out a few little things’ at the lock-maker’s, which had led to his being released from his indentures with a present, which present had enabled him to gratify his ardent wish to bind himself to a working engineer, under whom he had laboured hard, learned hard, and lived hard, seven years. His time being out, he had ‘worked in the shop’ at weekly wages seven or eight years more; and had then betaken himself to the banks of the Clyde, where he had studied, and filed, and hammered, and improved his knowledge, theoretical and practical, for six or seven years more. There he had had an offer to go to Lyons, which he had accepted; and from Lyons had been engaged to go to Germany, and in Germany had had an offer to go to St Petersburg, and there had done very well indeed—never better. However, he had naturally felt a preference for his own country, and a wish to gain distinction there, and to do whatever service he could do, there rather than elsewhere. And so he had come home. And so at home he had established himself in business, and had invented and executed, and worked his way on, until, after a dozen years of constant suit and service, he had been enrolled in the Great British Legion of Honour, the Legion of the Rebuffed of the Circumlocution Office, and had been decorated with the Great British Order of Merit, the Order of the Disorder of the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings.

‘It is much to be regretted,’ said Clennam, ‘that you ever turned your thoughts that way, Mr Doyce.’

‘True, sir, true to a certain extent. But what is a man to do? if he has the misfortune to strike out something serviceable to the nation, he must follow where it leads him.’

‘Hadn’t he better let it go?’ said Clennam.

‘He can’t do it,’ said Doyce, shaking his head with a thoughtful smile. ‘It’s not put into his head to be buried. It’s put into his head to be made useful. You hold your life on the condition that to the last you shall struggle hard for it. Every man holds a discovery on the same terms.’

‘That is to say,’ said Arthur, with a growing admiration of his quiet companion, ‘you are not finally discouraged even now?’

‘I have no right to be, if I am,’ returned the other. ‘The thing is as true as it ever was.’

When they had walked a little way in silence, Clennam, at once to change the direct point of their conversation and not to change it too abruptly, asked Mr Doyce if he had any partner in his business to relieve him of a portion of its anxieties?

‘No,’ he returned, ‘not at present. I had when I first entered on it, and a good man he was. But he has been dead some years; and as I could not easily take to the notion of another when I lost him, I bought his share for myself and have gone on by myself ever since. And here’s another thing,’ he said, stopping for a moment with a good-humoured laugh in his eyes, and laying his closed right hand, with its peculiar suppleness of thumb, on Clennam’s arm, ‘no inventor can be a man of business, you know.’

‘No?’ said Clennam.

‘Why, so the men of business say,’ he answered, resuming the walk and laughing outright. ‘I don’t know why we unfortunate creatures should be supposed to want common sense, but it is generally taken for granted that we do. Even the best friend I have in the world, our excellent friend over yonder,’ said Doyce, nodding towards Twickenham, ‘extends a sort of protection to me, don’t you know, as a man not quite able to take care of himself?’

Arthur Clennam could not help joining in the good-humoured laugh, for he recognised the truth of the description.

‘So I find that I must have a partner who is a man of business and not guilty of any inventions,’ said Daniel Doyce, taking off his hat to pass his hand over his forehead, ‘if it’s only in deference to the current opinion, and to uphold the credit of the Works. I don’t think he’ll find that I have been very remiss or confused in my way of conducting them; but that’s for him to say—whoever he is—not for me.’

‘You have not chosen him yet, then?’

‘No, sir, no. I have only just come to a decision to take one. The fact is, there’s more to do than there used to be, and the Works are enough for me as I grow older. What with the books and correspondence, and foreign journeys for which a Principal is necessary, I can’t do all. I am going to talk over the best way of negotiating the matter, if I find a spare half-hour between this and Monday morning, with my—my Nurse and protector,’ said Doyce, with laughing eyes again. ‘He is a sagacious man in business, and has had a good apprenticeship to it.’

After this, they conversed on different subjects until they arrived at their journey’s end. A composed and unobtrusive self-sustainment was noticeable in Daniel Doyce—a calm knowledge that what was true must remain true, in spite of all the Barnacles in the family ocean, and would be just the truth, and neither more nor less when even that sea had run dry—which had a kind of greatness in it, though not of the official quality.

As he knew the house well, he conducted Arthur to it by the way that showed it to the best advantage. It was a charming place (none the worse for being a little eccentric), on the road by the river, and just what the residence of the Meagles family ought to be. It stood in a garden, no doubt as fresh and beautiful in the May of the Year as Pet now was in the May of her life; and it was defended by a goodly show of handsome trees and spreading evergreens, as Pet was by Mr and Mrs Meagles. It was made out of an old brick house, of which a part had been altogether pulled down, and another part had been changed into the present cottage; so there was a hale elderly portion, to represent Mr and Mrs Meagles, and a young picturesque, very pretty portion to represent Pet. There was even the later addition of a conservatory sheltering itself against it, uncertain of hue in its deep-stained glass, and in its more transparent portions flashing to the sun’s rays, now like fire and now like harmless water drops; which might have stood for Tattycoram. Within view was the peaceful river and the ferry-boat, to moralise to all the inmates saying: Young or old, passionate or tranquil, chafing or content, you, thus runs the current always. Let the heart swell into what discord it will, thus plays the rippling water on the prow of the ferry-boat ever the same tune. Year after year, so much allowance for the drifting of the boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet, upon this road that steadily runs away; while you, upon your flowing road of time, are so capricious and distracted.

The bell at the gate had scarcely sounded when Mr Meagles came out to receive them. Mr Meagles had scarcely come out, when Mrs Meagles came out. Mrs Meagles had scarcely come out, when Pet came out. Pet scarcely had come out, when Tattycoram came out. Never had visitors a more hospitable reception.

‘Here we are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘boxed up, Mr Clennam, within our own home-limits, as if we were never going to expand—that is, travel—again. Not like Marseilles, eh? No allonging and marshonging here!’

‘A different kind of beauty, indeed!’ said Clennam, looking about him.

‘But, Lord bless me!’ cried Mr Meagles, rubbing his hands with a relish, ‘it was an uncommonly pleasant thing being in quarantine, wasn’t it? Do you know, I have often wished myself back again? We were a capital party.’

This was Mr Meagles’s invariable habit. Always to object to everything while he was travelling, and always to want to get back to it when he was not travelling.

‘If it was summer-time,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘which I wish it was on your account, and in order that you might see the place at its best, you would hardly be able to hear yourself speak for birds. Being practical people, we never allow anybody to scare the birds; and the birds, being practical people too, come about us in myriads. We are delighted to see you, Clennam (if you’ll allow me, I shall drop the Mister); I heartily assure you, we are delighted.’

‘I have not had so pleasant a greeting,’ said Clennam—then he recalled what Little Dorrit had said to him in his own room, and faithfully added ‘except once—since we last walked to and fro, looking down at the Mediterranean.’

‘Ah!’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘Something like a look out, that was, wasn’t it? I don’t want a military government, but I shouldn’t mind a little allonging and marshonging—just a dash of it—in this neighbourhood sometimes. It’s Devilish still.’

Bestowing this eulogium on the retired character of his retreat with a dubious shake of the head, Mr Meagles led the way into the house. It was just large enough, and no more; was as pretty within as it was without, and was perfectly well-arranged and comfortable. Some traces of the migratory habits of the family were to be observed in the covered frames and furniture, and wrapped-up hangings; but it was easy to see that it was one of Mr Meagles’s whims to have the cottage always kept, in their absence, as if they were always coming back the day after to-morrow. Of articles collected on his various expeditions, there was such a vast miscellany that it was like the dwelling of an amiable Corsair. There were antiquities from Central Italy, made by the best modern houses in that department of industry; bits of mummy from Egypt (and perhaps Birmingham); model gondolas from Venice; model villages from Switzerland; morsels of tesselated pavement from Herculaneum and Pompeii, like petrified minced veal; ashes out of tombs, and lava out of Vesuvius; Spanish fans, Spezzian straw hats, Moorish slippers, Tuscan hairpins, Carrara sculpture, Trastaverini scarves, Genoese velvets and filigree, Neapolitan coral, Roman cameos, Geneva jewellery, Arab lanterns, rosaries blest all round by the Pope himself, and an infinite variety of lumber. There were views, like and unlike, of a multitude of places; and there was one little picture-room devoted to a few of the regular sticky old Saints, with sinews like whipcord, hair like Neptune’s, wrinkles like tattooing, and such coats of varnish that every holy personage served for a fly-trap, and became what is now called in the vulgar tongue a Catch-em-alive O. Of these pictorial acquisitions Mr Meagles spoke in the usual manner. He was no judge, he said, except of what pleased himself; he had picked them up, dirt-cheap, and people had considered them rather fine. One man, who at any rate ought to know something of the subject, had declared that ‘Sage, Reading’ (a specially oily old gentleman in a blanket, with a swan’s-down tippet for a beard, and a web of cracks all over him like rich pie-crust), to be a fine Guercino. As for Sebastian del Piombo there, you would judge for yourself; if it were not his later manner, the question was, Who was it? Titian, that might or might not be—perhaps he had only touched it. Daniel Doyce said perhaps he hadn’t touched it, but Mr Meagles rather declined to overhear the remark.

When he had shown all his spoils, Mr Meagles took them into his own snug room overlooking the lawn, which was fitted up in part like a dressing-room and in part like an office, and in which, upon a kind of counter-desk, were a pair of brass scales for weighing gold, and a scoop for shovelling out money.

‘Here they are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I stood behind these two articles five-and-thirty years running, when I no more thought of gadding about than I now think of—staying at home. When I left the Bank for good, I asked for them, and brought them away with me. I mention it at once, or you might suppose that I sit in my counting-house (as Pet says I do), like the king in the poem of the four-and-twenty blackbirds, counting out my money.’

Clennam’s eyes had strayed to a natural picture on the wall, of two pretty little girls with their arms entwined. ‘Yes, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, in a lower voice. ‘There they both are. It was taken some seventeen years ago. As I often say to Mother, they were babies then.’

‘Their names?’ said Arthur.

‘Ah, to be sure! You have never heard any name but Pet. Pet’s name is Minnie; her sister’s Lillie.’

‘Should you have known, Mr Clennam, that one of them was meant for me?’ asked Pet herself, now standing in the doorway.

‘I might have thought that both of them were meant for you, both are still so like you. Indeed,’ said Clennam, glancing from the fair original to the picture and back, ‘I cannot even now say which is not your portrait.’

‘D’ye hear that, Mother?’ cried Mr Meagles to his wife, who had followed her daughter. ‘It’s always the same, Clennam; nobody can decide. The child to your left is Pet.’

The picture happened to be near a looking-glass. As Arthur looked at it again, he saw, by the reflection of the mirror, Tattycoram stop in passing outside the door, listen to what was going on, and pass away with an angry and contemptuous frown upon her face, that changed its beauty into ugliness.

‘But come!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘You have had a long walk, and will be glad to get your boots off. As to Daniel here, I suppose he’d never think of taking his boots off, unless we showed him a boot-jack.’

‘Why not?’ asked Daniel, with a significant smile at Clennam.

‘Oh! You have so many things to think about,’ returned Mr Meagles, clapping him on the shoulder, as if his weakness must not be left to itself on any account. ‘Figures, and wheels, and cogs, and levers, and screws, and cylinders, and a thousand things.’

‘In my calling,’ said Daniel, amused, ‘the greater usually includes the less. But never mind, never mind! Whatever pleases you, pleases me.’

Clennam could not help speculating, as he seated himself in his room by the fire, whether there might be in the breast of this honest, affectionate, and cordial Mr Meagles, any microscopic portion of the mustard-seed that had sprung up into the great tree of the Circumlocution Office. His curious sense of a general superiority to Daniel Doyce, which seemed to be founded, not so much on anything in Doyce’s personal character as on the mere fact of his being an originator and a man out of the beaten track of other men, suggested the idea. It might have occupied him until he went down to dinner an hour afterwards, if he had not had another question to consider, which had been in his mind so long ago as before he was in quarantine at Marseilles, and which had now returned to it, and was very urgent with it. No less a question than this: Whether he should allow himself to fall in love with Pet?

He was twice her age. (He changed the leg he had crossed over the other, and tried the calculation again, but could not bring out the total at less.) He was twice her age. Well! He was young in appearance, young in health and strength, young in heart. A man was certainly not old at forty; and many men were not in circumstances to marry, or did not marry, until they had attained that time of life. On the other hand, the question was, not what he thought of the point, but what she thought of it.

He believed that Mr Meagles was disposed to entertain a ripe regard for him, and he knew that he had a sincere regard for Mr Meagles and his good wife. He could foresee that to relinquish this beautiful only child, of whom they were so fond, to any husband, would be a trial of their love which perhaps they never yet had had the fortitude to contemplate. But the more beautiful and winning and charming she, the nearer they must always be to the necessity of approaching it. And why not in his favour, as well as in another’s?

When he had got so far, it came again into his head that the question was, not what they thought of it, but what she thought of it.

Arthur Clennam was a retiring man, with a sense of many deficiencies; and he so exalted the merits of the beautiful Minnie in his mind, and depressed his own, that when he pinned himself to this point, his hopes began to fail him. He came to the final resolution, as he made himself ready for dinner, that he would not allow himself to fall in love with Pet.

There were only five, at a round table, and it was very pleasant indeed. They had so many places and people to recall, and they were all so easy and cheerful together (Daniel Doyce either sitting out like an amused spectator at cards, or coming in with some shrewd little experiences of his own, when it happened to be to the purpose), that they might have been together twenty times, and not have known so much of one another.

‘And Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, after they had recalled a number of fellow-travellers. ‘Has anybody seen Miss Wade?’

‘I have,’ said Tattycoram.

She had brought a little mantle which her young mistress had sent for, and was bending over her, putting it on, when she lifted up her dark eyes and made this unexpected answer.

‘Tatty!’ her young mistress exclaimed. ‘You seen Miss Wade?—where?’

‘Here, miss,’ said Tattycoram.

‘How?’

An impatient glance from Tattycoram seemed, as Clennam saw it, to answer ‘With my eyes!’ But her only answer in words was: ‘I met her near the church.’

‘What was she doing there I wonder!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not going to it, I should think.’

‘She had written to me first,’ said Tattycoram.

‘Oh, Tatty!’ murmured her mistress, ‘take your hands away. I feel as if some one else was touching me!’

She said it in a quick involuntary way, but half playfully, and not more petulantly or disagreeably than a favourite child might have done, who laughed next moment. Tattycoram set her full red lips together, and crossed her arms upon her bosom.

‘Did you wish to know, sir,’ she said, looking at Mr Meagles, ‘what Miss Wade wrote to me about?’

‘Well, Tattycoram,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘since you ask the question, and we are all friends here, perhaps you may as well mention it, if you are so inclined.’

‘She knew, when we were travelling, where you lived,’ said Tattycoram, ‘and she had seen me not quite—not quite—’

‘Not quite in a good temper, Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles, shaking his head at the dark eyes with a quiet caution. ‘Take a little time—count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

She pressed her lips together again, and took a long deep breath.

‘So she wrote to me to say that if I ever felt myself hurt,’ she looked down at her young mistress, ‘or found myself worried,’ she looked down at her again, ‘I might go to her, and be considerately treated. I was to think of it, and could speak to her by the church. So I went there to thank her.’

‘Tatty,’ said her young mistress, putting her hand up over her shoulder that the other might take it, ‘Miss Wade almost frightened me when we parted, and I scarcely like to think of her just now as having been so near me without my knowing it. Tatty dear!’

Tatty stood for a moment, immovable.

‘Hey?’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Count another five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

She might have counted a dozen, when she bent and put her lips to the caressing hand. It patted her cheek, as it touched the owner’s beautiful curls, and Tattycoram went away.

‘Now there,’ said Mr Meagles softly, as he gave a turn to the dumb-waiter on his right hand to twirl the sugar towards himself. ‘There’s a girl who might be lost and ruined, if she wasn’t among practical people. Mother and I know, solely from being practical, that there are times when that girl’s whole nature seems to roughen itself against seeing us so bound up in Pet. No father and mother were bound up in her, poor soul. I don’t like to think of the way in which that unfortunate child, with all that passion and protest in her, feels when she hears the Fifth Commandment on a Sunday. I am always inclined to call out, Church, Count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

Besides his dumb-waiter, Mr Meagles had two other not dumb waiters in the persons of two parlour-maids with rosy faces and bright eyes, who were a highly ornamental part of the table decoration. ‘And why not, you see?’ said Mr Meagles on this head. ‘As I always say to Mother, why not have something pretty to look at, if you have anything at all?’

A certain Mrs Tickit, who was Cook and Housekeeper when the family were at home, and Housekeeper only when the family were away, completed the establishment. Mr Meagles regretted that the nature of the duties in which she was engaged, rendered Mrs Tickit unpresentable at present, but hoped to introduce her to the new visitor to-morrow. She was an important part of the Cottage, he said, and all his friends knew her. That was her picture up in the corner. When they went away, she always put on the silk-gown and the jet-black row of curls represented in that portrait (her hair was reddish-grey in the kitchen), established herself in the breakfast-room, put her spectacles between two particular leaves of Doctor Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, and sat looking over the blind all day until they came back again. It was supposed that no persuasion could be invented which would induce Mrs Tickit to abandon her post at the blind, however long their absence, or to dispense with the attendance of Dr Buchan; the lucubrations of which learned practitioner, Mr Meagles implicitly believed she had never yet consulted to the extent of one word in her life.

In the evening they played an old-fashioned rubber; and Pet sat looking over her father’s hand, or singing to herself by fits and starts at the piano. She was a spoilt child; but how could she be otherwise? Who could be much with so pliable and beautiful a creature, and not yield to her endearing influence? Who could pass an evening in the house, and not love her for the grace and charm of her very presence in the room? This was Clennam’s reflection, notwithstanding the final conclusion at which he had arrived up-stairs.

In making it, he revoked. ‘Why, what are you thinking of, my good sir?’ asked the astonished Mr Meagles, who was his partner. ‘I beg your pardon. Nothing,’ returned Clennam. ‘Think of something, next time; that’s a dear fellow,’ said Mr Meagles. Pet laughingly believed he had been thinking of Miss Wade. ‘Why of Miss Wade, Pet?’ asked her father. ‘Why, indeed!’ said Arthur Clennam. Pet coloured a little, and went to the piano again.

As they broke up for the night, Arthur overheard Doyce ask his host if he could give him half an hour’s conversation before breakfast in the morning? The host replying willingly, Arthur lingered behind a moment, having his own word to add to that topic.

‘Mr Meagles,’ he said, on their being left alone, ‘do you remember when you advised me to go straight to London?’

‘Perfectly well.’

‘And when you gave me some other good advice which I needed at that time?’

‘I won’t say what it was worth,’ answered Mr Meagles: ‘but of course I remember our being very pleasant and confidential together.’

‘I have acted on your advice; and having disembarrassed myself of an occupation that was painful to me for many reasons, wish to devote myself and what means I have, to another pursuit.’

‘Right! You can’t do it too soon,’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Now, as I came down to-day, I found that your friend, Mr Doyce, is looking for a partner in his business—not a partner in his mechanical knowledge, but in the ways and means of turning the business arising from it to the best account.’

‘Just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with his hands in his pockets, and with the old business expression of face that had belonged to the scales and scoop.

‘Mr Doyce mentioned incidentally, in the course of our conversation, that he was going to take your valuable advice on the subject of finding such a partner. If you should think our views and opportunities at all likely to coincide, perhaps you will let him know my available position. I speak, of course, in ignorance of the details, and they may be unsuitable on both sides.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Meagles, with the caution belonging to the scales and scoop.

‘But they will be a question of figures and accounts—’

‘Just so, just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with arithmetical solidity belonging to the scales and scoop.

‘—And I shall be glad to enter into the subject, provided Mr Doyce responds, and you think well of it. If you will at present, therefore, allow me to place it in your hands, you will much oblige me.’

‘Clennam, I accept the trust with readiness,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And without anticipating any of the points which you, as a man of business, have of course reserved, I am free to say to you that I think something may come of this. Of one thing you may be perfectly certain. Daniel is an honest man.’

‘I am so sure of it that I have promptly made up my mind to speak to you.’

‘You must guide him, you know; you must steer him; you must direct him; he is one of a crotchety sort,’ said Mr Meagles, evidently meaning nothing more than that he did new things and went new ways; ‘but he is as honest as the sun, and so good night!’

Clennam went back to his room, sat down again before his fire, and made up his mind that he was glad he had resolved not to fall in love with Pet. She was so beautiful, so amiable, so apt to receive any true impression given to her gentle nature and her innocent heart, and make the man who should be so happy as to communicate it, the most fortunate and enviable of all men, that he was very glad indeed he had come to that conclusion.

But, as this might have been a reason for coming to the opposite conclusion, he followed out the theme again a little way in his mind; to justify himself, perhaps.

‘Suppose that a man,’ so his thoughts ran, ‘who had been of age some twenty years or so; who was a diffident man, from the circumstances of his youth; who was rather a grave man, from the tenor of his life; who knew himself to be deficient in many little engaging qualities which he admired in others, from having been long in a distant region, with nothing softening near him; who had no kind sisters to present to her; who had no congenial home to make her known in; who was a stranger in the land; who had not a fortune to compensate, in any measure, for these defects; who had nothing in his favour but his honest love and his general wish to do right—suppose such a man were to come to this house, and were to yield to the captivation of this charming girl, and were to persuade himself that he could hope to win her; what a weakness it would be!’

He softly opened his window, and looked out upon the serene river. Year after year so much allowance for the drifting of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet.

Why should he be vexed or sore at heart? It was not his weakness that he had imagined. It was nobody’s, nobody’s within his knowledge; why should it trouble him? And yet it did trouble him. And he thought—who has not thought for a moment, sometimes?—that it might be better to flow away monotonously, like the river, and to compound for its insensibility to happiness with its insensibility to pain.

CHAPTER 17. Nobody’s Rival

Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur walked out to look about him. As the morning was fine and he had an hour on his hands, he crossed the river by the ferry, and strolled along a footpath through some meadows. When he came back to the towing-path, he found the ferry-boat on the opposite side, and a gentleman hailing it and waiting to be taken over.

This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As Arthur came over the stile and down to the water’s edge, the lounger glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar impression from a man’s manner of doing some very little thing: plucking a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient object.

The gentleman’s thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively, and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the river on receiving his master’s sign. The ferry-boat came over, however, without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him by the collar and walked him into it.

‘Not this morning,’ he said to the dog. ‘You won’t do for ladies’ company, dripping wet. Lie down.’

Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat. The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.

The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.

‘I heard no dog last night,’ thought Clennam. The gate was opened by one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the man.

‘Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,’ said the blushing portress, as they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the dog, ‘Mr Clennam, sir,’ and tripped away.

‘Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,’ said the man. Upon which the dog became mute. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well this morning!’

The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought, that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.

‘It’s new to you, I believe?’ said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled the place.

‘Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.’

‘Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have seen it then.’

But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.

‘I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during the last three years, and it’s—a Paradise.’

It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him!

And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog, and how the dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like this; but still—when had he ever known her do it!

He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far, far, too much—that is to say, supposing there had been any third person looking on who loved her.

She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection. No, he knew he was too safe.

There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles’s good-humoured face when they all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was unobserved by Clennam.

‘Well, Gowan,’ said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; ‘how goes the world with you this morning?’

‘Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.’ Then he told how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.

‘Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?’ said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became attentive.)

‘My mother is quite well, thank you.’ (Clennam became inattentive.) ‘I have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I couldn’t very well get out of it,’ he explained, turning to the latter. ‘The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.’

‘Who is the young fellow?’ asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency.

‘He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle’s son, Clarence Barnacle, who is in his father’s Department. I can at least guarantee that the river shall not suffer from his visit. He won’t set it on fire.’

‘Aye, aye?’ said Meagles. ‘A Barnacle is he? We know something of that family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who was the second daughter by the third marriage—no! There I am wrong! That was Lady Seraphina—Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow’s father married a Stiltstalking and his father married his cousin who was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle, married a Joddleby.—I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.’

‘That’s easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.’

‘Nephew—to—Lord—Decimus,’ Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full flavour of the genealogical tree. ‘By George, you are right, Gowan. So he is.’

‘Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.’

‘But stop a bit!’ said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh discovery. ‘Then on the mother’s side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great aunt.’

‘Of course she is.’

‘Aye, aye, aye?’ said Mr Meagles with much interest. ‘Indeed, indeed? We shall be glad to see him. We’ll entertain him as well as we can, in our humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.’

In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.

‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Gowan, to conclude the subject. ‘Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows that ever lived!’

It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging, the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived. The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: ‘I claim to be always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man’s case, and posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.’ The effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only disagreeable or dangerous feature.

It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again; and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog, it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it; and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw tears rise to Mr Meagles’s eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in her father’s room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest tenderness, and weeping on her father’s shoulder.

The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the house, look over Mr Meagles’s collection, and beguile the time with conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight, careless, amateur way with him—a perceptible limp, both in his devotion to art and his attainments—which Clennam could scarcely understand.

He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out of window.

‘You know Mr Gowan?’ he said in a low voice.

‘I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.’

‘An artist, I infer from what he says?’

‘A sort of a one,’ said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.

‘What sort of a one?’ asked Clennam, with a smile.

‘Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,’ said Doyce, ‘and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.’

Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan, originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way, and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that portfolios of his performances had been handed about o’ nights, and declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with his own magnificent gravity, ‘Do you know, there appears to me to be really immense merit in that work?’ and, in short, that people of condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But, somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus’s picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that worn-out old coffin which never was Mahomet’s nor anybody else’s, hung midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn’t reach.

Such was the substance of Clennam’s discoveries concerning him, made that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.

About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty in their stead two dingy men. Young Barnacle was in the last degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured involuntarily, ‘Look here! upon my soul, you know!’ before his presence of mind returned.

Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of his general debility:

‘I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?’

‘A friend of our host’s. None of mine.’

‘He’s a most ferocious Radical, you know,’ said Young Barnacle.

‘Is he? How do you know?’

‘Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a fellow.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Ecod, sir,’ returned Young Barnacle, ‘he said he wanted to know, you know! Pervaded our Department—without an appointment—and said he wanted to know!’

The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles’s right hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.

All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone—and all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion, and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles’s plate, to hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes, forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device, round to that point of wanting to know, you know.

It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another such case!

At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam had been a little reserved since breakfast—that is to say, would have been, if he had loved her.

When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan—who would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.

‘Those are not good prospects for a painter,’ said Clennam.

‘No,’ returned Doyce.

Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet perception in his face that they were going to say something more.

‘I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after he came this morning?’ said Clennam.

‘Yes,’ returned Doyce.

‘But not his daughter?’ said Clennam.

‘No,’ said Doyce.

There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of his candle, slowly resumed:

‘The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.’

‘There—’ Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped.

‘Yes, you have taken cold,’ said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at him.

‘—There is an engagement between them, of course?’ said Clennam airily.

‘No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited on the gentleman’s part, but none has been made. Since their recent return, our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them, and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr Gowan, I have no doubt we see.’

‘Ah! We see enough!’ cried Arthur.

Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation, and who sought to infuse some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind, without Clennam’s hearing it too?

The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and dripped among the evergreens and the leafless branches of the trees. The rain fell heavily, drearily. It was a night of tears.

If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been, that night, unutterably miserable. As it was—

As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily.

CHAPTER 18. Little Dorrit’s Lover

Little Dorrit had not attained her twenty-second birthday without finding a lover. Even in the shallow Marshalsea, the ever young Archer shot off a few featherless arrows now and then from a mouldy bow, and winged a Collegian or two.

Little Dorrit’s lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the sentimental son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of time, to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had from his early youth familiarised him with the duties of his office, and with an ambition to retain the prison-lock in the family. While the succession was yet in abeyance, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a snug tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane (his father being a non-resident turnkey), which could usually command a neat connection within the College walls.

Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont to sit in her little arm-chair by the high Lodge-fender, Young John (family name, Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with admiring wonder. When he had played with her in the yard, his favourite game had been to counterfeit locking her up in corners, and to counterfeit letting her out for real kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through the keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he had divers times set down his father’s dinner, or supper, to get on as it might on the outer side thereof, while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint of peeping at her through that airy perspective.

If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less penetrable days of his boyhood, when youth is prone to wear its boots unlaced and is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung it up again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his hand had inscribed in chalk on that part of the wall which fronted her lodgings, on the occasion of her birthday, ‘Welcome sweet nursling of the Fairies!’ At twenty-three, the same hand falteringly presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of the Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul.

Young John was small of stature, with rather weak legs and very weak light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep through the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the other, as if it couldn’t collect itself. Young John was gentle likewise. But he was great of soul. Poetical, expansive, faithful.

Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine, Young John had considered the object of his attachment in all its lights and shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had descried, without self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things prospered, and they were united. She, the child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There was a fitness in that. Say he became a resident turnkey. She would officially succeed to the chamber she had rented so long. There was a beautiful propriety in that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on tip-toe; and, with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary or so, would become a very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then, being all in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in the lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances only known to them by hearsay, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying with them on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbour above, and the Lodge below; they would glide down the stream of time, in pastoral domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes by finishing the picture with a tombstone in the adjoining churchyard, close against the prison wall, bearing the following touching inscription: ‘Sacred to the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring Marshalsea, Who departed this life, universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There she died.’

The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son’s attachment—indeed it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a state of mind that had impelled him to conduct himself with irascibility towards the customers, and damage the business—but they, in their turns, had worked it out to desirable conclusions. Mrs Chivery, a prudent woman, had desired her husband to take notice that their John’s prospects of the Lock would certainly be strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, who had herself a kind of claim upon the College and was much respected there. Mrs Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on the one hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other hand, Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery’s) sentiment was, that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother and not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, desired her husband to recollect that their John had never been strong, and that his love had fretted and worrited him enough as it was, without his being driven to do himself a mischief, as nobody couldn’t say he wouldn’t be if he was crossed. These arguments had so powerfully influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of few words, that he had on sundry Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed ‘a lucky touch,’ signifying that he considered such commendation of him to Good Fortune, preparatory to his that day declaring his passion and becoming triumphant. But Young John had never taken courage to make the declaration; and it was principally on these occasions that he had returned excited to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers.

In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the last person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it, and attained a sort of station by making a peg of it on which to air the miserably ragged old fiction of the family gentility. Her sister asserted the family gentility by flouting the poor swain as he loitered about the prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and his own, by coming out in the character of the aristocratic brother, and loftily swaggering in the little skittle ground respecting seizures by the scruff of the neck, which there were looming probabilities of some gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account. No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low. But he took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and sometimes even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor (who was proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society. With no less readiness and condescension did he receive attentions from Chivery Senior, who always relinquished his arm-chair and newspaper to him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his spells of duty; and who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would like at any time after dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and take a look at the street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself of this latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish for it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at times, ‘Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive man and very respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate perception of one’s position here. A very well conducted family indeed, the Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.’

The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence. He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront from her brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most pacific disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not incompatible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune—a gentleman of a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him—he deeply honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the past. It was an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit’s worth and difference from all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for being simply what she was.

The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt.

From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands, Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which way the wind blew.

The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little Dorrit’s lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at the Father’s door.

‘Come in, come in!’ said a gracious voice. The Father’s voice, her father’s, the Marshalsea’s father’s. He was seated in his black velvet cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his Court.

‘Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!’

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.’

‘Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.’

‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of—’

‘Eh?’ The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind.

‘—A few cigars, sir.’

‘Oh!’ (For the moment, excessively surprised.) ‘Thank you, Young John, thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too—No? Well then, I will say no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.’

‘Thank you, sir, I am sure—Miss;’ here Young John turned the great hat round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage; ‘Miss Amy quite well, sir?’

‘Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a good deal. But at their time of life, it’s natural, John.’

‘Very much so, I am sure, sir.’

‘An airing. An airing. Yes.’ He was blandly tapping his fingers on the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. ‘Amy has gone for an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.’ He returned to conversation. ‘Your father is not on duty at present, I think, John?’

‘No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.’ Another twirl of the great hat, and then Young John said, rising, ‘I am afraid I must wish you good day, sir.’

‘So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,’ with the utmost condescension, ‘never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You are no stranger here, you know.’

Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call over the banisters with particular distinctness, ‘Much obliged to you for your little testimonial, John!’

Little Dorrit’s lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing still, looking at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them.

Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to her. The place was quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her.

He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was close upon her. When he said ‘Miss Dorrit!’ she started and fell back from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him before—always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and glided off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary look had said, ‘You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on earth than you!’

It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her soft little voice, ‘Oh, Mr John! Is it you?’ But she felt what it had been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another equally confused.

‘Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.’

‘Yes, rather. I—I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.’

‘Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you—’

She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, ‘O father, father!’ in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.

‘Miss Amy, I hope I don’t give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit. I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very much.’

To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she were in pain, murmured, ‘O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how can you, can you, do it!’

The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he remained stock still; then hurried after her.

‘Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy, if it comes to that, let me go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have to think that I have driven you away like this.’

His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to a stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do,’ she cried, ‘I don’t know what to do!’

To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command, who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed, there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be misunderstood—supposed to mean something, or to have done something, that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.

‘Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they are placed from my lowlier station—for, whether viewed as tobacco or viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly—and ever wish them well and happy.’

There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit, perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This gave him a little comfort.

‘Miss Amy,’ he then stammered, ‘I have had for a long time—ages they seem to me—Revolving ages—a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. May I say it?’

Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at great speed half across the Bridge without replying!

‘May I—Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly—may I say it? I have been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment’s joy to! Not that that’s much to do, for I’d do it for twopence.’

The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance, might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.

‘If you please, John Chivery,’ she returned, trembling, but in a quiet way, ‘since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more—if you please, no.’

‘Never, Miss Amy?’

‘No, if you please. Never.’

‘O Lord!’ gasped Young John.

‘But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to express. When you think of us, John—I mean my brother, and sister, and me—don’t think of us as being any different from the rest; for, whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing now.’

Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.

‘As to me,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘think as little of me as you can; the less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I am unprotected and solitary.’

He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much want him to remember that?

‘Because,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘I know I can then quite trust you not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust you. I like this place where we are speaking better than any place I know;’ her slight colour had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; ‘and I may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I am—quite sure!’

She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but her word was more than a law for him.

‘And good-bye, John,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.’

As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was under the waistcoat of sprigs—mere slop-work, if the truth must be known—swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears.

‘Oh, don’t cry,’ said Little Dorrit piteously. ‘Don’t, don’t! Good-bye, John. God bless you!’

‘Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!’

And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were sad.

It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects, to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription for a tombstone in St George’s Churchyard:

‘Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.’

CHAPTER 19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations

The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the College-yard—of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual, and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants, and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly edifying—the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together, were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed, withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending, and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at.

They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit’s Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at.

His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff. That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly, put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took another pinch, or stood still to look about him—perchance suddenly missing his clarionet.

The College visitors were melting away as the shades of night drew on, but the yard was still pretty full, the Collegians being mostly out, seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the brothers paced the yard, William the bond looked about him to receive salutes, returned them by graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible, but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at.

‘You are a little low this evening, Frederick,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘Anything the matter?’

‘The matter?’ He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes again. ‘No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.’

‘If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick—’

‘Aye, aye!’ said the old man hurriedly. ‘But I can’t be. I can’t be. Don’t talk so. That’s all over.’

The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he was on friendly terms, as who should say, ‘An enfeebled old man, this; but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is potent!’ and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.

‘I think, William,’ said the object of his affectionate consideration, ‘that I am tired, and will go home to bed.’

‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the other, ‘don’t let me detain you; don’t sacrifice your inclination to me.’

‘Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,’ said Frederick, ‘weaken me.’

‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘do you think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits are as precise and methodical as—shall I say as mine are? Not to revert again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?’

‘Hah!’ sighed the other. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’

‘But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,’ the Father of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, ‘unless you act on that assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day, you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually. Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and you know what a good girl she is.’

The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, ‘Hah! Yes, yes, yes, yes.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him—mildly, because of his weakness, poor dear soul; ‘you said that before, and it does not express much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my good Frederick; you want to be roused.’

‘Yes, William, yes. No doubt,’ returned the other, lifting his dim eyes to his face. ‘But I am not like you.’

The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest self-depreciation, ‘Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick; you might be, if you chose!’ and forbore, in the magnanimity of his strength, to press his fallen brother further.

There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn’t get on without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually withdrew if they were aware of him.

On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge, several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.

‘Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?’

Mr Chivery said in a low growl, ‘Oh! he was all right.’ Which was his general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little sullen.

‘I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he looked, I assure you.’

So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish was that the boy didn’t lay out so much money upon it. For what did it bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that anywhere for nothing.

‘How vexation, Chivery?’ asked the benignant father.

‘No odds,’ returned Mr Chivery. ‘Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?’

‘Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear Frederick!’

Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.

‘Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful how you cross, Frederick. (I really don’t like the notion of his going wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)’

With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect went round among the Collegians assembled.

But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities—he did not say high qualities, but qualities—moral qualities. Now, had his brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said, Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough, not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman. Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see in any delicate little attentions and—and—Testimonials that he might under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!

Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again, and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby staircase to his own poor shabby room.

There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her little prayer-book in her pocket—had she been praying for pity on all prisoners and captives!—and rose to welcome him.

Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel quite well?

As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in an unconnected and embarrassed manner.

‘Something, I—hem!—I don’t know what, has gone wrong with Chivery. He is not—ha!—not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night. It—hem!—it’s a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It’s impossible to forget,’ turning his hands over and over and looking closely at them, ‘that—hem!—that in such a life as mine, I am unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the day.’

Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he spoke. Bending her head she looked another way.

‘I—hem!—I can’t think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is generally so—so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was quite—quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven! if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother officers, I might starve to death here.’ While he spoke, he was opening and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning.

‘I—ha!—I can’t think what it’s owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don’t think you can remember him, my dear, you were very young), and—hem!—and he had a—brother, and this—young brother paid his addresses to—at least, did not go so far as to pay his addresses to—but admired—respectfully admired—the—not daughter, the sister—of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his daughter—sister—should hazard offending the turnkey brother by being too—ha!—too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me his—his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his—hem!—sister was not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that she might lead him on—I am doubtful whether “lead him on” was Captain Martin’s exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him—on her father’s—I should say, brother’s—account. I hardly know how I have strayed into this story. I suppose it has been through being unable to account for Chivery; but as to the connection between the two, I don’t see—’

His voice died away, as if she could not bear the pain of hearing him, and her hand had gradually crept to his lips. For a little while there was a dead silence and stillness; and he remained shrunk in his chair, and she remained with her arm round his neck and her head bowed down upon his shoulder.

His supper was cooking in a saucepan on the fire, and, when she moved, it was to make it ready for him on the table. He took his usual seat, she took hers, and he began his meal. They did not, as yet, look at one another. By little and little he began; laying down his knife and fork with a noise, taking things up sharply, biting at his bread as if he were offended with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was out of sorts. At length he pushed his plate from him, and spoke aloud; with the strangest inconsistency.

‘What does it matter whether I eat or starve? What does it matter whether such a blighted life as mine comes to an end, now, next week, or next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, fed on alms and broken victuals; a squalid, disgraced wretch!’

‘Father, father!’ As he rose she went on her knees to him, and held up her hands to him.

‘Amy,’ he went on in a suppressed voice, trembling violently, and looking at her as wildly as if he had gone mad. ‘I tell you, if you could see me as your mother saw me, you wouldn’t believe it to be the creature you have only looked at through the bars of this cage. I was young, I was accomplished, I was good-looking, I was independent—by God I was, child!—and people sought me out, and envied me. Envied me!’

‘Dear father!’ She tried to take down the shaking arm that he flourished in the air, but he resisted, and put her hand away.

‘If I had but a picture of myself in those days, though it was ever so ill done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have no such thing. Now, let me be a warning! Let no man,’ he cried, looking haggardly about, ‘fail to preserve at least that little of the times of his prosperity and respect. Let his children have that clue to what he was. Unless my face, when I am dead, subsides into the long departed look—they say such things happen, I don’t know—my children will have never seen me.’

‘Father, father!’

‘O despise me, despise me! Look away from me, don’t listen to me, stop me, blush for me, cry for me—even you, Amy! Do it, do it! I do it to myself! I am hardened now, I have sunk too low to care long even for that.’

‘Dear father, loved father, darling of my heart!’ She was clinging to him with her arms, and she got him to drop into his chair again, and caught at the raised arm, and tried to put it round her neck.

‘Let it lie there, father. Look at me, father, kiss me, father! Only think of me, father, for one little moment!’

Still he went on in the same wild way, though it was gradually breaking down into a miserable whining.

‘And yet I have some respect here. I have made some stand against it. I am not quite trodden down. Go out and ask who is the chief person in the place. They’ll tell you it’s your father. Go out and ask who is never trifled with, and who is always treated with some delicacy. They’ll say, your father. Go out and ask what funeral here (it must be here, I know it can be nowhere else) will make more talk, and perhaps more grief, than any that has ever gone out at the gate. They’ll say your father’s. Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father so universally despised? Is there nothing to redeem him? Will you have nothing to remember him by but his ruin and decay? Will you be able to have no affection for him when he is gone, poor castaway, gone?’

He burst into tears of maudlin pity for himself, and at length suffering her to embrace him and take charge of him, let his grey head rest against her cheek, and bewailed his wretchedness. Presently he changed the subject of his lamentations, and clasping his hands about her as she embraced him, cried, O Amy, his motherless, forlorn child! O the days that he had seen her careful and laborious for him! Then he reverted to himself, and weakly told her how much better she would have loved him if she had known him in his vanished character, and how he would have married her to a gentleman who should have been proud of her as his daughter, and how (at which he cried again) she should first have ridden at his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (by which he meant in effect the people who had given him the twelve shillings he then had in his pocket) should have trudged the dusty roads respectfully.

Thus, now boasting, now despairing, in either fit a captive with the jail-rot upon him, and the impurity of his prison worn into the grain of his soul, he revealed his degenerate state to his affectionate child. No one else ever beheld him in the details of his humiliation. Little recked the Collegians who were laughing in their rooms over his late address in the Lodge, what a serious picture they had in their obscure gallery of the Marshalsea that Sunday night.

There was a classical daughter once—perhaps—who ministered to her father in his prison as her mother had ministered to her. Little Dorrit, though of the unheroic modern stock and mere English, did much more, in comforting her father’s wasted heart upon her innocent breast, and turning to it a fountain of love and fidelity that never ran dry or waned through all his years of famine.

She soothed him; asked him for his forgiveness if she had been, or seemed to have been, undutiful; told him, Heaven knows truly, that she could not honour him more if he were the favourite of Fortune and the whole world acknowledged him. When his tears were dried, and he sobbed in his weakness no longer, and was free from that touch of shame, and had recovered his usual bearing, she prepared the remains of his supper afresh, and, sitting by his side, rejoiced to see him eat and drink. For now he sat in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, magnanimous again; and would have comported himself towards any Collegian who might have looked in to ask his advice, like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or Master of the ethical ceremonies of the Marshalsea.

To keep his attention engaged, she talked with him about his wardrobe; when he was pleased to say, that Yes, indeed, those shirts she proposed would be exceedingly acceptable, for those he had were worn out, and, being ready-made, had never fitted him. Being conversational, and in a reasonable flow of spirits, he then invited her attention to his coat as it hung behind the door: remarking that the Father of the place would set an indifferent example to his children, already disposed to be slovenly, if he went among them out at elbows. He was jocular, too, as to the heeling of his shoes; but became grave on the subject of his cravat, and promised her that, when she could afford it, she should buy him a new one.

While he smoked out his cigar in peace, she made his bed, and put the small room in order for his repose. Being weary then, owing to the advanced hour and his emotions, he came out of his chair to bless her and wish her Good night. All this time he had never once thought of her dress, her shoes, her need of anything. No other person upon earth, save herself, could have been so unmindful of her wants.

He kissed her many times with ‘Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!’

But her gentle breast had been so deeply wounded by what she had seen of him that she was unwilling to leave him alone, lest he should lament and despair again. ‘Father, dear, I am not tired; let me come back presently, when you are in bed, and sit by you.’

He asked her, with an air of protection, if she felt solitary?

‘Yes, father.’

‘Then come back by all means, my love.’

‘I shall be very quiet, father.’

‘Don’t think of me, my dear,’ he said, giving her his kind permission fully. ‘Come back by all means.’

He seemed to be dozing when she returned, and she put the low fire together very softly lest she should awake him. But he overheard her, and called out who was that?

‘Only Amy, father.’

‘Amy, my child, come here. I want to say a word to you.’

He raised himself a little in his low bed, as she kneeled beside it to bring her face near him; and put his hand between hers. O! Both the private father and the Father of the Marshalsea were strong within him then.

‘My love, you have had a life of hardship here. No companions, no recreations, many cares I am afraid?’

‘Don’t think of that, dear. I never do.’

‘You know my position, Amy. I have not been able to do much for you; but all I have been able to do, I have done.’

‘Yes, my dear father,’ she rejoined, kissing him. ‘I know, I know.’

‘I am in the twenty-third year of my life here,’ he said, with a catch in his breath that was not so much a sob as an irrepressible sound of self-approval, the momentary outburst of a noble consciousness. ‘It is all I could do for my children—I have done it. Amy, my love, you are by far the best loved of the three; I have had you principally in my mind—whatever I have done for your sake, my dear child, I have done freely and without murmuring.’

Only the wisdom that holds the clue to all hearts and all mysteries, can surely know to what extent a man, especially a man brought down as this man had been, can impose upon himself. Enough, for the present place, that he lay down with wet eyelashes, serene, in a manner majestic, after bestowing his life of degradation as a sort of portion on the devoted child upon whom its miseries had fallen so heavily, and whose love alone had saved him to be even what he was.

That child had no doubts, asked herself no question, for she was but too content to see him with a lustre round his head. Poor dear, good dear, truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him, as she hushed him to rest.

She never left him all that night. As if she had done him a wrong which her tenderness could hardly repair, she sat by him in his sleep, at times softly kissing him with suspended breath, and calling him in a whisper by some endearing name. At times she stood aside so as not to intercept the low fire-light, and, watching him when it fell upon his sleeping face, wondered did he look now at all as he had looked when he was prosperous and happy; as he had so touched her by imagining that he might look once more in that awful time. At the thought of that time, she kneeled beside his bed again, and prayed, ‘O spare his life! O save him to me! O look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate, much-changed, dear dear father!’

Not until the morning came to protect him and encourage him, did she give him a last kiss and leave the small room. When she had stolen down-stairs, and along the empty yard, and had crept up to her own high garret, the smokeless housetops and the distant country hills were discernible over the wall in the clear morning. As she gently opened the window, and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes upon the wall were tipped with red, then made a sullen purple pattern on the sun as it came flaming up into the heavens. The spikes had never looked so sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so gloomy and contracted. She thought of the sunrise on rolling rivers, of the sunrise on wide seas, of the sunrise on rich landscapes, of the sunrise on great forests where the birds were waking and the trees were rustling; and she looked down into the living grave on which the sun had risen, with her father in it three-and-twenty years, and said, in a burst of sorrow and compassion, ‘No, no, I have never seen him in my life!’

CHAPTER 20. Moving in Society

If Young John Chivery had had the inclination and the power to write a satire on family pride, he would have had no need to go for an avenging illustration out of the family of his beloved. He would have found it amply in that gallant brother and that dainty sister, so steeped in mean experiences, and so loftily conscious of the family name; so ready to beg or borrow from the poorest, to eat of anybody’s bread, spend anybody’s money, drink from anybody’s cup and break it afterwards. To have painted the sordid facts of their lives, and they throughout invoking the death’s head apparition of the family gentility to come and scare their benefactors, would have made Young John a satirist of the first water.

Tip had turned his liberty to hopeful account by becoming a billiard-marker. He had troubled himself so little as to the means of his release, that Clennam scarcely needed to have been at the pains of impressing the mind of Mr Plornish on that subject. Whoever had paid him the compliment, he very readily accepted the compliment with his compliments, and there was an end of it. Issuing forth from the gate on these easy terms, he became a billiard-marker; and now occasionally looked in at the little skittle-ground in a green Newmarket coat (second-hand), with a shining collar and bright buttons (new), and drank the beer of the Collegians.

One solid stationary point in the looseness of this gentleman’s character was, that he respected and admired his sister Amy. The feeling had never induced him to spare her a moment’s uneasiness, or to put himself to any restraint or inconvenience on her account; but with that Marshalsea taint upon his love, he loved her. The same rank Marshalsea flavour was to be recognised in his distinctly perceiving that she sacrificed her life to her father, and in his having no idea that she had done anything for himself.

When this spirited young man and his sister had begun systematically to produce the family skeleton for the overawing of the College, this narrative cannot precisely state. Probably at about the period when they began to dine on the College charity. It is certain that the more reduced and necessitous they were, the more pompously the skeleton emerged from its tomb; and that when there was anything particularly shabby in the wind, the skeleton always came out with the ghastliest flourish.

Little Dorrit was late on the Monday morning, for her father slept late, and afterwards there was his breakfast to prepare and his room to arrange. She had no engagement to go out to work, however, and therefore stayed with him until, with Maggy’s help, she had put everything right about him, and had seen him off upon his morning walk (of twenty yards or so) to the coffee-house to read the paper. She then got on her bonnet and went out, having been anxious to get out much sooner. There was, as usual, a cessation of the small-talk in the Lodge as she passed through it; and a Collegian who had come in on Saturday night, received the intimation from the elbow of a more seasoned Collegian, ‘Look out. Here she is!’

She wanted to see her sister, but when she got round to Mr Cripples’s, she found that both her sister and her uncle had gone to the theatre where they were engaged. Having taken thought of this probability by the way, and having settled that in such case she would follow them, she set off afresh for the theatre, which was on that side of the river, and not very far away.

Little Dorrit was almost as ignorant of the ways of theatres as of the ways of gold mines, and when she was directed to a furtive sort of door, with a curious up-all-night air about it, that appeared to be ashamed of itself and to be hiding in an alley, she hesitated to approach it; being further deterred by the sight of some half-dozen close-shaved gentlemen with their hats very strangely on, who were lounging about the door, looking not at all unlike Collegians. On her applying to them, reassured by this resemblance, for a direction to Miss Dorrit, they made way for her to enter a dark hall—it was more like a great grim lamp gone out than anything else—where she could hear the distant playing of music and the sound of dancing feet. A man so much in want of airing that he had a blue mould upon him, sat watching this dark place from a hole in a corner, like a spider; and he told her that he would send a message up to Miss Dorrit by the first lady or gentleman who went through. The first lady who went through had a roll of music, half in her muff and half out of it, and was in such a tumbled condition altogether, that it seemed as if it would be an act of kindness to iron her. But as she was very good-natured, and said, ‘Come with me; I’ll soon find Miss Dorrit for you,’ Miss Dorrit’s sister went with her, drawing nearer and nearer at every step she took in the darkness to the sound of music and the sound of dancing feet.

At last they came into a maze of dust, where a quantity of people were tumbling over one another, and where there was such a confusion of unaccountable shapes of beams, bulkheads, brick walls, ropes, and rollers, and such a mixing of gaslight and daylight, that they seemed to have got on the wrong side of the pattern of the universe. Little Dorrit, left to herself, and knocked against by somebody every moment, was quite bewildered, when she heard her sister’s voice.

‘Why, good gracious, Amy, what ever brought you here?’

‘I wanted to see you, Fanny dear; and as I am going out all day to-morrow, and knew you might be engaged all day to-day, I thought—’

‘But the idea, Amy, of you coming behind! I never did!’ As her sister said this in no very cordial tone of welcome, she conducted her to a more open part of the maze, where various golden chairs and tables were heaped together, and where a number of young ladies were sitting on anything they could find, chattering. All these young ladies wanted ironing, and all had a curious way of looking everywhere while they chattered.

Just as the sisters arrived here, a monotonous boy in a Scotch cap put his head round a beam on the left, and said, ‘Less noise there, ladies!’ and disappeared. Immediately after which, a sprightly gentleman with a quantity of long black hair looked round a beam on the right, and said, ‘Less noise there, darlings!’ and also disappeared.

‘The notion of you among professionals, Amy, is really the last thing I could have conceived!’ said her sister. ‘Why, how did you ever get here?’

‘I don’t know. The lady who told you I was here, was so good as to bring me in.’

‘Like you quiet little things! You can make your way anywhere, I believe. I couldn’t have managed it, Amy, though I know so much more of the world.’

It was the family custom to lay it down as family law, that she was a plain domestic little creature, without the great and sage experience of the rest. This family fiction was the family assertion of itself against her services. Not to make too much of them.

‘Well! And what have you got on your mind, Amy? Of course you have got something on your mind about me?’ said Fanny. She spoke as if her sister, between two and three years her junior, were her prejudiced grandmother.

‘It is not much; but since you told me of the lady who gave you the bracelet, Fanny—’

The monotonous boy put his head round the beam on the left, and said, ‘Look out there, ladies!’ and disappeared. The sprightly gentleman with the black hair as suddenly put his head round the beam on the right, and said, ‘Look out there, darlings!’ and also disappeared. Thereupon all the young ladies rose and began shaking their skirts out behind.

‘Well, Amy?’ said Fanny, doing as the rest did; ‘what were you going to say?’

‘Since you told me a lady had given you the bracelet you showed me, Fanny, I have not been quite easy on your account, and indeed want to know a little more if you will confide more to me.’

‘Now, ladies!’ said the boy in the Scotch cap. ‘Now, darlings!’ said the gentleman with the black hair. They were every one gone in a moment, and the music and the dancing feet were heard again.

Little Dorrit sat down in a golden chair, made quite giddy by these rapid interruptions. Her sister and the rest were a long time gone; and during their absence a voice (it appeared to be that of the gentleman with the black hair) was continually calling out through the music, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six—go! One, two, three, four, five, six—go! Steady, darlings! One, two, three, four, five, six—go!’ Ultimately the voice stopped, and they all came back again, more or less out of breath, folding themselves in their shawls, and making ready for the streets. ‘Stop a moment, Amy, and let them get away before us,’ whispered Fanny. They were soon left alone; nothing more important happening, in the meantime, than the boy looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, ladies!’ and the gentleman with the black hair looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, darlings!’ each in his own accustomed manner.

When they were alone, something was rolled up or by other means got out of the way, and there was a great empty well before them, looking down into the depths of which Fanny said, ‘Now, uncle!’ Little Dorrit, as her eyes became used to the darkness, faintly made him out at the bottom of the well, in an obscure corner by himself, with his instrument in its ragged case under his arm.

The old man looked as if the remote high gallery windows, with their little strip of sky, might have been the point of his better fortunes, from which he had descended, until he had gradually sunk down below there to the bottom. He had been in that place six nights a week for many years, but had never been observed to raise his eyes above his music-book, and was confidently believed to have never seen a play. There were legends in the place that he did not so much as know the popular heroes and heroines by sight, and that the low comedian had ‘mugged’ at him in his richest manner fifty nights for a wager, and he had shown no trace of consciousness. The carpenters had a joke to the effect that he was dead without being aware of it; and the frequenters of the pit supposed him to pass his whole life, night and day, and Sunday and all, in the orchestra. They had tried him a few times with pinches of snuff offered over the rails, and he had always responded to this attention with a momentary waking up of manner that had the pale phantom of a gentleman in it: beyond this he never, on any occasion, had any other part in what was going on than the part written out for the clarionet; in private life, where there was no part for the clarionet, he had no part at all. Some said he was poor, some said he was a wealthy miser; but he said nothing, never lifted up his bowed head, never varied his shuffling gait by getting his springless foot from the ground. Though expecting now to be summoned by his niece, he did not hear her until she had spoken to him three or four times; nor was he at all surprised by the presence of two nieces instead of one, but merely said in his tremulous voice, ‘I am coming, I am coming!’ and crept forth by some underground way which emitted a cellarous smell.

‘And so, Amy,’ said her sister, when the three together passed out at the door that had such a shame-faced consciousness of being different from other doors: the uncle instinctively taking Amy’s arm as the arm to be relied on: ‘so, Amy, you are curious about me?’

She was pretty, and conscious, and rather flaunting; and the condescension with which she put aside the superiority of her charms, and of her worldly experience, and addressed her sister on almost equal terms, had a vast deal of the family in it.

‘I am interested, Fanny, and concerned in anything that concerns you.’

‘So you are, so you are, and you are the best of Amys. If I am ever a little provoking, I am sure you’ll consider what a thing it is to occupy my position and feel a consciousness of being superior to it. I shouldn’t care,’ said the Daughter of the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘if the others were not so common. None of them have come down in the world as we have. They are all on their own level. Common.’

Little Dorrit mildly looked at the speaker, but did not interrupt her. Fanny took out her handkerchief, and rather angrily wiped her eyes. ‘I was not born where you were, you know, Amy, and perhaps that makes a difference. My dear child, when we get rid of Uncle, you shall know all about it. We’ll drop him at the cook’s shop where he is going to dine.’

They walked on with him until they came to a dirty shop window in a dirty street, which was made almost opaque by the steam of hot meats, vegetables, and puddings. But glimpses were to be caught of a roast leg of pork bursting into tears of sage and onion in a metal reservoir full of gravy, of an unctuous piece of roast beef and blisterous Yorkshire pudding, bubbling hot in a similar receptacle, of a stuffed fillet of veal in rapid cut, of a ham in a perspiration with the pace it was going at, of a shallow tank of baked potatoes glued together by their own richness, of a truss or two of boiled greens, and other substantial delicacies. Within, were a few wooden partitions, behind which such customers as found it more convenient to take away their dinners in stomachs than in their hands, Packed their purchases in solitude. Fanny opening her reticule, as they surveyed these things, produced from that repository a shilling and handed it to Uncle. Uncle, after not looking at it a little while, divined its object, and muttering ‘Dinner? Ha! Yes, yes, yes!’ slowly vanished from them into the mist.

‘Now, Amy,’ said her sister, ‘come with me, if you are not too tired to walk to Harley Street, Cavendish Square.’

The air with which she threw off this distinguished address and the toss she gave to her new bonnet (which was more gauzy than serviceable), made her sister wonder; however, she expressed her readiness to go to Harley Street, and thither they directed their steps. Arrived at that grand destination, Fanny singled out the handsomest house, and knocking at the door, inquired for Mrs Merdle. The footman who opened the door, although he had powder on his head and was backed up by two other footmen likewise powdered, not only admitted Mrs Merdle to be at home, but asked Fanny to walk in. Fanny walked in, taking her sister with her; and they went up-stairs with powder going before and powder stopping behind, and were left in a spacious semicircular drawing-room, one of several drawing-rooms, where there was a parrot on the outside of a golden cage holding on by its beak, with its scaly legs in the air, and putting itself into many strange upside-down postures. This peculiarity has been observed in birds of quite another feather, climbing upon golden wires.

The room was far more splendid than anything Little Dorrit had ever imagined, and would have been splendid and costly in any eyes. She looked in amazement at her sister and would have asked a question, but that Fanny with a warning frown pointed to a curtained doorway of communication with another room. The curtain shook next moment, and a lady, raising it with a heavily ringed hand, dropped it behind her again as she entered.

The lady was not young and fresh from the hand of Nature, but was young and fresh from the hand of her maid. She had large unfeeling handsome eyes, and dark unfeeling handsome hair, and a broad unfeeling handsome bosom, and was made the most of in every particular. Either because she had a cold, or because it suited her face, she wore a rich white fillet tied over her head and under her chin. And if ever there were an unfeeling handsome chin that looked as if, for certain, it had never been, in familiar parlance, ‘chucked’ by the hand of man, it was the chin curbed up so tight and close by that laced bridle.

‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny. ‘My sister, ma’am.’

‘I am glad to see your sister, Miss Dorrit. I did not remember that you had a sister.’

‘I did not mention that I had,’ said Fanny.

‘Ah!’ Mrs Merdle curled the little finger of her left hand as who should say, ‘I have caught you. I know you didn’t!’ All her action was usually with her left hand because her hands were not a pair; and left being much the whiter and plumper of the two. Then she added: ‘Sit down,’ and composed herself voluptuously, in a nest of crimson and gold cushions, on an ottoman near the parrot.

‘Also professional?’ said Mrs Merdle, looking at Little Dorrit through an eye-glass.

Fanny answered No. ‘No,’ said Mrs Merdle, dropping her glass. ‘Has not a professional air. Very pleasant; but not professional.’

‘My sister, ma’am,’ said Fanny, in whom there was a singular mixture of deference and hardihood, ‘has been asking me to tell her, as between sisters, how I came to have the honour of knowing you. And as I had engaged to call upon you once more, I thought I might take the liberty of bringing her with me, when perhaps you would tell her. I wish her to know, and perhaps you will tell her?’

‘Do you think, at your sister’s age—’ hinted Mrs Merdle.

‘She is much older than she looks,’ said Fanny; ‘almost as old as I am.’

‘Society,’ said Mrs Merdle, with another curve of her little finger, ‘is so difficult to explain to young persons (indeed is so difficult to explain to most persons), that I am glad to hear that. I wish Society was not so arbitrary, I wish it was not so exacting—Bird, be quiet!’

The parrot had given a most piercing shriek, as if its name were Society and it asserted its right to its exactions.

‘But,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘we must take it as we find it. We know it is hollow and conventional and worldly and very shocking, but unless we are Savages in the Tropical seas (I should have been charmed to be one myself—most delightful life and perfect climate, I am told), we must consult it. It is the common lot. Mr Merdle is a most extensive merchant, his transactions are on the vastest scale, his wealth and influence are very great, but even he—Bird, be quiet!’

The parrot had shrieked another shriek; and it filled up the sentence so expressively that Mrs Merdle was under no necessity to end it.

‘Since your sister begs that I would terminate our personal acquaintance,’ she began again, addressing Little Dorrit, ‘by relating the circumstances that are much to her credit, I cannot object to comply with her request, I am sure. I have a son (I was first married extremely young) of two or three-and-twenty.’

Fanny set her lips, and her eyes looked half triumphantly at her sister.

‘A son of two or three-and-twenty. He is a little gay, a thing Society is accustomed to in young men, and he is very impressible. Perhaps he inherits that misfortune. I am very impressible myself, by nature. The weakest of creatures—my feelings are touched in a moment.’

She said all this, and everything else, as coldly as a woman of snow; quite forgetting the sisters except at odd times, and apparently addressing some abstraction of Society; for whose behoof, too, she occasionally arranged her dress, or the composition of her figure upon the ottoman.

‘So he is very impressible. Not a misfortune in our natural state I dare say, but we are not in a natural state. Much to be lamented, no doubt, particularly by myself, who am a child of nature if I could but show it; but so it is. Society suppresses us and dominates us—Bird, be quiet!’

The parrot had broken into a violent fit of laughter, after twisting divers bars of his cage with his crooked bill, and licking them with his black tongue.

‘It is quite unnecessary to say to a person of your good sense, wide range of experience, and cultivated feeling,’ said Mrs Merdle from her nest of crimson and gold—and there put up her glass to refresh her memory as to whom she was addressing,—‘that the stage sometimes has a fascination for young men of that class of character. In saying the stage, I mean the people on it of the female sex. Therefore, when I heard that my son was supposed to be fascinated by a dancer, I knew what that usually meant in Society, and confided in her being a dancer at the Opera, where young men moving in Society are usually fascinated.’

She passed her white hands over one another, observant of the sisters now; and the rings upon her fingers grated against each other with a hard sound.

‘As your sister will tell you, when I found what the theatre was I was much surprised and much distressed. But when I found that your sister, by rejecting my son’s advances (I must add, in an unexpected manner), had brought him to the point of proposing marriage, my feelings were of the profoundest anguish—acute.’

She traced the outline of her left eyebrow, and put it right.

‘In a distracted condition, which only a mother—moving in Society—can be susceptible of, I determined to go myself to the theatre, and represent my state of mind to the dancer. I made myself known to your sister. I found her, to my surprise, in many respects different from my expectations; and certainly in none more so, than in meeting me with—what shall I say—a sort of family assertion on her own part?’ Mrs Merdle smiled.

‘I told you, ma’am,’ said Fanny, with a heightening colour, ‘that although you found me in that situation, I was so far above the rest, that I considered my family as good as your son’s; and that I had a brother who, knowing the circumstances, would be of the same opinion, and would not consider such a connection any honour.’

‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, after frostily looking at her through her glass, ‘precisely what I was on the point of telling your sister, in pursuance of your request. Much obliged to you for recalling it so accurately and anticipating me. I immediately,’ addressing Little Dorrit, ‘(for I am the creature of impulse), took a bracelet from my arm, and begged your sister to let me clasp it on hers, in token of the delight I had in our being able to approach the subject so far on a common footing.’ (This was perfectly true, the lady having bought a cheap and showy article on her way to the interview, with a general eye to bribery.)

‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that we might be unfortunate, but we are not common.’

‘I think, the very words, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle.

‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that if you spoke to me of the superiority of your son’s standing in Society, it was barely possible that you rather deceived yourself in your suppositions about my origin; and that my father’s standing, even in the Society in which he now moved (what that was, was best known to myself), was eminently superior, and was acknowledged by every one.’

‘Quite accurate,’ rejoined Mrs Merdle. ‘A most admirable memory.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell my sister the rest.’

‘There is very little to tell,’ said Mrs Merdle, reviewing the breadth of bosom which seemed essential to her having room enough to be unfeeling in, ‘but it is to your sister’s credit. I pointed out to your sister the plain state of the case; the impossibility of the Society in which we moved recognising the Society in which she moved—though charming, I have no doubt; the immense disadvantage at which she would consequently place the family she had so high an opinion of, upon which we should find ourselves compelled to look down with contempt, and from which (socially speaking) we should feel obliged to recoil with abhorrence. In short, I made an appeal to that laudable pride in your sister.’

‘Let my sister know, if you please, Mrs Merdle,’ Fanny pouted, with a toss of her gauzy bonnet, ‘that I had already had the honour of telling your son that I wished to have nothing whatever to say to him.’

‘Well, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle, ‘perhaps I might have mentioned that before. If I did not think of it, perhaps it was because my mind reverted to the apprehensions I had at the time that he might persevere and you might have something to say to him. I also mentioned to your sister—I again address the non-professional Miss Dorrit—that my son would have nothing in the event of such a marriage, and would be an absolute beggar. (I mention that merely as a fact which is part of the narrative, and not as supposing it to have influenced your sister, except in the prudent and legitimate way in which, constituted as our artificial system is, we must all be influenced by such considerations.) Finally, after some high words and high spirit on the part of your sister, we came to the complete understanding that there was no danger; and your sister was so obliging as to allow me to present her with a mark or two of my appreciation at my dressmaker’s.’

Little Dorrit looked sorry, and glanced at Fanny with a troubled face.

‘Also,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘as to promise to give me the present pleasure of a closing interview, and of parting with her on the best of terms. On which occasion,’ added Mrs Merdle, quitting her nest, and putting something in Fanny’s hand, ‘Miss Dorrit will permit me to say Farewell with best wishes in my own dull manner.’

The sisters rose at the same time, and they all stood near the cage of the parrot, as he tore at a claw-full of biscuit and spat it out, seemed to mock them with a pompous dance of his body without moving his feet, and suddenly turned himself upside down and trailed himself all over the outside of his golden cage, with the aid of his cruel beak and black tongue.

‘Adieu, Miss Dorrit, with best wishes,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘If we could only come to a Millennium, or something of that sort, I for one might have the pleasure of knowing a number of charming and talented persons from whom I am at present excluded. A more primitive state of society would be delicious to me. There used to be a poem when I learnt lessons, something about Lo the poor Indians whose something mind! If a few thousand persons moving in Society, could only go and be Indians, I would put my name down directly; but as, moving in Society, we can’t be Indians, unfortunately—Good morning!’

They came down-stairs with powder before them and powder behind, the elder sister haughty and the younger sister humbled, and were shut out into unpowdered Harley Street, Cavendish Square.

‘Well?’ said Fanny, when they had gone a little way without speaking. ‘Have you nothing to say, Amy?’

‘Oh, I don’t know what to say!’ she answered, distressed. ‘You didn’t like this young man, Fanny?’

‘Like him? He is almost an idiot.’

‘I am so sorry—don’t be hurt—but, since you ask me what I have to say, I am so very sorry, Fanny, that you suffered this lady to give you anything.’

‘You little Fool!’ returned her sister, shaking her with the sharp pull she gave her arm. ‘Have you no spirit at all? But that’s just the way! You have no self-respect, you have no becoming pride, just as you allow yourself to be followed about by a contemptible little Chivery of a thing,’ with the scornfullest emphasis, ‘you would let your family be trodden on, and never turn.’

‘Don’t say that, dear Fanny. I do what I can for them.’

‘You do what you can for them!’ repeated Fanny, walking her on very fast. ‘Would you let a woman like this, whom you could see, if you had any experience of anything, to be as false and insolent as a woman can be—would you let her put her foot upon your family, and thank her for it?’

‘No, Fanny, I am sure.’

‘Then make her pay for it, you mean little thing. What else can you make her do? Make her pay for it, you stupid child; and do your family some credit with the money!’

They spoke no more all the way back to the lodging where Fanny and her uncle lived. When they arrived there, they found the old man practising his clarionet in the dolefullest manner in a corner of the room. Fanny had a composite meal to make, of chops, and porter, and tea; and indignantly pretended to prepare it for herself, though her sister did all that in quiet reality. When at last Fanny sat down to eat and drink, she threw the table implements about and was angry with her bread, much as her father had been last night.

‘If you despise me,’ she said, bursting into vehement tears, ‘because I am a dancer, why did you put me in the way of being one? It was your doing. You would have me stoop as low as the ground before this Mrs Merdle, and let her say what she liked and do what she liked, and hold us all in contempt, and tell me so to my face. Because I am a dancer!’

‘O Fanny!’

‘And Tip, too, poor fellow. She is to disparage him just as much as she likes, without any check—I suppose because he has been in the law, and the docks, and different things. Why, it was your doing, Amy. You might at least approve of his being defended.’

All this time the uncle was dolefully blowing his clarionet in the corner, sometimes taking it an inch or so from his mouth for a moment while he stopped to gaze at them, with a vague impression that somebody had said something.

‘And your father, your poor father, Amy. Because he is not free to show himself and to speak for himself, you would let such people insult him with impunity. If you don’t feel for yourself because you go out to work, you might at least feel for him, I should think, knowing what he has undergone so long.’

Poor Little Dorrit felt the injustice of this taunt rather sharply. The remembrance of last night added a barbed point to it. She said nothing in reply, but turned her chair from the table towards the fire. Uncle, after making one more pause, blew a dismal wail and went on again.

Fanny was passionate with the tea-cups and the bread as long as her passion lasted, and then protested that she was the wretchedest girl in the world, and she wished she was dead. After that, her crying became remorseful, and she got up and put her arms round her sister. Little Dorrit tried to stop her from saying anything, but she answered that she would, she must! Thereupon she said again, and again, ‘I beg your pardon, Amy,’ and ‘Forgive me, Amy,’ almost as passionately as she had said what she regretted.

‘But indeed, indeed, Amy,’ she resumed when they were seated in sisterly accord side by side, ‘I hope and I think you would have seen this differently, if you had known a little more of Society.’

‘Perhaps I might, Fanny,’ said the mild Little Dorrit.

‘You see, while you have been domestic and resignedly shut up there, Amy,’ pursued her sister, gradually beginning to patronise, ‘I have been out, moving more in Society, and may have been getting proud and spirited—more than I ought to be, perhaps?’

Little Dorrit answered ‘Yes. O yes!’

‘And while you have been thinking of the dinner or the clothes, I may have been thinking, you know, of the family. Now, may it not be so, Amy?’

Little Dorrit again nodded ‘Yes,’ with a more cheerful face than heart.

‘Especially as we know,’ said Fanny, ‘that there certainly is a tone in the place to which you have been so true, which does belong to it, and which does make it different from other aspects of Society. So kiss me once again, Amy dear, and we will agree that we may both be right, and that you are a tranquil, domestic, home-loving, good girl.’

The clarionet had been lamenting most pathetically during this dialogue, but was cut short now by Fanny’s announcement that it was time to go; which she conveyed to her uncle by shutting up his scrap of music, and taking the clarionet out of his mouth.

Little Dorrit parted from them at the door, and hastened back to the Marshalsea. It fell dark there sooner than elsewhere, and going into it that evening was like going into a deep trench. The shadow of the wall was on every object. Not least upon the figure in the old grey gown and the black velvet cap, as it turned towards her when she opened the door of the dim room.

‘Why not upon me too!’ thought Little Dorrit, with the door yet in her hand. ‘It was not unreasonable in Fanny.’

CHAPTER 21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint

Upon that establishment of state, the Merdle establishment in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, there was the shadow of no more common wall than the fronts of other establishments of state on the opposite side of the street. Like unexceptionable Society, the opposing rows of houses in Harley Street were very grim with one another. Indeed, the mansions and their inhabitants were so much alike in that respect, that the people were often to be found drawn up on opposite sides of dinner-tables, in the shade of their own loftiness, staring at the other side of the way with the dullness of the houses.

Everybody knows how like the street the two dinner-rows of people who take their stand by the street will be. The expressionless uniform twenty houses, all to be knocked at and rung at in the same form, all approachable by the same dull steps, all fended off by the same pattern of railing, all with the same impracticable fire-escapes, the same inconvenient fixtures in their heads, and everything without exception to be taken at a high valuation—who has not dined with these? The house so drearily out of repair, the occasional bow-window, the stuccoed house, the newly-fronted house, the corner house with nothing but angular rooms, the house with the blinds always down, the house with the hatchment always up, the house where the collector has called for one quarter of an Idea, and found nobody at home—who has not dined with these? The house that nobody will take, and is to be had a bargain—who does not know her? The showy house that was taken for life by the disappointed gentleman, and which does not suit him at all—who is unacquainted with that haunted habitation?

Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was more than aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. Intruders there were in Harley Street, of whom it was not aware; but Mr and Mrs Merdle it delighted to honour. Society was aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. Society had said ‘Let us license them; let us know them.’

Mr Merdle was immensely rich; a man of prodigious enterprise; a Midas without the ears, who turned all he touched to gold. He was in everything good, from banking to building. He was in Parliament, of course. He was in the City, necessarily. He was Chairman of this, Trustee of that, President of the other. The weightiest of men had said to projectors, ‘Now, what name have you got? Have you got Merdle?’ And, the reply being in the negative, had said, ‘Then I won’t look at you.’

This great and fortunate man had provided that extensive bosom which required so much room to be unfeeling enough in, with a nest of crimson and gold some fifteen years before. It was not a bosom to repose upon, but it was a capital bosom to hang jewels upon. Mr Merdle wanted something to hang jewels upon, and he bought it for the purpose. Storr and Mortimer might have married on the same speculation.

Like all his other speculations, it was sound and successful. The jewels showed to the richest advantage. The bosom moving in Society with the jewels displayed upon it, attracted general admiration. Society approving, Mr Merdle was satisfied. He was the most disinterested of men,—did everything for Society, and got as little for himself out of all his gain and care, as a man might.

That is to say, it may be supposed that he got all he wanted, otherwise with unlimited wealth he would have got it. But his desire was to the utmost to satisfy Society (whatever that was), and take up all its drafts upon him for tribute. He did not shine in company; he had not very much to say for himself; he was a reserved man, with a broad, overhanging, watchful head, that particular kind of dull red colour in his cheeks which is rather stale than fresh, and a somewhat uneasy expression about his coat-cuffs, as if they were in his confidence, and had reasons for being anxious to hide his hands. In the little he said, he was a pleasant man enough; plain, emphatic about public and private confidence, and tenacious of the utmost deference being shown by every one, in all things, to Society. In this same Society (if that were it which came to his dinners, and to Mrs Merdle’s receptions and concerts), he hardly seemed to enjoy himself much, and was mostly to be found against walls and behind doors. Also when he went out to it, instead of its coming home to him, he seemed a little fatigued, and upon the whole rather more disposed for bed; but he was always cultivating it nevertheless, and always moving in it—and always laying out money on it with the greatest liberality.

Mrs Merdle’s first husband had been a colonel, under whose auspices the bosom had entered into competition with the snows of North America, and had come off at little disadvantage in point of whiteness, and at none in point of coldness. The colonel’s son was Mrs Merdle’s only child. He was of a chuckle-headed, high-shouldered make, with a general appearance of being, not so much a young man as a swelled boy. He had given so few signs of reason, that a by-word went among his companions that his brain had been frozen up in a mighty frost which prevailed at St John’s, New Brunswick, at the period of his birth there, and had never thawed from that hour. Another by-word represented him as having in his infancy, through the negligence of a nurse, fallen out of a high window on his head, which had been heard by responsible witnesses to crack. It is probable that both these representations were of ex post facto origin; the young gentleman (whose expressive name was Sparkler) being monomaniacal in offering marriage to all manner of undesirable young ladies, and in remarking of every successive young lady to whom he tendered a matrimonial proposal that she was ‘a doosed fine gal—well educated too—with no biggodd nonsense about her.’

A son-in-law with these limited talents, might have been a clog upon another man; but Mr Merdle did not want a son-in-law for himself; he wanted a son-in-law for Society. Mr Sparkler having been in the Guards, and being in the habit of frequenting all the races, and all the lounges, and all the parties, and being well known, Society was satisfied with its son-in-law. This happy result Mr Merdle would have considered well attained, though Mr Sparkler had been a more expensive article. And he did not get Mr Sparkler by any means cheap for Society, even as it was.

There was a dinner giving in the Harley Street establishment, while Little Dorrit was stitching at her father’s new shirts by his side that night; and there were magnates from the Court and magnates from the City, magnates from the Commons and magnates from the Lords, magnates from the bench and magnates from the bar, Bishop magnates, Treasury magnates, Horse Guard magnates, Admiralty magnates,—all the magnates that keep us going, and sometimes trip us up.

‘I am told,’ said Bishop magnate to Horse Guards, ‘that Mr Merdle has made another enormous hit. They say a hundred thousand pounds.’

Horse Guards had heard two.

Treasury had heard three.

Bar, handling his persuasive double eye-glass, was by no means clear but that it might be four. It was one of those happy strokes of calculation and combination, the result of which it was difficult to estimate. It was one of those instances of a comprehensive grasp, associated with habitual luck and characteristic boldness, of which an age presented us but few. But here was Brother Bellows, who had been in the great Bank case, and who could probably tell us more. What did Brother Bellows put this new success at?

Brother Bellows was on his way to make his bow to the bosom, and could only tell them in passing that he had heard it stated, with great appearance of truth, as being worth, from first to last, half-a-million of money.

Admiralty said Mr Merdle was a wonderful man, Treasury said he was a new power in the country, and would be able to buy up the whole House of Commons. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman who was always disposed to maintain the best interests of Society.

Mr Merdle himself was usually late on these occasions, as a man still detained in the clutch of giant enterprises when other men had shaken off their dwarfs for the day. On this occasion, he was the last arrival. Treasury said Merdle’s work punished him a little. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman who accepted it with meekness.

Powder! There was so much Powder in waiting, that it flavoured the dinner. Pulverous particles got into the dishes, and Society’s meats had a seasoning of first-rate footmen. Mr Merdle took down a countess who was secluded somewhere in the core of an immense dress, to which she was in the proportion of the heart to the overgrown cabbage. If so low a simile may be admitted, the dress went down the staircase like a richly brocaded Jack in the Green, and nobody knew what sort of small person carried it.

Society had everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner. It had everything to look at, and everything to eat, and everything to drink. It is to be hoped it enjoyed itself; for Mr Merdle’s own share of the repast might have been paid for with eighteenpence. Mrs Merdle was magnificent. The chief butler was the next magnificent institution of the day. He was the stateliest man in the company. He did nothing, but he looked on as few other men could have done. He was Mr Merdle’s last gift to Society. Mr Merdle didn’t want him, and was put out of countenance when the great creature looked at him; but inappeasable Society would have him—and had got him.

The invisible countess carried out the Green at the usual stage of the entertainment, and the file of beauty was closed up by the bosom. Treasury said, Juno. Bishop said, Judith.

Bar fell into discussion with Horse Guards concerning courts-martial. Brothers Bellows and Bench struck in. Other magnates paired off. Mr Merdle sat silent, and looked at the table-cloth. Sometimes a magnate addressed him, to turn the stream of his own particular discussion towards him; but Mr Merdle seldom gave much attention to it, or did more than rouse himself from his calculations and pass the wine.

When they rose, so many of the magnates had something to say to Mr Merdle individually that he held little levees by the sideboard, and checked them off as they went out at the door.

Treasury hoped he might venture to congratulate one of England’s world-famed capitalists and merchant-princes (he had turned that original sentiment in the house a few times, and it came easy to him) on a new achievement. To extend the triumphs of such men was to extend the triumphs and resources of the nation; and Treasury felt—he gave Mr Merdle to understand—patriotic on the subject.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘thank you. I accept your congratulations with pride, and I am glad you approve.’

‘Why, I don’t unreservedly approve, my dear Mr Merdle. Because,’ smiling Treasury turned him by the arm towards the sideboard and spoke banteringly, ‘it never can be worth your while to come among us and help us.’

Mr Merdle felt honoured by the—

‘No, no,’ said Treasury, ‘that is not the light in which one so distinguished for practical knowledge and great foresight, can be expected to regard it. If we should ever be happily enabled, by accidentally possessing the control over circumstances, to propose to one so eminent to—to come among us, and give us the weight of his influence, knowledge, and character, we could only propose it to him as a duty. In fact, as a duty that he owed to Society.’

Mr Merdle intimated that Society was the apple of his eye, and that its claims were paramount to every other consideration. Treasury moved on, and Bar came up.

Bar, with his little insinuating jury droop, and fingering his persuasive double eye-glass, hoped he might be excused if he mentioned to one of the greatest converters of the root of all evil into the root of all good, who had for a long time reflected a shining lustre on the annals even of our commercial country—if he mentioned, disinterestedly, and as, what we lawyers called in our pedantic way, amicus curiae, a fact that had come by accident within his knowledge. He had been required to look over the title of a very considerable estate in one of the eastern counties—lying, in fact, for Mr Merdle knew we lawyers loved to be particular, on the borders of two of the eastern counties. Now, the title was perfectly sound, and the estate was to be purchased by one who had the command of—Money (jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), on remarkably advantageous terms. This had come to Bar’s knowledge only that day, and it had occurred to him, ‘I shall have the honour of dining with my esteemed friend Mr Merdle this evening, and, strictly between ourselves, I will mention the opportunity.’ Such a purchase would involve not only a great legitimate political influence, but some half-dozen church presentations of considerable annual value. Now, that Mr Merdle was already at no loss to discover means of occupying even his capital, and of fully employing even his active and vigorous intellect, Bar well knew: but he would venture to suggest that the question arose in his mind, whether one who had deservedly gained so high a position and so European a reputation did not owe it—we would not say to himself, but we would say to Society, to possess himself of such influences as these; and to exercise them—we would not say for his own, or for his party’s, but we would say for Society’s—benefit.

Mr Merdle again expressed himself as wholly devoted to that object of his constant consideration, and Bar took his persuasive eye-glass up the grand staircase. Bishop then came undesignedly sidling in the direction of the sideboard.

Surely the goods of this world, it occurred in an accidental way to Bishop to remark, could scarcely be directed into happier channels than when they accumulated under the magic touch of the wise and sagacious, who, while they knew the just value of riches (Bishop tried here to look as if he were rather poor himself), were aware of their importance, judiciously governed and rightly distributed, to the welfare of our brethren at large.

Mr Merdle with humility expressed his conviction that Bishop couldn’t mean him, and with inconsistency expressed his high gratification in Bishop’s good opinion.

Bishop then—jauntily stepping out a little with his well-shaped right leg, as though he said to Mr Merdle ‘don’t mind the apron; a mere form!’ put this case to his good friend:

Whether it had occurred to his good friend, that Society might not unreasonably hope that one so blest in his undertakings, and whose example on his pedestal was so influential with it, would shed a little money in the direction of a mission or so to Africa?

Mr Merdle signifying that the idea should have his best attention, Bishop put another case:

Whether his good friend had at all interested himself in the proceedings of our Combined Additional Endowed Dignitaries Committee, and whether it had occurred to him that to shed a little money in that direction might be a great conception finely executed?

Mr Merdle made a similar reply, and Bishop explained his reason for inquiring.

Society looked to such men as his good friend to do such things. It was not that he looked to them, but that Society looked to them. Just as it was not Our Committee who wanted the Additional Endowed Dignitaries, but it was Society that was in a state of the most agonising uneasiness of mind until it got them. He begged to assure his good friend that he was extremely sensible of his good friend’s regard on all occasions for the best interests of Society; and he considered that he was at once consulting those interests and expressing the feeling of Society, when he wished him continued prosperity, continued increase of riches, and continued things in general.

Bishop then betook himself up-stairs, and the other magnates gradually floated up after him until there was no one left below but Mr Merdle. That gentleman, after looking at the table-cloth until the soul of the chief butler glowed with a noble resentment, went slowly up after the rest, and became of no account in the stream of people on the grand staircase. Mrs Merdle was at home, the best of the jewels were hung out to be seen, Society got what it came for, Mr Merdle drank twopennyworth of tea in a corner and got more than he wanted.

Among the evening magnates was a famous physician, who knew everybody, and whom everybody knew. On entering at the door, he came upon Mr Merdle drinking his tea in a corner, and touched him on the arm.

Mr Merdle started. ‘Oh! It’s you!’

‘Any better to-day?’

‘No,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am no better.’

‘A pity I didn’t see you this morning. Pray come to me to-morrow, or let me come to you.’

‘Well!’ he replied. ‘I will come to-morrow as I drive by.’

Bar and Bishop had both been bystanders during this short dialogue, and as Mr Merdle was swept away by the crowd, they made their remarks upon it to the Physician. Bar said, there was a certain point of mental strain beyond which no man could go; that the point varied with various textures of brain and peculiarities of constitution, as he had had occasion to notice in several of his learned brothers; but the point of endurance passed by a line’s breadth, depression and dyspepsia ensued. Not to intrude on the sacred mysteries of medicine, he took it, now (with the jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), that this was Merdle’s case? Bishop said that when he was a young man, and had fallen for a brief space into the habit of writing sermons on Saturdays, a habit which all young sons of the church should sedulously avoid, he had frequently been sensible of a depression, arising as he supposed from an over-taxed intellect, upon which the yolk of a new-laid egg, beaten up by the good woman in whose house he at that time lodged, with a glass of sound sherry, nutmeg, and powdered sugar acted like a charm. Without presuming to offer so simple a remedy to the consideration of so profound a professor of the great healing art, he would venture to inquire whether the strain, being by way of intricate calculations, the spirits might not (humanly speaking) be restored to their tone by a gentle and yet generous stimulant?

‘Yes,’ said the physician, ‘yes, you are both right. But I may as well tell you that I can find nothing the matter with Mr Merdle. He has the constitution of a rhinoceros, the digestion of an ostrich, and the concentration of an oyster. As to nerves, Mr Merdle is of a cool temperament, and not a sensitive man: is about as invulnerable, I should say, as Achilles. How such a man should suppose himself unwell without reason, you may think strange. But I have found nothing the matter with him. He may have some deep-seated recondite complaint. I can’t say. I only say, that at present I have not found it out.’

There was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the bosom now displaying precious stones in rivalry with many similar superb jewel-stands; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on young Sparkler hovering about the rooms, monomaniacally seeking any sufficiently ineligible young lady with no nonsense about her; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, of whom whole colonies were present; or on any of the company. Even on himself, its shadow was faint enough as he moved about among the throng, receiving homage.

Mr Merdle’s complaint. Society and he had so much to do with one another in all things else, that it is hard to imagine his complaint, if he had one, being solely his own affair. Had he that deep-seated recondite complaint, and did any doctor find it out? Patience, in the meantime, the shadow of the Marshalsea wall was a real darkening influence, and could be seen on the Dorrit Family at any stage of the sun’s course.

CHAPTER 22. A Puzzle

Mr Clennam did not increase in favour with the Father of the Marshalsea in the ratio of his increasing visits. His obtuseness on the great Testimonial question was not calculated to awaken admiration in the paternal breast, but had rather a tendency to give offence in that sensitive quarter, and to be regarded as a positive shortcoming in point of gentlemanly feeling. An impression of disappointment, occasioned by the discovery that Mr Clennam scarcely possessed that delicacy for which, in the confidence of his nature, he had been inclined to give him credit, began to darken the fatherly mind in connection with that gentleman. The father went so far as to say, in his private family circle, that he feared Mr Clennam was not a man of high instincts. He was happy, he observed, in his public capacity as leader and representative of the College, to receive Mr Clennam when he called to pay his respects; but he didn’t find that he got on with him personally. There appeared to be something (he didn’t know what it was) wanting in him. Howbeit, the father did not fail in any outward show of politeness, but, on the contrary, honoured him with much attention; perhaps cherishing the hope that, although not a man of a sufficiently brilliant and spontaneous turn of mind to repeat his former testimonial unsolicited, it might still be within the compass of his nature to bear the part of a responsive gentleman, in any correspondence that way tending.

In the threefold capacity, of the gentleman from outside who had been accidentally locked in on the night of his first appearance, of the gentleman from outside who had inquired into the affairs of the Father of the Marshalsea with the stupendous idea of getting him out, and of the gentleman from outside who took an interest in the child of the Marshalsea, Clennam soon became a visitor of mark. He was not surprised by the attentions he received from Mr Chivery when that officer was on the lock, for he made little distinction between Mr Chivery’s politeness and that of the other turnkeys. It was on one particular afternoon that Mr Chivery surprised him all at once, and stood forth from his companions in bold relief.

Mr Chivery, by some artful exercise of his power of clearing the Lodge, had contrived to rid it of all sauntering Collegians; so that Clennam, coming out of the prison, should find him on duty alone.

‘(Private) I ask your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Chivery in a secret manner; ‘but which way might you be going?’

‘I am going over the Bridge.’ He saw in Mr Chivery, with some astonishment, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on his lips.

‘(Private) I ask your pardon again,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘but could you go round by Horsemonger Lane? Could you by any means find time to look in at that address?’ handing him a little card, printed for circulation among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers in Fancy Snuffs, &c. &c.

‘(Private) It an’t tobacco business,’ said Mr Chivery. ‘The truth is, it’s my wife. She’s wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point respecting—yes,’ said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam’s look of apprehension with a nod, ‘respecting her.’

‘I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.’

‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an’t above ten minutes out of your way. Please to ask for Mrs Chivery!’ These instructions, Mr Chivery, who had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection of visitors when it pleased him.

Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a little assortment of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail stock in trade.

Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the solicitation of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat behind the counter, and deploringly shook her head.

‘You may see him now,’ said she, ‘if you’ll condescend to take a peep.’

With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two; and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the last mariner left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man.

‘Our John,’ said Mrs Chivery.

Not to be deficient in interest, Clennam asked what he might be doing there?

‘It’s the only change he takes,’ said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head afresh. ‘He won’t go out, even in the back-yard, when there’s no linen; but when there’s linen to keep the neighbours’ eyes off, he’ll sit there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves!’ Mrs Chivery shook her head again, put her apron in a motherly way to her eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business.

‘Please to take a seat, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Miss Dorrit is the matter with Our John, sir; he’s a breaking his heart for her, and I would wish to take the liberty to ask how it’s to be made good to his parents when bust?’

Mrs Chivery, who was a comfortable-looking woman much respected about Horsemonger Lane for her feelings and her conversation, uttered this speech with fell composure, and immediately afterwards began again to shake her head and dry her eyes.

‘Sir,’ said she in continuation, ‘you are acquainted with the family, and have interested yourself with the family, and are influential with the family. If you can promote views calculated to make two young people happy, let me, for Our John’s sake, and for both their sakes, implore you so to do!’

‘I have been so habituated,’ returned Arthur, at a loss, ‘during the short time I have known her, to consider Little—I have been so habituated to consider Miss Dorrit in a light altogether removed from that in which you present her to me, that you quite take me by surprise. Does she know your son?’

‘Brought up together, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Played together.’

‘Does she know your son as her admirer?’

‘Oh! bless you, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, with a sort of triumphant shiver, ‘she never could have seen him on a Sunday without knowing he was that. His cane alone would have told it long ago, if nothing else had. Young men like John don’t take to ivory hands a pinting, for nothing. How did I first know it myself? Similarly.’

‘Perhaps Miss Dorrit may not be so ready as you, you see.’

‘Then she knows it, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘by word of mouth.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘sure and certain as in this house I am. I see my son go out with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I see my son come in with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I know he done it!’ Mrs Chivery derived a surprising force of emphasis from the foregoing circumstantiality and repetition.

‘May I ask you how he came to fall into the desponding state which causes you so much uneasiness?’

‘That,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘took place on that same day when to this house I see that John with these eyes return. Never been himself in this house since. Never was like what he has been since, not from the hour when to this house seven year ago me and his father, as tenants by the quarter, came!’ An effect in the nature of an affidavit was gained from this speech by Mrs Chivery’s peculiar power of construction.

‘May I venture to inquire what is your version of the matter?’

‘You may,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘and I will give it to you in honour and in word as true as in this shop I stand. Our John has every one’s good word and every one’s good wish. He played with her as a child when in that yard a child she played. He has known her ever since. He went out upon the Sunday afternoon when in this very parlour he had dined, and met her, with appointment or without appointment; which, I do not pretend to say. He made his offer to her. Her brother and sister is high in their views, and against Our John. Her father is all for himself in his views and against sharing her with any one. Under which circumstances she has answered Our John, “No, John, I cannot have you, I cannot have any husband, it is not my intentions ever to become a wife, it is my intentions to be always a sacrifice, farewell, find another worthy of you, and forget me!” This is the way in which she is doomed to be a constant slave to them that are not worthy that a constant slave she unto them should be. This is the way in which Our John has come to find no pleasure but in taking cold among the linen, and in showing in that yard, as in that yard I have myself shown you, a broken-down ruin that goes home to his mother’s heart!’ Here the good woman pointed to the little window, whence her son might be seen sitting disconsolate in the tuneless groves; and again shook her head and wiped her eyes, and besought him, for the united sakes of both the young people, to exercise his influence towards the bright reversal of these dismal events.

She was so confident in her exposition of the case, and it was so undeniably founded on correct premises in so far as the relative positions of Little Dorrit and her family were concerned, that Clennam could not feel positive on the other side. He had come to attach to Little Dorrit an interest so peculiar—an interest that removed her from, while it grew out of, the common and coarse things surrounding her—that he found it disappointing, disagreeable, almost painful, to suppose her in love with young Mr Chivery in the back-yard, or any such person. On the other hand, he reasoned with himself that she was just as good and just as true in love with him, as not in love with him; and that to make a kind of domesticated fairy of her, on the penalty of isolation at heart from the only people she knew, would be but a weakness of his own fancy, and not a kind one. Still, her youthful and ethereal appearance, her timid manner, the charm of her sensitive voice and eyes, the very many respects in which she had interested him out of her own individuality, and the strong difference between herself and those about her, were not in unison, and were determined not to be in unison, with this newly presented idea.

He told the worthy Mrs Chivery, after turning these things over in his mind—he did that, indeed, while she was yet speaking—that he might be relied upon to do his utmost at all times to promote the happiness of Miss Dorrit, and to further the wishes of her heart if it were in his power to do so, and if he could discover what they were. At the same time he cautioned her against assumptions and appearances; enjoined strict silence and secrecy, lest Miss Dorrit should be made unhappy; and particularly advised her to endeavour to win her son’s confidence and so to make quite sure of the state of the case. Mrs Chivery considered the latter precaution superfluous, but said she would try. She shook her head as if she had not derived all the comfort she had fondly expected from this interview, but thanked him nevertheless for the trouble he had kindly taken. They then parted good friends, and Arthur walked away.

The crowd in the street jostling the crowd in his mind, and the two crowds making a confusion, he avoided London Bridge, and turned off in the quieter direction of the Iron Bridge. He had scarcely set foot upon it, when he saw Little Dorrit walking on before him. It was a pleasant day, with a light breeze blowing, and she seemed to have that minute come there for air. He had left her in her father’s room within an hour.

It was a timely chance, favourable to his wish of observing her face and manner when no one else was by. He quickened his pace; but before he reached her, she turned her head.

‘Have I startled you?’ he asked.

‘I thought I knew the step,’ she answered, hesitating.

‘And did you know it, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have expected mine.’

‘I did not expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it—sounded like yours.’

‘Are you going further?’

‘No, sir, I am only walking here for a little change.’

They walked together, and she recovered her confiding manner with him, and looked up in his face as she said, after glancing around:

‘It is so strange. Perhaps you can hardly understand it. I sometimes have a sensation as if it was almost unfeeling to walk here.’

‘Unfeeling?’

‘To see the river, and so much sky, and so many objects, and such change and motion. Then to go back, you know, and find him in the same cramped place.’

‘Ah yes! But going back, you must remember that you take with you the spirit and influence of such things to cheer him.’

‘Do I? I hope I may! I am afraid you fancy too much, sir, and make me out too powerful. If you were in prison, could I bring such comfort to you?’

‘Yes, Little Dorrit, I am sure of it.’

He gathered from a tremor on her lip, and a passing shadow of great agitation on her face, that her mind was with her father. He remained silent for a few moments, that she might regain her composure. The Little Dorrit, trembling on his arm, was less in unison than ever with Mrs Chivery’s theory, and yet was not irreconcilable with a new fancy which sprung up within him, that there might be some one else in the hopeless—newer fancy still—in the hopeless unattainable distance.

They turned, and Clennam said, Here was Maggy coming! Little Dorrit looked up, surprised, and they confronted Maggy, who brought herself at sight of them to a dead stop. She had been trotting along, so preoccupied and busy that she had not recognised them until they turned upon her. She was now in a moment so conscience-stricken that her very basket partook of the change.

‘Maggy, you promised me to stop near father.’

‘So I would, Little Mother, only he wouldn’t let me. If he takes and sends me out I must go. If he takes and says, “Maggy, you hurry away and back with that letter, and you shall have a sixpence if the answer’s a good ‘un,” I must take it. Lor, Little Mother, what’s a poor thing of ten year old to do? And if Mr Tip—if he happens to be a coming in as I come out, and if he says “Where are you going, Maggy?” and if I says, “I’m a going So and So,” and if he says, “I’ll have a Try too,” and if he goes into the George and writes a letter and if he gives it me and says, “Take that one to the same place, and if the answer’s a good ‘un I’ll give you a shilling,” it ain’t my fault, mother!’

Arthur read, in Little Dorrit’s downcast eyes, to whom she foresaw that the letters were addressed.

‘I’m a going So and So. There! That’s where I am a going to,’ said Maggy. ‘I’m a going So and So. It ain’t you, Little Mother, that’s got anything to do with it—it’s you, you know,’ said Maggy, addressing Arthur. ‘You’d better come, So and So, and let me take and give ‘em to you.’

‘We will not be so particular as that, Maggy. Give them me here,’ said Clennam in a low voice.

‘Well, then, come across the road,’ answered Maggy in a very loud whisper. ‘Little Mother wasn’t to know nothing of it, and she would never have known nothing of it if you had only gone So and So, instead of bothering and loitering about. It ain’t my fault. I must do what I am told. They ought to be ashamed of themselves for telling me.’

Clennam crossed to the other side, and hurriedly opened the letters. That from the father mentioned that most unexpectedly finding himself in the novel position of having been disappointed of a remittance from the City on which he had confidently counted, he took up his pen, being restrained by the unhappy circumstance of his incarceration during three-and-twenty years (doubly underlined), from coming himself, as he would otherwise certainly have done—took up his pen to entreat Mr Clennam to advance him the sum of Three Pounds Ten Shillings upon his I.O.U., which he begged to enclose. That from the son set forth that Mr Clennam would, he knew, be gratified to hear that he had at length obtained permanent employment of a highly satisfactory nature, accompanied with every prospect of complete success in life; but that the temporary inability of his employer to pay him his arrears of salary to that date (in which condition said employer had appealed to that generous forbearance in which he trusted he should never be wanting towards a fellow-creature), combined with the fraudulent conduct of a false friend and the present high price of provisions, had reduced him to the verge of ruin, unless he could by a quarter before six that evening raise the sum of eight pounds. This sum, Mr Clennam would be happy to learn, he had, through the promptitude of several friends who had a lively confidence in his probity, already raised, with the exception of a trifling balance of one pound seventeen and fourpence; the loan of which balance, for the period of one month, would be fraught with the usual beneficent consequences.

These letters Clennam answered with the aid of his pencil and pocket-book, on the spot; sending the father what he asked for, and excusing himself from compliance with the demand of the son. He then commissioned Maggy to return with his replies, and gave her the shilling of which the failure of her supplemental enterprise would have disappointed her otherwise.

When he rejoined Little Dorrit, and they had begun walking as before, she said all at once:

‘I think I had better go. I had better go home.’

‘Don’t be distressed,’ said Clennam, ‘I have answered the letters. They were nothing. You know what they were. They were nothing.’

‘But I am afraid,’ she returned, ‘to leave him, I am afraid to leave any of them. When I am gone, they pervert—but they don’t mean it—even Maggy.’

‘It was a very innocent commission that she undertook, poor thing. And in keeping it secret from you, she supposed, no doubt, that she was only saving you uneasiness.’

‘Yes, I hope so, I hope so. But I had better go home! It was but the other day that my sister told me I had become so used to the prison that I had its tone and character. It must be so. I am sure it must be when I see these things. My place is there. I am better there, it is unfeeling in me to be here, when I can do the least thing there. Good-bye. I had far better stay at home!’

The agonised way in which she poured this out, as if it burst of itself from her suppressed heart, made it difficult for Clennam to keep the tears from his eyes as he saw and heard her.

‘Don’t call it home, my child!’ he entreated. ‘It is always painful to me to hear you call it home.’

‘But it is home! What else can I call home? Why should I ever forget it for a single moment?’

‘You never do, dear Little Dorrit, in any good and true service.’

‘I hope not, O I hope not! But it is better for me to stay there; much better, much more dutiful, much happier. Please don’t go with me, let me go by myself. Good-bye, God bless you. Thank you, thank you.’

He felt that it was better to respect her entreaty, and did not move while her slight form went quickly away from him. When it had fluttered out of sight, he turned his face towards the water and stood thinking.

She would have been distressed at any time by this discovery of the letters; but so much so, and in that unrestrainable way?

No.

When she had seen her father begging with his threadbare disguise on, when she had entreated him not to give her father money, she had been distressed, but not like this. Something had made her keenly and additionally sensitive just now. Now, was there some one in the hopeless unattainable distance? Or had the suspicion been brought into his mind, by his own associations of the troubled river running beneath the bridge with the same river higher up, its changeless tune upon the prow of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the peaceful flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet?

He thought of his poor child, Little Dorrit, for a long time there; he thought of her going home; he thought of her in the night; he thought of her when the day came round again. And the poor child Little Dorrit thought of him—too faithfully, ah, too faithfully!—in the shadow of the Marshalsea wall.

CHAPTER 23. Machinery in Motion

Mr Meagles bestirred himself with such prompt activity in the matter of the negotiation with Daniel Doyce which Clennam had entrusted to him, that he soon brought it into business train, and called on Clennam at nine o’clock one morning to make his report.

‘Doyce is highly gratified by your good opinion,’ he opened the business by saying, ‘and desires nothing so much as that you should examine the affairs of the Works for yourself, and entirely understand them. He has handed me the keys of all his books and papers—here they are jingling in this pocket—and the only charge he has given me is “Let Mr Clennam have the means of putting himself on a perfect equality with me as to knowing whatever I know. If it should come to nothing after all, he will respect my confidence. Unless I was sure of that to begin with, I should have nothing to do with him.” And there, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you have Daniel Doyce all over.’

‘A very honourable character.’

‘Oh, yes, to be sure. Not a doubt of it. Odd, but very honourable. Very odd though. Now, would you believe, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, with a hearty enjoyment of his friend’s eccentricity, ‘that I had a whole morning in What’s-his-name Yard—’

‘Bleeding Heart?’

‘A whole morning in Bleeding Heart Yard, before I could induce him to pursue the subject at all?’

‘How was that?’

‘How was that, my friend? I no sooner mentioned your name in connection with it than he declared off.’

‘Declared off on my account?’

‘I no sooner mentioned your name, Clennam, than he said, “That will never do!” What did he mean by that? I asked him. No matter, Meagles; that would never do. Why would it never do? You’ll hardly believe it, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, laughing within himself, ‘but it came out that it would never do, because you and he, walking down to Twickenham together, had glided into a friendly conversation in the course of which he had referred to his intention of taking a partner, supposing at the time that you were as firmly and finally settled as St Paul’s Cathedral. “Whereas,” says he, “Mr Clennam might now believe, if I entertained his proposition, that I had a sinister and designing motive in what was open free speech. Which I can’t bear,” says he, “which I really am too proud to bear.”’

‘I should as soon suspect—’

‘Of course you would,’ interrupted Mr Meagles, ‘and so I told him. But it took a morning to scale that wall; and I doubt if any other man than myself (he likes me of old) could have got his leg over it. Well, Clennam. This business-like obstacle surmounted, he then stipulated that before resuming with you I should look over the books and form my own opinion. I looked over the books, and formed my own opinion. “Is it, on the whole, for, or against?” says he. “For,” says I. “Then,” says he, “you may now, my good friend, give Mr Clennam the means of forming his opinion. To enable him to do which, without bias and with perfect freedom, I shall go out of town for a week.” And he’s gone,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘that’s the rich conclusion of the thing.’

‘Leaving me,’ said Clennam, ‘with a high sense, I must say, of his candour and his—’

‘Oddity,’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I should think so!’

It was not exactly the word on Clennam’s lips, but he forbore to interrupt his good-humoured friend.

‘And now,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘you can begin to look into matters as soon as you think proper. I have undertaken to explain where you may want explanation, but to be strictly impartial, and to do nothing more.’

They began their perquisitions in Bleeding Heart Yard that same forenoon. Little peculiarities were easily to be detected by experienced eyes in Mr Doyce’s way of managing his affairs, but they almost always involved some ingenious simplification of a difficulty, and some plain road to the desired end. That his papers were in arrear, and that he stood in need of assistance to develop the capacity of his business, was clear enough; but all the results of his undertakings during many years were distinctly set forth, and were ascertainable with ease. Nothing had been done for the purposes of the pending investigation; everything was in its genuine working dress, and in a certain honest rugged order. The calculations and entries, in his own hand, of which there were many, were bluntly written, and with no very neat precision; but were always plain and directed straight to the purpose. It occurred to Arthur that a far more elaborate and taking show of business—such as the records of the Circumlocution Office made perhaps—might be far less serviceable, as being meant to be far less intelligible.

Three or four days of steady application tendered him master of all the facts it was essential to become acquainted with. Mr Meagles was at hand the whole time, always ready to illuminate any dim place with the bright little safety-lamp belonging to the scales and scoop. Between them they agreed upon the sum it would be fair to offer for the purchase of a half-share in the business, and then Mr Meagles unsealed a paper in which Daniel Doyce had noted the amount at which he valued it; which was even something less. Thus, when Daniel came back, he found the affair as good as concluded.

‘And I may now avow, Mr Clennam,’ said he, with a cordial shake of the hand, ‘that if I had looked high and low for a partner, I believe I could not have found one more to my mind.’

‘I say the same,’ said Clennam.

‘And I say of both of you,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘that you are well matched. You keep him in check, Clennam, with your common sense, and you stick to the Works, Dan, with your—’

‘Uncommon sense?’ suggested Daniel, with his quiet smile.

‘You may call it so, if you like—and each of you will be a right hand to the other. Here’s my own right hand upon it, as a practical man, to both of you.’

The purchase was completed within a month. It left Arthur in possession of private personal means not exceeding a few hundred pounds; but it opened to him an active and promising career. The three friends dined together on the auspicious occasion; the factory and the factory wives and children made holiday and dined too; even Bleeding Heart Yard dined and was full of meat. Two months had barely gone by in all, when Bleeding Heart Yard had become so familiar with short-commons again, that the treat was forgotten there; when nothing seemed new in the partnership but the paint of the inscription on the door-posts, DOYCE AND CLENNAM; when it appeared even to Clennam himself, that he had had the affairs of the firm in his mind for years.

The little counting-house reserved for his own occupation, was a room of wood and glass at the end of a long low workshop, filled with benches, and vices, and tools, and straps, and wheels; which, when they were in gear with the steam-engine, went tearing round as though they had a suicidal mission to grind the business to dust and tear the factory to pieces. A communication of great trap-doors in the floor and roof with the workshop above and the workshop below, made a shaft of light in this perspective, which brought to Clennam’s mind the child’s old picture-book, where similar rays were the witnesses of Abel’s murder. The noises were sufficiently removed and shut out from the counting-house to blend into a busy hum, interspersed with periodical clinks and thumps. The patient figures at work were swarthy with the filings of iron and steel that danced on every bench and bubbled up through every chink in the planking. The workshop was arrived at by a step-ladder from the outer yard below, where it served as a shelter for the large grindstone where tools were sharpened. The whole had at once a fanciful and practical air in Clennam’s eyes, which was a welcome change; and, as often as he raised them from his first work of getting the array of business documents into perfect order, he glanced at these things with a feeling of pleasure in his pursuit that was new to him.

Raising his eyes thus one day, he was surprised to see a bonnet labouring up the step-ladder. The unusual apparition was followed by another bonnet. He then perceived that the first bonnet was on the head of Mr F.’s Aunt, and that the second bonnet was on the head of Flora, who seemed to have propelled her legacy up the steep ascent with considerable difficulty.

Though not altogether enraptured at the sight of these visitors, Clennam lost no time in opening the counting-house door, and extricating them from the workshop; a rescue which was rendered the more necessary by Mr F.’s Aunt already stumbling over some impediment, and menacing steam power as an Institution with a stony reticule she carried.

‘Good gracious, Arthur,—I should say Mr Clennam, far more proper—the climb we have had to get up here and how ever to get down again without a fire-escape and Mr F.’s Aunt slipping through the steps and bruised all over and you in the machinery and foundry way too only think, and never told us!’

Thus, Flora, out of breath. Meanwhile, Mr F.’s Aunt rubbed her esteemed insteps with her umbrella, and vindictively glared.

‘Most unkind never to have come back to see us since that day, though naturally it was not to be expected that there should be any attraction at our house and you were much more pleasantly engaged, that’s pretty certain, and is she fair or dark blue eyes or black I wonder, not that I expect that she should be anything but a perfect contrast to me in all particulars for I am a disappointment as I very well know and you are quite right to be devoted no doubt though what I am saying Arthur never mind I hardly know myself Good gracious!’

By this time he had placed chairs for them in the counting-house. As Flora dropped into hers, she bestowed the old look upon him.

‘And to think of Doyce and Clennam, and who Doyce can be,’ said Flora; ‘delightful man no doubt and married perhaps or perhaps a daughter, now has he really? then one understands the partnership and sees it all, don’t tell me anything about it for I know I have no claim to ask the question the golden chain that once was forged being snapped and very proper.’

Flora put her hand tenderly on his, and gave him another of the youthful glances.

‘Dear Arthur—force of habit, Mr Clennam every way more delicate and adapted to existing circumstances—I must beg to be excused for taking the liberty of this intrusion but I thought I might so far presume upon old times for ever faded never more to bloom as to call with Mr F.’s Aunt to congratulate and offer best wishes, A great deal superior to China not to be denied and much nearer though higher up!’

‘I am very happy to see you,’ said Clennam, ‘and I thank you, Flora, very much for your kind remembrance.’

‘More than I can say myself at any rate,’ returned Flora, ‘for I might have been dead and buried twenty distinct times over and no doubt whatever should have been before you had genuinely remembered Me or anything like it in spite of which one last remark I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer—’

‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur remonstrated in alarm.

‘Oh not that disagreeable name, say Flora!’

‘Flora, is it worth troubling yourself afresh to enter into explanations? I assure you none are needed. I am satisfied—I am perfectly satisfied.’

A diversion was occasioned here, by Mr F.’s Aunt making the following inexorable and awful statement:

‘There’s mile-stones on the Dover road!’

With such mortal hostility towards the human race did she discharge this missile, that Clennam was quite at a loss how to defend himself; the rather as he had been already perplexed in his mind by the honour of a visit from this venerable lady, when it was plain she held him in the utmost abhorrence. He could not but look at her with disconcertment, as she sat breathing bitterness and scorn, and staring leagues away. Flora, however, received the remark as if it had been of a most apposite and agreeable nature; approvingly observing aloud that Mr F.’s Aunt had a great deal of spirit. Stimulated either by this compliment, or by her burning indignation, that illustrious woman then added, ‘Let him meet it if he can!’ And, with a rigid movement of her stony reticule (an appendage of great size and of a fossil appearance), indicated that Clennam was the unfortunate person at whom the challenge was hurled.

‘One last remark,’ resumed Flora, ‘I was going to say I wish to make one last explanation I wish to offer, Mr F.’s Aunt and myself would not have intruded on business hours Mr F. having been in business and though the wine trade still business is equally business call it what you will and business habits are just the same as witness Mr F. himself who had his slippers always on the mat at ten minutes before six in the afternoon and his boots inside the fender at ten minutes before eight in the morning to the moment in all weathers light or dark—would not therefore have intruded without a motive which being kindly meant it may be hoped will be kindly taken Arthur, Mr Clennam far more proper, even Doyce and Clennam probably more business-like.’

‘Pray say nothing in the way of apology,’ Arthur entreated. ‘You are always welcome.’

‘Very polite of you to say so Arthur—cannot remember Mr Clennam until the word is out, such is the habit of times for ever fled, and so true it is that oft in the stilly night ere slumber’s chain has bound people, fond memory brings the light of other days around people—very polite but more polite than true I am afraid, for to go into the machinery business without so much as sending a line or a card to papa—I don’t say me though there was a time but that is past and stern reality has now my gracious never mind—does not look like it you must confess.’

Even Flora’s commas seemed to have fled on this occasion; she was so much more disjointed and voluble than in the preceding interview.

‘Though indeed,’ she hurried on, ‘nothing else is to be expected and why should it be expected and if it’s not to be expected why should it be, and I am far from blaming you or any one, When your mama and my papa worried us to death and severed the golden bowl—I mean bond but I dare say you know what I mean and if you don’t you don’t lose much and care just as little I will venture to add—when they severed the golden bond that bound us and threw us into fits of crying on the sofa nearly choked at least myself everything was changed and in giving my hand to Mr F. I know I did so with my eyes open but he was so very unsettled and in such low spirits that he had distractedly alluded to the river if not oil of something from the chemist’s and I did it for the best.’

‘My good Flora, we settled that before. It was all quite right.’

‘It’s perfectly clear you think so,’ returned Flora, ‘for you take it very coolly, if I hadn’t known it to be China I should have guessed myself the Polar regions, dear Mr Clennam you are right however and I cannot blame you but as to Doyce and Clennam papa’s property being about here we heard it from Pancks and but for him we never should have heard one word about it I am satisfied.’

‘No, no, don’t say that.’

‘What nonsense not to say it Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—easier and less trying to me than Mr Clennam—when I know it and you know it too and can’t deny it.’

‘But I do deny it, Flora. I should soon have made you a friendly visit.’

‘Ah!’ said Flora, tossing her head. ‘I dare say!’ and she gave him another of the old looks. ‘However when Pancks told us I made up my mind that Mr F.’s Aunt and I would come and call because when papa—which was before that—happened to mention her name to me and to say that you were interested in her I said at the moment Good gracious why not have her here then when there’s anything to do instead of putting it out.’

‘When you say Her,’ observed Clennam, by this time pretty well bewildered, ‘do you mean Mr F.’s—’

‘My goodness, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam really easier to me with old remembrances—who ever heard of Mr F.’s Aunt doing needlework and going out by the day?’

‘Going out by the day! Do you speak of Little Dorrit?’

‘Why yes of course,’ returned Flora; ‘and of all the strangest names I ever heard the strangest, like a place down in the country with a turnpike, or a favourite pony or a puppy or a bird or something from a seed-shop to be put in a garden or a flower-pot and come up speckled.’

‘Then, Flora,’ said Arthur, with a sudden interest in the conversation, ‘Mr Casby was so kind as to mention Little Dorrit to you, was he? What did he say?’

‘Oh you know what papa is,’ rejoined Flora, ‘and how aggravatingly he sits looking beautiful and turning his thumbs over and over one another till he makes one giddy if one keeps one’s eyes upon him, he said when we were talking of you—I don’t know who began the subject Arthur (Doyce and Clennam) but I am sure it wasn’t me, at least I hope not but you really must excuse my confessing more on that point.’

‘Certainly,’ said Arthur. ‘By all means.’

‘You are very ready,’ pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in a captivating bashfulness, ‘that I must admit, Papa said you had spoken of her in an earnest way and I said what I have told you and that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ said Arthur, a little disappointed.

‘Except that when Pancks told us of your having embarked in this business and with difficulty persuaded us that it was really you I said to Mr F.’s Aunt then we would come and ask you if it would be agreeable to all parties that she should be engaged at our house when required for I know she often goes to your mama’s and I know that your mama has a very touchy temper Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—or I never might have married Mr F. and might have been at this hour but I am running into nonsense.’

‘It was very kind of you, Flora, to think of this.’

Poor Flora rejoined with a plain sincerity which became her better than her youngest glances, that she was glad he thought so. She said it with so much heart that Clennam would have given a great deal to buy his old character of her on the spot, and throw it and the mermaid away for ever.

‘I think, Flora,’ he said, ‘that the employment you can give Little Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her—’

‘Yes and I will,’ said Flora, quickly.

‘I am sure of it—will be a great assistance and support to her. I do not feel that I have the right to tell you what I know of her, for I acquired the knowledge confidentially, and under circumstances that bind me to silence. But I have an interest in the little creature, and a respect for her that I cannot express to you. Her life has been one of such trial and devotion, and such quiet goodness, as you can scarcely imagine. I can hardly think of her, far less speak of her, without feeling moved. Let that feeling represent what I could tell you, and commit her to your friendliness with my thanks.’

Once more he put out his hand frankly to poor Flora; once more poor Flora couldn’t accept it frankly, found it worth nothing openly, must make the old intrigue and mystery of it. As much to her own enjoyment as to his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it. Then, looking towards the glass front of the counting-house, and seeing two figures approaching, she cried with infinite relish, ‘Papa! Hush, Arthur, for Mercy’s sake!’ and tottered back to her chair with an amazing imitation of being in danger of swooning, in the dread surprise and maidenly flutter of her spirits.

The Patriarch, meanwhile, came inanely beaming towards the counting-house in the wake of Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him, towed him in, and retired to his own moorings in a corner.

‘I heard from Flora,’ said the Patriarch with his benevolent smile, ‘that she was coming to call, coming to call. And being out, I thought I’d come also, thought I’d come also.’

The benign wisdom he infused into this declaration (not of itself profound), by means of his blue eyes, his shining head, and his long white hair, was most impressive. It seemed worth putting down among the noblest sentiments enunciated by the best of men. Also, when he said to Clennam, seating himself in the proffered chair, ‘And you are in a new business, Mr Clennam? I wish you well, sir, I wish you well!’ he seemed to have done benevolent wonders.

‘Mrs Finching has been telling me, sir,’ said Arthur, after making his acknowledgments; the relict of the late Mr F. meanwhile protesting, with a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; ‘that she hopes occasionally to employ the young needlewoman you recommended to my mother. For which I have been thanking her.’

The Patriarch turning his head in a lumbering way towards Pancks, that assistant put up the note-book in which he had been absorbed, and took him in tow.

‘You didn’t recommend her, you know,’ said Pancks; ‘how could you? You knew nothing about her, you didn’t. The name was mentioned to you, and you passed it on. That’s what you did.’

‘Well!’ said Clennam. ‘As she justifies any recommendation, it is much the same thing.’

‘You are glad she turns out well,’ said Pancks, ‘but it wouldn’t have been your fault if she had turned out ill. The credit’s not yours as it is, and the blame wouldn’t have been yours as it might have been. You gave no guarantee. You knew nothing about her.’

‘You are not acquainted, then,’ said Arthur, hazarding a random question, ‘with any of her family?’

‘Acquainted with any of her family?’ returned Pancks. ‘How should you be acquainted with any of her family? You never heard of ‘em. You can’t be acquainted with people you never heard of, can you? You should think not!’

All this time the Patriarch sat serenely smiling; nodding or shaking his head benevolently, as the case required.

‘As to being a reference,’ said Pancks, ‘you know, in a general way, what being a reference means. It’s all your eye, that is! Look at your tenants down the Yard here. They’d all be references for one another, if you’d let ‘em. What would be the good of letting ‘em? It’s no satisfaction to be done by two men instead of one. One’s enough. A person who can’t pay, gets another person who can’t pay, to guarantee that he can pay. Like a person with two wooden legs getting another person with two wooden legs, to guarantee that he has got two natural legs. It don’t make either of them able to do a walking match. And four wooden legs are more troublesome to you than two, when you don’t want any.’ Mr Pancks concluded by blowing off that steam of his.

A momentary silence that ensued was broken by Mr F.’s Aunt, who had been sitting upright in a cataleptic state since her last public remark. She now underwent a violent twitch, calculated to produce a startling effect on the nerves of the uninitiated, and with the deadliest animosity observed:

‘You can’t make a head and brains out of a brass knob with nothing in it. You couldn’t do it when your Uncle George was living; much less when he’s dead.’

Mr Pancks was not slow to reply, with his usual calmness, ‘Indeed, ma’am! Bless my soul! I’m surprised to hear it.’ Despite his presence of mind, however, the speech of Mr F.’s Aunt produced a depressing effect on the little assembly; firstly, because it was impossible to disguise that Clennam’s unoffending head was the particular temple of reason depreciated; and secondly, because nobody ever knew on these occasions whose Uncle George was referred to, or what spectral presence might be invoked under that appellation.

Therefore Flora said, though still not without a certain boastfulness and triumph in her legacy, that Mr F.’s Aunt was ‘very lively to-day, and she thought they had better go.’ But Mr F.’s Aunt proved so lively as to take the suggestion in unexpected dudgeon and declare that she would not go; adding, with several injurious expressions, that if ‘He’—too evidently meaning Clennam—wanted to get rid of her, ‘let him chuck her out of winder;’ and urgently expressing her desire to see ‘Him’ perform that ceremony.

In this dilemma, Mr Pancks, whose resources appeared equal to any emergency in the Patriarchal waters, slipped on his hat, slipped out at the counting-house door, and slipped in again a moment afterwards with an artificial freshness upon him, as if he had been in the country for some weeks. ‘Why, bless my heart, ma’am!’ said Mr Pancks, rubbing up his hair in great astonishment, ‘is that you? How do you do, ma’am? You are looking charming to-day! I am delighted to see you. Favour me with your arm, ma’am; we’ll have a little walk together, you and me, if you’ll honour me with your company.’ And so escorted Mr F.’s Aunt down the private staircase of the counting-house with great gallantry and success. The patriarchal Mr Casby then rose with the air of having done it himself, and blandly followed: leaving his daughter, as she followed in her turn, to remark to her former lover in a distracted whisper (which she very much enjoyed), that they had drained the cup of life to the dregs; and further to hint mysteriously that the late Mr F. was at the bottom of it.

Alone again, Clennam became a prey to his old doubts in reference to his mother and Little Dorrit, and revolved the old thoughts and suspicions. They were all in his mind, blending themselves with the duties he was mechanically discharging, when a shadow on his papers caused him to look up for the cause. The cause was Mr Pancks. With his hat thrown back upon his ears as if his wiry prongs of hair had darted up like springs and cast it off, with his jet-black beads of eyes inquisitively sharp, with the fingers of his right hand in his mouth that he might bite the nails, and with the fingers of his left hand in reserve in his pocket for another course, Mr Pancks cast his shadow through the glass upon the books and papers.

Mr Pancks asked, with a little inquiring twist of his head, if he might come in again? Clennam replied with a nod of his head in the affirmative. Mr Pancks worked his way in, came alongside the desk, made himself fast by leaning his arms upon it, and started conversation with a puff and a snort.

‘Mr F.’s Aunt is appeased, I hope?’ said Clennam.

‘All right, sir,’ said Pancks.

‘I am so unfortunate as to have awakened a strong animosity in the breast of that lady,’ said Clennam. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Does she know why?’ said Pancks.

‘I suppose not.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Pancks.

He took out his note-book, opened it, shut it, dropped it into his hat, which was beside him on the desk, and looked in at it as it lay at the bottom of the hat: all with a great appearance of consideration.

‘Mr Clennam,’ he then began, ‘I am in want of information, sir.’

‘Connected with this firm?’ asked Clennam.

‘No,’ said Pancks.

‘With what then, Mr Pancks? That is to say, assuming that you want it of me.’

‘Yes, sir; yes, I want it of you,’ said Pancks, ‘if I can persuade you to furnish it. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. Dictionary order. Dorrit. That’s the name, sir?’

Mr Pancks blew off his peculiar noise again, and fell to at his right-hand nails. Arthur looked searchingly at him; he returned the look.

‘I don’t understand you, Mr Pancks.’

‘That’s the name that I want to know about.’

‘And what do you want to know?’

‘Whatever you can and will tell me.’ This comprehensive summary of his desires was not discharged without some heavy labouring on the part of Mr Pancks’s machinery.

‘This is a singular visit, Mr Pancks. It strikes me as rather extraordinary that you should come, with such an object, to me.’

‘It may be all extraordinary together,’ returned Pancks. ‘It may be out of the ordinary course, and yet be business. In short, it is business. I am a man of business. What business have I in this present world, except to stick to business? No business.’

With his former doubt whether this dry hard personage were quite in earnest, Clennam again turned his eyes attentively upon his face. It was as scrubby and dingy as ever, and as eager and quick as ever, and he could see nothing lurking in it that was at all expressive of a latent mockery that had seemed to strike upon his ear in the voice.

‘Now,’ said Pancks, ‘to put this business on its own footing, it’s not my proprietor’s.’

‘Do you refer to Mr Casby as your proprietor?’

Pancks nodded. ‘My proprietor. Put a case. Say, at my proprietor’s I hear name—name of young person Mr Clennam wants to serve. Say, name first mentioned to my proprietor by Plornish in the Yard. Say, I go to Plornish. Say, I ask Plornish as a matter of business for information. Say, Plornish, though six weeks in arrear to my proprietor, declines. Say, Mrs Plornish declines. Say, both refer to Mr Clennam. Put the case.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Pancks, ‘say, I come to him. Say, here I am.’

With those prongs of hair sticking up all over his head, and his breath coming and going very hard and short, the busy Pancks fell back a step (in Tug metaphor, took half a turn astern) as if to show his dingy hull complete, then forged a-head again, and directed his quick glance by turns into his hat where his note-book was, and into Clennam’s face.

‘Mr Pancks, not to trespass on your grounds of mystery, I will be as plain with you as I can. Let me ask two questions. First—’

‘All right!’ said Pancks, holding up his dirty forefinger with his broken nail. ‘I see! “What’s your motive?”’

‘Exactly.’

‘Motive,’ said Pancks, ‘good. Nothing to do with my proprietor; not stateable at present, ridiculous to state at present; but good. Desiring to serve young person, name of Dorrit,’ said Pancks, with his forefinger still up as a caution. ‘Better admit motive to be good.’

‘Secondly, and lastly, what do you want to know?’

Mr Pancks fished up his note-book before the question was put, and buttoning it with care in an inner breast-pocket, and looking straight at Clennam all the time, replied with a pause and a puff, ‘I want supplementary information of any sort.’

Clennam could not withhold a smile, as the panting little steam-tug, so useful to that unwieldy ship, the Casby, waited on and watched him as if it were seeking an opportunity of running in and rifling him of all he wanted before he could resist its manoeuvres; though there was that in Mr Pancks’s eagerness, too, which awakened many wondering speculations in his mind. After a little consideration, he resolved to supply Mr Pancks with such leading information as it was in his power to impart him; well knowing that Mr Pancks, if he failed in his present research, was pretty sure to find other means of getting it.

He, therefore, first requesting Mr Pancks to remember his voluntary declaration that his proprietor had no part in the disclosure, and that his own intentions were good (two declarations which that coaly little gentleman with the greatest ardour repeated), openly told him that as to the Dorrit lineage or former place of habitation, he had no information to communicate, and that his knowledge of the family did not extend beyond the fact that it appeared to be now reduced to five members; namely, to two brothers, of whom one was single, and one a widower with three children. The ages of the whole family he made known to Mr Pancks, as nearly as he could guess at them; and finally he described to him the position of the Father of the Marshalsea, and the course of time and events through which he had become invested with that character. To all this, Mr Pancks, snorting and blowing in a more and more portentous manner as he became more interested, listened with great attention; appearing to derive the most agreeable sensations from the painfullest parts of the narrative, and particularly to be quite charmed by the account of William Dorrit’s long imprisonment.

‘In conclusion, Mr Pancks,’ said Arthur, ‘I have but to say this. I have reasons beyond a personal regard for speaking as little as I can of the Dorrit family, particularly at my mother’s house’ (Mr Pancks nodded), ‘and for knowing as much as I can. So devoted a man of business as you are—eh?’

For Mr Pancks had suddenly made that blowing effort with unusual force.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Pancks.

‘So devoted a man of business as yourself has a perfect understanding of a fair bargain. I wish to make a fair bargain with you, that you shall enlighten me concerning the Dorrit family when you have it in your power, as I have enlightened you. It may not give you a very flattering idea of my business habits, that I failed to make my terms beforehand,’ continued Clennam; ‘but I prefer to make them a point of honour. I have seen so much business done on sharp principles that, to tell you the truth, Mr Pancks, I am tired of them.’

Mr Pancks laughed. ‘It’s a bargain, sir,’ said he. ‘You shall find me stick to it.’

After that, he stood a little while looking at Clennam, and biting his ten nails all round; evidently while he fixed in his mind what he had been told, and went over it carefully, before the means of supplying a gap in his memory should be no longer at hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said at last, ‘and now I’ll wish you good day, as it’s collecting day in the Yard. By-the-bye, though. A lame foreigner with a stick.’

‘Ay, ay. You do take a reference sometimes, I see?’ said Clennam.

‘When he can pay, sir,’ replied Pancks. ‘Take all you can get, and keep back all you can’t be forced to give up. That’s business. The lame foreigner with the stick wants a top room down the Yard. Is he good for it?’

‘I am,’ said Clennam, ‘and I will answer for him.’

‘That’s enough. What I must have of Bleeding Heart Yard,’ said Pancks, making a note of the case in his book, ‘is my bond. I want my bond, you see. Pay up, or produce your property! That’s the watchword down the Yard. The lame foreigner with the stick represented that you sent him; but he could represent (as far as that goes) that the Great Mogul sent him. He has been in the hospital, I believe?’

‘Yes. Through having met with an accident. He is only just now discharged.’

‘It’s pauperising a man, sir, I have been shown, to let him into a hospital?’ said Pancks. And again blew off that remarkable sound.

‘I have been shown so too,’ said Clennam, coldly.

Mr Pancks, being by that time quite ready for a start, got under steam in a moment, and, without any other signal or ceremony, was snorting down the step-ladder and working into Bleeding Heart Yard, before he seemed to be well out of the counting-house.

Throughout the remainder of the day, Bleeding Heart Yard was in consternation, as the grim Pancks cruised in it; haranguing the inhabitants on their backslidings in respect of payment, demanding his bond, breathing notices to quit and executions, running down defaulters, sending a swell of terror on before him, and leaving it in his wake. Knots of people, impelled by a fatal attraction, lurked outside any house in which he was known to be, listening for fragments of his discourses to the inmates; and, when he was rumoured to be coming down the stairs, often could not disperse so quickly but that he would be prematurely in among them, demanding their own arrears, and rooting them to the spot. Throughout the remainder of the day, Mr Pancks’s What were they up to? and What did they mean by it? sounded all over the Yard. Mr Pancks wouldn’t hear of excuses, wouldn’t hear of complaints, wouldn’t hear of repairs, wouldn’t hear of anything but unconditional money down. Perspiring and puffing and darting about in eccentric directions, and becoming hotter and dingier every moment, he lashed the tide of the yard into a most agitated and turbid state. It had not settled down into calm water again full two hours after he had been seen fuming away on the horizon at the top of the steps.

There were several small assemblages of the Bleeding Hearts at the popular points of meeting in the Yard that night, among whom it was universally agreed that Mr Pancks was a hard man to have to do with; and that it was much to be regretted, so it was, that a gentleman like Mr Casby should put his rents in his hands, and never know him in his true light. For (said the Bleeding Hearts), if a gentleman with that head of hair and them eyes took his rents into his own hands, ma’am, there would be none of this worriting and wearing, and things would be very different.

At which identical evening hour and minute, the Patriarch—who had floated serenely through the Yard in the forenoon before the harrying began, with the express design of getting up this trustfulness in his shining bumps and silken locks—at which identical hour and minute, that first-rate humbug of a thousand guns was heavily floundering in the little Dock of his exhausted Tug at home, and was saying, as he turned his thumbs:

‘A very bad day’s work, Pancks, very bad day’s work. It seems to me, sir, and I must insist on making this observation forcibly in justice to myself, that you ought to have got much more money, much more money.’

CHAPTER 24. Fortune-Telling

Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr Plornish, who, having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a series of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her father, as regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of the axiom that there are no such stone-blind men as those who will not see, obtained an audience with her on the common staircase outside the door.

‘There’s been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,’ Plornish growled, ‘and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I met with such. The way she snapped a person’s head off, dear me!’

The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away from Mr F.’s Aunt. ‘For,’ said he, to excuse himself, ‘she is, I do assure you, the winegariest party.’

At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the subject sufficiently to observe:

‘But she’s neither here nor there just at present. The other lady, she’s Mr Casby’s daughter; and if Mr Casby an’t well off, none better, it an’t through any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he does, he really does, he does indeed!’

Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but conscientiously emphatic.

‘And what she come to our place for,’ he pursued, ‘was to leave word that if Miss Dorrit would step up to that card—which it’s Mr Casby’s house that is, and Pancks he has a office at the back, where he really does, beyond belief—she would be glad for to engage her. She was a old and a dear friend, she said particular, of Mr Clennam, and hoped for to prove herself a useful friend to his friend. Them was her words. Wishing to know whether Miss Dorrit could come to-morrow morning, I said I would see you, Miss, and inquire, and look round there to-night, to say yes, or, if you was engaged to-morrow, when?’

‘I can go to-morrow, thank you,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘This is very kind of you, but you are always kind.’

Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the room door for her readmission, and followed her in with such an exceedingly bald pretence of not having been out at all, that her father might have observed it without being very suspicious. In his affable unconsciousness, however, he took no heed. Plornish, after a little conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a Collegian with his present privilege as a humble outside friend, qualified again by his low estate as a plasterer, took his leave; making the tour of the prison before he left, and looking on at a game of skittles with the mixed feelings of an old inhabitant who had his private reasons for believing that it might be his destiny to come back again.

Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high domestic trust, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the Iron Bridge, though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly in that part of her journey than in any other. At five minutes before eight her hand was on the Patriarchal knocker, which was quite as high as she could reach.

She gave Mrs Finching’s card to the young woman who opened the door, and the young woman told her that ‘Miss Flora’—Flora having, on her return to the parental roof, reinvested herself with the title under which she had lived there—was not yet out of her bedroom, but she was to please to walk up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room. She walked up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room, as in duty bound, and there found a breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a supplementary tray upon it laid for one. The young woman, disappearing for a few moments, returned to say that she was to please to take a chair by the fire, and to take off her bonnet and make herself at home. But Little Dorrit, being bashful, and not used to make herself at home on such occasions, felt at a loss how to do it; so she was still sitting near the door with her bonnet on, when Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards.

Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious why did she sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find her by the fire reading the paper, and hadn’t that heedless girl given her the message then, and had she really been in her bonnet all this time, and pray for goodness sake let Flora take it off! Flora taking it off in the best-natured manner in the world, was so struck with the face disclosed, that she said, ‘Why, what a good little thing you are, my dear!’ and pressed her face between her hands like the gentlest of women.

It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had hardly time to think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the breakfast-table full of business, and plunged over head and ears into loquacity.

‘Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning of all mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to meet you when you came in and to say that any one that interested Arthur Clennam half so much must interest me and that I gave you the heartiest welcome and was so glad, instead of which they never called me and there I still am snoring I dare say if the truth was known and if you don’t like either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which many people don’t I dare say besides Jews and theirs are scruples of conscience which we must all respect though I must say I wish they had them equally strong when they sell us false articles for real that certainly ain’t worth the money I shall be quite vexed,’ said Flora.

Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and tea was all she usually—

‘Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,’ said Flora, turning on the urn in the most reckless manner, and making herself wink by splashing hot water into her eyes as she bent down to look into the teapot. ‘You are coming here on the footing of a friend and companion you know if you will let me take that liberty and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if you could come here upon any other, besides which Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms—you are tired my dear.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I dare say live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,’ said Flora, ‘dear dear is there anything that would do you good?’

‘Indeed I am quite well, ma’am. I thank you again and again, but I am quite well.’

‘Then take your tea at once I beg,’ said Flora, ‘and this wing of fowl and bit of ham, don’t mind me or wait for me, because I always carry in this tray myself to Mr F.’s Aunt who breakfasts in bed and a charming old lady too and very clever, Portrait of Mr F. behind the door and very like though too much forehead and as to a pillar with a marble pavement and balustrades and a mountain, I never saw him near it nor not likely in the wine trade, excellent man but not at all in that way.’

Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly following the references to that work of art.

‘Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of his sight,’ said Flora, ‘though of course I am unable to say how long that might have lasted if he hadn’t been cut short while I was a new broom, worthy man but not poetical manly prose but not romance.’

Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had given it a head that would have been, in an intellectual point of view, top-heavy for Shakespeare.

‘Romance, however,’ Flora went on, busily arranging Mr F.’s Aunt’s toast, ‘as I openly said to Mr F. when he proposed to me and you will be surprised to hear that he proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach once in a boat once in a pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the rest on his knees, Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur Clennam, our parents tore us asunder we became marble and stern reality usurped the throne, Mr F. said very much to his credit that he was perfectly aware of it and even preferred that state of things accordingly the word was spoken the fiat went forth and such is life you see my dear and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good breakfast while I go in with the tray.’

She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the meaning of her scattered words. She soon came back again; and at last began to take her own breakfast, talking all the while.

‘You see, my dear,’ said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some brown liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her tea, ‘I am obliged to be careful to follow the directions of my medical man though the flavour is anything but agreeable being a poor creature and it may be have never recovered the shock received in youth from too much giving way to crying in the next room when separated from Arthur, have you known him long?’

As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked this question—for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of her new patroness having left her far behind—she answered that she had known Mr Clennam ever since his return.

‘To be sure you couldn’t have known him before unless you had been in China or had corresponded neither of which is likely,’ returned Flora, ‘for travelling-people usually get more or less mahogany and you are not at all so and as to corresponding what about? that’s very true unless tea, so it was at his mother’s was it really that you knew him first, highly sensible and firm but dreadfully severe—ought to be the mother of the man in the iron mask.’

‘Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur’s mother it’s naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better opinion of her than I had before, though what she thinks of me when I run on as I am certain to do and she sits glowering at me like Fate in a go-cart—shocking comparison really—invalid and not her fault—I never know or can imagine.’

‘Shall I find my work anywhere, ma’am?’ asked Little Dorrit, looking timidly about; ‘can I get it?’

‘You industrious little fairy,’ returned Flora, taking, in another cup of tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical man, ‘there’s not the slightest hurry and it’s better that we should begin by being confidential about our mutual friend—too cold a word for me at least I don’t mean that, very proper expression mutual friend—than become through mere formalities not you but me like the Spartan boy with the fox biting him, which I hope you’ll excuse my bringing up for of all the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into every sort of company that boy’s the tiresomest.’

Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. ‘Hadn’t I better work the while?’ she asked. ‘I can work and attend too. I would rather, if I may.’

Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work, that Flora answered, ‘Well my dear whatever you like best,’ and produced a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and began to hem.

‘What nimble fingers you have,’ said Flora, ‘but are you sure you are well?’

‘Oh yes, indeed!’

Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head, sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet face that bent over the work.

‘You must know my dear,’ said Flora, ‘but that I have no doubt you know already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what’s his names upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had been engaged to Arthur Clennam—Mr Clennam in public where reserve is necessary Arthur here—we were all in all to one another it was the morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the late Mr F.’

Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.

‘To paint,’ said she, ‘the emotions of that morning when all was marble within and Mr F.’s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken down two streets from the house and Mr F.’s Aunt brought home like the fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt, suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.’

The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and blood.

‘I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down, ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another sphere.’

His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her eyes.

‘I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa’s roof and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except that he was still unmarried still unchanged!’

The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might have stopped other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near her. They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them watching the stitches.

‘Ask me not,’ said Flora, ‘if I love him still or if he still loves me or what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by watchful eyes and it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to be reunited not a word not a breath not a look to betray us all must be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that even if I should seem comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should seem comparatively cold to me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we understand them hush!’

All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if she really believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked herself into full mermaid condition, she did actually believe whatever she said in it.

‘Hush!’ repeated Flora, ‘I have now told you all, confidence is established between us hush, for Arthur’s sake I will always be a friend to you my dear girl and in Arthur’s name you may always rely upon me.’

The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure rose and kissed her hand. ‘You are very cold,’ said Flora, changing to her own natural kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the change. ‘Don’t work to-day. I am sure you are not well I am sure you are not strong.’

‘It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and by Mr Clennam’s kindness in confiding me to one he has known and loved so long.’

‘Well really my dear,’ said Flora, who had a decided tendency to be always honest when she gave herself time to think about it, ‘it’s as well to leave that alone now, for I couldn’t undertake to say after all, but it doesn’t signify lie down a little!’

‘I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I shall be quite well directly,’ returned Little Dorrit, with a faint smile. ‘You have overpowered me with gratitude, that’s all. If I keep near the window for a moment I shall be quite myself.’

Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and considerately retired to her former place. It was a windy day, and the air stirring on Little Dorrit’s face soon brightened it. In a very few minutes she returned to her basket of work, and her nimble fingers were as nimble as ever.

Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had told her where she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little Dorrit said that she understood why he had been so delicate, but that she felt sure he would approve of her confiding her secret to Flora, and that she would therefore do so now with Flora’s permission. Receiving an encouraging answer, she condensed the narrative of her life into a few scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy upon her father; and Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that quite understood it, and in which there was no incoherence.

When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge through hers, and led her down-stairs, and presented her to the Patriarch and Mr Pancks, who were already in the dining-room waiting to begin. (Mr F.’s Aunt was, for the time, laid up in ordinary in her chamber.) By those gentlemen she was received according to their characters; the Patriarch appearing to do her some inestimable service in saying that he was glad to see her, glad to see her; and Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite sound as a salute.

In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under any circumstances, and particularly under Flora’s insisting on her drinking a glass of wine and eating of the best that was there; but her constraint was greatly increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of that gentleman at first suggested to her mind that he might be a taker of likenesses, so intently did he look at her, and so frequently did he glance at the little note-book by his side. Observing that he made no sketch, however, and that he talked about business only, she began to have suspicions that he represented some creditor of her father’s, the balance due to whom was noted in that pocket volume. Regarded from this point of view Mr Pancks’s puffings expressed injury and impatience, and each of his louder snorts became a demand for payment.

But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous conduct on the part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table half an hour, and was at work alone. Flora had ‘gone to lie down’ in the next room, concurrently with which retirement a smell of something to drink had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was fast asleep, with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr Pancks softly appeared before her, urbanely nodding.

‘Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?’ inquired Pancks in a low voice.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Busy, I see,’ observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches. ‘What are those now, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Handkerchiefs.’

‘Are they, though!’ said Pancks. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it.’ Not in the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. ‘Perhaps you wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.’

Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.

‘I belong body and soul to my proprietor,’ said Pancks; ‘you saw my proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way, sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.’

Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. ‘I wish you’d show me the palm of your hand,’ said Pancks. ‘I should like to have a look at it. Don’t let me be troublesome.’

He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with her thimble on it.

‘Years of toil, eh?’ said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt forefinger. ‘But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!’ looking into the lines. ‘What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it’s a father! And what’s this with a clarionet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing-shoes? It’s a sister! And what’s this straggling about in an idle sort of a way? It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for ‘em all? Why, this is you, Miss Dorrit!’

Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting the impression was gone.

‘Now, the deuce is in it,’ muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her hand with his clumsy finger, ‘if this isn’t me in the corner here! What do I want here? What’s behind me?’

He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.

‘Is it any harm?’ asked Little Dorrit, smiling.

‘Deuce a bit!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’

‘I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.’

‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss Dorrit.’

Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; and repeated slowly, ‘Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live to see.’

She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only by his knowing so much about her.

‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!’

More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to him for an explanation of his last words.

‘Not that,’ said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally grotesque. ‘Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’

‘I hardly know what to say,’ returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. ‘Why?’

‘Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Agreed that I—am—to—’

‘To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not to mind me when I come and go. It’s very easy. I am no loss, I am not handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber. You need do no more than think, “Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his fortune-telling—he’ll tell the rest of my fortune one day—I shall live to know it.” Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Ye-es,’ faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, ‘I suppose so, while you do no harm.’

‘Good!’ Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped forward. ‘Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.’ With that he rubbed his hands as if the interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door, and urbanely nodded himself out again.

If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded him in Mr Casby’s house of significantly glancing at her and snorting at her—which was not much, after what he had done already—he began to pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she went to Mr Casby’s, he was always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam’s, he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among the visitors at her father’s Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that held its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the members of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company to five gallons of ale—report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The effect on Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of in his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to that produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind him. He could only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn’t be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never said a word more, or made a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr Pancks crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that gentleman’s arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit, save once or twice when he happened to come close to her and there was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing, with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, ‘Pancks the gipsy—fortune-telling.’

Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet, over the patient heart. Every day found her something more retiring than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison unnoticed, and elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for herself, her chief desires.

To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she was unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with her father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she would flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her room, and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those spikes upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave itself into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when she saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still, always over it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her solitude, seeing everything with that ineffaceable brand.

A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little Dorrit’s room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had ever been able to buy, had gone to her father’s room. Howbeit, for this poor place she showed an increasing love; and to sit in it alone became her favourite rest.

Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy’s well-known step coming up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being summoned away. As Maggy’s step came higher up and nearer, she trembled and faltered; and it was as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at length appeared.

‘Please, Little Mother,’ said Maggy, panting for breath, ‘you must come down and see him. He’s here.’

‘Who, Maggy?’

‘Who, o’ course Mr Clennam. He’s in your father’s room, and he says to me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it’s only me.’

‘I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down. See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that you left me so, or I would have come.’

‘Well, it an’t very polite though, Little Mother,’ said the staring Maggy, ‘to turn your face away, neither!’

Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in inventing them. ‘Putting both your hands afore your face too!’ she went on. ‘If you can’t bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to tell her so at once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her feelings and breaking her heart at ten year old, poor thing!’

‘It’s to ease my head, Maggy.’

‘Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too. Don’t go and have all the crying to yourself,’ expostulated Maggy, ‘that an’t not being greedy.’ And immediately began to blubber.

It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with the excuse; but the promise of being told a story—of old her great delight—on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour longer, combined with a misgiving on Maggy’s part that she had left her good temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away she went, muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind, and, at the appointed time, came back.

‘He was very sorry, I can tell you,’ she announced, ‘and wanted to send a doctor. And he’s coming again to-morrow he is and I don’t think he’ll have a good sleep to-night along o’ hearing about your head, Little Mother. Oh my! Ain’t you been a-crying!’

‘I think I have, a little, Maggy.’

‘A little! Oh!’

‘But it’s all over now—all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not go down.’

Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair by the window. Over against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic exertions that were not at all required, dragged the box which was her seat on story-telling occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and said, with a voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes:

‘Now, Little Mother, let’s have a good ‘un!’

‘What shall it be about, Maggy?’

‘Oh, let’s have a princess,’ said Maggy, ‘and let her be a reg’lar one. Beyond all belief, you know!’

Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:

‘Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had—’

‘Hospitals,’ interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. ‘Let him have hospitals, because they’re so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of Chicking.’

‘Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.’

‘Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?’ said Maggy.

‘Plenty of everything.’

‘Lor!’ chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. ‘Wasn’t it prime!’

‘This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown up, she was the wonder of the world. Now, near the Palace where this Princess lived, there was a cottage in which there was a poor little tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.’

‘An old woman,’ said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her lips.

‘No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.’

‘I wonder she warn’t afraid,’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’

‘The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever she went by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. So, one day she stopped the coachman a little way from the cottage, and got out and walked on and peeped in at the door, and there, as usual, was the tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.’

‘Like trying to stare one another out,’ said Maggy. ‘Please go on, Little Mother.’

‘The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the power of knowing secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you keep it there? This showed her directly that the Princess knew why she lived all alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she kneeled down at the Princess’s feet, and asked her never to betray her. So the Princess said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So the tiny woman closed the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the door, and trembling from head to foot for fear that any one should suspect her, opened a very secret place and showed the Princess a shadow.’

‘Lor!’ said Maggy.

‘It was the shadow of Some one who had gone by long before: of Some one who had gone on far away quite out of reach, never, never to come back. It was bright to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the Princess, she was proud of it with all her heart, as a great, great treasure. When the Princess had considered it a little while, she said to the tiny woman, And you keep watch over this every day? And she cast down her eyes, and whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me why. To which the other replied, that no one so good and kind had ever passed that way, and that was why in the beginning. She said, too, that nobody missed it, that nobody was the worse for it, that Some one had gone on, to those who were expecting him—’

‘Some one was a man then?’ interposed Maggy.

Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed:

‘—Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this remembrance was stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made answer, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be discovered there. The tiny woman told her No; when that time came, it would sink quietly into her own grave, and would never be found.’

‘Well, to be sure!’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’

‘The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may suppose, Maggy.’

[‘And well she might be,’ said Maggy.)

‘So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of it. Every day she drove in her beautiful carriage by the cottage-door, and there she saw the tiny woman always alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. At last one day the wheel was still, and the tiny woman was not to be seen. When the Princess made inquiries why the wheel had stopped, and where the tiny woman was, she was informed that the wheel had stopped because there was nobody to turn it, the tiny woman being dead.’

[‘They ought to have took her to the Hospital,’ said Maggy, and then she’d have got over it.’)

‘The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the tiny woman, dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place where she had stopped it before, and went to the cottage and peeped in at the door. There was nobody to look at her now, and nobody for her to look at, so she went in at once to search for the treasured shadow. But there was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and then she knew that the tiny woman had told her the truth, and that it would never give anybody any trouble, and that it had sunk quietly into her own grave, and that she and it were at rest together.

‘That’s all, Maggy.’

The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit’s face when she came thus to the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to shade it.

‘Had she got to be old?’ Maggy asked.

‘The tiny woman?’

‘Ah!’

‘I don’t know,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But it would have been just the same if she had been ever so old.’

‘Would it raly!’ said Maggy. ‘Well, I suppose it would though.’ And sat staring and ruminating.

She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little Dorrit, to entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window. As she glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up with the corner of his eye as he went by.

‘Who’s he, Little Mother?’ said Maggy. She had joined her at the window and was leaning on her shoulder. ‘I see him come in and out often.’

‘I have heard him called a fortune-teller,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But I doubt if he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes.’

‘Couldn’t have told the Princess hers?’ said Maggy.

Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the prison, shook her head.

‘Nor the tiny woman hers?’ said Maggy.

‘No,’ said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her. ‘But let us come away from the window.’

CHAPTER 25. Conspirators and Others

The private residence of Mr Pancks was in Pentonville, where he lodged on the second-floor of a professional gentleman in an extremely small way, who had an inner-door within the street door, poised on a spring and starting open with a click like a trap; and who wrote up in the fan-light, RUGG, GENERAL AGENT, ACCOUNTANT, DEBTS RECOVERED.

This scroll, majestic in its severe simplicity, illuminated a little slip of front garden abutting on the thirsty high-road, where a few of the dustiest of leaves hung their dismal heads and led a life of choking. A professor of writing occupied the first-floor, and enlivened the garden railings with glass-cases containing choice examples of what his pupils had been before six lessons and while the whole of his young family shook the table, and what they had become after six lessons when the young family was under restraint. The tenancy of Mr Pancks was limited to one airy bedroom; he covenanting and agreeing with Mr Rugg his landlord, that in consideration of a certain scale of payments accurately defined, and on certain verbal notice duly given, he should be at liberty to elect to share the Sunday breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, or each or any or all of those repasts or meals of Mr and Miss Rugg (his daughter) in the back-parlour.

Miss Rugg was a lady of a little property which she had acquired, together with much distinction in the neighbourhood, by having her heart severely lacerated and her feelings mangled by a middle-aged baker resident in the vicinity, against whom she had, by the agency of Mr Rugg, found it necessary to proceed at law to recover damages for a breach of promise of marriage. The baker having been, by the counsel for Miss Rugg, witheringly denounced on that occasion up to the full amount of twenty guineas, at the rate of about eighteen-pence an epithet, and having been cast in corresponding damages, still suffered occasional persecution from the youth of Pentonville. But Miss Rugg, environed by the majesty of the law, and having her damages invested in the public securities, was regarded with consideration.

In the society of Mr Rugg, who had a round white visage, as if all his blushes had been drawn out of him long ago, and who had a ragged yellow head like a worn-out hearth broom; and in the society of Miss Rugg, who had little nankeen spots, like shirt buttons, all over her face, and whose own yellow tresses were rather scrubby than luxuriant; Mr Pancks had usually dined on Sundays for some few years, and had twice a week, or so, enjoyed an evening collation of bread, Dutch cheese, and porter. Mr Pancks was one of the very few marriageable men for whom Miss Rugg had no terrors, the argument with which he reassured himself being twofold; that is to say, firstly, ‘that it wouldn’t do twice,’ and secondly, ‘that he wasn’t worth it.’ Fortified within this double armour, Mr Pancks snorted at Miss Rugg on easy terms.

Up to this time, Mr Pancks had transacted little or no business at his quarters in Pentonville, except in the sleeping line; but now that he had become a fortune-teller, he was often closeted after midnight with Mr Rugg in his little front-parlour office, and even after those untimely hours, burnt tallow in his bed-room. Though his duties as his proprietor’s grubber were in no wise lessened; and though that service bore no greater resemblance to a bed of roses than was to be discovered in its many thorns; some new branch of industry made a constant demand upon him. When he cast off the Patriarch at night, it was only to take an anonymous craft in tow, and labour away afresh in other waters.

The advance from a personal acquaintance with the elder Mr Chivery to an introduction to his amiable wife and disconsolate son, may have been easy; but easy or not, Mr Pancks soon made it. He nestled in the bosom of the tobacco business within a week or two after his first appearance in the College, and particularly addressed himself to the cultivation of a good understanding with Young John. In this endeavour he so prospered as to lure that pining shepherd forth from the groves, and tempt him to undertake mysterious missions; on which he began to disappear at uncertain intervals for as long a space as two or three days together. The prudent Mrs Chivery, who wondered greatly at this change, would have protested against it as detrimental to the Highland typification on the doorpost but for two forcible reasons; one, that her John was roused to take strong interest in the business which these starts were supposed to advance—and this she held to be good for his drooping spirits; the other, that Mr Pancks confidentially agreed to pay her, for the occupation of her son’s time, at the handsome rate of seven and sixpence per day. The proposal originated with himself, and was couched in the pithy terms, ‘If your John is weak enough, ma’am, not to take it, that is no reason why you should be, don’t you see? So, quite between ourselves, ma’am, business being business, here it is!’

What Mr Chivery thought of these things, or how much or how little he knew about them, was never gathered from himself. It has been already remarked that he was a man of few words; and it may be here observed that he had imbibed a professional habit of locking everything up. He locked himself up as carefully as he locked up the Marshalsea debtors. Even his custom of bolting his meals may have been a part of an uniform whole; but there is no question, that, as to all other purposes, he kept his mouth as he kept the Marshalsea door. He never opened it without occasion. When it was necessary to let anything out, he opened it a little way, held it open just as long as sufficed for the purpose, and locked it again. Even as he would be sparing of his trouble at the Marshalsea door, and would keep a visitor who wanted to go out, waiting for a few moments if he saw another visitor coming down the yard, so that one turn of the key should suffice for both, similarly he would often reserve a remark if he perceived another on its way to his lips, and would deliver himself of the two together. As to any key to his inner knowledge being to be found in his face, the Marshalsea key was as legible as an index to the individual characters and histories upon which it was turned.

That Mr Pancks should be moved to invite any one to dinner at Pentonville, was an unprecedented fact in his calendar. But he invited Young John to dinner, and even brought him within range of the dangerous (because expensive) fascinations of Miss Rugg. The banquet was appointed for a Sunday, and Miss Rugg with her own hands stuffed a leg of mutton with oysters on the occasion, and sent it to the baker’s—not the baker’s but an opposition establishment. Provision of oranges, apples, and nuts was also made. And rum was brought home by Mr Pancks on Saturday night, to gladden the visitor’s heart.

The store of creature comforts was not the chief part of the visitor’s reception. Its special feature was a foregone family confidence and sympathy. When Young John appeared at half-past one without the ivory hand and waistcoat of golden sprigs, the sun shorn of his beams by disastrous clouds, Mr Pancks presented him to the yellow-haired Ruggs as the young man he had so often mentioned who loved Miss Dorrit.

‘I am glad,’ said Mr Rugg, challenging him specially in that character, ‘to have the distinguished gratification of making your acquaintance, sir. Your feelings do you honour. You are young; may you never outlive your feelings! If I was to outlive my own feelings, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, who was a man of many words, and was considered to possess a remarkably good address; ‘if I was to outlive my own feelings, I’d leave fifty pound in my will to the man who would put me out of existence.’

Miss Rugg heaved a sigh.

‘My daughter, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Anastatia, you are no stranger to the state of this young man’s affections. My daughter has had her trials, sir’—Mr Rugg might have used the word more pointedly in the singular number—‘and she can feel for you.’

Young John, almost overwhelmed by the touching nature of this greeting, professed himself to that effect.

‘What I envy you, sir, is,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘allow me to take your hat—we are rather short of pegs—I’ll put it in the corner, nobody will tread on it there—What I envy you, sir, is the luxury of your own feelings. I belong to a profession in which that luxury is sometimes denied us.’

Young John replied, with acknowledgments, that he only hoped he did what was right, and what showed how entirely he was devoted to Miss Dorrit. He wished to be unselfish; and he hoped he was. He wished to do anything as laid in his power to serve Miss Dorrit, altogether putting himself out of sight; and he hoped he did. It was but little that he could do, but he hoped he did it.

‘Sir,’ said Mr Rugg, taking him by the hand, ‘you are a young man that it does one good to come across. You are a young man that I should like to put in the witness-box, to humanise the minds of the legal profession. I hope you have brought your appetite with you, and intend to play a good knife and fork?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Young John, ‘I don’t eat much at present.’

Mr Rugg drew him a little apart. ‘My daughter’s case, sir,’ said he, ‘at the time when, in vindication of her outraged feelings and her sex, she became the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins. I suppose I could have put it in evidence, Mr Chivery, if I had thought it worth my while, that the amount of solid sustenance my daughter consumed at that period did not exceed ten ounces per week.’

‘I think I go a little beyond that, sir,’ returned the other, hesitating, as if he confessed it with some shame.

‘But in your case there’s no fiend in human form,’ said Mr Rugg, with argumentative smile and action of hand. ‘Observe, Mr Chivery! No fiend in human form!’

‘No, sir, certainly,’ Young John added with simplicity, ‘I should be very sorry if there was.’

‘The sentiment,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘is what I should have expected from your known principles. It would affect my daughter greatly, sir, if she heard it. As I perceive the mutton, I am glad she didn’t hear it. Mr Pancks, on this occasion, pray face me. My dear, face Mr Chivery. For what we are going to receive, may we (and Miss Dorrit) be truly thankful!’

But for a grave waggishness in Mr Rugg’s manner of delivering this introduction to the feast, it might have appeared that Miss Dorrit was expected to be one of the company. Pancks recognised the sally in his usual way, and took in his provender in his usual way. Miss Rugg, perhaps making up some of her arrears, likewise took very kindly to the mutton, and it rapidly diminished to the bone. A bread-and-butter pudding entirely disappeared, and a considerable amount of cheese and radishes vanished by the same means. Then came the dessert.

Then also, and before the broaching of the rum and water, came Mr Pancks’s note-book. The ensuing business proceedings were brief but curious, and rather in the nature of a conspiracy. Mr Pancks looked over his note-book, which was now getting full, studiously; and picked out little extracts, which he wrote on separate slips of paper on the table; Mr Rugg, in the meanwhile, looking at him with close attention, and Young John losing his uncollected eye in mists of meditation. When Mr Pancks, who supported the character of chief conspirator, had completed his extracts, he looked them over, corrected them, put up his note-book, and held them like a hand at cards.

‘Now, there’s a churchyard in Bedfordshire,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’

‘I’ll take it, sir,’ returned Mr Rugg, ‘if no one bids.’

Mr Pancks dealt him his card, and looked at his hand again.

‘Now, there’s an Enquiry in York,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’

‘I’m not good for York,’ said Mr Rugg.

‘Then perhaps,’ pursued Pancks, ‘you’ll be so obliging, John Chivery?’

Young John assenting, Pancks dealt him his card, and consulted his hand again.

‘There’s a Church in London; I may as well take that. And a Family Bible; I may as well take that, too. That’s two to me. Two to me,’ repeated Pancks, breathing hard over his cards. ‘Here’s a Clerk at Durham for you, John, and an old seafaring gentleman at Dunstable for you, Mr Rugg. Two to me, was it? Yes, two to me. Here’s a Stone; three to me. And a Still-born Baby; four to me. And all, for the present, told.’

When he had thus disposed of his cards, all being done very quietly and in a suppressed tone, Mr Pancks puffed his way into his own breast-pocket and tugged out a canvas bag; from which, with a sparing hand, he told forth money for travelling expenses in two little portions. ‘Cash goes out fast,’ he said anxiously, as he pushed a portion to each of his male companions, ‘very fast.’

‘I can only assure you, Mr Pancks,’ said Young John, ‘that I deeply regret my circumstances being such that I can’t afford to pay my own charges, or that it’s not advisable to allow me the time necessary for my doing the distances on foot; because nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to walk myself off my legs without fee or reward.’

This young man’s disinterestedness appeared so very ludicrous in the eyes of Miss Rugg, that she was obliged to effect a precipitate retirement from the company, and to sit upon the stairs until she had had her laugh out. Meanwhile Mr Pancks, looking, not without some pity, at Young John, slowly and thoughtfully twisted up his canvas bag as if he were wringing its neck. The lady, returning as he restored it to his pocket, mixed rum and water for the party, not forgetting her fair self, and handed to every one his glass. When all were supplied, Mr Rugg rose, and silently holding out his glass at arm’s length above the centre of the table, by that gesture invited the other three to add theirs, and to unite in a general conspiratorial clink. The ceremony was effective up to a certain point, and would have been wholly so throughout, if Miss Rugg, as she raised her glass to her lips in completion of it, had not happened to look at Young John; when she was again so overcome by the contemptible comicality of his disinterestedness as to splutter some ambrosial drops of rum and water around, and withdraw in confusion.

Such was the dinner without precedent, given by Pancks at Pentonville; and such was the busy and strange life Pancks led. The only waking moments at which he appeared to relax from his cares, and to recreate himself by going anywhere or saying anything without a pervading object, were when he showed a dawning interest in the lame foreigner with the stick, down Bleeding Heart Yard.

The foreigner, by name John Baptist Cavalletto—they called him Mr Baptist in the Yard—was such a chirping, easy, hopeful little fellow, that his attraction for Pancks was probably in the force of contrast. Solitary, weak, and scantily acquainted with the most necessary words of the only language in which he could communicate with the people about him, he went with the stream of his fortunes, in a brisk way that was new in those parts. With little to eat, and less to drink, and nothing to wear but what he wore upon him, or had brought tied up in one of the smallest bundles that ever were seen, he put as bright a face upon it as if he were in the most flourishing circumstances when he first hobbled up and down the Yard, humbly propitiating the general good-will with his white teeth.

It was uphill work for a foreigner, lame or sound, to make his way with the Bleeding Hearts. In the first place, they were vaguely persuaded that every foreigner had a knife about him; in the second, they held it to be a sound constitutional national axiom that he ought to go home to his own country. They never thought of inquiring how many of their own countrymen would be returned upon their hands from divers parts of the world, if the principle were generally recognised; they considered it particularly and peculiarly British. In the third place, they had a notion that it was a sort of Divine visitation upon a foreigner that he was not an Englishman, and that all kinds of calamities happened to his country because it did things that England did not, and did not do things that England did. In this belief, to be sure, they had long been carefully trained by the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, who were always proclaiming to them, officially, that no country which failed to submit itself to those two large families could possibly hope to be under the protection of Providence; and who, when they believed it, disparaged them in private as the most prejudiced people under the sun.

This, therefore, might be called a political position of the Bleeding Hearts; but they entertained other objections to having foreigners in the Yard. They believed that foreigners were always badly off; and though they were as ill off themselves as they could desire to be, that did not diminish the force of the objection. They believed that foreigners were dragooned and bayoneted; and though they certainly got their own skulls promptly fractured if they showed any ill-humour, still it was with a blunt instrument, and that didn’t count. They believed that foreigners were always immoral; and though they had an occasional assize at home, and now and then a divorce case or so, that had nothing to do with it. They believed that foreigners had no independent spirit, as never being escorted to the poll in droves by Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, with colours flying and the tune of Rule Britannia playing. Not to be tedious, they had many other beliefs of a similar kind.

Against these obstacles, the lame foreigner with the stick had to make head as well as he could; not absolutely single-handed, because Mr Arthur Clennam had recommended him to the Plornishes (he lived at the top of the same house), but still at heavy odds. However, the Bleeding Hearts were kind hearts; and when they saw the little fellow cheerily limping about with a good-humoured face, doing no harm, drawing no knives, committing no outrageous immoralities, living chiefly on farinaceous and milk diet, and playing with Mrs Plornish’s children of an evening, they began to think that although he could never hope to be an Englishman, still it would be hard to visit that affliction on his head. They began to accommodate themselves to his level, calling him ‘Mr Baptist,’ but treating him like a baby, and laughing immoderately at his lively gestures and his childish English—more, because he didn’t mind it, and laughed too. They spoke to him in very loud voices as if he were stone deaf. They constructed sentences, by way of teaching him the language in its purity, such as were addressed by the savages to Captain Cook, or by Friday to Robinson Crusoe. Mrs Plornish was particularly ingenious in this art; and attained so much celebrity for saying ‘Me ope you leg well soon,’ that it was considered in the Yard but a very short remove indeed from speaking Italian. Even Mrs Plornish herself began to think that she had a natural call towards that language. As he became more popular, household objects were brought into requisition for his instruction in a copious vocabulary; and whenever he appeared in the Yard ladies would fly out at their doors crying ‘Mr Baptist—tea-pot!’ ‘Mr Baptist—dust-pan!’ ‘Mr Baptist—flour-dredger!’ ‘Mr Baptist—coffee-biggin!’ At the same time exhibiting those articles, and penetrating him with a sense of the appalling difficulties of the Anglo-Saxon tongue.

It was in this stage of his progress, and in about the third week of his occupation, that Mr Pancks’s fancy became attracted by the little man. Mounting to his attic, attended by Mrs Plornish as interpreter, he found Mr Baptist with no furniture but his bed on the ground, a table, and a chair, carving with the aid of a few simple tools, in the blithest way possible.

‘Now, old chap,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘pay up!’

He had his money ready, folded in a scrap of paper, and laughingly handed it in; then with a free action, threw out as many fingers of his right hand as there were shillings, and made a cut crosswise in the air for an odd sixpence.

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pancks, watching him, wonderingly. ‘That’s it, is it? You’re a quick customer. It’s all right. I didn’t expect to receive it, though.’

Mrs Plornish here interposed with great condescension, and explained to Mr Baptist. ‘E please. E glad get money.’

The little man smiled and nodded. His bright face seemed uncommonly attractive to Mr Pancks. ‘How’s he getting on in his limb?’ he asked Mrs Plornish.

‘Oh, he’s a deal better, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘We expect next week he’ll be able to leave off his stick entirely.’ (The opportunity being too favourable to be lost, Mrs Plornish displayed her great accomplishment by explaining with pardonable pride to Mr Baptist, ‘E ope you leg well soon.’)

‘He’s a merry fellow, too,’ said Mr Pancks, admiring him as if he were a mechanical toy. ‘How does he live?’

‘Why, sir,’ rejoined Mrs Plornish, ‘he turns out to have quite a power of carving them flowers that you see him at now.’ (Mr Baptist, watching their faces as they spoke, held up his work. Mrs Plornish interpreted in her Italian manner, on behalf of Mr Pancks, ‘E please. Double good!’)

‘Can he live by that?’ asked Mr Pancks.

‘He can live on very little, sir, and it is expected as he will be able, in time, to make a very good living. Mr Clennam got it him to do, and gives him odd jobs besides in at the Works next door—makes ‘em for him, in short, when he knows he wants ‘em.’

‘And what does he do with himself, now, when he ain’t hard at it?’ said Mr Pancks.

‘Why, not much as yet, sir, on accounts I suppose of not being able to walk much; but he goes about the Yard, and he chats without particular understanding or being understood, and he plays with the children, and he sits in the sun—he’ll sit down anywhere, as if it was an arm-chair—and he’ll sing, and he’ll laugh!’

‘Laugh!’ echoed Mr Pancks. ‘He looks to me as if every tooth in his head was always laughing.’

‘But whenever he gets to the top of the steps at t’other end of the Yard,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘he’ll peep out in the curiousest way! So that some of us thinks he’s peeping out towards where his own country is, and some of us thinks he’s looking for somebody he don’t want to see, and some of us don’t know what to think.’

Mr Baptist seemed to have a general understanding of what she said; or perhaps his quickness caught and applied her slight action of peeping. In any case he closed his eyes and tossed his head with the air of a man who had sufficient reasons for what he did, and said in his own tongue, it didn’t matter. Altro!

‘What’s Altro?’ said Pancks.

‘Hem! It’s a sort of a general kind of expression, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish.

‘Is it?’ said Pancks. ‘Why, then Altro to you, old chap. Good afternoon. Altro!’

Mr Baptist in his vivacious way repeating the word several times, Mr Pancks in his duller way gave it him back once. From that time it became a frequent custom with Pancks the gipsy, as he went home jaded at night, to pass round by Bleeding Heart Yard, go quietly up the stairs, look in at Mr Baptist’s door, and, finding him in his room, to say, ‘Hallo, old chap! Altro!’ To which Mr Baptist would reply with innumerable bright nods and smiles, ‘Altro, signore, altro, altro, altro!’ After this highly condensed conversation, Mr Pancks would go his way with an appearance of being lightened and refreshed.

CHAPTER 26. Nobody’s State of Mind

If Arthur Clennam had not arrived at that wise decision firmly to restrain himself from loving Pet, he would have lived on in a state of much perplexity, involving difficult struggles with his own heart. Not the least of these would have been a contention, always waging within it, between a tendency to dislike Mr Henry Gowan, if not to regard him with positive repugnance, and a whisper that the inclination was unworthy. A generous nature is not prone to strong aversions, and is slow to admit them even dispassionately; but when it finds ill-will gaining upon it, and can discern between-whiles that its origin is not dispassionate, such a nature becomes distressed.

Therefore Mr Henry Gowan would have clouded Clennam’s mind, and would have been far oftener present to it than more agreeable persons and subjects but for the great prudence of his decision aforesaid. As it was, Mr Gowan seemed transferred to Daniel Doyce’s mind; at all events, it so happened that it usually fell to Mr Doyce’s turn, rather than to Clennam’s, to speak of him in the friendly conversations they held together. These were of frequent occurrence now; as the two partners shared a portion of a roomy house in one of the grave old-fashioned City streets, lying not far from the Bank of England, by London Wall.

Mr Doyce had been to Twickenham to pass the day. Clennam had excused himself. Mr Doyce was just come home. He put in his head at the door of Clennam’s sitting-room to say Good night.

‘Come in, come in!’ said Clennam.

‘I saw you were reading,’ returned Doyce, as he entered, ‘and thought you might not care to be disturbed.’

But for the notable resolution he had made, Clennam really might not have known what he had been reading; really might not have had his eyes upon the book for an hour past, though it lay open before him. He shut it up, rather quickly.

‘Are they well?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Doyce; ‘they are well. They are all well.’

Daniel had an old workmanlike habit of carrying his pocket-handkerchief in his hat. He took it out and wiped his forehead with it, slowly repeating, ‘They are all well. Miss Minnie looking particularly well, I thought.’

‘Any company at the cottage?’

‘No, no company.’

‘And how did you get on, you four?’ asked Clennam gaily.

‘There were five of us,’ returned his partner. ‘There was What’s-his-name. He was there.’

‘Who is he?’ said Clennam.

‘Mr Henry Gowan.’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Clennam with unusual vivacity, ‘Yes!—I forgot him.’

‘As I mentioned, you may remember,’ said Daniel Doyce, ‘he is always there on Sunday.’

‘Yes, yes,’ returned Clennam; ‘I remember now.’

Daniel Doyce, still wiping his forehead, ploddingly repeated. ‘Yes. He was there, he was there. Oh yes, he was there. And his dog. He was there too.’

‘Miss Meagles is quite attached to—the—dog,’ observed Clennam.

‘Quite so,’ assented his partner. ‘More attached to the dog than I am to the man.’

‘You mean Mr—?’

‘I mean Mr Gowan, most decidedly,’ said Daniel Doyce.

There was a gap in the conversation, which Clennam devoted to winding up his watch.

‘Perhaps you are a little hasty in your judgment,’ he said. ‘Our judgments—I am supposing a general case—’

‘Of course,’ said Doyce.

‘Are so liable to be influenced by many considerations, which, almost without our knowing it, are unfair, that it is necessary to keep a guard upon them. For instance, Mr—’

‘Gowan,’ quietly said Doyce, upon whom the utterance of the name almost always devolved.

‘Is young and handsome, easy and quick, has talent, and has seen a good deal of various kinds of life. It might be difficult to give an unselfish reason for being prepossessed against him.’

‘Not difficult for me, I think, Clennam,’ returned his partner. ‘I see him bringing present anxiety, and, I fear, future sorrow, into my old friend’s house. I see him wearing deeper lines into my old friend’s face, the nearer he draws to, and the oftener he looks at, the face of his daughter. In short, I see him with a net about the pretty and affectionate creature whom he will never make happy.’

‘We don’t know,’ said Clennam, almost in the tone of a man in pain, ‘that he will not make her happy.’

‘We don’t know,’ returned his partner, ‘that the earth will last another hundred years, but we think it highly probable.’

‘Well, well!’ said Clennam, ‘we must be hopeful, and we must at least try to be, if not generous (which, in this case, we have no opportunity of being), just. We will not disparage this gentleman, because he is successful in his addresses to the beautiful object of his ambition; and we will not question her natural right to bestow her love on one whom she finds worthy of it.’

‘Maybe, my friend,’ said Doyce. ‘Maybe also, that she is too young and petted, too confiding and inexperienced, to discriminate well.’

‘That,’ said Clennam, ‘would be far beyond our power of correction.’

Daniel Doyce shook his head gravely, and rejoined, ‘I fear so.’

‘Therefore, in a word,’ said Clennam, ‘we should make up our minds that it is not worthy of us to say any ill of Mr Gowan. It would be a poor thing to gratify a prejudice against him. And I resolve, for my part, not to depreciate him.’

‘I am not quite so sure of myself, and therefore I reserve my privilege of objecting to him,’ returned the other. ‘But, if I am not sure of myself, I am sure of you, Clennam, and I know what an upright man you are, and how much to be respected. Good night, my friend and partner!’ He shook his hand in saying this, as if there had been something serious at the bottom of their conversation; and they separated.

By this time they had visited the family on several occasions, and had always observed that even a passing allusion to Mr Henry Gowan when he was not among them, brought back the cloud which had obscured Mr Meagles’s sunshine on the morning of the chance encounter at the Ferry. If Clennam had ever admitted the forbidden passion into his breast, this period might have been a period of real trial; under the actual circumstances, doubtless it was nothing—nothing.

Equally, if his heart had given entertainment to that prohibited guest, his silent fighting of his way through the mental condition of this period might have been a little meritorious. In the constant effort not to be betrayed into a new phase of the besetting sin of his experience, the pursuit of selfish objects by low and small means, and to hold instead to some high principle of honour and generosity, there might have been a little merit. In the resolution not even to avoid Mr Meagles’s house, lest, in the selfish sparing of himself, he should bring any slight distress upon the daughter through making her the cause of an estrangement which he believed the father would regret, there might have been a little merit. In the modest truthfulness of always keeping in view the greater equality of Mr Gowan’s years and the greater attractions of his person and manner, there might have been a little merit. In doing all this and much more, in a perfectly unaffected way and with a manful and composed constancy, while the pain within him (peculiar as his life and history) was very sharp, there might have been some quiet strength of character. But, after the resolution he had made, of course he could have no such merits as these; and such a state of mind was nobody’s—nobody’s.

Mr Gowan made it no concern of his whether it was nobody’s or somebody’s. He preserved his perfect serenity of manner on all occasions, as if the possibility of Clennam’s presuming to have debated the great question were too distant and ridiculous to be imagined. He had always an affability to bestow on Clennam and an ease to treat him with, which might of itself (in the supposititious case of his not having taken that sagacious course) have been a very uncomfortable element in his state of mind.

‘I quite regret you were not with us yesterday,’ said Mr Henry Gowan, calling on Clennam the next morning. ‘We had an agreeable day up the river there.’

So he had heard, Arthur said.

‘From your partner?’ returned Henry Gowan. ‘What a dear old fellow he is!’

‘I have a great regard for him.’

‘By Jove, he is the finest creature!’ said Gowan. ‘So fresh, so green, trusts in such wonderful things!’

Here was one of the many little rough points that had a tendency to grate on Clennam’s hearing. He put it aside by merely repeating that he had a high regard for Mr Doyce.

‘He is charming! To see him mooning along to that time of life, laying down nothing by the way and picking up nothing by the way, is delightful. It warms a man. So unspoilt, so simple, such a good soul! Upon my life Mr Clennam, one feels desperately worldly and wicked in comparison with such an innocent creature. I speak for myself, let me add, without including you. You are genuine also.’

‘Thank you for the compliment,’ said Clennam, ill at ease; ‘you are too, I hope?’

‘So so,’ rejoined the other. ‘To be candid with you, tolerably. I am not a great impostor. Buy one of my pictures, and I assure you, in confidence, it will not be worth the money. Buy one of another man’s—any great professor who beats me hollow—and the chances are that the more you give him, the more he’ll impose upon you. They all do it.’

‘All painters?’

‘Painters, writers, patriots, all the rest who have stands in the market. Give almost any man I know ten pounds, and he will impose upon you to a corresponding extent; a thousand pounds—to a corresponding extent; ten thousand pounds—to a corresponding extent. So great the success, so great the imposition. But what a capital world it is!’ cried Gowan with warm enthusiasm. ‘What a jolly, excellent, lovable world it is!’

‘I had rather thought,’ said Clennam, ‘that the principle you mention was chiefly acted on by—’

‘By the Barnacles?’ interrupted Gowan, laughing.

‘By the political gentlemen who condescend to keep the Circumlocution Office.’

‘Ah! Don’t be hard upon the Barnacles,’ said Gowan, laughing afresh, ‘they are darling fellows! Even poor little Clarence, the born idiot of the family, is the most agreeable and most endearing blockhead! And by Jupiter, with a kind of cleverness in him too that would astonish you!’

‘It would. Very much,’ said Clennam, drily.

‘And after all,’ cried Gowan, with that characteristic balancing of his which reduced everything in the wide world to the same light weight, ‘though I can’t deny that the Circumlocution Office may ultimately shipwreck everybody and everything, still, that will probably not be in our time—and it’s a school for gentlemen.’

‘It’s a very dangerous, unsatisfactory, and expensive school to the people who pay to keep the pupils there, I am afraid,’ said Clennam, shaking his head.

‘Ah! You are a terrible fellow,’ returned Gowan, airily. ‘I can understand how you have frightened that little donkey, Clarence, the most estimable of moon-calves (I really love him) nearly out of his wits. But enough of him, and of all the rest of them. I want to present you to my mother, Mr Clennam. Pray do me the favour to give me the opportunity.’

In nobody’s state of mind, there was nothing Clennam would have desired less, or would have been more at a loss how to avoid.

‘My mother lives in a most primitive manner down in that dreary red-brick dungeon at Hampton Court,’ said Gowan. ‘If you would make your own appointment, suggest your own day for permitting me to take you there to dinner, you would be bored and she would be charmed. Really that’s the state of the case.’

What could Clennam say after this? His retiring character included a great deal that was simple in the best sense, because unpractised and unused; and in his simplicity and modesty, he could only say that he was happy to place himself at Mr Gowan’s disposal. Accordingly he said it, and the day was fixed. And a dreaded day it was on his part, and a very unwelcome day when it came and they went down to Hampton Court together.

The venerable inhabitants of that venerable pile seemed, in those times, to be encamped there like a sort of civilised gipsies. There was a temporary air about their establishments, as if they were going away the moment they could get anything better; there was also a dissatisfied air about themselves, as if they took it very ill that they had not already got something much better. Genteel blinds and makeshifts were more or less observable as soon as their doors were opened; screens not half high enough, which made dining-rooms out of arched passages, and warded off obscure corners where footboys slept at nights with their heads among the knives and forks; curtains which called upon you to believe that they didn’t hide anything; panes of glass which requested you not to see them; many objects of various forms, feigning to have no connection with their guilty secret, a bed; disguised traps in walls, which were clearly coal-cellars; affectations of no thoroughfares, which were evidently doors to little kitchens. Mental reservations and artful mysteries grew out of these things. Callers looking steadily into the eyes of their receivers, pretended not to smell cooking three feet off; people, confronting closets accidentally left open, pretended not to see bottles; visitors with their heads against a partition of thin canvas, and a page and a young female at high words on the other side, made believe to be sitting in a primeval silence. There was no end to the small social accommodation-bills of this nature which the gipsies of gentility were constantly drawing upon, and accepting for, one another.

Some of these Bohemians were of an irritable temperament, as constantly soured and vexed by two mental trials: the first, the consciousness that they had never got enough out of the public; the second, the consciousness that the public were admitted into the building. Under the latter great wrong, a few suffered dreadfully—particularly on Sundays, when they had for some time expected the earth to open and swallow the public up; but which desirable event had not yet occurred, in consequence of some reprehensible laxity in the arrangements of the Universe.

Mrs Gowan’s door was attended by a family servant of several years’ standing, who had his own crow to pluck with the public concerning a situation in the Post-Office which he had been for some time expecting, and to which he was not yet appointed. He perfectly knew that the public could never have got him in, but he grimly gratified himself with the idea that the public kept him out. Under the influence of this injury (and perhaps of some little straitness and irregularity in the matter of wages), he had grown neglectful of his person and morose in mind; and now beholding in Clennam one of the degraded body of his oppressors, received him with ignominy.

Mrs Gowan, however, received him with condescension. He found her a courtly old lady, formerly a Beauty, and still sufficiently well-favoured to have dispensed with the powder on her nose and a certain impossible bloom under each eye. She was a little lofty with him; so was another old lady, dark-browed and high-nosed, and who must have had something real about her or she could not have existed, but it was certainly not her hair or her teeth or her figure or her complexion; so was a grey old gentleman of dignified and sullen appearance; both of whom had come to dinner. But, as they had all been in the British Embassy way in sundry parts of the earth, and as a British Embassy cannot better establish a character with the Circumlocution Office than by treating its compatriots with illimitable contempt (else it would become like the Embassies of other countries), Clennam felt that on the whole they let him off lightly.

The dignified old gentleman turned out to be Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking, who had been maintained by the Circumlocution Office for many years as a representative of the Britannic Majesty abroad. This noble Refrigerator had iced several European courts in his time, and had done it with such complete success that the very name of Englishman yet struck cold to the stomachs of foreigners who had the distinguished honour of remembering him at a distance of a quarter of a century.

He was now in retirement, and hence (in a ponderous white cravat, like a stiff snow-drift) was so obliging as to shade the dinner. There was a whisper of the pervading Bohemian character in the nomadic nature of the service and its curious races of plates and dishes; but the noble Refrigerator, infinitely better than plate or porcelain, made it superb. He shaded the dinner, cooled the wines, chilled the gravy, and blighted the vegetables.

There was only one other person in the room: a microscopically small footboy, who waited on the malevolent man who hadn’t got into the Post-Office. Even this youth, if his jacket could have been unbuttoned and his heart laid bare, would have been seen, as a distant adherent of the Barnacle family, already to aspire to a situation under Government.

Mrs Gowan with a gentle melancholy upon her, occasioned by her son’s being reduced to court the swinish public as a follower of the low Arts, instead of asserting his birthright and putting a ring through its nose as an acknowledged Barnacle, headed the conversation at dinner on the evil days. It was then that Clennam learned for the first time what little pivots this great world goes round upon.

‘If John Barnacle,’ said Mrs Gowan, after the degeneracy of the times had been fully ascertained, ‘if John Barnacle had but abandoned his most unfortunate idea of conciliating the mob, all would have been well, and I think the country would have been preserved.’

The old lady with the high nose assented; but added that if Augustus Stiltstalking had in a general way ordered the cavalry out with instructions to charge, she thought the country would have been preserved.

The noble Refrigerator assented; but added that if William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, when they came over to one another and formed their ever-memorable coalition, had boldly muzzled the newspapers, and rendered it penal for any Editor-person to presume to discuss the conduct of any appointed authority abroad or at home, he thought the country would have been preserved.

It was agreed that the country (another word for the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings) wanted preserving, but how it came to want preserving was not so clear. It was only clear that the question was all about John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, because there was nobody else but mob. And this was the feature of the conversation which impressed Clennam, as a man not used to it, very disagreeably: making him doubt if it were quite right to sit there, silently hearing a great nation narrowed to such little bounds. Remembering, however, that in the Parliamentary debates, whether on the life of that nation’s body or the life of its soul, the question was usually all about and between John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, and nobody else; he said nothing on the part of mob, bethinking himself that mob was used to it.

Mr Henry Gowan seemed to have a malicious pleasure in playing off the three talkers against each other, and in seeing Clennam startled by what they said. Having as supreme a contempt for the class that had thrown him off as for the class that had not taken him on, he had no personal disquiet in anything that passed. His healthy state of mind appeared even to derive a gratification from Clennam’s position of embarrassment and isolation among the good company; and if Clennam had been in that condition with which Nobody was incessantly contending, he would have suspected it, and would have struggled with the suspicion as a meanness, even while he sat at the table.

In the course of a couple of hours the noble Refrigerator, at no time less than a hundred years behind the period, got about five centuries in arrears, and delivered solemn political oracles appropriate to that epoch. He finished by freezing a cup of tea for his own drinking, and retiring at his lowest temperature.

Then Mrs Gowan, who had been accustomed in her days of a vacant arm-chair beside her to which to summon state to retain her devoted slaves, one by one, for short audiences as marks of her especial favour, invited Clennam with a turn of her fan to approach the presence. He obeyed, and took the tripod recently vacated by Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking.

‘Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘apart from the happiness I have in becoming known to you, though in this odiously inconvenient place—a mere barrack—there is a subject on which I am dying to speak to you. It is the subject in connection with which my son first had, I believe, the pleasure of cultivating your acquaintance.’

Clennam inclined his head, as a generally suitable reply to what he did not yet quite understand.

‘First,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘now, is she really pretty?’

In nobody’s difficulties, he would have found it very difficult to answer; very difficult indeed to smile, and say ‘Who?’

‘Oh! You know!’ she returned. ‘This flame of Henry’s. This unfortunate fancy. There! If it is a point of honour that I should originate the name—Miss Mickles—Miggles.’

‘Miss Meagles,’ said Clennam, ‘is very beautiful.’

‘Men are so often mistaken on those points,’ returned Mrs Gowan, shaking her head, ‘that I candidly confess to you I feel anything but sure of it, even now; though it is something to have Henry corroborated with so much gravity and emphasis. He picked the people up at Rome, I think?’

The phrase would have given nobody mortal offence. Clennam replied, ‘Excuse me, I doubt if I understand your expression.’

‘Picked the people up,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the sticks of her closed fan (a large green one, which she used as a hand-screen) on her little table. ‘Came upon them. Found them out. Stumbled against them.’

‘The people?’

‘Yes. The Miggles people.’

‘I really cannot say,’ said Clennam, ‘where my friend Mr Meagles first presented Mr Henry Gowan to his daughter.’

‘I am pretty sure he picked her up at Rome; but never mind where—somewhere. Now (this is entirely between ourselves), is she very plebeian?’

‘Really, ma’am,’ returned Clennam, ‘I am so undoubtedly plebeian myself, that I do not feel qualified to judge.’

‘Very neat!’ said Mrs Gowan, coolly unfurling her screen. ‘Very happy! From which I infer that you secretly think her manner equal to her looks?’

Clennam, after a moment’s stiffness, bowed.

‘That’s comforting, and I hope you may be right. Did Henry tell me you had travelled with them?’

‘I travelled with my friend Mr Meagles, and his wife and daughter, during some months.’ (Nobody’s heart might have been wrung by the remembrance.)

‘Really comforting, because you must have had a large experience of them. You see, Mr Clennam, this thing has been going on for a long time, and I find no improvement in it. Therefore to have the opportunity of speaking to one so well informed about it as yourself, is an immense relief to me. Quite a boon. Quite a blessing, I am sure.’

‘Pardon me,’ returned Clennam, ‘but I am not in Mr Henry Gowan’s confidence. I am far from being so well informed as you suppose me to be. Your mistake makes my position a very delicate one. No word on this topic has ever passed between Mr Henry Gowan and myself.’

Mrs Gowan glanced at the other end of the room, where her son was playing ecarte on a sofa, with the old lady who was for a charge of cavalry.

‘Not in his confidence? No,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘No word has passed between you? No. That I can imagine. But there are unexpressed confidences, Mr Clennam; and as you have been together intimately among these people, I cannot doubt that a confidence of that sort exists in the present case. Perhaps you have heard that I have suffered the keenest distress of mind from Henry’s having taken to a pursuit which—well!’ shrugging her shoulders, ‘a very respectable pursuit, I dare say, and some artists are, as artists, quite superior persons; still, we never yet in our family have gone beyond an Amateur, and it is a pardonable weakness to feel a little—’

As Mrs Gowan broke off to heave a sigh, Clennam, however resolute to be magnanimous, could not keep down the thought that there was mighty little danger of the family’s ever going beyond an Amateur, even as it was.

‘Henry,’ the mother resumed, ‘is self-willed and resolute; and as these people naturally strain every nerve to catch him, I can entertain very little hope, Mr Clennam, that the thing will be broken off. I apprehend the girl’s fortune will be very small; Henry might have done much better; there is scarcely anything to compensate for the connection: still, he acts for himself; and if I find no improvement within a short time, I see no other course than to resign myself and make the best of these people. I am infinitely obliged to you for what you have told me.’

As she shrugged her shoulders, Clennam stiffly bowed again. With an uneasy flush upon his face, and hesitation in his manner, he then said in a still lower tone than he had adopted yet:

‘Mrs Gowan, I scarcely know how to acquit myself of what I feel to be a duty, and yet I must ask you for your kind consideration in attempting to discharge it. A misconception on your part, a very great misconception if I may venture to call it so, seems to require setting right. You have supposed Mr Meagles and his family to strain every nerve, I think you said—’

‘Every nerve,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, looking at him in calm obstinacy, with her green fan between her face and the fire.

‘To secure Mr Henry Gowan?’

The lady placidly assented.

‘Now that is so far,’ said Arthur, ‘from being the case, that I know Mr Meagles to be unhappy in this matter; and to have interposed all reasonable obstacles with the hope of putting an end to it.’

Mrs Gowan shut up her great green fan, tapped him on the arm with it, and tapped her smiling lips. ‘Why, of course,’ said she. ‘Just what I mean.’

Arthur watched her face for some explanation of what she did mean.

‘Are you really serious, Mr Clennam? Don’t you see?’

Arthur did not see; and said so.

‘Why, don’t I know my son, and don’t I know that this is exactly the way to hold him?’ said Mrs Gowan, contemptuously; ‘and do not these Miggles people know it, at least as well as I? Oh, shrewd people, Mr Clennam: evidently people of business! I believe Miggles belonged to a Bank. It ought to have been a very profitable Bank, if he had much to do with its management. This is very well done, indeed.’

‘I beg and entreat you, ma’am—’ Arthur interposed.

‘Oh, Mr Clennam, can you really be so credulous?’

It made such a painful impression upon him to hear her talking in this haughty tone, and to see her patting her contemptuous lips with her fan, that he said very earnestly, ‘Believe me, ma’am, this is unjust, a perfectly groundless suspicion.’

‘Suspicion?’ repeated Mrs Gowan. ‘Not suspicion, Mr Clennam, Certainty. It is very knowingly done indeed, and seems to have taken you in completely.’ She laughed; and again sat tapping her lips with her fan, and tossing her head, as if she added, ‘Don’t tell me. I know such people will do anything for the honour of such an alliance.’

At this opportune moment, the cards were thrown up, and Mr Henry Gowan came across the room saying, ‘Mother, if you can spare Mr Clennam for this time, we have a long way to go, and it’s getting late.’ Mr Clennam thereupon rose, as he had no choice but to do; and Mrs Gowan showed him, to the last, the same look and the same tapped contemptuous lips.

‘You have had a portentously long audience of my mother,’ said Gowan, as the door closed upon them. ‘I fervently hope she has not bored you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Clennam.

They had a little open phaeton for the journey, and were soon in it on the road home. Gowan, driving, lighted a cigar; Clennam declined one. Do what he would, he fell into such a mood of abstraction that Gowan said again, ‘I am very much afraid my mother has bored you?’ To which he roused himself to answer, ‘Not at all!’ and soon relapsed again.

In that state of mind which rendered nobody uneasy, his thoughtfulness would have turned principally on the man at his side. He would have thought of the morning when he first saw him rooting out the stones with his heel, and would have asked himself, ‘Does he jerk me out of the path in the same careless, cruel way?’ He would have thought, had this introduction to his mother been brought about by him because he knew what she would say, and that he could thus place his position before a rival and loftily warn him off, without himself reposing a word of confidence in him? He would have thought, even if there were no such design as that, had he brought him there to play with his repressed emotions, and torment him? The current of these meditations would have been stayed sometimes by a rush of shame, bearing a remonstrance to himself from his own open nature, representing that to shelter such suspicions, even for the passing moment, was not to hold the high, unenvious course he had resolved to keep. At those times, the striving within him would have been hardest; and looking up and catching Gowan’s eyes, he would have started as if he had done him an injury.

Then, looking at the dark road and its uncertain objects, he would have gradually trailed off again into thinking, ‘Where are we driving, he and I, I wonder, on the darker road of life? How will it be with us, and with her, in the obscure distance?’ Thinking of her, he would have been troubled anew with a reproachful misgiving that it was not even loyal to her to dislike him, and that in being so easily prejudiced against him he was less deserving of her than at first.

‘You are evidently out of spirits,’ said Gowan; ‘I am very much afraid my mother must have bored you dreadfully.’

‘Believe me, not at all,’ said Clennam. ‘It’s nothing—nothing!’

CHAPTER 27. Five-and-Twenty

A frequently recurring doubt, whether Mr Pancks’s desire to collect information relative to the Dorrit family could have any possible bearing on the misgivings he had imparted to his mother on his return from his long exile, caused Arthur Clennam much uneasiness at this period. What Mr Pancks already knew about the Dorrit family, what more he really wanted to find out, and why he should trouble his busy head about them at all, were questions that often perplexed him. Mr Pancks was not a man to waste his time and trouble in researches prompted by idle curiosity. That he had a specific object Clennam could not doubt. And whether the attainment of that object by Mr Pancks’s industry might bring to light, in some untimely way, secret reasons which had induced his mother to take Little Dorrit by the hand, was a serious speculation.

Not that he ever wavered either in his desire or his determination to repair a wrong that had been done in his father’s time, should a wrong come to light, and be reparable. The shadow of a supposed act of injustice, which had hung over him since his father’s death, was so vague and formless that it might be the result of a reality widely remote from his idea of it. But, if his apprehensions should prove to be well founded, he was ready at any moment to lay down all he had, and begin the world anew. As the fierce dark teaching of his childhood had never sunk into his heart, so that first article in his code of morals was, that he must begin, in practical humility, with looking well to his feet on Earth, and that he could never mount on wings of words to Heaven. Duty on earth, restitution on earth, action on earth; these first, as the first steep steps upward. Strait was the gate and narrow was the way; far straiter and narrower than the broad high road paved with vain professions and vain repetitions, motes from other men’s eyes and liberal delivery of others to the judgment—all cheap materials costing absolutely nothing.

No. It was not a selfish fear or hesitation that rendered him uneasy, but a mistrust lest Pancks might not observe his part of the understanding between them, and, making any discovery, might take some course upon it without imparting it to him. On the other hand, when he recalled his conversation with Pancks, and the little reason he had to suppose that there was any likelihood of that strange personage being on that track at all, there were times when he wondered that he made so much of it. Labouring in this sea, as all barks labour in cross seas, he tossed about and came to no haven.

The removal of Little Dorrit herself from their customary association, did not mend the matter. She was so much out, and so much in her own room, that he began to miss her and to find a blank in her place. He had written to her to inquire if she were better, and she had written back, very gratefully and earnestly telling him not to be uneasy on her behalf, for she was quite well; but he had not seen her, for what, in their intercourse, was a long time.

He returned home one evening from an interview with her father, who had mentioned that she was out visiting—which was what he always said when she was hard at work to buy his supper—and found Mr Meagles in an excited state walking up and down his room. On his opening the door, Mr Meagles stopped, faced round, and said:

‘Clennam!—Tattycoram!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Lost!’

‘Why, bless my heart alive!’ cried Clennam in amazement. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Wouldn’t count five-and-twenty, sir; couldn’t be got to do it; stopped at eight, and took herself off.’

‘Left your house?’

‘Never to come back,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head. ‘You don’t know that girl’s passionate and proud character. A team of horses couldn’t draw her back now; the bolts and bars of the old Bastille couldn’t keep her.’

‘How did it happen? Pray sit down and tell me.’

‘As to how it happened, it’s not so easy to relate: because you must have the unfortunate temperament of the poor impetuous girl herself, before you can fully understand it. But it came about in this way. Pet and Mother and I have been having a good deal of talk together of late. I’ll not disguise from you, Clennam, that those conversations have not been of as bright a kind as I could wish; they have referred to our going away again. In proposing to do which, I have had, in fact, an object.’

Nobody’s heart beat quickly.

‘An object,’ said Mr Meagles, after a moment’s pause, ‘that I will not disguise from you, either, Clennam. There’s an inclination on the part of my dear child which I am sorry for. Perhaps you guess the person. Henry Gowan.’

‘I was not unprepared to hear it.’

‘Well!’ said Mr Meagles, with a heavy sigh, ‘I wish to God you had never had to hear it. However, so it is. Mother and I have done all we could to get the better of it, Clennam. We have tried tender advice, we have tried time, we have tried absence. As yet, of no use. Our late conversations have been upon the subject of going away for another year at least, in order that there might be an entire separation and breaking off for that term. Upon that question, Pet has been unhappy, and therefore Mother and I have been unhappy.’

Clennam said that he could easily believe it.

‘Well!’ continued Mr Meagles in an apologetic way, ‘I admit as a practical man, and I am sure Mother would admit as a practical woman, that we do, in families, magnify our troubles and make mountains of our molehills in a way that is calculated to be rather trying to people who look on—to mere outsiders, you know, Clennam. Still, Pet’s happiness or unhappiness is quite a life or death question with us; and we may be excused, I hope, for making much of it. At all events, it might have been borne by Tattycoram. Now, don’t you think so?’

‘I do indeed think so,’ returned Clennam, in most emphatic recognition of this very moderate expectation.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head ruefully. ‘She couldn’t stand it. The chafing and firing of that girl, the wearing and tearing of that girl within her own breast, has been such that I have softly said to her again and again in passing her, “Five-and-twenty, Tattycoram, five-and-twenty!” I heartily wish she could have gone on counting five-and-twenty day and night, and then it wouldn’t have happened.’

Mr Meagles with a despondent countenance in which the goodness of his heart was even more expressed than in his times of cheerfulness and gaiety, stroked his face down from his forehead to his chin, and shook his head again.

‘I said to Mother (not that it was necessary, for she would have thought it all for herself), we are practical people, my dear, and we know her story; we see in this unhappy girl some reflection of what was raging in her mother’s heart before ever such a creature as this poor thing was in the world; we’ll gloss her temper over, Mother, we won’t notice it at present, my dear, we’ll take advantage of some better disposition in her another time. So we said nothing. But, do what we would, it seems as if it was to be; she broke out violently one night.’

‘How, and why?’

‘If you ask me Why,’ said Mr Meagles, a little disturbed by the question, for he was far more intent on softening her case than the family’s, ‘I can only refer you to what I have just repeated as having been pretty near my words to Mother. As to How, we had said Good night to Pet in her presence (very affectionately, I must allow), and she had attended Pet up-stairs—you remember she was her maid. Perhaps Pet, having been out of sorts, may have been a little more inconsiderate than usual in requiring services of her: but I don’t know that I have any right to say so; she was always thoughtful and gentle.’

‘The gentlest mistress in the world.’

‘Thank you, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand; ‘you have often seen them together. Well! We presently heard this unfortunate Tattycoram loud and angry, and before we could ask what was the matter, Pet came back in a tremble, saying she was frightened of her. Close after her came Tattycoram in a flaming rage. “I hate you all three,” says she, stamping her foot at us. “I am bursting with hate of the whole house.”’

‘Upon which you—?’

‘I?’ said Mr Meagles, with a plain good faith that might have commanded the belief of Mrs Gowan herself. ‘I said, count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

Mr Meagles again stroked his face and shook his head, with an air of profound regret.

‘She was so used to do it, Clennam, that even then, such a picture of passion as you never saw, she stopped short, looked me full in the face, and counted (as I made out) to eight. But she couldn’t control herself to go any further. There she broke down, poor thing, and gave the other seventeen to the four winds. Then it all burst out. She detested us, she was miserable with us, she couldn’t bear it, she wouldn’t bear it, she was determined to go away. She was younger than her young mistress, and would she remain to see her always held up as the only creature who was young and interesting, and to be cherished and loved? No. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t! What did we think she, Tattycoram, might have been if she had been caressed and cared for in her childhood, like her young mistress? As good as her? Ah! Perhaps fifty times as good. When we pretended to be so fond of one another, we exulted over her; that was what we did; we exulted over her and shamed her. And all in the house did the same. They talked about their fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters; they liked to drag them up before her face. There was Mrs Tickit, only yesterday, when her little grandchild was with her, had been amused by the child’s trying to call her (Tattycoram) by the wretched name we gave her; and had laughed at the name. Why, who didn’t; and who were we that we should have a right to name her like a dog or a cat? But she didn’t care. She would take no more benefits from us; she would fling us her name back again, and she would go. She would leave us that minute, nobody should stop her, and we should never hear of her again.’

Mr Meagles had recited all this with such a vivid remembrance of his original, that he was almost as flushed and hot by this time as he described her to have been.

‘Ah, well!’ he said, wiping his face. ‘It was of no use trying reason then, with that vehement panting creature (Heaven knows what her mother’s story must have been); so I quietly told her that she should not go at that late hour of night, and I gave her my hand and took her to her room, and locked the house doors. But she was gone this morning.’

‘And you know no more of her?’

‘No more,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘I have been hunting about all day. She must have gone very early and very silently. I have found no trace of her down about us.’

‘Stay! You want,’ said Clennam, after a moment’s reflection, ‘to see her? I assume that?’

‘Yes, assuredly; I want to give her another chance; Mother and Pet want to give her another chance; come! You yourself,’ said Mr Meagles, persuasively, as if the provocation to be angry were not his own at all, ‘want to give the poor passionate girl another chance, I know, Clennam.’

‘It would be strange and hard indeed if I did not,’ said Clennam, ‘when you are all so forgiving. What I was going to ask you was, have you thought of that Miss Wade?’

‘I have. I did not think of her until I had pervaded the whole of our neighbourhood, and I don’t know that I should have done so then but for finding Mother and Pet, when I went home, full of the idea that Tattycoram must have gone to her. Then, of course, I recalled what she said that day at dinner when you were first with us.’

‘Have you any idea where Miss Wade is to be found?’

‘To tell you the truth,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘it’s because I have an addled jumble of a notion on that subject that you found me waiting here. There is one of those odd impressions in my house, which do mysteriously get into houses sometimes, which nobody seems to have picked up in a distinct form from anybody, and yet which everybody seems to have got hold of loosely from somebody and let go again, that she lives, or was living, thereabouts.’ Mr Meagles handed him a slip of paper, on which was written the name of one of the dull by-streets in the Grosvenor region, near Park Lane.

‘Here is no number,’ said Arthur looking over it.

‘No number, my dear Clennam?’ returned his friend. ‘No anything! The very name of the street may have been floating in the air; for, as I tell you, none of my people can say where they got it from. However, it’s worth an inquiry; and as I would rather make it in company than alone, and as you too were a fellow-traveller of that immovable woman’s, I thought perhaps—’ Clennam finished the sentence for him by taking up his hat again, and saying he was ready.

It was now summer-time; a grey, hot, dusty evening. They rode to the top of Oxford Street, and there alighting, dived in among the great streets of melancholy stateliness, and the little streets that try to be as stately and succeed in being more melancholy, of which there is a labyrinth near Park Lane. Wildernesses of corner houses, with barbarous old porticoes and appurtenances; horrors that came into existence under some wrong-headed person in some wrong-headed time, still demanding the blind admiration of all ensuing generations and determined to do so until they tumbled down; frowned upon the twilight. Parasite little tenements, with the cramp in their whole frame, from the dwarf hall-door on the giant model of His Grace’s in the Square to the squeezed window of the boudoir commanding the dunghills in the Mews, made the evening doleful. Rickety dwellings of undoubted fashion, but of a capacity to hold nothing comfortably except a dismal smell, looked like the last result of the great mansions’ breeding in-and-in; and, where their little supplementary bows and balconies were supported on thin iron columns, seemed to be scrofulously resting upon crutches. Here and there a Hatchment, with the whole science of Heraldry in it, loomed down upon the street, like an Archbishop discoursing on Vanity. The shops, few in number, made no show; for popular opinion was as nothing to them. The pastrycook knew who was on his books, and in that knowledge could be calm, with a few glass cylinders of dowager peppermint-drops in his window, and half-a-dozen ancient specimens of currant-jelly. A few oranges formed the greengrocer’s whole concession to the vulgar mind. A single basket made of moss, once containing plovers’ eggs, held all that the poulterer had to say to the rabble. Everybody in those streets seemed (which is always the case at that hour and season) to be gone out to dinner, and nobody seemed to be giving the dinners they had gone to. On the doorsteps there were lounging footmen with bright parti-coloured plumage and white polls, like an extinct race of monstrous birds; and butlers, solitary men of recluse demeanour, each of whom appeared distrustful of all other butlers. The roll of carriages in the Park was done for the day; the street lamps were lighting; and wicked little grooms in the tightest fitting garments, with twists in their legs answering to the twists in their minds, hung about in pairs, chewing straws and exchanging fraudulent secrets. The spotted dogs who went out with the carriages, and who were so associated with splendid equipages that it looked like a condescension in those animals to come out without them, accompanied helpers to and fro on messages. Here and there was a retiring public-house which did not require to be supported on the shoulders of the people, and where gentlemen out of livery were not much wanted.

This last discovery was made by the two friends in pursuing their inquiries. Nothing was there, or anywhere, known of such a person as Miss Wade, in connection with the street they sought. It was one of the parasite streets; long, regular, narrow, dull and gloomy; like a brick and mortar funeral. They inquired at several little area gates, where a dejected youth stood spiking his chin on the summit of a precipitous little shoot of wooden steps, but could gain no information. They walked up the street on one side of the way, and down it on the other, what time two vociferous news-sellers, announcing an extraordinary event that had never happened and never would happen, pitched their hoarse voices into the secret chambers; but nothing came of it. At length they stood at the corner from which they had begun, and it had fallen quite dark, and they were no wiser.

It happened that in the street they had several times passed a dingy house, apparently empty, with bills in the windows, announcing that it was to let. The bills, as a variety in the funeral procession, almost amounted to a decoration. Perhaps because they kept the house separated in his mind, or perhaps because Mr Meagles and himself had twice agreed in passing, ‘It is clear she don’t live there,’ Clennam now proposed that they should go back and try that house before finally going away. Mr Meagles agreed, and back they went.

They knocked once, and they rang once, without any response. ‘Empty,’ said Mr Meagles, listening. ‘Once more,’ said Clennam, and knocked again. After that knock they heard a movement below, and somebody shuffling up towards the door.

The confined entrance was so dark that it was impossible to make out distinctly what kind of person opened the door; but it appeared to be an old woman. ‘Excuse our troubling you,’ said Clennam. ‘Pray can you tell us where Miss Wade lives?’ The voice in the darkness unexpectedly replied, ‘Lives here.’

‘Is she at home?’

No answer coming, Mr Meagles asked again. ‘Pray is she at home?’

After another delay, ‘I suppose she is,’ said the voice abruptly; ‘you had better come in, and I’ll ask.’

They were summarily shut into the close black house; and the figure rustling away, and speaking from a higher level, said, ‘Come up, if you please; you can’t tumble over anything.’ They groped their way up-stairs towards a faint light, which proved to be the light of the street shining through a window; and the figure left them shut in an airless room.

‘This is odd, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, softly.

‘Odd enough,’ assented Clennam in the same tone, ‘but we have succeeded; that’s the main point. Here’s a light coming!’

The light was a lamp, and the bearer was an old woman: very dirty, very wrinkled and dry. ‘She’s at home,’ she said (and the voice was the same that had spoken before); ‘she’ll come directly.’ Having set the lamp down on the table, the old woman dusted her hands on her apron, which she might have done for ever without cleaning them, looked at the visitors with a dim pair of eyes, and backed out.

The lady whom they had come to see, if she were the present occupant of the house, appeared to have taken up her quarters there as she might have established herself in an Eastern caravanserai. A small square of carpet in the middle of the room, a few articles of furniture that evidently did not belong to the room, and a disorder of trunks and travelling articles, formed the whole of her surroundings. Under some former regular inhabitant, the stifling little apartment had broken out into a pier-glass and a gilt table; but the gilding was as faded as last year’s flowers, and the glass was so clouded that it seemed to hold in magic preservation all the fogs and bad weather it had ever reflected. The visitors had had a minute or two to look about them, when the door opened and Miss Wade came in.

She was exactly the same as when they had parted, just as handsome, just as scornful, just as repressed. She manifested no surprise in seeing them, nor any other emotion. She requested them to be seated; and declining to take a seat herself, at once anticipated any introduction of their business.

‘I apprehend,’ she said, ‘that I know the cause of your favouring me with this visit. We may come to it at once.’

‘The cause then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is Tattycoram.’

‘So I supposed.’

‘Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘will you be so kind as to say whether you know anything of her?’

‘Surely. I know she is here with me.’

‘Then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘allow me to make known to you that I shall be happy to have her back, and that my wife and daughter will be happy to have her back. She has been with us a long time: we don’t forget her claims upon us, and I hope we know how to make allowances.’

‘You hope to know how to make allowances?’ she returned, in a level, measured voice. ‘For what?’

‘I think my friend would say, Miss Wade,’ Arthur Clennam interposed, seeing Mr Meagles rather at a loss, ‘for the passionate sense that sometimes comes upon the poor girl, of being at a disadvantage. Which occasionally gets the better of better remembrances.’

The lady broke into a smile as she turned her eyes upon him. ‘Indeed?’ was all she answered.

She stood by the table so perfectly composed and still after this acknowledgment of his remark that Mr Meagles stared at her under a sort of fascination, and could not even look to Clennam to make another move. After waiting, awkwardly enough, for some moments, Arthur said:

‘Perhaps it would be well if Mr Meagles could see her, Miss Wade?’

‘That is easily done,’ said she. ‘Come here, child.’ She had opened a door while saying this, and now led the girl in by the hand. It was very curious to see them standing together: the girl with her disengaged fingers plaiting the bosom of her dress, half irresolutely, half passionately; Miss Wade with her composed face attentively regarding her, and suggesting to an observer, with extraordinary force, in her composure itself (as a veil will suggest the form it covers), the unquenchable passion of her own nature.

‘See here,’ she said, in the same level way as before. ‘Here is your patron, your master. He is willing to take you back, my dear, if you are sensible of the favour and choose to go. You can be, again, a foil to his pretty daughter, a slave to her pleasant wilfulness, and a toy in the house showing the goodness of the family. You can have your droll name again, playfully pointing you out and setting you apart, as it is right that you should be pointed out and set apart. (Your birth, you know; you must not forget your birth.) You can again be shown to this gentleman’s daughter, Harriet, and kept before her, as a living reminder of her own superiority and her gracious condescension. You can recover all these advantages and many more of the same kind which I dare say start up in your memory while I speak, and which you lose in taking refuge with me—you can recover them all by telling these gentlemen how humbled and penitent you are, and by going back to them to be forgiven. What do you say, Harriet? Will you go?’

The girl who, under the influence of these words, had gradually risen in anger and heightened in colour, answered, raising her lustrous black eyes for the moment, and clenching her hand upon the folds it had been puckering up, ‘I’d die sooner!’

Miss Wade, still standing at her side holding her hand, looked quietly round and said with a smile, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’

Poor Mr Meagles’s inexpressible consternation in hearing his motives and actions so perverted, had prevented him from interposing any word until now; but now he regained the power of speech.

‘Tattycoram,’ said he, ‘for I’ll call you by that name still, my good girl, conscious that I meant nothing but kindness when I gave it to you, and conscious that you know it—’

‘I don’t!’ said she, looking up again, and almost rending herself with the same busy hand.

‘No, not now, perhaps,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘not with that lady’s eyes so intent upon you, Tattycoram,’ she glanced at them for a moment, ‘and that power over you, which we see she exercises; not now, perhaps, but at another time. Tattycoram, I’ll not ask that lady whether she believes what she has said, even in the anger and ill blood in which I and my friend here equally know she has spoken, though she subdues herself, with a determination that any one who has once seen her is not likely to forget. I’ll not ask you, with your remembrance of my house and all belonging to it, whether you believe it. I’ll only say that you have no profession to make to me or mine, and no forgiveness to entreat; and that all in the world that I ask you to do, is, to count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

She looked at him for an instant, and then said frowningly, ‘I won’t. Miss Wade, take me away, please.’

The contention that raged within her had no softening in it now; it was wholly between passionate defiance and stubborn defiance. Her rich colour, her quick blood, her rapid breath, were all setting themselves against the opportunity of retracing their steps. ‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t!’ she repeated in a low, thick voice. ‘I’d be torn to pieces first. I’d tear myself to pieces first!’

Miss Wade, who had released her hold, laid her hand protectingly on the girl’s neck for a moment, and then said, looking round with her former smile and speaking exactly in her former tone, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’

‘Oh, Tattycoram, Tattycoram!’ cried Mr Meagles, adjuring her besides with an earnest hand. ‘Hear that lady’s voice, look at that lady’s face, consider what is in that lady’s heart, and think what a future lies before you. My child, whatever you may think, that lady’s influence over you—astonishing to us, and I should hardly go too far in saying terrible to us to see—is founded in passion fiercer than yours, and temper more violent than yours. What can you two be together? What can come of it?’

‘I am alone here, gentlemen,’ observed Miss Wade, with no change of voice or manner. ‘Say anything you will.’

‘Politeness must yield to this misguided girl, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘at her present pass; though I hope not altogether to dismiss it, even with the injury you do her so strongly before me. Excuse me for reminding you in her hearing—I must say it—that you were a mystery to all of us, and had nothing in common with any of us when she unfortunately fell in your way. I don’t know what you are, but you don’t hide, can’t hide, what a dark spirit you have within you. If it should happen that you are a woman, who, from whatever cause, has a perverted delight in making a sister-woman as wretched as she is (I am old enough to have heard of such), I warn her against you, and I warn you against yourself.’

‘Gentlemen!’ said Miss Wade, calmly. ‘When you have concluded—Mr Clennam, perhaps you will induce your friend—’

‘Not without another effort,’ said Mr Meagles, stoutly. ‘Tattycoram, my poor dear girl, count five-and-twenty.’

‘Do not reject the hope, the certainty, this kind man offers you,’ said Clennam in a low emphatic voice. ‘Turn to the friends you have not forgotten. Think once more!’

‘I won’t! Miss Wade,’ said the girl, with her bosom swelling high, and speaking with her hand held to her throat, ‘take me away!’

‘Tattycoram,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Once more yet! The only thing I ask of you in the world, my child! Count five-and-twenty!’

She put her hands tightly over her ears, confusedly tumbling down her bright black hair in the vehemence of the action, and turned her face resolutely to the wall. Miss Wade, who had watched her under this final appeal with that strange attentive smile, and that repressing hand upon her own bosom with which she had watched her in her struggle at Marseilles, then put her arm about her waist as if she took possession of her for evermore.

And there was a visible triumph in her face when she turned it to dismiss the visitors.

‘As it is the last time I shall have the honour,’ she said, ‘and as you have spoken of not knowing what I am, and also of the foundation of my influence here, you may now know that it is founded in a common cause. What your broken plaything is as to birth, I am. She has no name, I have no name. Her wrong is my wrong. I have nothing more to say to you.’

This was addressed to Mr Meagles, who sorrowfully went out. As Clennam followed, she said to him, with the same external composure and in the same level voice, but with a smile that is only seen on cruel faces: a very faint smile, lifting the nostril, scarcely touching the lips, and not breaking away gradually, but instantly dismissed when done with:

‘I hope the wife of your dear friend Mr Gowan, may be happy in the contrast of her extraction to this girl’s and mine, and in the high good fortune that awaits her.’

CHAPTER 28. Nobody’s Disappearance

Not resting satisfied with the endeavours he had made to recover his lost charge, Mr Meagles addressed a letter of remonstrance, breathing nothing but goodwill, not only to her, but to Miss Wade too. No answer coming to these epistles, or to another written to the stubborn girl by the hand of her late young mistress, which might have melted her if anything could (all three letters were returned weeks afterwards as having been refused at the house-door), he deputed Mrs Meagles to make the experiment of a personal interview. That worthy lady being unable to obtain one, and being steadfastly denied admission, Mr Meagles besought Arthur to essay once more what he could do. All that came of his compliance was, his discovery that the empty house was left in charge of the old woman, that Miss Wade was gone, that the waifs and strays of furniture were gone, and that the old woman would accept any number of half-crowns and thank the donor kindly, but had no information whatever to exchange for those coins, beyond constantly offering for perusal a memorandum relative to fixtures, which the house-agent’s young man had left in the hall.

Unwilling, even under this discomfiture, to resign the ingrate and leave her hopeless, in case of her better dispositions obtaining the mastery over the darker side of her character, Mr Meagles, for six successive days, published a discreetly covert advertisement in the morning papers, to the effect that if a certain young person who had lately left home without reflection, would at any time apply to his address at Twickenham, everything would be as it had been before, and no reproaches need be apprehended. The unexpected consequences of this notification suggested to the dismayed Mr Meagles for the first time that some hundreds of young persons must be leaving their homes without reflection every day; for shoals of wrong young people came down to Twickenham, who, not finding themselves received with enthusiasm, generally demanded compensation by way of damages, in addition to coach-hire there and back. Nor were these the only uninvited clients whom the advertisement produced. The swarm of begging-letter writers, who would seem to be always watching eagerly for any hook, however small, to hang a letter upon, wrote to say that having seen the advertisement, they were induced to apply with confidence for various sums, ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds: not because they knew anything about the young person, but because they felt that to part with those donations would greatly relieve the advertiser’s mind. Several projectors, likewise, availed themselves of the same opportunity to correspond with Mr Meagles; as, for example, to apprise him that their attention having been called to the advertisement by a friend, they begged to state that if they should ever hear anything of the young person, they would not fail to make it known to him immediately, and that in the meantime if he would oblige them with the funds necessary for bringing to perfection a certain entirely novel description of Pump, the happiest results would ensue to mankind.

Mr Meagles and his family, under these combined discouragements, had begun reluctantly to give up Tattycoram as irrecoverable, when the new and active firm of Doyce and Clennam, in their private capacities, went down on a Saturday to stay at the cottage until Monday. The senior partner took the coach, and the junior partner took his walking-stick.

A tranquil summer sunset shone upon him as he approached the end of his walk, and passed through the meadows by the river side. He had that sense of peace, and of being lightened of a weight of care, which country quiet awakens in the breasts of dwellers in towns. Everything within his view was lovely and placid. The rich foliage of the trees, the luxuriant grass diversified with wild flowers, the little green islands in the river, the beds of rushes, the water-lilies floating on the surface of the stream, the distant voices in boats borne musically towards him on the ripple of the water and the evening air, were all expressive of rest. In the occasional leap of a fish, or dip of an oar, or twittering of a bird not yet at roost, or distant barking of a dog, or lowing of a cow—in all such sounds, there was the prevailing breath of rest, which seemed to encompass him in every scent that sweetened the fragrant air. The long lines of red and gold in the sky, and the glorious track of the descending sun, were all divinely calm. Upon the purple tree-tops far away, and on the green height near at hand up which the shades were slowly creeping, there was an equal hush. Between the real landscape and its shadow in the water, there was no division; both were so untroubled and clear, and, while so fraught with solemn mystery of life and death, so hopefully reassuring to the gazer’s soothed heart, because so tenderly and mercifully beautiful.

Clennam had stopped, not for the first time by many times, to look about him and suffer what he saw to sink into his soul, as the shadows, looked at, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the water. He was slowly resuming his way, when he saw a figure in the path before him which he had, perhaps, already associated with the evening and its impressions.

Minnie was there, alone. She had some roses in her hand, and seemed to have stood still on seeing him, waiting for him. Her face was towards him, and she appeared to have been coming from the opposite direction. There was a flutter in her manner, which Clennam had never seen in it before; and as he came near her, it entered his mind all at once that she was there of a set purpose to speak to him.

She gave him her hand, and said, ‘You wonder to see me here by myself? But the evening is so lovely, I have strolled further than I meant at first. I thought it likely I might meet you, and that made me more confident. You always come this way, do you not?’

As Clennam said that it was his favourite way, he felt her hand falter on his arm, and saw the roses shake.

‘Will you let me give you one, Mr Clennam? I gathered them as I came out of the garden. Indeed, I almost gathered them for you, thinking it so likely I might meet you. Mr Doyce arrived more than an hour ago, and told us you were walking down.’

His own hand shook, as he accepted a rose or two from hers and thanked her. They were now by an avenue of trees. Whether they turned into it on his movement or on hers matters little. He never knew how that was.

‘It is very grave here,’ said Clennam, ‘but very pleasant at this hour. Passing along this deep shade, and out at that arch of light at the other end, we come upon the ferry and the cottage by the best approach, I think.’

In her simple garden-hat and her light summer dress, with her rich brown hair naturally clustering about her, and her wonderful eyes raised to his for a moment with a look in which regard for him and trustfulness in him were strikingly blended with a kind of timid sorrow for him, she was so beautiful that it was well for his peace—or ill for his peace, he did not quite know which—that he had made that vigorous resolution he had so often thought about.

She broke a momentary silence by inquiring if he knew that papa had been thinking of another tour abroad? He said he had heard it mentioned. She broke another momentary silence by adding, with some hesitation, that papa had abandoned the idea.

At this, he thought directly, ‘they are to be married.’

‘Mr Clennam,’ she said, hesitating more timidly yet, and speaking so low that he bent his head to hear her. ‘I should very much like to give you my confidence, if you would not mind having the goodness to receive it. I should have very much liked to have given it to you long ago, because—I felt that you were becoming so much our friend.’

‘How can I be otherwise than proud of it at any time! Pray give it to me. Pray trust me.’

‘I could never have been afraid of trusting you,’ she returned, raising her eyes frankly to his face. ‘I think I would have done so some time ago, if I had known how. But I scarcely know how, even now.’

‘Mr Gowan,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘has reason to be very happy. God bless his wife and him!’

She wept, as she tried to thank him. He reassured her, took her hand as it lay with the trembling roses in it on his arm, took the remaining roses from it, and put it to his lips. At that time, it seemed to him, he first finally resigned the dying hope that had flickered in nobody’s heart so much to its pain and trouble; and from that time he became in his own eyes, as to any similar hope or prospect, a very much older man who had done with that part of life.

He put the roses in his breast and they walked on for a little while, slowly and silently, under the umbrageous trees. Then he asked her, in a voice of cheerful kindness, was there anything else that she would say to him as her friend and her father’s friend, many years older than herself; was there any trust she would repose in him, any service she would ask of him, any little aid to her happiness that she could give him the lasting gratification of believing it was in his power to render?

She was going to answer, when she was so touched by some little hidden sorrow or sympathy—what could it have been?—that she said, bursting into tears again: ‘O Mr Clennam! Good, generous, Mr Clennam, pray tell me you do not blame me.’

‘I blame you?’ said Clennam. ‘My dearest girl! I blame you? No!’

After clasping both her hands upon his arm, and looking confidentially up into his face, with some hurried words to the effect that she thanked him from her heart (as she did, if it be the source of earnestness), she gradually composed herself, with now and then a word of encouragement from him, as they walked on slowly and almost silently under the darkening trees.

‘And, now, Minnie Gowan,’ at length said Clennam, smiling; ‘will you ask me nothing?’

‘Oh! I have very much to ask of you.’

‘That’s well! I hope so; I am not disappointed.’

‘You know how I am loved at home, and how I love home. You can hardly think it perhaps, dear Mr Clennam,’ she spoke with great agitation, ‘seeing me going from it of my own free will and choice, but I do so dearly love it!’

‘I am sure of that,’ said Clennam. ‘Can you suppose I doubt it?’

‘No, no. But it is strange, even to me, that loving it so much and being so much beloved in it, I can bear to cast it away. It seems so neglectful of it, so unthankful.’

‘My dear girl,’ said Clennam, ‘it is in the natural progress and change of time. All homes are left so.’

‘Yes, I know; but all homes are not left with such a blank in them as there will be in mine when I am gone. Not that there is any scarcity of far better and more endearing and more accomplished girls than I am; not that I am much, but that they have made so much of me!’

Pet’s affectionate heart was overcharged, and she sobbed while she pictured what would happen.

‘I know what a change papa will feel at first, and I know that at first I cannot be to him anything like what I have been these many years. And it is then, Mr Clennam, then more than at any time, that I beg and entreat you to remember him, and sometimes to keep him company when you can spare a little while; and to tell him that you know I was fonder of him when I left him, than I ever was in all my life. For there is nobody—he told me so himself when he talked to me this very day—there is nobody he likes so well as you, or trusts so much.’

A clue to what had passed between the father and daughter dropped like a heavy stone into the well of Clennam’s heart, and swelled the water to his eyes. He said, cheerily, but not quite so cheerily as he tried to say, that it should be done—that he gave her his faithful promise.

‘If I do not speak of mama,’ said Pet, more moved by, and more pretty in, her innocent grief, than Clennam could trust himself even to consider—for which reason he counted the trees between them and the fading light as they slowly diminished in number—‘it is because mama will understand me better in this action, and will feel my loss in a different way, and will look forward in a different manner. But you know what a dear, devoted mother she is, and you will remember her too; will you not?’

Let Minnie trust him, Clennam said, let Minnie trust him to do all she wished.

‘And, dear Mr Clennam,’ said Minnie, ‘because papa and one whom I need not name, do not fully appreciate and understand one another yet, as they will by-and-by; and because it will be the duty, and the pride, and pleasure of my new life, to draw them to a better knowledge of one another, and to be a happiness to one another, and to be proud of one another, and to love one another, both loving me so dearly; oh, as you are a kind, true man! when I am first separated from home (I am going a long distance away), try to reconcile papa to him a little more, and use your great influence to keep him before papa’s mind free from prejudice and in his real form. Will you do this for me, as you are a noble-hearted friend?’

Poor Pet! Self-deceived, mistaken child! When were such changes ever made in men’s natural relations to one another: when was such reconcilement of ingrain differences ever effected! It has been tried many times by other daughters, Minnie; it has never succeeded; nothing has ever come of it but failure.

So Clennam thought. So he did not say; it was too late. He bound himself to do all she asked, and she knew full well that he would do it.

They were now at the last tree in the avenue. She stopped, and withdrew her arm. Speaking to him with her eyes lifted up to his, and with the hand that had lately rested on his sleeve trembling by touching one of the roses in his breast as an additional appeal to him, she said:

‘Dear Mr Clennam, in my happiness—for I am happy, though you have seen me crying—I cannot bear to leave any cloud between us. If you have anything to forgive me (not anything that I have wilfully done, but any trouble I may have caused you without meaning it, or having it in my power to help it), forgive me to-night out of your noble heart!’

He stooped to meet the guileless face that met his without shrinking. He kissed it, and answered, Heaven knew that he had nothing to forgive. As he stooped to meet the innocent face once again, she whispered, ‘Good-bye!’ and he repeated it. It was taking leave of all his old hopes—all nobody’s old restless doubts. They came out of the avenue next moment, arm-in-arm as they had entered it: and the trees seemed to close up behind them in the darkness, like their own perspective of the past.

The voices of Mr and Mrs Meagles and Doyce were audible directly, speaking near the garden gate. Hearing Pet’s name among them, Clennam called out, ‘She is here, with me.’ There was some little wondering and laughing until they came up; but as soon as they had all come together, it ceased, and Pet glided away.

Mr Meagles, Doyce, and Clennam, without speaking, walked up and down on the brink of the river, in the light of the rising moon, for a few minutes; and then Doyce lingered behind, and went into the house. Mr Meagles and Clennam walked up and down together for a few minutes more without speaking, until at length the former broke silence.

‘Arthur,’ said he, using that familiar address for the first time in their communication, ‘do you remember my telling you, as we walked up and down one hot morning, looking over the harbour at Marseilles, that Pet’s baby sister who was dead seemed to Mother and me to have grown as she had grown, and changed as she had changed?’

‘Very well.’

‘You remember my saying that our thoughts had never been able to separate those twin sisters, and that, in our fancy, whatever Pet was, the other was?’

‘Yes, very well.’

‘Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, much subdued, ‘I carry that fancy further to-night. I feel to-night, my dear fellow, as if you had loved my dead child very tenderly, and had lost her when she was like what Pet is now.’

‘Thank you!’ murmured Clennam, ‘thank you!’ And pressed his hand.

‘Will you come in?’ said Mr Meagles, presently.

‘In a little while.’

Mr Meagles fell away, and he was left alone. When he had walked on the river’s brink in the peaceful moonlight for some half an hour, he put his hand in his breast and tenderly took out the handful of roses. Perhaps he put them to his heart, perhaps he put them to his lips, but certainly he bent down on the shore and gently launched them on the flowing river. Pale and unreal in the moonlight, the river floated them away.

The lights were bright within doors when he entered, and the faces on which they shone, his own face not excepted, were soon quietly cheerful. They talked of many subjects (his partner never had had such a ready store to draw upon for the beguiling of the time), and so to bed, and to sleep. While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal seas.

CHAPTER 29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming

The house in the city preserved its heavy dulness through all these transactions, and the invalid within it turned the same unvarying round of life. Morning, noon, and night, morning, noon, and night, each recurring with its accompanying monotony, always the same reluctant return of the same sequences of machinery, like a dragging piece of clockwork.

The wheeled chair had its associated remembrances and reveries, one may suppose, as every place that is made the station of a human being has. Pictures of demolished streets and altered houses, as they formerly were when the occupant of the chair was familiar with them, images of people as they too used to be, with little or no allowance made for the lapse of time since they were seen; of these, there must have been many in the long routine of gloomy days. To stop the clock of busy existence at the hour when we were personally sequestered from it, to suppose mankind stricken motionless when we were brought to a stand-still, to be unable to measure the changes beyond our view by any larger standard than the shrunken one of our own uniform and contracted existence, is the infirmity of many invalids, and the mental unhealthiness of almost all recluses.

What scenes and actors the stern woman most reviewed, as she sat from season to season in her one dark room, none knew but herself. Mr Flintwinch, with his wry presence brought to bear upon her daily like some eccentric mechanical force, would perhaps have screwed it out of her, if there had been less resistance in her; but she was too strong for him. So far as Mistress Affery was concerned, to regard her liege-lord and her disabled mistress with a face of blank wonder, to go about the house after dark with her apron over her head, always to listen for the strange noises and sometimes to hear them, and never to emerge from her ghostly, dreamy, sleep-waking state, was occupation enough for her.

There was a fair stroke of business doing, as Mistress Affery made out, for her husband had abundant occupation in his little office, and saw more people than had been used to come there for some years. This might easily be, the house having been long deserted; but he did receive letters, and comers, and keep books, and correspond. Moreover, he went about to other counting-houses, and to wharves, and docks, and to the Custom House, and to Garraway’s Coffee House, and the Jerusalem Coffee House, and on ‘Change; so that he was much in and out. He began, too, sometimes of an evening, when Mrs Clennam expressed no particular wish for his society, to resort to a tavern in the neighbourhood to look at the shipping news and closing prices in the evening paper, and even to exchange small socialities with mercantile Sea Captains who frequented that establishment. At some period of every day, he and Mrs Clennam held a council on matters of business; and it appeared to Affery, who was always groping about, listening and watching, that the two clever ones were making money.

The state of mind into which Mr Flintwinch’s dazed lady had fallen, had now begun to be so expressed in all her looks and actions that she was held in very low account by the two clever ones, as a person, never of strong intellect, who was becoming foolish. Perhaps because her appearance was not of a commercial cast, or perhaps because it occurred to him that his having taken her to wife might expose his judgment to doubt in the minds of customers, Mr Flintwinch laid his commands upon her that she should hold her peace on the subject of her conjugal relations, and should no longer call him Jeremiah out of the domestic trio. Her frequent forgetfulness of this admonition intensified her startled manner, since Mr Flintwinch’s habit of avenging himself on her remissness by making springs after her on the staircase, and shaking her, occasioned her to be always nervously uncertain when she might be thus waylaid next.

Little Dorrit had finished a long day’s work in Mrs Clennam’s room, and was neatly gathering up her shreds and odds and ends before going home. Mr Pancks, whom Affery had just shown in, was addressing an inquiry to Mrs Clennam on the subject of her health, coupled with the remark that, ‘happening to find himself in that direction,’ he had looked in to inquire, on behalf of his proprietor, how she found herself. Mrs Clennam, with a deep contraction of her brows, was looking at him.

‘Mr Casby knows,’ said she, ‘that I am not subject to changes. The change that I await here is the great change.’

‘Indeed, ma’am?’ returned Mr Pancks, with a wandering eye towards the figure of the little seamstress on her knee picking threads and fraying of her work from the carpet. ‘You look nicely, ma’am.’

‘I bear what I have to bear,’ she answered. ‘Do you what you have to do.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘such is my endeavour.’

‘You are often in this direction, are you not?’ asked Mrs Clennam.

‘Why, yes, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘rather so lately; I have lately been round this way a good deal, owing to one thing and another.’

‘Beg Mr Casby and his daughter not to trouble themselves, by deputy, about me. When they wish to see me, they know I am here to see them. They have no need to trouble themselves to send. You have no need to trouble yourself to come.’

‘Not the least trouble, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks. ‘You really are looking uncommonly nicely, ma’am.’

‘Thank you. Good evening.’

The dismissal, and its accompanying finger pointed straight at the door, was so curt and direct that Mr Pancks did not see his way to prolong his visit. He stirred up his hair with his sprightliest expression, glanced at the little figure again, said ‘Good evening, ma ‘am; don’t come down, Mrs Affery, I know the road to the door,’ and steamed out. Mrs Clennam, her chin resting on her hand, followed him with attentive and darkly distrustful eyes; and Affery stood looking at her as if she were spell-bound.

Slowly and thoughtfully, Mrs Clennam’s eyes turned from the door by which Pancks had gone out, to Little Dorrit, rising from the carpet. With her chin drooping more heavily on her hand, and her eyes vigilant and lowering, the sick woman sat looking at her until she attracted her attention. Little Dorrit coloured under such a gaze, and looked down. Mrs Clennam still sat intent.

‘Little Dorrit,’ she said, when she at last broke silence, ‘what do you know of that man?’

‘I don’t know anything of him, ma’am, except that I have seen him about, and that he has spoken to me.’

‘What has he said to you?’

‘I don’t understand what he has said, he is so strange. But nothing rough or disagreeable.’

‘Why does he come here to see you?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Little Dorrit, with perfect frankness.

‘You know that he does come here to see you?’

‘I have fancied so,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But why he should come here or anywhere for that, ma’am, I can’t think.’

Mrs Clennam cast her eyes towards the ground, and with her strong, set face, as intent upon a subject in her mind as it had lately been upon the form that seemed to pass out of her view, sat absorbed. Some minutes elapsed before she came out of this thoughtfulness, and resumed her hard composure.

Little Dorrit in the meanwhile had been waiting to go, but afraid to disturb her by moving. She now ventured to leave the spot where she had been standing since she had risen, and to pass gently round by the wheeled chair. She stopped at its side to say ‘Good night, ma’am.’

Mrs Clennam put out her hand, and laid it on her arm. Little Dorrit, confused under the touch, stood faltering. Perhaps some momentary recollection of the story of the Princess may have been in her mind.

‘Tell me, Little Dorrit,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘have you many friends now?’

‘Very few, ma’am. Besides you, only Miss Flora and—one more.’

‘Meaning,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her unbent finger again pointing to the door, ‘that man?’

‘Oh no, ma’am!’

‘Some friend of his, perhaps?’

‘No ma’am.’ Little Dorrit earnestly shook her head. ‘Oh no! No one at all like him, or belonging to him.’

‘Well!’ said Mrs Clennam, almost smiling. ‘It is no affair of mine. I ask, because I take an interest in you; and because I believe I was your friend when you had no other who could serve you. Is that so?’

‘Yes, ma’am; indeed it is. I have been here many a time when, but for you and the work you gave me, we should have wanted everything.’

‘We,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, looking towards the watch, once her dead husband’s, which always lay upon her table. ‘Are there many of you?’

‘Only father and I, now. I mean, only father and I to keep regularly out of what we get.’

‘Have you undergone many privations? You and your father and who else there may be of you?’ asked Mrs Clennam, speaking deliberately, and meditatively turning the watch over and over.

‘Sometimes it has been rather hard to live,’ said Little Dorrit, in her soft voice, and timid uncomplaining way; ‘but I think not harder—as to that—than many people find it.’

‘That’s well said!’ Mrs Clennam quickly returned. ‘That’s the truth! You are a good, thoughtful girl. You are a grateful girl too, or I much mistake you.’

‘It is only natural to be that. There is no merit in being that,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘I am indeed.’

Mrs Clennam, with a gentleness of which the dreaming Affery had never dreamed her to be capable, drew down the face of her little seamstress, and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Now go, Little Dorrit,’ said she, ‘or you will be late, poor child!’

In all the dreams Mistress Affery had been piling up since she first became devoted to the pursuit, she had dreamed nothing more astonishing than this. Her head ached with the idea that she would find the other clever one kissing Little Dorrit next, and then the two clever ones embracing each other and dissolving into tears of tenderness for all mankind. The idea quite stunned her, as she attended the light footsteps down the stairs, that the house door might be safely shut.

On opening it to let Little Dorrit out, she found Mr Pancks, instead of having gone his way, as in any less wonderful place and among less wonderful phenomena he might have been reasonably expected to do, fluttering up and down the court outside the house. The moment he saw Little Dorrit, he passed her briskly, said with his finger to his nose (as Mrs Affery distinctly heard), ‘Pancks the gipsy, fortune-telling,’ and went away. ‘Lord save us, here’s a gipsy and a fortune-teller in it now!’ cried Mistress Affery. ‘What next!’

She stood at the open door, staggering herself with this enigma, on a rainy, thundery evening. The clouds were flying fast, and the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighbouring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weather-cocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, ‘Let them rest! Let them rest!’

Mistress Affery, whose fear of thunder and lightning was only to be equalled by her dread of the haunted house with a premature and preternatural darkness in it, stood undecided whether to go in or not, until the question was settled for her by the door blowing upon her in a violent gust of wind and shutting her out. ‘What’s to be done now, what’s to be done now!’ cried Mistress Affery, wringing her hands in this last uneasy dream of all; ‘when she’s all alone by herself inside, and can no more come down to open it than the churchyard dead themselves!’

In this dilemma, Mistress Affery, with her apron as a hood to keep the rain off, ran crying up and down the solitary paved enclosure several times. Why she should then stoop down and look in at the keyhole of the door as if an eye would open it, it would be difficult to say; but it is none the less what most people would have done in the same situation, and it is what she did.

From this posture she started up suddenly, with a half scream, feeling something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand; of a man’s hand.

The man was dressed like a traveller, in a foraging cap with fur about it, and a heap of cloak. He looked like a foreigner. He had a quantity of hair and moustache—jet black, except at the shaggy ends, where it had a tinge of red—and a high hook nose. He laughed at Mistress Affery’s start and cry; and as he laughed, his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in plain English. ‘What are you frightened at?’

‘At you,’ panted Affery.

‘Me, madam?’

‘And the dismal evening, and—and everything,’ said Affery. ‘And here! The wind has been and blown the door to, and I can’t get in.’

‘Hah!’ said the gentleman, who took that very coolly. ‘Indeed! Do you know such a name as Clennam about here?’

‘Lord bless us, I should think I did, I should think I did!’ cried Affery, exasperated into a new wringing of hands by the inquiry.

‘Where about here?’

‘Where!’ cried Affery, goaded into another inspection of the keyhole. ‘Where but here in this house? And she’s all alone in her room, and lost the use of her limbs and can’t stir to help herself or me, and t’other clever one’s out, and Lord forgive me!’ cried Affery, driven into a frantic dance by these accumulated considerations, ‘if I ain’t a-going headlong out of my mind!’

Taking a warmer view of the matter now that it concerned himself, the gentleman stepped back to glance at the house, and his eye soon rested on the long narrow window of the little room near the hall-door.

‘Where may the lady be who has lost the use of her limbs, madam?’ he inquired, with that peculiar smile which Mistress Affery could not choose but keep her eyes upon.

‘Up there!’ said Affery. ‘Them two windows.’

‘Hah! I am of a fair size, but could not have the honour of presenting myself in that room without a ladder. Now, madam, frankly—frankness is a part of my character—shall I open the door for you?’

‘Yes, bless you, sir, for a dear creetur, and do it at once,’ cried Affery, ‘for she may be a-calling to me at this very present minute, or may be setting herself a fire and burning herself to death, or there’s no knowing what may be happening to her, and me a-going out of my mind at thinking of it!’

‘Stay, my good madam!’ He restrained her impatience with a smooth white hand. ‘Business-hours, I apprehend, are over for the day?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ cried Affery. ‘Long ago.’

‘Let me make, then, a fair proposal. Fairness is a part of my character. I am just landed from the packet-boat, as you may see.’ He showed her that his cloak was very wet, and that his boots were saturated with water; she had previously observed that he was dishevelled and sallow, as if from a rough voyage, and so chilled that he could not keep his teeth from chattering. ‘I am just landed from the packet-boat, madam, and have been delayed by the weather: the infernal weather! In consequence of this, madam, some necessary business that I should otherwise have transacted here within the regular hours (necessary business because money-business), still remains to be done. Now, if you will fetch any authorised neighbouring somebody to do it in return for my opening the door, I’ll open the door. If this arrangement should be objectionable, I’ll—’ and with the same smile he made a significant feint of backing away.

Mistress Affery, heartily glad to effect the proposed compromise, gave in her willing adhesion to it. The gentleman at once requested her to do him the favour of holding his cloak, took a short run at the narrow window, made a leap at the sill, clung his way up the bricks, and in a moment had his hand at the sash, raising it. His eyes looked so very sinister, as he put his leg into the room and glanced round at Mistress Affery, that she thought with a sudden coldness, if he were to go straight up-stairs to murder the invalid, what could she do to prevent him?

Happily he had no such purpose; for he reappeared, in a moment, at the house door. ‘Now, my dear madam,’ he said, as he took back his cloak and threw it on, ‘if you have the goodness to—what the Devil’s that!’

The strangest of sounds. Evidently close at hand from the peculiar shock it communicated to the air, yet subdued as if it were far off. A tremble, a rumble, and a fall of some light dry matter.

‘What the Devil is it?’

‘I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard the like of it over and over again,’ said Affery, who had caught his arm.

He could hardly be a very brave man, even she thought in her dreamy start and fright, for his trembling lips had turned colourless. After listening a few moments, he made light of it.

‘Bah! Nothing! Now, my dear madam, I think you spoke of some clever personage. Will you be so good as to confront me with that genius?’ He held the door in his hand, as though he were quite ready to shut her out again if she failed.

‘Don’t you say anything about the door and me, then,’ whispered Affery.

‘Not a word.’

‘And don’t you stir from here, or speak if she calls, while I run round the corner.’

‘Madam, I am a statue.’

Affery had so vivid a fear of his going stealthily up-stairs the moment her back was turned, that after hurrying out of sight, she returned to the gateway to peep at him. Seeing him still on the threshold, more out of the house than in it, as if he had no love for darkness and no desire to probe its mysteries, she flew into the next street, and sent a message into the tavern to Mr Flintwinch, who came out directly. The two returning together—the lady in advance, and Mr Flintwinch coming up briskly behind, animated with the hope of shaking her before she could get housed—saw the gentleman standing in the same place in the dark, and heard the strong voice of Mrs Clennam calling from her room, ‘Who is it? What is it? Why does no one answer? Who is that, down there?’

CHAPTER 30. The Word of a Gentleman

When Mr and Mrs Flintwinch panted up to the door of the old house in the twilight, Jeremiah within a second of Affery, the stranger started back. ‘Death of my soul!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, how did you get here?’

Mr Flintwinch, to whom these words were spoken, repaid the stranger’s wonder in full. He gazed at him with blank astonishment; he looked over his own shoulder, as expecting to see some one he had not been aware of standing behind him; he gazed at the stranger again, speechlessly, at a loss to know what he meant; he looked to his wife for explanation; receiving none, he pounced upon her, and shook her with such heartiness that he shook her cap off her head, saying between his teeth, with grim raillery, as he did it, ‘Affery, my woman, you must have a dose, my woman! This is some of your tricks! You have been dreaming again, mistress. What’s it about? Who is it? What does it mean! Speak out or be choked! It’s the only choice I’ll give you.’

Supposing Mistress Affery to have any power of election at the moment, her choice was decidedly to be choked; for she answered not a syllable to this adjuration, but, with her bare head wagging violently backwards and forwards, resigned herself to her punishment. The stranger, however, picking up her cap with an air of gallantry, interposed.

‘Permit me,’ said he, laying his hand on the shoulder of Jeremiah, who stopped and released his victim. ‘Thank you. Excuse me. Husband and wife I know, from this playfulness. Haha! Always agreeable to see that relation playfully maintained. Listen! May I suggest that somebody up-stairs, in the dark, is becoming energetically curious to know what is going on here?’

This reference to Mrs Clennam’s voice reminded Mr Flintwinch to step into the hall and call up the staircase. ‘It’s all right, I am here, Affery is coming with your light.’ Then he said to the latter flustered woman, who was putting her cap on, ‘Get out with you, and get up-stairs!’ and then turned to the stranger and said to him, ‘Now, sir, what might you please to want?’

‘I am afraid,’ said the stranger, ‘I must be so troublesome as to propose a candle.’

‘True,’ assented Jeremiah. ‘I was going to do so. Please to stand where you are while I get one.’

The visitor was standing in the doorway, but turned a little into the gloom of the house as Mr Flintwinch turned, and pursued him with his eyes into the little room, where he groped about for a phosphorus box. When he found it, it was damp, or otherwise out of order; and match after match that he struck into it lighted sufficiently to throw a dull glare about his groping face, and to sprinkle his hands with pale little spots of fire, but not sufficiently to light the candle. The stranger, taking advantage of this fitful illumination of his visage, looked intently and wonderingly at him. Jeremiah, when he at last lighted the candle, knew he had been doing this, by seeing the last shade of a lowering watchfulness clear away from his face, as it broke into the doubtful smile that was a large ingredient in its expression.

‘Be so good,’ said Jeremiah, closing the house door, and taking a pretty sharp survey of the smiling visitor in his turn, ‘as to step into my counting-house.—It’s all right, I tell you!’ petulantly breaking off to answer the voice up-stairs, still unsatisfied, though Affery was there, speaking in persuasive tones. ‘Don’t I tell you it’s all right? Preserve the woman, has she no reason at all in her!’

‘Timorous,’ remarked the stranger.

‘Timorous?’ said Mr Flintwinch, turning his head to retort, as he went before with the candle. ‘More courageous than ninety men in a hundred, sir, let me tell you.’

‘Though an invalid?’

‘Many years an invalid. Mrs Clennam. The only one of that name left in the House now. My partner.’

Saying something apologetically as he crossed the hall, to the effect that at that time of night they were not in the habit of receiving any one, and were always shut up, Mr Flintwinch led the way into his own office, which presented a sufficiently business-like appearance. Here he put the light on his desk, and said to the stranger, with his wryest twist upon him, ‘Your commands.’

‘My name is Blandois.’

‘Blandois. I don’t know it,’ said Jeremiah.

‘I thought it possible,’ resumed the other, ‘that you might have been advised from Paris—’

‘We have had no advice from Paris respecting anybody of the name of Blandois,’ said Jeremiah.

‘No?’

‘No.’

Jeremiah stood in his favourite attitude. The smiling Mr Blandois, opening his cloak to get his hand to a breast-pocket, paused to say, with a laugh in his glittering eyes, which it occurred to Mr Flintwinch were too near together:

‘You are so like a friend of mine! Not so identically the same as I supposed when I really did for the moment take you to be the same in the dusk—for which I ought to apologise; permit me to do so; a readiness to confess my errors is, I hope, a part of the frankness of my character—still, however, uncommonly like.’

‘Indeed?’ said Jeremiah, perversely. ‘But I have not received any letter of advice from anywhere respecting anybody of the name of Blandois.’

‘Just so,’ said the stranger.

‘Just so,’ said Jeremiah.

Mr Blandois, not at all put out by this omission on the part of the correspondents of the house of Clennam and Co., took his pocket-book from his breast-pocket, selected a letter from that receptacle, and handed it to Mr Flintwinch. ‘No doubt you are well acquainted with the writing. Perhaps the letter speaks for itself, and requires no advice. You are a far more competent judge of such affairs than I am. It is my misfortune to be, not so much a man of business, as what the world calls (arbitrarily) a gentleman.’

Mr Flintwinch took the letter, and read, under date of Paris, ‘We have to present to you, on behalf of a highly esteemed correspondent of our Firm, M. Blandois, of this city,’ &c. &c. ‘Such facilities as he may require and such attentions as may lie in your power,’ &c. &c. ‘Also have to add that if you will honour M. Blandois’ drafts at sight to the extent of, say Fifty Pounds sterling (50_l_.),’ &c. &c.

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Take a chair. To the extent of anything that our House can do—we are in a retired, old-fashioned, steady way of business, sir—we shall be happy to render you our best assistance. I observe, from the date of this, that we could not yet be advised of it. Probably you came over with the delayed mail that brings the advice.’

‘That I came over with the delayed mail, sir,’ returned Mr Blandois, passing his white hand down his high-hooked nose, ‘I know to the cost of my head and stomach: the detestable and intolerable weather having racked them both. You see me in the plight in which I came out of the packet within this half-hour. I ought to have been here hours ago, and then I should not have to apologise—permit me to apologise—for presenting myself so unreasonably, and frightening—no, by-the-bye, you said not frightening; permit me to apologise again—the esteemed lady, Mrs Clennam, in her invalid chamber above stairs.’

Swagger and an air of authorised condescension do so much, that Mr Flintwinch had already begun to think this a highly gentlemanly personage. Not the less unyielding with him on that account, he scraped his chin and said, what could he have the honour of doing for Mr Blandois to-night, out of business hours?

‘Faith!’ returned that gentleman, shrugging his cloaked shoulders, ‘I must change, and eat and drink, and be lodged somewhere. Have the kindness to advise me, a total stranger, where, and money is a matter of perfect indifference until to-morrow. The nearer the place, the better. Next door, if that’s all.’

Mr Flintwinch was slowly beginning, ‘For a gentleman of your habits, there is not in this immediate neighbourhood any hotel—’ when Mr Blandois took him up.

‘So much for my habits! my dear sir,’ snapping his fingers. ‘A citizen of the world has no habits. That I am, in my poor way, a gentleman, by Heaven! I will not deny, but I have no unaccommodating prejudiced habits. A clean room, a hot dish for dinner, and a bottle of not absolutely poisonous wine, are all I want tonight. But I want that much without the trouble of going one unnecessary inch to get it.’

‘There is,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with more than his usual deliberation, as he met, for a moment, Mr Blandois’ shining eyes, which were restless; ‘there is a coffee-house and tavern close here, which, so far, I can recommend; but there’s no style about it.’

‘I dispense with style!’ said Mr Blandois, waving his hand. ‘Do me the honour to show me the house, and introduce me there (if I am not too troublesome), and I shall be infinitely obliged.’

Mr Flintwinch, upon this, looked up his hat, and lighted Mr Blandois across the hall again. As he put the candle on a bracket, where the dark old panelling almost served as an extinguisher for it, he bethought himself of going up to tell the invalid that he would not be absent five minutes.

‘Oblige me,’ said the visitor, on his saying so, ‘by presenting my card of visit. Do me the favour to add that I shall be happy to wait on Mrs Clennam, to offer my personal compliments, and to apologise for having occasioned any agitation in this tranquil corner, if it should suit her convenience to endure the presence of a stranger for a few minutes, after he shall have changed his wet clothes and fortified himself with something to eat and drink.’

Jeremiah made all despatch, and said, on his return, ‘She’ll be glad to see you, sir; but, being conscious that her sick room has no attractions, wishes me to say that she won’t hold you to your offer, in case you should think better of it.’

‘To think better of it,’ returned the gallant Blandois, ‘would be to slight a lady; to slight a lady would be to be deficient in chivalry towards the sex; and chivalry towards the sex is a part of my character!’ Thus expressing himself, he threw the draggled skirt of his cloak over his shoulder, and accompanied Mr Flintwinch to the tavern; taking up on the road a porter who was waiting with his portmanteau on the outer side of the gateway.

The house was kept in a homely manner, and the condescension of Mr Blandois was infinite. It seemed to fill to inconvenience the little bar in which the widow landlady and her two daughters received him; it was much too big for the narrow wainscoted room with a bagatelle-board in it, that was first proposed for his reception; it perfectly swamped the little private holiday sitting-room of the family, which was finally given up to him. Here, in dry clothes and scented linen, with sleeked hair, a great ring on each forefinger and a massive show of watch-chain, Mr Blandois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a window-seat with his knees drawn up, looked (for all the difference in the setting of the jewel) fearfully and wonderfully like a certain Monsieur Rigaud who had once so waited for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of the iron grating of a cell in a villainous dungeon at Marseilles.

His greed at dinner, too, was closely in keeping with the greed of Monsieur Rigaud at breakfast. His avaricious manner of collecting all the eatables about him, and devouring some with his eyes while devouring others with his jaws, was the same manner. His utter disregard of other people, as shown in his way of tossing the little womanly toys of furniture about, flinging favourite cushions under his boots for a softer rest, and crushing delicate coverings with his big body and his great black head, had the same brute selfishness at the bottom of it. The softly moving hands that were so busy among the dishes had the old wicked facility of the hands that had clung to the bars. And when he could eat no more, and sat sucking his delicate fingers one by one and wiping them on a cloth, there wanted nothing but the substitution of vine-leaves to finish the picture.

On this man, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down in that most evil of smiles, and with his surface eyes looking as if they belonged to his dyed hair, and had had their natural power of reflecting light stopped by some similar process, Nature, always true, and never working in vain, had set the mark, Beware! It was not her fault, if the warning were fruitless. She is never to blame in any such instance.

Mr Blandois, having finished his repast and cleaned his fingers, took a cigar from his pocket, and, lying on the window-seat again, smoked it out at his leisure, occasionally apostrophising the smoke as it parted from his thin lips in a thin stream:

‘Blandois, you shall turn the tables on society, my little child. Haha! Holy blue, you have begun well, Blandois! At a pinch, an excellent master in English or French; a man for the bosom of families! You have a quick perception, you have humour, you have ease, you have insinuating manners, you have a good appearance; in effect, you are a gentleman! A gentleman you shall live, my small boy, and a gentleman you shall die. You shall win, however the game goes. They shall all confess your merit, Blandois. You shall subdue the society which has grievously wronged you, to your own high spirit. Death of my soul! You are high spirited by right and by nature, my Blandois!’

To such soothing murmurs did this gentleman smoke out his cigar and drink out his bottle of wine. Both being finished, he shook himself into a sitting attitude; and with the concluding serious apostrophe, ‘Hold, then! Blandois, you ingenious one, have all your wits about you!’ arose and went back to the house of Clennam and Co.

He was received at the door by Mistress Affery, who, under instructions from her lord, had lighted up two candles in the hall and a third on the staircase, and who conducted him to Mrs Clennam’s room. Tea was prepared there, and such little company arrangements had been made as usually attended the reception of expected visitors. They were slight on the greatest occasion, never extending beyond the production of the China tea-service, and the covering of the bed with a sober and sad drapery. For the rest, there was the bier-like sofa with the block upon it, and the figure in the widow’s dress, as if attired for execution; the fire topped by the mound of damped ashes; the grate with its second little mound of ashes; the kettle and the smell of black dye; all as they had been for fifteen years.

Mr Flintwinch presented the gentleman commended to the consideration of Clennam and Co. Mrs Clennam, who had the letter lying before her, bent her head and requested him to sit. They looked very closely at one another. That was but natural curiosity.

‘I thank you, sir, for thinking of a disabled woman like me. Few who come here on business have any remembrance to bestow on one so removed from observation. It would be idle to expect that they should have. Out of sight, out of mind. While I am grateful for the exception, I don’t complain of the rule.’

Mr Blandois, in his most gentlemanly manner, was afraid he had disturbed her by unhappily presenting himself at such an unconscionable time. For which he had already offered his best apologies to Mr—he begged pardon—but by name had not the distinguished honour—

‘Mr Flintwinch has been connected with the House many years.’

Mr Blandois was Mr Flintwinch’s most obedient humble servant. He entreated Mr Flintwinch to receive the assurance of his profoundest consideration.

‘My husband being dead,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and my son preferring another pursuit, our old House has no other representative in these days than Mr Flintwinch.’

‘What do you call yourself?’ was the surly demand of that gentleman. ‘You have the head of two men.’

‘My sex disqualifies me,’ she proceeded with merely a slight turn of her eyes in Jeremiah’s direction, ‘from taking a responsible part in the business, even if I had the ability; and therefore Mr Flintwinch combines my interest with his own, and conducts it. It is not what it used to be; but some of our old friends (principally the writers of this letter) have the kindness not to forget us, and we retain the power of doing what they entrust to us as efficiently as we ever did. This however is not interesting to you. You are English, sir?’

‘Faith, madam, no; I am neither born nor bred in England. In effect, I am of no country,’ said Mr Blandois, stretching out his leg and smiting it: ‘I descend from half-a-dozen countries.’

‘You have been much about the world?’

‘It is true. By Heaven, madam, I have been here and there and everywhere!’

‘You have no ties, probably. Are not married?’

‘Madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with an ugly fall of his eyebrows, ‘I adore your sex, but I am not married—never was.’

Mistress Affery, who stood at the table near him, pouring out the tea, happened in her dreamy state to look at him as he said these words, and to fancy that she caught an expression in his eyes which attracted her own eyes so that she could not get them away. The effect of this fancy was to keep her staring at him with the tea-pot in her hand, not only to her own great uneasiness, but manifestly to his, too; and, through them both, to Mrs Clennam’s and Mr Flintwinch’s. Thus a few ghostly moments supervened, when they were all confusedly staring without knowing why.

‘Affery,’ her mistress was the first to say, ‘what is the matter with you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mistress Affery, with her disengaged left hand extended towards the visitor. ‘It ain’t me. It’s him!’

‘What does this good woman mean?’ cried Mr Blandois, turning white, hot, and slowly rising with a look of such deadly wrath that it contrasted surprisingly with the slight force of his words. ‘How is it possible to understand this good creature?’

‘It’s not possible,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself rapidly in that direction. ‘She don’t know what she means. She’s an idiot, a wanderer in her mind. She shall have a dose, she shall have such a dose! Get along with you, my woman,’ he added in her ear, ‘get along with you, while you know you’re Affery, and before you’re shaken to yeast.’

Mistress Affery, sensible of the danger in which her identity stood, relinquished the tea-pot as her husband seized it, put her apron over her head, and in a twinkling vanished. The visitor gradually broke into a smile, and sat down again.

‘You’ll excuse her, Mr Blandois,’ said Jeremiah, pouring out the tea himself, ‘she’s failing and breaking up; that’s what she’s about. Do you take sugar, sir?’

‘Thank you, no tea for me.—Pardon my observing it, but that’s a very remarkable watch!’

The tea-table was drawn up near the sofa, with a small interval between it and Mrs Clennam’s own particular table. Mr Blandois in his gallantry had risen to hand that lady her tea (her dish of toast was already there), and it was in placing the cup conveniently within her reach that the watch, lying before her as it always did, attracted his attention. Mrs Clennam looked suddenly up at him.

‘May I be permitted? Thank you. A fine old-fashioned watch,’ he said, taking it in his hand. ‘Heavy for use, but massive and genuine. I have a partiality for everything genuine. Such as I am, I am genuine myself. Hah! A gentleman’s watch with two cases in the old fashion. May I remove it from the outer case? Thank you. Aye? An old silk watch-lining, worked with beads! I have often seen these among old Dutch people and Belgians. Quaint things!’

‘They are old-fashioned, too,’ said Mrs Clennam.

‘Very. But this is not so old as the watch, I think?’

‘I think not.’

‘Extraordinary how they used to complicate these cyphers!’ remarked Mr Blandois, glancing up with his own smile again. ‘Now is this D. N. F.? It might be almost anything.’

‘Those are the letters.’

Mr Flintwinch, who had been observantly pausing all this time with a cup of tea in his hand, and his mouth open ready to swallow the contents, began to do so: always entirely filling his mouth before he emptied it at a gulp; and always deliberating again before he refilled it.

‘D. N. F. was some tender, lovely, fascinating fair-creature, I make no doubt,’ observed Mr Blandois, as he snapped on the case again. ‘I adore her memory on the assumption. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I adore but too readily. It may be a vice, it may be a virtue, but adoration of female beauty and merit constitutes three parts of my character, madam.’

Mr Flintwinch had by this time poured himself out another cup of tea, which he was swallowing in gulps as before, with his eyes directed to the invalid.

‘You may be heart-free here, sir,’ she returned to Mr Blandois. ‘Those letters are not intended, I believe, for the initials of any name.’

‘Of a motto, perhaps,’ said Mr Blandois, casually.

‘Of a sentence. They have always stood, I believe, for Do Not Forget!’

‘And naturally,’ said Mr Blandois, replacing the watch and stepping backward to his former chair, ‘you do not forget.’

Mr Flintwinch, finishing his tea, not only took a longer gulp than he had taken yet, but made his succeeding pause under new circumstances: that is to say, with his head thrown back and his cup held still at his lips, while his eyes were still directed at the invalid. She had that force of face, and that concentrated air of collecting her firmness or obstinacy, which represented in her case what would have been gesture and action in another, as she replied with her deliberate strength of speech:

‘No, sir, I do not forget. To lead a life as monotonous as mine has been during many years, is not the way to forget. To lead a life of self-correction is not the way to forget. To be sensible of having (as we all have, every one of us, all the children of Adam!) offences to expiate and peace to make, does not justify the desire to forget. Therefore I have long dismissed it, and I neither forget nor wish to forget.’

Mr Flintwinch, who had latterly been shaking the sediment at the bottom of his tea-cup, round and round, here gulped it down, and putting the cup in the tea-tray, as done with, turned his eyes upon Mr Blandois as if to ask him what he thought of that?

‘All expressed, madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with his smoothest bow and his white hand on his breast, ‘by the word “naturally,” which I am proud to have had sufficient apprehension and appreciation (but without appreciation I could not be Blandois) to employ.’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ she returned, ‘if I doubt the likelihood of a gentleman of pleasure, and change, and politeness, accustomed to court and to be courted—’

‘Oh madam! By Heaven!’

‘—If I doubt the likelihood of such a character quite comprehending what belongs to mine in my circumstances. Not to obtrude doctrine upon you,’ she looked at the rigid pile of hard pale books before her, ‘(for you go your own way, and the consequences are on your own head), I will say this much: that I shape my course by pilots, strictly by proved and tried pilots, under whom I cannot be shipwrecked—can not be—and that if I were unmindful of the admonition conveyed in those three letters, I should not be half as chastened as I am.’

It was curious how she seized the occasion to argue with some invisible opponent. Perhaps with her own better sense, always turning upon herself and her own deception.

‘If I forgot my ignorances in my life of health and freedom, I might complain of the life to which I am now condemned. I never do; I never have done. If I forgot that this scene, the Earth, is expressly meant to be a scene of gloom, and hardship, and dark trial, for the creatures who are made out of its dust, I might have some tenderness for its vanities. But I have no such tenderness. If I did not know that we are, every one, the subject (most justly the subject) of a wrath that must be satisfied, and against which mere actions are nothing, I might repine at the difference between me, imprisoned here, and the people who pass that gateway yonder. But I take it as a grace and favour to be elected to make the satisfaction I am making here, to know what I know for certain here, and to work out what I have worked out here. My affliction might otherwise have had no meaning to me. Hence I would forget, and I do forget, nothing. Hence I am contented, and say it is better with me than with millions.’

As she spoke these words, she put her hand upon the watch, and restored it to the precise spot on her little table which it always occupied. With her touch lingering upon it, she sat for some moments afterwards, looking at it steadily and half-defiantly.

Mr Blandois, during this exposition, had been strictly attentive, keeping his eyes fastened on the lady, and thoughtfully stroking his moustache with his two hands. Mr Flintwinch had been a little fidgety, and now struck in.

‘There, there, there!’ said he. ‘That is quite understood, Mrs Clennam, and you have spoken piously and well. Mr Blandois, I suspect, is not of a pious cast.’

‘On the contrary, sir!’ that gentleman protested, snapping his fingers. ‘Your pardon! It’s a part of my character. I am sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative. A sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative man, Mr Flintwinch, must be that, or nothing!’

There was an inkling of suspicion in Mr Flintwinch’s face that he might be nothing, as he swaggered out of his chair (it was characteristic of this man, as it is of all men similarly marked, that whatever he did, he overdid, though it were sometimes by only a hairsbreadth), and approached to take his leave of Mrs Clennam.

‘With what will appear to you the egotism of a sick old woman, sir,’ she then said, ‘though really through your accidental allusion, I have been led away into the subject of myself and my infirmities. Being so considerate as to visit me, I hope you will be likewise so considerate as to overlook that. Don’t compliment me, if you please.’ For he was evidently going to do it. ‘Mr Flintwinch will be happy to render you any service, and I hope your stay in this city may prove agreeable.’

Mr Blandois thanked her, and kissed his hand several times. ‘This is an old room,’ he remarked, with a sudden sprightliness of manner, looking round when he got near the door, ‘I have been so interested that I have not observed it. But it’s a genuine old room.’

‘It is a genuine old house,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her frozen smile. ‘A place of no pretensions, but a piece of antiquity.’

‘Faith!’ cried the visitor. ‘If Mr Flintwinch would do me the favour to take me through the rooms on my way out, he could hardly oblige me more. An old house is a weakness with me. I have many weaknesses, but none greater. I love and study the picturesque in all its varieties. I have been called picturesque myself. It is no merit to be picturesque—I have greater merits, perhaps—but I may be, by an accident. Sympathy, sympathy!’

‘I tell you beforehand, Mr Blandois, that you’ll find it very dingy and very bare,’ said Jeremiah, taking up the candle. ‘It’s not worth your looking at.’But Mr Blandois, smiting him in a friendly manner on the back, only laughed; so the said Blandois kissed his hand again to Mrs Clennam, and they went out of the room together.

‘You don’t care to go up-stairs?’ said Jeremiah, on the landing.

‘On the contrary, Mr Flintwinch; if not tiresome to you, I shall be ravished!’

Mr Flintwinch, therefore, wormed himself up the staircase, and Mr Blandois followed close. They ascended to the great garret bed-room which Arthur had occupied on the night of his return. ‘There, Mr Blandois!’ said Jeremiah, showing it, ‘I hope you may think that worth coming so high to see. I confess I don’t.’

Mr Blandois being enraptured, they walked through other garrets and passages, and came down the staircase again. By this time Mr Flintwinch had remarked that he never found the visitor looking at any room, after throwing one quick glance around, but always found the visitor looking at him, Mr Flintwinch. With this discovery in his thoughts, he turned about on the staircase for another experiment. He met his eyes directly; and on the instant of their fixing one another, the visitor, with that ugly play of nose and moustache, laughed (as he had done at every similar moment since they left Mrs Clennam’s chamber) a diabolically silent laugh.

As a much shorter man than the visitor, Mr Flintwinch was at the physical disadvantage of being thus disagreeably leered at from a height; and as he went first down the staircase, and was usually a step or two lower than the other, this disadvantage was at the time increased. He postponed looking at Mr Blandois again until this accidental inequality was removed by their having entered the late Mr Clennam’s room. But, then twisting himself suddenly round upon him, he found his look unchanged.

‘A most admirable old house,’ smiled Mr Blandois. ‘So mysterious. Do you never hear any haunted noises here?’

‘Noises,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘No.’

‘Nor see any devils?’

‘Not,’ said Mr Flintwinch, grimly screwing himself at his questioner, ‘not any that introduce themselves under that name and in that capacity.’

‘Haha! A portrait here, I see.’

(Still looking at Mr Flintwinch, as if he were the portrait.)

‘It’s a portrait, sir, as you observe.’

‘May I ask the subject, Mr Flintwinch?’

‘Mr Clennam, deceased. Her husband.’

‘Former owner of the remarkable watch, perhaps?’ said the visitor.

Mr Flintwinch, who had cast his eyes towards the portrait, twisted himself about again, and again found himself the subject of the same look and smile. ‘Yes, Mr Blandois,’ he replied tartly. ‘It was his, and his uncle’s before him, and Lord knows who before him; and that’s all I can tell you of its pedigree.’

‘That’s a strongly marked character, Mr Flintwinch, our friend up-stairs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeremiah, twisting himself at the visitor again, as he did during the whole of this dialogue, like some screw-machine that fell short of its grip; for the other never changed, and he always felt obliged to retreat a little. ‘She is a remarkable woman. Great fortitude—great strength of mind.’

‘They must have been very happy,’ said Blandois.

‘Who?’ demanded Mr Flintwinch, with another screw at him.

Mr Blandois shook his right forefinger towards the sick room, and his left forefinger towards the portrait, and then, putting his arms akimbo and striding his legs wide apart, stood smiling down at Mr Flintwinch with the advancing nose and the retreating moustache.

‘As happy as most other married people, I suppose,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘I can’t say. I don’t know. There are secrets in all families.’

‘Secrets!’ cried Mr Blandois, quickly. ‘Say it again, my son.’

‘I say,’ replied Mr Flintwinch, upon whom he had swelled himself so suddenly that Mr Flintwinch found his face almost brushed by the dilated chest. ‘I say there are secrets in all families.’

‘So there are,’ cried the other, clapping him on both shoulders, and rolling him backwards and forwards. ‘Haha! you are right. So there are! Secrets! Holy Blue! There are the devil’s own secrets in some families, Mr Flintwinch!’ With that, after clapping Mr Flintwinch on both shoulders several times, as if in a friendly and humorous way he were rallying him on a joke he had made, he threw up his arms, threw back his head, hooked his hands together behind it, and burst into a roar of laughter. It was in vain for Mr Flintwinch to try another screw at him. He had his laugh out.

‘But, favour me with the candle a moment,’ he said, when he had done. ‘Let us have a look at the husband of the remarkable lady. Hah!’ holding up the light at arm’s length. ‘A decided expression of face here too, though not of the same character. Looks as if he were saying, what is it—Do Not Forget—does he not, Mr Flintwinch? By Heaven, sir, he does!’

As he returned the candle, he looked at him once more; and then, leisurely strolling out with him into the hall, declared it to be a charming old house indeed, and one which had so greatly pleased him that he would not have missed inspecting it for a hundred pounds.

Throughout these singular freedoms on the part of Mr Blandois, which involved a general alteration in his demeanour, making it much coarser and rougher, much more violent and audacious than before, Mr Flintwinch, whose leathern face was not liable to many changes, preserved its immobility intact. Beyond now appearing perhaps, to have been left hanging a trifle too long before that friendly operation of cutting down, he outwardly maintained an equable composure. They had brought their survey to a close in the little room at the side of the hall, and he stood there, eyeing Mr Blandois.

‘I am glad you are so well satisfied, sir,’ was his calm remark. ‘I didn’t expect it. You seem to be quite in good spirits.’

‘In admirable spirits,’ returned Blandois. ‘Word of honour! never more refreshed in spirits. Do you ever have presentiments, Mr Flintwinch?’

‘I am not sure that I know what you mean by the term, sir,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Say, in this case, Mr Flintwinch, undefined anticipations of pleasure to come.’

‘I can’t say I’m sensible of such a sensation at present,’ returned Mr Flintwinch with the utmost gravity. ‘If I should find it coming on, I’ll mention it.’

‘Now I,’ said Blandois, ‘I, my son, have a presentiment to-night that we shall be well acquainted. Do you find it coming on?’

‘N-no,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, deliberately inquiring of himself. ‘I can’t say I do.’

‘I have a strong presentiment that we shall become intimately acquainted.—You have no feeling of that sort yet?’

‘Not yet,’ said Mr Flintwinch.

Mr Blandois, taking him by both shoulders again, rolled him about a little in his former merry way, then drew his arm through his own, and invited him to come off and drink a bottle of wine like a dear deep old dog as he was.

Without a moment’s indecision, Mr Flintwinch accepted the invitation, and they went out to the quarters where the traveller was lodged, through a heavy rain which had rattled on the windows, roofs, and pavements, ever since nightfall. The thunder and lightning had long ago passed over, but the rain was furious. On their arrival at Mr Blandois’ room, a bottle of port wine was ordered by that gallant gentleman; who (crushing every pretty thing he could collect, in the soft disposition of his dainty figure) coiled himself upon the window-seat, while Mr Flintwinch took a chair opposite to him, with the table between them. Mr Blandois proposed having the largest glasses in the house, to which Mr Flintwinch assented. The bumpers filled, Mr Blandois, with a roystering gaiety, clinked the top of his glass against the bottom of Mr Flintwinch’s, and the bottom of his glass against the top of Mr Flintwinch’s, and drank to the intimate acquaintance he foresaw. Mr Flintwinch gravely pledged him, and drank all the wine he could get, and said nothing. As often as Mr Blandois clinked glasses (which was at every replenishment), Mr Flintwinch stolidly did his part of the clinking, and would have stolidly done his companion’s part of the wine as well as his own: being, except in the article of palate, a mere cask.

In short, Mr Blandois found that to pour port wine into the reticent Flintwinch was, not to open him but to shut him up. Moreover, he had the appearance of a perfect ability to go on all night; or, if occasion were, all next day and all next night; whereas Mr Blandois soon grew indistinctly conscious of swaggering too fiercely and boastfully. He therefore terminated the entertainment at the end of the third bottle.

‘You will draw upon us to-morrow, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a business-like face at parting.

‘My Cabbage,’ returned the other, taking him by the collar with both hands, ‘I’ll draw upon you; have no fear. Adieu, my Flintwinch. Receive at parting;’ here he gave him a southern embrace, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks; ‘the word of a gentleman! By a thousand Thunders, you shall see me again!’

He did not present himself next day, though the letter of advice came duly to hand. Inquiring after him at night, Mr Flintwinch found, with surprise, that he had paid his bill and gone back to the Continent by way of Calais. Nevertheless, Jeremiah scraped out of his cogitating face a lively conviction that Mr Blandois would keep his word on this occasion, and would be seen again.

CHAPTER 31. Spirit

Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping along with a scared air, as though bewildered and a little frightened by the noise and bustle. This old man is always a little old man. If he were ever a big old man, he has shrunk into a little old man; if he were always a little old man, he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat is a colour, and cut, that never was the mode anywhere, at any period. Clearly, it was not made for him, or for any individual mortal. Some wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such quality, and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a long unfinished line of many old men. It has always large dull metal buttons, similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat, which has never adapted itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and his coarse neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat; they have the same character of not being his—of not being anybody’s. Yet this old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being dressed and elaborated for the public ways; as though he passed the greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the country mouse in the second year of a famine, come to see the town mouse, and timidly threading his way to the town-mouse’s lodging through a city of cats, this old man passes in the streets.

Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small measure will overset him; he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with a half-pint pot. Some pitying acquaintance—chance acquaintance very often—has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer, and the consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he shall pass again. For the little old man is going home to the Workhouse; and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often (though methinks they might, considering the few years he has before him to go out in, under the sun); and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than ever in a grove of two score and nineteen more old men, every one of whom smells of all the others.

Mrs Plornish’s father,—a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like a worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music-binding business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able to make his way, or to see it or to pay it, or to do anything at all with it but find it no thoroughfare,—had retired of his own accord to the Workhouse which was appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his district (without the twopence, which was bad political economy), on the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law’s difficulties coming to that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour.

But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and no Old Men’s Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter’s admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father’s talents as she could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself of these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by a baby. On his ‘days out,’ those flecks of light in his flat vista of pollard old men,’ it was at once Mrs Plornish’s delight and sorrow, when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full halfpenny-worth of porter, to say, ‘Sing us a song, Father.’ Then he would give them Chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits, Phyllis also—Strephon he had hardly been up to since he went into retirement—and then would Mrs Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as Father, and wipe her eyes.

If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart Yard. ‘Here’s Father,’ she would say, presenting him to a neighbour. ‘Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain’t Father looking well? Father’s a sweeter singer than ever; you’d never have forgotten it, if you’d aheard him just now.’ As to Mr Plornish, he had married these articles of belief in marrying Mr Nandy’s daughter, and only wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. ‘For why,’ argued Mr Plornish, ‘why go a-binding music when you’ve got it in yourself? That’s where it is, I consider.’

Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain sumptuous way—an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring audience to witness that he really could not help being more free with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his simplicity and poverty—was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the patronage of the Father of that national institution.

Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner. He had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he could hold up his head at all, poor creature. ‘In the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no speciality. Most deplorable!’

It was Old Nandy’s birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in to see how they all were.

‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘here’s Father! Ain’t he looking nice? And such voice he’s in!’

Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him this long time.

‘No, they’re rather hard on poor Father,’ said Mrs Plornish with a lengthening face, ‘and don’t let him have half as much change and fresh air as would benefit him. But he’ll soon be home for good, now. Won’t you, Father?’

‘Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.’

Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched in the following terms:

‘John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there’s a ounce of wittles or drink of any sort in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. While there’s a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is what I mean and so I don’t deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out is to entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?’

To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish’s father pipingly replied:

‘I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as it’s not to take it out of your children’s mouths, which take it is, and call it by what name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though may they come, and too soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!’

Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable.

Her answer was, ‘I am going straight home, and if he will come with me I shall be so glad to take care of him—so glad,’ said Little Dorrit, always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, ‘of his company.’

‘There, Father!’ cried Mrs Plornish. ‘Ain’t you a gay young man to be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you’re a regular beau yourself, Father, if ever there was one.’

With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit’s.

They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens, and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter), and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street, they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.

‘Why, good gracious me, Amy!’ cried that young lady starting. ‘You never mean it!’

‘Mean what, Fanny dear?’

‘Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,’ returned the young lady with burning indignation, ‘but I don’t think even I could have believed this, of even you!’

‘Fanny!’ cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.

‘Oh! Don’t Fanny me, you mean little thing, don’t! The idea of coming along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!’ (firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun).

‘O Fanny!’

‘I tell you not to Fanny me, for I’ll not submit to it! I never knew such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!’

‘Does it disgrace anybody,’ said Little Dorrit, very gently, ‘to take care of this poor old man?’

‘Yes, miss,’ returned her sister, ‘and you ought to know it does. And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I have. You’ll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way, unmolested.’

With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said, ‘I hope nothing’s wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope there’s nothing the matter in the honoured family?’

‘No, no,’ returned Little Dorrit. ‘No, thank you. Give me your arm again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.’

So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the utmost agitation and despondency of mind; and—altogether regardless of Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as he always did in that gracious presence—turned about, and hurried in at his own doorway and up the staircase.

Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came into the room almost together; and the Father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan.

‘Of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope you believe me, Miss?’

‘What is it, father?’ cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. ‘Have I made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!’

‘You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you’—Fanny paused for a sufficiently strong expression—‘you Common-minded little Amy! You complete prison-child!’

He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger daughter, ‘Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention. But you have cut me to the soul.’

‘Innocent in intention!’ the implacable Fanny struck in. ‘Stuff in intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!’

‘Father!’ cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. ‘I am very sorry. Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!’

‘How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!’ cried Fanny. ‘You know how it is. I have told you already, so don’t fly in the face of Providence by attempting to deny it!’

‘Hush! Amy,’ said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand that dropped across his knee, ‘I have done what I could to keep you select here; I have done what I could to retain you a position here. I may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it; you may not. I give no opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have happily been spared—until this day.’

Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his pocket-handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his pocket-handkerchief once more.

‘Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all my troubles there has been that—Spirit in myself, and that—that submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has spared me—ha—humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly felt it.’

‘Of course! How could it be otherwise?’ exclaimed the irrepressible Fanny. ‘Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!’ (air-gun again).

‘But, dear father,’ cried Little Dorrit, ‘I don’t justify myself for having wounded your dear heart—no! Heaven knows I don’t!’ She clasped her hands in quite an agony of distress. ‘I do nothing but beg and pray you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I would not, indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!’ said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, ‘for anything the world could give me, or anything it could take away.’

Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry herself, and to say—as this young lady always said when she was half in passion and half out of it, half spiteful with herself and half spiteful with everybody else—that she wished she were dead.

The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger daughter to his breast, and patted her head.

‘There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my child. I will forget it as soon as I can. I,’ with hysterical cheerfulness, ‘I—shall soon be able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am always glad to see my old pensioner—as such, as such—and that I do—ha—extend as much protection and kindness to the—hum—the bruised reed—I trust I may so call him without impropriety—as in my circumstances, I can. It is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same time, I preserve in doing this, if I may—ha—if I may use the expression—Spirit. Becoming Spirit. And there are some things which are,’ he stopped to sob, ‘irreconcilable with that, and wound that—wound it deeply. It is not that I have seen my good Amy attentive, and—ha—condescending to my old pensioner—it is not that that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, coming into this College out of the public streets—smiling! smiling!—arm in arm with—O my God, a livery!’

This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate gentleman gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his clenched pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings might have found some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the door, which had been already twice repeated, and to which Fanny (still wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so far as to add, buried) cried ‘Come in!’

‘Ah, Young John!’ said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice. ‘What is it, Young John?’

‘A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would bring it to your room.’ The speaker’s attention was much distracted by the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father’s feet, with her head turned away.

‘Indeed, John? Thank you.’

‘The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir—it’s the answer—and the message was, sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see you, and likewise,’ attention more distracted than before, ‘Miss Amy.’

‘Oh!’ As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note in it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. ‘Thank you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No one waiting?’

‘No, sir, no one waiting.’

‘Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?’

‘Thank you, sir, she’s not quite as well as we could wish—in fact, we none of us are, except father—but she’s pretty well, sir.’

‘Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you please, Young John.’

‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ And Mr Chivery junior went his way, having spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable parents, And terminated his existence by his own rash act.

‘There, there, Amy!’ said the Father, when Young John had closed the door, ‘let us say no more about it.’ The last few minutes had improved his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. ‘Where is my old pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him, my child, or shall I?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, father,’ said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her sobbing to a close.

‘Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red. There! Cheer up, Amy. Don’t be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again, my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.’

‘I would rather stay in my own room, Father,’ returned Little Dorrit, finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. ‘I would far rather not see Mr Clennam.’

‘Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that’s folly. Mr Clennam is a very gentlemanly man—very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say extremely gentlemanly. I couldn’t think of your not being here to receive Mr Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen yourself up, like a good girl.’

Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he should come bothering there like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and making mischief between two sisters.

The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went down into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in hand just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. ‘Come, Nandy!’ said he, with great suavity. ‘Come up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way; why don’t you come up-stairs?’ He went the length, on this occasion, of giving him his hand and saying, ‘How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty well?’ To which that vocalist returned, ‘I thank you, honoured sir, I am all the better for seeing your honour.’ As they went along the yard, the Father of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date. ‘An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.’ And then said, ‘Be covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,’ with great consideration.

His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea ready, and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a bank-note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress, and his daughter Amy had come back with her work, when Clennam presented himself; whom he most graciously received, and besought to join their meal.

‘Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the happiness of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr Clennam.’ Fanny acknowledged him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators. ‘This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old Nandy, a very faithful old man.’ (He always spoke of him as an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than himself.) ‘Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?’

‘O yes!’ said Arthur Clennam.

‘Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish’s father.’

‘Indeed? I am glad to see him.’

‘You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr Clennam.’

‘I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,’ said Arthur, secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure.

‘It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are always glad to see him,’ observed the Father of the Marshalsea. Then he added behind his hand, [‘Union, poor old fellow. Out for the day.’)

By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had spread the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison very close, the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. ‘If Maggy will spread that newspaper on the window-sill, my dear,’ remarked the Father complacently and in a half whisper to Little Dorrit, ‘my old pensioner can have his tea there, while we are having ours.’

So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in width, standard measure, Mrs Plornish’s father was handsomely regaled. Clennam had never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that other Father, he of the Marshalsea; and was lost in the contemplation of its many wonders.

The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he remarked on the pensioner’s infirmities and failings, as if he were a gracious Keeper making a running commentary on the decline of the harmless animal he exhibited.

‘Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His last teeth,’ he explained to the company, ‘are going, poor old boy.’)

At another time, he said, ‘No shrimps, Nandy?’ and on his not instantly replying, observed, [‘His hearing is becoming very defective. He’ll be deaf directly.’)

At another time he asked him, ‘Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard within the walls of that place of yours?’

‘No, sir; no. I haven’t any great liking for that.’

‘No, to be sure,’ he assented. ‘Very natural.’ Then he privately informed the circle [‘Legs going.’)

Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was?

‘John Edward,’ said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork to consider. ‘How old, sir? Let me think now.’

The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead [‘Memory weak.’)

‘John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn’t say at this minute, sir, whether it’s two and two months, or whether it’s two and five months. It’s one or the other.’

‘Don’t distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,’ he returned, with infinite forbearance. [‘Faculties evidently decaying—old man rusts in the life he leads!’)

The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got out of his chair after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his intimating that he feared, honoured sir, his time was running out, he made himself look as erect and strong as possible.

‘We don’t call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,’ he said, putting one in his hand. ‘We call it tobacco.’

‘Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr Clennam.’

‘And mind you don’t forget us, you know, Nandy,’ said the Father. ‘You must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandy; they are rather uneven and worn.’ With that he stood on the landing, watching the old man down: and when he came into the room again, said, with a solemn satisfaction on him, ‘A melancholy sight that, Mr Clennam, though one has the consolation of knowing that he doesn’t feel it himself. The poor old fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone—pulverised—crushed out of him, sir, completely!’

As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator, while Maggy and her Little Mother washed the tea-service and cleared it away. He noticed that his companion stood at the window with the air of an affable and accessible Sovereign, and that, when any of his people in the yard below looked up, his recognition of their salutes just stopped short of a blessing.

When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At this time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr Tip came in. He kissed Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his father, gloomed on the visitor without further recognition, and sat down.

‘Tip, dear,’ said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, ‘don’t you see—’

‘Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have here—I say, if you refer to that,’ answered Tip, jerking his head with emphasis towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, ‘I see!’

‘Is that all you say?’

‘That’s all I say. And I suppose,’ added the lofty young man, after a moment’s pause, ‘that visitor will understand me, when I say that’s all I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn’t used me like a gentleman.’

‘I do not understand that,’ observed the obnoxious personage referred to with tranquillity.

‘No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know that when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and an urgent appeal, and a delicate appeal, to an individual, for a small temporary accommodation, easily within his power—easily within his power, mind!—and when that individual writes back word to me that he begs to be excused, I consider that he doesn’t treat me like a gentleman.’

The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no sooner heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:—

‘How dare you—’ But his son stopped him.

‘Now, don’t ask me how I dare, father, because that’s bosh. As to the fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper spirit.’

‘I should think so!’ cried Fanny.

‘A proper spirit?’ said the Father. ‘Yes, a proper spirit; a becoming spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me—me—spirit!’

‘Now, don’t let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present has not treated me like a gentleman. And there’s an end of it.’

‘But there is not an end of it, sir,’ returned the Father. ‘But there shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You have made up your mind?’

‘Yes, I have. What’s the good of keeping on like that?’

‘Because,’ returned the Father, in a great heat, ‘you had no right to make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is—ha—immoral, to what is—hum—parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don’t ask me to desist; there is a—hum—a general principle involved here, which rises even above considerations of—ha—hospitality. I object to the assertion made by my son. I—ha—I personally repel it.’

‘Why, what is it to you, father?’ returned the son, over his shoulder.

‘What is it to me, sir? I have a—hum—a spirit, sir, that will not endure it. I,’ he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and dabbed his face. ‘I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I myself may at a certain time—ha—or times, have made a—hum—an appeal, and a properly-worded appeal, and a delicate appeal, and an urgent appeal to some individual for a small temporary accommodation. Let me suppose that that accommodation could have been easily extended, and was not extended, and that that individual informed me that he begged to be excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore received treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I—ha—I submitted to it?’

His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any account be calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn’t endure this.

Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on his own hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by his own blood?

‘You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this injury of your own accord!’ said the young gentleman morosely. ‘What I have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you. What I said had nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on other people’s hats?’

‘I reply it has everything to do with me,’ returned the Father. ‘I point out to you, sir, with indignation, that—hum—the—ha—delicacy and peculiarity of your father’s position should strike you dumb, sir, if nothing else should, in laying down such—ha—such unnatural principles. Besides; if you are not filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you are at least—hum—not a Christian? Are you—ha—an Atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatise and denounce an individual for begging to be excused this time, when the same individual may—ha—respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the part of a Christian not to—hum—not to try him again?’ He had worked himself into quite a religious glow and fervour.

‘I see precious well,’ said Mr Tip, rising, ‘that I shall get no sensible or fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I can do is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don’t be vexed. I am very sorry it happens here, and you here, upon my soul I am; but I can’t altogether part with my spirit, even for your sake, old girl.’

With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss Fanny; who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of Clennam with any less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing that she had always known him for one of the large body of conspirators.

When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first inclined to sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that a gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to the Snuggery. It was the gentleman Clennam had seen on the night of his own accidental detention there, who had that impalpable grievance about the misappropriated Fund on which the Marshal was supposed to batten. He presented himself as deputation to escort the Father to the Chair, it being an occasion on which he had promised to preside over the assembled Collegians in the enjoyment of a little Harmony.

‘Such, you see, Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘are the incongruities of my position here. But a public duty! No man, I am sure, would more readily recognise a public duty than yourself.’

Clennam besought him not to delay a moment.

‘Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can leave the honours of our poor apology for an establishment with confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards erasing from Mr Clennam’s mind the—ha—untoward and unpleasant circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.’

Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and therefore required no erasure.

‘My dear sir,’ said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and a grasp of Clennam’s hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his note and enclosure that afternoon, ‘Heaven ever bless you!’

So, at last, Clennam’s purpose in remaining was attained, and he could speak to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as nobody, and she was by.

CHAPTER 32. More Fortune-Telling

Maggy sat at her work in her great white cap with its quantity of opaque frilling hiding what profile she had (she had none to spare), and her serviceable eye brought to bear upon her occupation, on the window side of the room. What with her flapping cap, and what with her unserviceable eye, she was quite partitioned off from her Little Mother, whose seat was opposite the window. The tread and shuffle of feet on the pavement of the yard had much diminished since the taking of the Chair, the tide of Collegians having set strongly in the direction of Harmony. Some few who had no music in their souls, or no money in their pockets, dawdled about; and the old spectacle of the visitor-wife and the depressed unseasoned prisoner still lingered in corners, as broken cobwebs and such unsightly discomforts draggle in corners of other places. It was the quietest time the College knew, saving the night hours when the Collegians took the benefit of the act of sleep. The occasional rattle of applause upon the tables of the Snuggery, denoted the successful termination of a morsel of Harmony; or the responsive acceptance, by the united children, of some toast or sentiment offered to them by their Father. Occasionally, a vocal strain more sonorous than the generality informed the listener that some boastful bass was in blue water, or in the hunting field, or with the reindeer, or on the mountain, or among the heather; but the Marshal of the Marshalsea knew better, and had got him hard and fast.

As Arthur Clennam moved to sit down by the side of Little Dorrit, she trembled so that she had much ado to hold her needle. Clennam gently put his hand upon her work, and said, ‘Dear Little Dorrit, let me lay it down.’

She yielded it to him, and he put it aside. Her hands were then nervously clasping together, but he took one of them.

‘How seldom I have seen you lately, Little Dorrit!’

‘I have been busy, sir.’

‘But I heard only to-day,’ said Clennam, ‘by mere accident, of your having been with those good people close by me. Why not come to me, then?’

‘I—I don’t know. Or rather, I thought you might be busy too. You generally are now, are you not?’

He saw her trembling little form and her downcast face, and the eyes that drooped the moment they were raised to his—he saw them almost with as much concern as tenderness.

‘My child, your manner is so changed!’

The trembling was now quite beyond her control. Softly withdrawing her hand, and laying it in her other hand, she sat before him with her head bent and her whole form trembling.

‘My own Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam, compassionately.

She burst into tears. Maggy looked round of a sudden, and stared for at least a minute; but did not interpose. Clennam waited some little while before he spoke again.

‘I cannot bear,’ he said then, ‘to see you weep; but I hope this is a relief to an overcharged heart.’

‘Yes it is, sir. Nothing but that.’

‘Well, well! I feared you would think too much of what passed here just now. It is of no moment; not the least. I am only unfortunate to have come in the way. Let it go by with these tears. It is not worth one of them. One of them? Such an idle thing should be repeated, with my glad consent, fifty times a day, to save you a moment’s heart-ache, Little Dorrit.’

She had taken courage now, and answered, far more in her usual manner, ‘You are so good! But even if there was nothing else in it to be sorry for and ashamed of, it is such a bad return to you—’

‘Hush!’ said Clennam, smiling and touching her lips with his hand. ‘Forgetfulness in you who remember so many and so much, would be new indeed. Shall I remind you that I am not, and that I never was, anything but the friend whom you agreed to trust? No. You remember it, don’t you?’

‘I try to do so, or I should have broken the promise just now, when my mistaken brother was here. You will consider his bringing-up in this place, and will not judge him hardly, poor fellow, I know!’ In raising her eyes with these words, she observed his face more nearly than she had done yet, and said, with a quick change of tone, ‘You have not been ill, Mr Clennam?’

‘No.’

‘Nor tried? Nor hurt?’ she asked him, anxiously.

It fell to Clennam now, to be not quite certain how to answer. He said in reply:

‘To speak the truth, I have been a little troubled, but it is over. Do I show it so plainly? I ought to have more fortitude and self-command than that. I thought I had. I must learn them of you. Who could teach me better!’

He never thought that she saw in him what no one else could see. He never thought that in the whole world there were no other eyes that looked upon him with the same light and strength as hers.

‘But it brings me to something that I wish to say,’ he continued, ‘and therefore I will not quarrel even with my own face for telling tales and being unfaithful to me. Besides, it is a privilege and pleasure to confide in my Little Dorrit. Let me confess then, that, forgetting how grave I was, and how old I was, and how the time for such things had gone by me with the many years of sameness and little happiness that made up my long life far away, without marking it—that, forgetting all this, I fancied I loved some one.’

‘Do I know her, sir?’ asked Little Dorrit.

‘No, my child.’

‘Not the lady who has been kind to me for your sake?’

‘Flora. No, no. Do you think—’

‘I never quite thought so,’ said Little Dorrit, more to herself than him. ‘I did wonder at it a little.’

‘Well!’ said Clennam, abiding by the feeling that had fallen on him in the avenue on the night of the roses, the feeling that he was an older man, who had done with that tender part of life, ‘I found out my mistake, and I thought about it a little—in short, a good deal—and got wiser. Being wiser, I counted up my years and considered what I am, and looked back, and looked forward, and found that I should soon be grey. I found that I had climbed the hill, and passed the level ground upon the top, and was descending quickly.’

If he had known the sharpness of the pain he caused the patient heart, in speaking thus! While doing it, too, with the purpose of easing and serving her.

‘I found that the day when any such thing would have been graceful in me, or good in me, or hopeful or happy for me or any one in connection with me, was gone, and would never shine again.’

O! If he had known, if he had known! If he could have seen the dagger in his hand, and the cruel wounds it struck in the faithful bleeding breast of his Little Dorrit!

‘All that is over, and I have turned my face from it. Why do I speak of this to Little Dorrit? Why do I show you, my child, the space of years that there is between us, and recall to you that I have passed, by the amount of your whole life, the time that is present to you?’

‘Because you trust me, I hope. Because you know that nothing can touch you without touching me; that nothing can make you happy or unhappy, but it must make me, who am so grateful to you, the same.’

He heard the thrill in her voice, he saw her earnest face, he saw her clear true eyes, he saw the quickened bosom that would have joyfully thrown itself before him to receive a mortal wound directed at his breast, with the dying cry, ‘I love him!’ and the remotest suspicion of the truth never dawned upon his mind. No. He saw the devoted little creature with her worn shoes, in her common dress, in her jail-home; a slender child in body, a strong heroine in soul; and the light of her domestic story made all else dark to him.

‘For those reasons assuredly, Little Dorrit, but for another too. So far removed, so different, and so much older, I am the better fitted for your friend and adviser. I mean, I am the more easily to be trusted; and any little constraint that you might feel with another, may vanish before me. Why have you kept so retired from me? Tell me.’

‘I am better here. My place and use are here. I am much better here,’ said Little Dorrit, faintly.

‘So you said that day upon the bridge. I thought of it much afterwards. Have you no secret you could entrust to me, with hope and comfort, if you would!’

‘Secret? No, I have no secret,’ said Little Dorrit in some trouble.

They had been speaking in low voices; more because it was natural to what they said to adopt that tone, than with any care to reserve it from Maggy at her work. All of a sudden Maggy stared again, and this time spoke:

‘I say! Little Mother!’

‘Yes, Maggy.’

‘If you an’t got no secret of your own to tell him, tell him that about the Princess. She had a secret, you know.’

‘The Princess had a secret?’ said Clennam, in some surprise. ‘What Princess was that, Maggy?’

‘Lor! How you do go and bother a gal of ten,’ said Maggy, ‘catching the poor thing up in that way. Whoever said the Princess had a secret? I never said so.’

‘I beg your pardon. I thought you did.’

‘No, I didn’t. How could I, when it was her as wanted to find it out? It was the little woman as had the secret, and she was always a spinning at her wheel. And so she says to her, why do you keep it there? And so the t’other one says to her, no I don’t; and so the t’other one says to her, yes you do; and then they both goes to the cupboard, and there it is. And she wouldn’t go into the Hospital, and so she died. You know, Little Mother; tell him that. For it was a reg’lar good secret, that was!’ cried Maggy, hugging herself.

Arthur looked at Little Dorrit for help to comprehend this, and was struck by seeing her so timid and red. But, when she told him that it was only a Fairy Tale she had one day made up for Maggy, and that there was nothing in it which she wouldn’t be ashamed to tell again to anybody else, even if she could remember it, he left the subject where it was.

However, he returned to his own subject by first entreating her to see him oftener, and to remember that it was impossible to have a stronger interest in her welfare than he had, or to be more set upon promoting it than he was. When she answered fervently, she well knew that, she never forgot it, he touched upon his second and more delicate point—the suspicion he had formed.

‘Little Dorrit,’ he said, taking her hand again, and speaking lower than he had spoken yet, so that even Maggy in the small room could not hear him, ‘another word. I have wanted very much to say this to you; I have tried for opportunities. Don’t mind me, who, for the matter of years, might be your father or your uncle. Always think of me as quite an old man. I know that all your devotion centres in this room, and that nothing to the last will ever tempt you away from the duties you discharge here. If I were not sure of it, I should, before now, have implored you, and implored your father, to let me make some provision for you in a more suitable place. But you may have an interest—I will not say, now, though even that might be—may have, at another time, an interest in some one else; an interest not incompatible with your affection here.’

She was very, very pale, and silently shook her head.

‘It may be, dear Little Dorrit.’

‘No. No. No.’ She shook her head, after each slow repetition of the word, with an air of quiet desolation that he remembered long afterwards. The time came when he remembered it well, long afterwards, within those prison walls; within that very room.

‘But, if it ever should be, tell me so, my dear child. Entrust the truth to me, point out the object of such an interest to me, and I will try with all the zeal, and honour, and friendship and respect that I feel for you, good Little Dorrit of my heart, to do you a lasting service.’

‘O thank you, thank you! But, O no, O no, O no!’ She said this, looking at him with her work-worn hands folded together, and in the same resigned accents as before.

‘I press for no confidence now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me.’

‘Can I do less than that, when you are so good!’

‘Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness, or anxiety, concealed from me?’

‘Almost none.’

‘And you have none now?’

She shook her head. But she was very pale.

‘When I lie down to-night, and my thoughts come back—as they will, for they do every night, even when I have not seen you—to this sad place, I may believe that there is no grief beyond this room, now, and its usual occupants, which preys on Little Dorrit’s mind?’

She seemed to catch at these words—that he remembered, too, long afterwards—and said, more brightly, ‘Yes, Mr Clennam; yes, you may!’

The crazy staircase, usually not slow to give notice when any one was coming up or down, here creaked under a quick tread, and a further sound was heard upon it, as if a little steam-engine with more steam than it knew what to do with, were working towards the room. As it approached, which it did very rapidly, it laboured with increased energy; and, after knocking at the door, it sounded as if it were stooping down and snorting in at the keyhole.

Before Maggy could open the door, Mr Pancks, opening it from without, stood without a hat and with his bare head in the wildest condition, looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit, over her shoulder. He had a lighted cigar in his hand, and brought with him airs of ale and tobacco smoke.

‘Pancks the gipsy,’ he observed out of breath, ‘fortune-telling.’

He stood dingily smiling, and breathing hard at them, with a most curious air; as if, instead of being his proprietor’s grubber, he were the triumphant proprietor of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the turnkeys, and all the Collegians. In his great self-satisfaction he put his cigar to his lips (being evidently no smoker), and took such a pull at it, with his right eye shut up tight for the purpose, that he underwent a convulsion of shuddering and choking. But even in the midst of that paroxysm, he still essayed to repeat his favourite introduction of himself, ‘Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling.’

‘I am spending the evening with the rest of ‘em,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve been singing. I’ve been taking a part in White sand and grey sand. I don’t know anything about it. Never mind. I’ll take any part in anything. It’s all the same, if you’re loud enough.’

At first Clennam supposed him to be intoxicated. But he soon perceived that though he might be a little the worse (or better) for ale, the staple of his excitement was not brewed from malt, or distilled from any grain or berry.

‘How d’ye do, Miss Dorrit?’ said Pancks. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind my running round, and looking in for a moment. Mr Clennam I heard was here, from Mr Dorrit. How are you, Sir?’

Clennam thanked him, and said he was glad to see him so gay.

‘Gay!’ said Pancks. ‘I’m in wonderful feather, sir. I can’t stop a minute, or I shall be missed, and I don’t want ‘em to miss me.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

He seemed to have an insatiate delight in appealing to her and looking at her; excitedly sticking his hair up at the same moment, like a dark species of cockatoo.

‘I haven’t been here half an hour. I knew Mr Dorrit was in the chair, and I said, “I’ll go and support him!” I ought to be down in Bleeding Heart Yard by rights; but I can worry them to-morrow.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

His little black eyes sparkled electrically. His very hair seemed to sparkle as he roughened it. He was in that highly-charged state that one might have expected to draw sparks and snaps from him by presenting a knuckle to any part of his figure.

‘Capital company here,’ said Pancks.—‘Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

She was half afraid of him, and irresolute what to say. He laughed, with a nod towards Clennam.

‘Don’t mind him, Miss Dorrit. He’s one of us. We agreed that you shouldn’t take on to mind me before people, but we didn’t mean Mr Clennam. He’s one of us. He’s in it. An’t you, Mr Clennam?—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

The excitement of this strange creature was fast communicating itself to Clennam. Little Dorrit with amazement, saw this, and observed that they exchanged quick looks.

‘I was making a remark,’ said Pancks, ‘but I declare I forget what it was. Oh, I know! Capital company here. I’ve been treating ‘em all round.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Very generous of you,’ she returned, noticing another of the quick looks between the two.

‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m coming into my property, that’s the fact. I can afford to be liberal. I think I’ll give ‘em a treat here. Tables laid in the yard. Bread in stacks. Pipes in faggots. Tobacco in hayloads. Roast beef and plum-pudding for every one. Quart of double stout a head. Pint of wine too, if they like it, and the authorities give permission.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

She was thrown into such a confusion by his manner, or rather by Clennam’s growing understanding of his manner (for she looked to him after every fresh appeal and cockatoo demonstration on the part of Mr Pancks), that she only moved her lips in answer, without forming any word.

‘And oh, by-the-bye!’ said Pancks, ‘you were to live to know what was behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you shall, you shall, my darling.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

He had suddenly checked himself. Where he got all the additional black prongs from, that now flew up all over his head like the myriads of points that break out in the large change of a great firework, was a wonderful mystery.

‘But I shall be missed;’ he came back to that; ‘and I don’t want ‘em to miss me. Mr Clennam, you and I made a bargain. I said you should find me stick to it. You shall find me stick to it now, sir, if you’ll step out of the room a moment. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good night. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good fortune.’

He rapidly shook her by both hands, and puffed down stairs. Arthur followed him with such a hurried step, that he had very nearly tumbled over him on the last landing, and rolled him down into the yard.

‘What is it, for Heaven’s sake!’ Arthur demanded, when they burst out there both together.

‘Stop a moment, sir. Mr Rugg. Let me introduce him.’

With those words he presented another man without a hat, and also with a cigar, and also surrounded with a halo of ale and tobacco smoke, which man, though not so excited as himself, was in a state which would have been akin to lunacy but for its fading into sober method when compared with the rampancy of Mr Pancks.

‘Mr Clennam, Mr Rugg,’ said Pancks. ‘Stop a moment. Come to the pump.’

They adjourned to the pump. Mr Pancks, instantly putting his head under the spout, requested Mr Rugg to take a good strong turn at the handle. Mr Rugg complying to the letter, Mr Pancks came forth snorting and blowing to some purpose, and dried himself on his handkerchief.

‘I am the clearer for that,’ he gasped to Clennam standing astonished. ‘But upon my soul, to hear her father making speeches in that chair, knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress, knowing what we know, is enough to—give me a back, Mr Rugg—a little higher, sir,—that’ll do!’

Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the shades of evening, did Mr Pancks, of all mankind, fly over the head and shoulders of Mr Rugg of Pentonville, General Agent, Accountant, and Recoverer of Debts. Alighting on his feet, he took Clennam by the button-hole, led him behind the pump, and pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers.

Mr Rugg, also, pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers.

‘Stay!’ said Clennam in a whisper.’You have made a discovery.’

Mr Pancks answered, with an unction which there is no language to convey, ‘We rather think so.’

‘Does it implicate any one?’

‘How implicate, sir?’

‘In any suppression or wrong dealing of any kind?’

‘Not a bit of it.’

‘Thank God!’ said Clennam to himself. ‘Now show me.’

‘You are to understand’—snorted Pancks, feverishly unfolding papers, and speaking in short high-pressure blasts of sentences, ‘Where’s the Pedigree? Where’s Schedule number four, Mr Rugg? Oh! all right! Here we are.—You are to understand that we are this very day virtually complete. We shan’t be legally for a day or two. Call it at the outside a week. We’ve been at it night and day for I don’t know how long. Mr Rugg, you know how long? Never mind. Don’t say. You’ll only confuse me. You shall tell her, Mr Clennam. Not till we give you leave. Where’s that rough total, Mr Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There sir! That’s what you’ll have to break to her. That man’s your Father of the Marshalsea!’

CHAPTER 33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint

Resigning herself to inevitable fate by making the best of those people, the Miggleses, and submitting her philosophy to the draught upon it, of which she had foreseen the likelihood in her interview with Arthur, Mrs Gowan handsomely resolved not to oppose her son’s marriage. In her progress to, and happy arrival at, this resolution, she was possibly influenced, not only by her maternal affections but by three politic considerations.

Of these, the first may have been that her son had never signified the smallest intention to ask her consent, or any mistrust of his ability to dispense with it; the second, that the pension bestowed upon her by a grateful country (and a Barnacle) would be freed from any little filial inroads, when her Henry should be married to the darling only child of a man in very easy circumstances; the third, that Henry’s debts must clearly be paid down upon the altar-railing by his father-in-law. When, to these three-fold points of prudence there is added the fact that Mrs Gowan yielded her consent the moment she knew of Mr Meagles having yielded his, and that Mr Meagles’s objection to the marriage had been the sole obstacle in its way all along, it becomes the height of probability that the relict of the deceased Commissioner of nothing particular, turned these ideas in her sagacious mind.

Among her connections and acquaintances, however, she maintained her individual dignity and the dignity of the blood of the Barnacles, by diligently nursing the pretence that it was a most unfortunate business; that she was sadly cut up by it; that this was a perfect fascination under which Henry laboured; that she had opposed it for a long time, but what could a mother do; and the like. She had already called Arthur Clennam to bear witness to this fable, as a friend of the Meagles family; and she followed up the move by now impounding the family itself for the same purpose. In the first interview she accorded to Mr Meagles, she slided herself into the position of disconsolately but gracefully yielding to irresistible pressure. With the utmost politeness and good-breeding, she feigned that it was she—not he—who had made the difficulty, and who at length gave way; and that the sacrifice was hers—not his. The same feint, with the same polite dexterity, she foisted on Mrs Meagles, as a conjuror might have forced a card on that innocent lady; and, when her future daughter-in-law was presented to her by her son, she said on embracing her, ‘My dear, what have you done to Henry that has bewitched him so!’ at the same time allowing a few tears to carry before them, in little pills, the cosmetic powder on her nose; as a delicate but touching signal that she suffered much inwardly for the show of composure with which she bore her misfortune.

Among the friends of Mrs Gowan (who piqued herself at once on being Society, and on maintaining intimate and easy relations with that Power), Mrs Merdle occupied a front row. True, the Hampton Court Bohemians, without exception, turned up their noses at Merdle as an upstart; but they turned them down again, by falling flat on their faces to worship his wealth. In which compensating adjustment of their noses, they were pretty much like Treasury, Bar, and Bishop, and all the rest of them.

To Mrs Merdle, Mrs Gowan repaired on a visit of self-condolence, after having given the gracious consent aforesaid. She drove into town for the purpose in a one-horse carriage irreverently called at that period of English history, a pill-box. It belonged to a job-master in a small way, who drove it himself, and who jobbed it by the day, or hour, to most of the old ladies in Hampton Court Palace; but it was a point of ceremony, in that encampment, that the whole equipage should be tacitly regarded as the private property of the jobber for the time being, and that the job-master should betray personal knowledge of nobody but the jobber in possession. So the Circumlocution Barnacles, who were the largest job-masters in the universe, always pretended to know of no other job but the job immediately in hand.

Mrs Merdle was at home, and was in her nest of crimson and gold, with the parrot on a neighbouring stem watching her with his head on one side, as if he took her for another splendid parrot of a larger species. To whom entered Mrs Gowan, with her favourite green fan, which softened the light on the spots of bloom.

‘My dear soul,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the back of her friend’s hand with this fan after a little indifferent conversation, ‘you are my only comfort. That affair of Henry’s that I told you of, is to take place. Now, how does it strike you? I am dying to know, because you represent and express Society so well.’

Mrs Merdle reviewed the bosom which Society was accustomed to review; and having ascertained that show-window of Mr Merdle’s and the London jewellers’ to be in good order, replied:

‘As to marriage on the part of a man, my dear, Society requires that he should retrieve his fortunes by marriage. Society requires that he should gain by marriage. Society requires that he should found a handsome establishment by marriage. Society does not see, otherwise, what he has to do with marriage. Bird, be quiet!’

For the parrot on his cage above them, presiding over the conference as if he were a judge (and indeed he looked rather like one), had wound up the exposition with a shriek.

‘Cases there are,’ said Mrs Merdle, delicately crooking the little finger of her favourite hand, and making her remarks neater by that neat action; ‘cases there are where a man is not young or elegant, and is rich, and has a handsome establishment already. Those are of a different kind. In such cases—’

Mrs Merdle shrugged her snowy shoulders and put her hand upon the jewel-stand, checking a little cough, as though to add, ‘why, a man looks out for this sort of thing, my dear.’ Then the parrot shrieked again, and she put up her glass to look at him, and said, ‘Bird! Do be quiet!’

‘But, young men,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘and by young men you know what I mean, my love—I mean people’s sons who have the world before them—they must place themselves in a better position towards Society by marriage, or Society really will not have any patience with their making fools of themselves. Dreadfully worldly all this sounds,’ said Mrs Merdle, leaning back in her nest and putting up her glass again, ‘does it not?’

‘But it is true,’ said Mrs Gowan, with a highly moral air.

‘My dear, it is not to be disputed for a moment,’ returned Mrs Merdle; ‘because Society has made up its mind on the subject, and there is nothing more to be said. If we were in a more primitive state, if we lived under roofs of leaves, and kept cows and sheep and creatures instead of banker’s accounts (which would be delicious; my dear, I am pastoral to a degree, by nature), well and good. But we don’t live under leaves, and keep cows and sheep and creatures. I perfectly exhaust myself sometimes, in pointing out the distinction to Edmund Sparkler.’

Mrs Gowan, looking over her green fan when this young gentleman’s name was mentioned, replied as follows:

‘My love, you know the wretched state of the country—those unfortunate concessions of John Barnacle’s!—and you therefore know the reasons for my being as poor as Thingummy.’

‘A church mouse?’ Mrs Merdle suggested with a smile.

‘I was thinking of the other proverbial church person—Job,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Either will do. It would be idle to disguise, consequently, that there is a wide difference between the position of your son and mine. I may add, too, that Henry has talent—’

‘Which Edmund certainly has not,’ said Mrs Merdle, with the greatest suavity.

‘—and that his talent, combined with disappointment,’ Mrs Gowan went on, ‘has led him into a pursuit which—ah dear me! You know, my dear. Such being Henry’s different position, the question is what is the most inferior class of marriage to which I can reconcile myself.’

Mrs Merdle was so much engaged with the contemplation of her arms (beautiful-formed arms, and the very thing for bracelets), that she omitted to reply for a while. Roused at length by the silence, she folded the arms, and with admirable presence of mind looked her friend full in the face, and said interrogatively, ‘Ye-es? And then?’

‘And then, my dear,’ said Mrs Gowan not quite so sweetly as before, ‘I should be glad to hear what you have to say to it.’

Here the parrot, who had been standing on one leg since he screamed last, burst into a fit of laughter, bobbed himself derisively up and down on both legs, and finished by standing on one leg again, and pausing for a reply, with his head as much awry as he could possibly twist it.

‘Sounds mercenary to ask what the gentleman is to get with the lady,’ said Mrs Merdle; ‘but Society is perhaps a little mercenary, you know, my dear.’

‘From what I can make out,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘I believe I may say that Henry will be relieved from debt—’

‘Much in debt?’ asked Mrs Merdle through her eyeglass.

‘Why tolerably, I should think,’ said Mrs Gowan.

‘Meaning the usual thing; I understand; just so,’ Mrs Merdle observed in a comfortable sort of way.

‘And that the father will make them an allowance of three hundred a-year, or perhaps altogether something more, which, in Italy-’

‘Oh! Going to Italy?’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘For Henry to study. You need be at no loss to guess why, my dear. That dreadful Art—’

True. Mrs Merdle hastened to spare the feelings of her afflicted friend. She understood. Say no more!

‘And that,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her despondent head, ‘that’s all. That,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, furling her green fan for the moment, and tapping her chin with it (it was on the way to being a double chin; might be called a chin and a half at present), ‘that’s all! On the death of the old people, I suppose there will be more to come; but how it may be restricted or locked up, I don’t know. And as to that, they may live for ever. My dear, they are just the kind of people to do it.’

Now, Mrs Merdle, who really knew her friend Society pretty well, and who knew what Society’s mothers were, and what Society’s daughters were, and what Society’s matrimonial market was, and how prices ruled in it, and what scheming and counter-scheming took place for the high buyers, and what bargaining and huckstering went on, thought in the depths of her capacious bosom that this was a sufficiently good catch. Knowing, however, what was expected of her, and perceiving the exact nature of the fiction to be nursed, she took it delicately in her arms, and put her required contribution of gloss upon it.

‘And that is all, my dear?’ said she, heaving a friendly sigh. ‘Well, well! The fault is not yours. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must exercise the strength of mind for which you are renowned, and make the best of it.’

‘The girl’s family have made,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of course, the most strenuous endeavours to—as the lawyers say—to have and to hold Henry.’

‘Of course they have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘I have persisted in every possible objection, and have worried myself morning, noon, and night, for means to detach Henry from the connection.’

‘No doubt you have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘And all of no use. All has broken down beneath me. Now tell me, my love. Am I justified in at last yielding my most reluctant consent to Henry’s marrying among people not in Society; or, have I acted with inexcusable weakness?’

In answer to this direct appeal, Mrs Merdle assured Mrs Gowan (speaking as a Priestess of Society) that she was highly to be commended, that she was much to be sympathised with, that she had taken the highest of parts, and had come out of the furnace refined. And Mrs Gowan, who of course saw through her own threadbare blind perfectly, and who knew that Mrs Merdle saw through it perfectly, and who knew that Society would see through it perfectly, came out of this form, notwithstanding, as she had gone into it, with immense complacency and gravity.

The conference was held at four or five o’clock in the afternoon, when all the region of Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was resonant of carriage-wheels and double-knocks. It had reached this point when Mr Merdle came home from his daily occupation of causing the British name to be more and more respected in all parts of the civilised globe capable of the appreciation of world-wide commercial enterprise and gigantic combinations of skill and capital. For, though nobody knew with the least precision what Mr Merdle’s business was, except that it was to coin money, these were the terms in which everybody defined it on all ceremonious occasions, and which it was the last new polite reading of the parable of the camel and the needle’s eye to accept without inquiry.

For a gentleman who had this splendid work cut out for him, Mr Merdle looked a little common, and rather as if, in the course of his vast transactions, he had accidentally made an interchange of heads with some inferior spirit. He presented himself before the two ladies in the course of a dismal stroll through his mansion, which had no apparent object but escape from the presence of the chief butler.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, stopping short in confusion; ‘I didn’t know there was anybody here but the parrot.’

However, as Mrs Merdle said, ‘You can come in!’ and as Mrs Gowan said she was just going, and had already risen to take her leave, he came in, and stood looking out at a distant window, with his hands crossed under his uneasy coat-cuffs, clasping his wrists as if he were taking himself into custody. In this attitude he fell directly into a reverie from which he was only aroused by his wife’s calling to him from her ottoman, when they had been for some quarter of an hour alone.

‘Eh? Yes?’ said Mr Merdle, turning towards her. ‘What is it?’

‘What is it?’ repeated Mrs Merdle. ‘It is, I suppose, that you have not heard a word of my complaint.’

‘Your complaint, Mrs Merdle?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I didn’t know that you were suffering from a complaint. What complaint?’

‘A complaint of you,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Oh! A complaint of me,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘What is the—what have I—what may you have to complain of in me, Mrs Merdle?’

In his withdrawing, abstracted, pondering way, it took him some time to shape this question. As a kind of faint attempt to convince himself that he was the master of the house, he concluded by presenting his forefinger to the parrot, who expressed his opinion on that subject by instantly driving his bill into it.

‘You were saying, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, with his wounded finger in his mouth, ‘that you had a complaint against me?’

‘A complaint which I could scarcely show the justice of more emphatically, than by having to repeat it,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘I might as well have stated it to the wall. I had far better have stated it to the bird. He would at least have screamed.’

‘You don’t want me to scream, Mrs Merdle, I suppose,’ said Mr Merdle, taking a chair.

‘Indeed I don’t know,’ retorted Mrs Merdle, ‘but that you had better do that, than be so moody and distraught. One would at least know that you were sensible of what was going on around you.’

‘A man might scream, and yet not be that, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, heavily.

‘And might be dogged, as you are at present, without screaming,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘That’s very true. If you wish to know the complaint I make against you, it is, in so many plain words, that you really ought not to go into Society unless you can accommodate yourself to Society.’

Mr Merdle, so twisting his hands into what hair he had upon his head that he seemed to lift himself up by it as he started out of his chair, cried:

‘Why, in the name of all the infernal powers, Mrs Merdle, who does more for Society than I do? Do you see these premises, Mrs Merdle? Do you see this furniture, Mrs Merdle? Do you look in the glass and see yourself, Mrs Merdle? Do you know the cost of all this, and who it’s all provided for? And yet will you tell me that I oughtn’t to go into Society? I, who shower money upon it in this way? I, who might always be said—to—to—to harness myself to a watering-cart full of money, and go about saturating Society every day of my life.’

‘Pray, don’t be violent, Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Violent?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘You are enough to make me desperate. You don’t know half of what I do to accommodate Society. You don’t know anything of the sacrifices I make for it.’

‘I know,’ returned Mrs Merdle, ‘that you receive the best in the land. I know that you move in the whole Society of the country. And I believe I know (indeed, not to make any ridiculous pretence about it, I know I know) who sustains you in it, Mr Merdle.’

‘Mrs Merdle,’ retorted that gentleman, wiping his dull red and yellow face, ‘I know that as well as you do. If you were not an ornament to Society, and if I was not a benefactor to Society, you and I would never have come together. When I say a benefactor to it, I mean a person who provides it with all sorts of expensive things to eat and drink and look at. But, to tell me that I am not fit for it after all I have done for it—after all I have done for it,’ repeated Mr Merdle, with a wild emphasis that made his wife lift up her eyelids, ‘after all—all!—to tell me I have no right to mix with it after all, is a pretty reward.’

‘I say,’ answered Mrs Merdle composedly, ‘that you ought to make yourself fit for it by being more degage, and less preoccupied. There is a positive vulgarity in carrying your business affairs about with you as you do.’

‘How do I carry them about, Mrs Merdle?’ asked Mr Merdle.

‘How do you carry them about?’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Look at yourself in the glass.’

Mr Merdle involuntarily turned his eyes in the direction of the nearest mirror, and asked, with a slow determination of his turbid blood to his temples, whether a man was to be called to account for his digestion?

‘You have a physician,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘He does me no good,’ said Mr Merdle.

Mrs Merdle changed her ground.

‘Besides,’ said she, ‘your digestion is nonsense. I don’t speak of your digestion. I speak of your manner.’

‘Mrs Merdle,’ returned her husband, ‘I look to you for that. You supply manner, and I supply money.’

‘I don’t expect you,’ said Mrs Merdle, reposing easily among her cushions, ‘to captivate people. I don’t want you to take any trouble upon yourself, or to try to be fascinating. I simply request you to care about nothing—or seem to care about nothing—as everybody else does.’

‘Do I ever say I care about anything?’ asked Mr Merdle.

‘Say? No! Nobody would attend to you if you did. But you show it.’

‘Show what? What do I show?’ demanded Mr Merdle hurriedly.

‘I have already told you. You show that you carry your business cares an projects about, instead of leaving them in the City, or wherever else they belong to,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Or seeming to. Seeming would be quite enough: I ask no more. Whereas you couldn’t be more occupied with your day’s calculations and combinations than you habitually show yourself to be, if you were a carpenter.’

‘A carpenter!’ repeated Mr Merdle, checking something like a groan. ‘I shouldn’t so much mind being a carpenter, Mrs Merdle.’

‘And my complaint is,’ pursued the lady, disregarding the low remark, ‘that it is not the tone of Society, and that you ought to correct it, Mr Merdle. If you have any doubt of my judgment, ask even Edmund Sparkler.’ The door of the room had opened, and Mrs Merdle now surveyed the head of her son through her glass. ‘Edmund; we want you here.’

Mr Sparkler, who had merely put in his head and looked round the room without entering (as if he were searching the house for that young lady with no nonsense about her), upon this followed up his head with his body, and stood before them. To whom, in a few easy words adapted to his capacity, Mrs Merdle stated the question at issue.

The young gentleman, after anxiously feeling his shirt-collar as if it were his pulse and he were hypochondriacal, observed, ‘That he had heard it noticed by fellers.’

‘Edmund Sparkler has heard it noticed,’ said Mrs Merdle, with languid triumph. ‘Why, no doubt everybody has heard it noticed!’ Which in truth was no unreasonable inference; seeing that Mr Sparkler would probably be the last person, in any assemblage of the human species, to receive an impression from anything that passed in his presence.

‘And Edmund Sparkler will tell you, I dare say,’ said Mrs Merdle, waving her favourite hand towards her husband, ‘how he has heard it noticed.’

‘I couldn’t,’ said Mr Sparkler, after feeling his pulse as before, ‘couldn’t undertake to say what led to it—‘cause memory desperate loose. But being in company with the brother of a doosed fine gal—well educated too—with no biggodd nonsense about her—at the period alluded to—’

‘There! Never mind the sister,’ remarked Mrs Merdle, a little impatiently. ‘What did the brother say?’

‘Didn’t say a word, ma’am,’ answered Mr Sparkler. ‘As silent a feller as myself. Equally hard up for a remark.’

‘Somebody said something,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘Never mind who it was.’

[‘Assure you I don’t in the least,’ said Mr Sparkler.)

‘But tell us what it was.’

Mr Sparkler referred to his pulse again, and put himself through some severe mental discipline before he replied:

‘Fellers referring to my Governor—expression not my own—occasionally compliment my Governor in a very handsome way on being immensely rich and knowing—perfect phenomenon of Buyer and Banker and that—but say the Shop sits heavily on him. Say he carried the Shop about, on his back rather—like Jew clothesmen with too much business.’

‘Which,’ said Mrs Merdle, rising, with her floating drapery about her, ‘is exactly my complaint. Edmund, give me your arm up-stairs.’

Mr Merdle, left alone to meditate on a better conformation of himself to Society, looked out of nine windows in succession, and appeared to see nine wastes of space. When he had thus entertained himself he went down-stairs, and looked intently at all the carpets on the ground-floor; and then came up-stairs again, and looked intently at all the carpets on the first-floor; as if they were gloomy depths, in unison with his oppressed soul. Through all the rooms he wandered, as he always did, like the last person on earth who had any business to approach them. Let Mrs Merdle announce, with all her might, that she was at Home ever so many nights in a season, she could not announce more widely and unmistakably than Mr Merdle did that he was never at home.

At last he met the chief butler, the sight of which splendid retainer always finished him. Extinguished by this great creature, he sneaked to his dressing-room, and there remained shut up until he rode out to dinner, with Mrs Merdle, in her own handsome chariot. At dinner, he was envied and flattered as a being of might, was Treasuried, Barred, and Bishoped, as much as he would; and an hour after midnight came home alone, and being instantly put out again in his own hall, like a rushlight, by the chief butler, went sighing to bed.

CHAPTER 34. A Shoal of Barnacles

Mr Henry Gowan and the dog were established frequenters of the cottage, and the day was fixed for the wedding. There was to be a convocation of Barnacles on the occasion, in order that that very high and very large family might shed as much lustre on the marriage as so dim an event was capable of receiving.

To have got the whole Barnacle family together would have been impossible for two reasons. Firstly, because no building could have held all the members and connections of that illustrious house. Secondly, because wherever there was a square yard of ground in British occupation under the sun or moon, with a public post upon it, sticking to that post was a Barnacle. No intrepid navigator could plant a flag-staff upon any spot of earth, and take possession of it in the British name, but to that spot of earth, so soon as the discovery was known, the Circumlocution Office sent out a Barnacle and a despatch-box. Thus the Barnacles were all over the world, in every direction—despatch-boxing the compass.

But, while the so-potent art of Prospero himself would have failed in summoning the Barnacles from every speck of ocean and dry land on which there was nothing (except mischief) to be done and anything to be pocketed, it was perfectly feasible to assemble a good many Barnacles. This Mrs Gowan applied herself to do; calling on Mr Meagles frequently with new additions to the list, and holding conferences with that gentleman when he was not engaged (as he generally was at this period) in examining and paying the debts of his future son-in-law, in the apartment of scales and scoop.

One marriage guest there was, in reference to whose presence Mr Meagles felt a nearer interest and concern than in the attendance of the most elevated Barnacle expected; though he was far from insensible of the honour of having such company. This guest was Clennam. But Clennam had made a promise he held sacred, among the trees that summer night, and, in the chivalry of his heart, regarded it as binding him to many implied obligations. In forgetfulness of himself, and delicate service to her on all occasions, he was never to fail; to begin it, he answered Mr Meagles cheerfully, ‘I shall come, of course.’

His partner, Daniel Doyce, was something of a stumbling-block in Mr Meagles’s way, the worthy gentleman being not at all clear in his own anxious mind but that the mingling of Daniel with official Barnacleism might produce some explosive combination, even at a marriage breakfast. The national offender, however, lightened him of his uneasiness by coming down to Twickenham to represent that he begged, with the freedom of an old friend, and as a favour to one, that he might not be invited. ‘For,’ said he, ‘as my business with this set of gentlemen was to do a public duty and a public service, and as their business with me was to prevent it by wearing my soul out, I think we had better not eat and drink together with a show of being of one mind.’ Mr Meagles was much amused by his friend’s oddity; and patronised him with a more protecting air of allowance than usual, when he rejoined: ‘Well, well, Dan, you shall have your own crotchety way.’

To Mr Henry Gowan, as the time approached, Clennam tried to convey by all quiet and unpretending means, that he was frankly and disinterestedly desirous of tendering him any friendship he would accept. Mr Gowan treated him in return with his usual ease, and with his usual show of confidence, which was no confidence at all.

‘You see, Clennam,’ he happened to remark in the course of conversation one day, when they were walking near the Cottage within a week of the marriage, ‘I am a disappointed man. That you know already.’

‘Upon my word,’ said Clennam, a little embarrassed, ‘I scarcely know how.’

‘Why,’ returned Gowan, ‘I belong to a clan, or a clique, or a family, or a connection, or whatever you like to call it, that might have provided for me in any one of fifty ways, and that took it into its head not to do it at all. So here I am, a poor devil of an artist.’

Clennam was beginning, ‘But on the other hand—’ when Gowan took him up.

‘Yes, yes, I know. I have the good fortune of being beloved by a beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.’

[‘Is there much of it?’ Clennam thought. And as he thought it, felt ashamed of himself.)

‘And of finding a father-in-law who is a capital fellow and a liberal good old boy. Still, I had other prospects washed and combed into my childish head when it was washed and combed for me, and I took them to a public school when I washed and combed it for myself, and I am here without them, and thus I am a disappointed man.’

Clennam thought (and as he thought it, again felt ashamed of himself), was this notion of being disappointed in life, an assertion of station which the bridegroom brought into the family as his property, having already carried it detrimentally into his pursuit? And was it a hopeful or a promising thing anywhere?

‘Not bitterly disappointed, I think,’ he said aloud.

‘Hang it, no; not bitterly,’ laughed Gowan. ‘My people are not worth that—though they are charming fellows, and I have the greatest affection for them. Besides, it’s pleasant to show them that I can do without them, and that they may all go to the Devil. And besides, again, most men are disappointed in life, somehow or other, and influenced by their disappointment. But it’s a dear good world, and I love it!’

‘It lies fair before you now,’ said Arthur.

‘Fair as this summer river,’ cried the other, with enthusiasm, ‘and by Jove I glow with admiration of it, and with ardour to run a race in it. It’s the best of old worlds! And my calling! The best of old callings, isn’t it?’

‘Full of interest and ambition, I conceive,’ said Clennam.

‘And imposition,’ added Gowan, laughing; ‘we won’t leave out the imposition. I hope I may not break down in that; but there, my being a disappointed man may show itself. I may not be able to face it out gravely enough. Between you and me, I think there is some danger of my being just enough soured not to be able to do that.’

‘To do what?’ asked Clennam.

‘To keep it up. To help myself in my turn, as the man before me helps himself in his, and pass the bottle of smoke. To keep up the pretence as to labour, and study, and patience, and being devoted to my art, and giving up many solitary days to it, and abandoning many pleasures for it, and living in it, and all the rest of it—in short, to pass the bottle of smoke according to rule.’

‘But it is well for a man to respect his own vocation, whatever it is; and to think himself bound to uphold it, and to claim for it the respect it deserves; is it not?’ Arthur reasoned. ‘And your vocation, Gowan, may really demand this suit and service. I confess I should have thought that all Art did.’

‘What a good fellow you are, Clennam!’ exclaimed the other, stopping to look at him, as if with irrepressible admiration. ‘What a capital fellow! You have never been disappointed. That’s easy to see.’

It would have been so cruel if he had meant it, that Clennam firmly resolved to believe he did not mean it. Gowan, without pausing, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and laughingly and lightly went on:

‘Clennam, I don’t like to dispel your generous visions, and I would give any money (if I had any), to live in such a rose-coloured mist. But what I do in my trade, I do to sell. What all we fellows do, we do to sell. If we didn’t want to sell it for the most we can get for it, we shouldn’t do it. Being work, it has to be done; but it’s easily enough done. All the rest is hocus-pocus. Now here’s one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of knowing a disappointed man. You hear the truth.’

Whatever he had heard, and whether it deserved that name or another, it sank into Clennam’s mind. It so took root there, that he began to fear Henry Gowan would always be a trouble to him, and that so far he had gained little or nothing from the dismissal of Nobody, with all his inconsistencies, anxieties, and contradictions. He found a contest still always going on in his breast between his promise to keep Gowan in none but good aspects before the mind of Mr Meagles, and his enforced observation of Gowan in aspects that had no good in them. Nor could he quite support his own conscientious nature against misgivings that he distorted and discoloured himself, by reminding himself that he never sought those discoveries, and that he would have avoided them with willingness and great relief. For he never could forget what he had been; and he knew that he had once disliked Gowan for no better reason than that he had come in his way.

Harassed by these thoughts, he now began to wish the marriage over, Gowan and his young wife gone, and himself left to fulfil his promise, and discharge the generous function he had accepted. This last week was, in truth, an uneasy interval for the whole house. Before Pet, or before Gowan, Mr Meagles was radiant; but Clennam had more than once found him alone, with his view of the scales and scoop much blurred, and had often seen him look after the lovers, in the garden or elsewhere when he was not seen by them, with the old clouded face on which Gowan had fallen like a shadow. In the arrangement of the house for the great occasion, many little reminders of the old travels of the father and mother and daughter had to be disturbed and passed from hand to hand; and sometimes, in the midst of these mute witnesses, to the life they had had together, even Pet herself would yield to lamenting and weeping. Mrs Meagles, the blithest and busiest of mothers, went about singing and cheering everybody; but she, honest soul, had her flights into store rooms, where she would cry until her eyes were red, and would then come out, attributing that appearance to pickled onions and pepper, and singing clearer than ever. Mrs Tickit, finding no balsam for a wounded mind in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, suffered greatly from low spirits, and from moving recollections of Minnie’s infancy. When the latter was powerful with her, she usually sent up secret messages importing that she was not in parlour condition as to her attire, and that she solicited a sight of ‘her child’ in the kitchen; there, she would bless her child’s face, and bless her child’s heart, and hug her child, in a medley of tears and congratulations, chopping-boards, rolling-pins, and pie-crust, with the tenderness of an old attached servant, which is a very pretty tenderness indeed.

But all days come that are to be; and the marriage-day was to be, and it came; and with it came all the Barnacles who were bidden to the feast.

There was Mr Tite Barnacle, from the Circumlocution Office, and Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, with the expensive Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, who made the Quarter Days so long in coming, and the three expensive Miss Tite Barnacles, double-loaded with accomplishments and ready to go off, and yet not going off with the sharpness of flash and bang that might have been expected, but rather hanging fire. There was Barnacle junior, also from the Circumlocution Office, leaving the Tonnage of the country, which he was somehow supposed to take under his protection, to look after itself, and, sooth to say, not at all impairing the efficiency of its protection by leaving it alone. There was the engaging Young Barnacle, deriving from the sprightly side of the family, also from the Circumlocution Office, gaily and agreeably helping the occasion along, and treating it, in his sparkling way, as one of the official forms and fees of the Church Department of How not to do it. There were three other Young Barnacles from three other offices, insipid to all the senses, and terribly in want of seasoning, doing the marriage as they would have ‘done’ the Nile, Old Rome, the new singer, or Jerusalem.

But there was greater game than this. There was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself, in the odour of Circumlocution—with the very smell of Despatch-Boxes upon him. Yes, there was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, who had risen to official heights on the wings of one indignant idea, and that was, My Lords, that I am yet to be told that it behoves a Minister of this free country to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. That was, in other words, that this great statesman was always yet to be told that it behoved the Pilot of the ship to do anything but prosper in the private loaf and fish trade ashore, the crew being able, by dint of hard pumping, to keep the ship above water without him. On this sublime discovery in the great art How not to do it, Lord Decimus had long sustained the highest glory of the Barnacle family; and let any ill-advised member of either House but try How to do it by bringing in a Bill to do it, that Bill was as good as dead and buried when Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle rose up in his place and solemnly said, soaring into indignant majesty as the Circumlocution cheering soared around him, that he was yet to be told, My Lords, that it behoved him as the Minister of this free country, to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. The discovery of this Behoving Machine was the discovery of the political perpetual motion. It never wore out, though it was always going round and round in all the State Departments.

And there, with his noble friend and relative Lord Decimus, was William Barnacle, who had made the ever-famous coalition with Tudor Stiltstalking, and who always kept ready his own particular recipe for How not to do it; sometimes tapping the Speaker, and drawing it fresh out of him, with a ‘First, I will beg you, sir, to inform the House what Precedent we have for the course into which the honourable gentleman would precipitate us;’ sometimes asking the honourable gentleman to favour him with his own version of the Precedent; sometimes telling the honourable gentleman that he (William Barnacle) would search for a Precedent; and oftentimes crushing the honourable gentleman flat on the spot by telling him there was no Precedent. But Precedent and Precipitate were, under all circumstances, the well-matched pair of battle-horses of this able Circumlocutionist. No matter that the unhappy honourable gentleman had been trying in vain, for twenty-five years, to precipitate William Barnacle into this—William Barnacle still put it to the House, and (at second-hand or so) to the country, whether he was to be precipitated into this. No matter that it was utterly irreconcilable with the nature of things and course of events that the wretched honourable gentleman could possibly produce a Precedent for this—William Barnacle would nevertheless thank the honourable gentleman for that ironical cheer, and would close with him upon that issue, and would tell him to his teeth that there Was NO Precedent for this. It might perhaps have been objected that the William Barnacle wisdom was not high wisdom or the earth it bamboozled would never have been made, or, if made in a rash mistake, would have remained blank mud. But Precedent and Precipitate together frightened all objection out of most people.

And there, too, was another Barnacle, a lively one, who had leaped through twenty places in quick succession, and was always in two or three at once, and who was the much-respected inventor of an art which he practised with great success and admiration in all Barnacle Governments. This was, when he was asked a Parliamentary question on any one topic, to return an answer on any other. It had done immense service, and brought him into high esteem with the Circumlocution Office.

And there, too, was a sprinkling of less distinguished Parliamentary Barnacles, who had not as yet got anything snug, and were going through their probation to prove their worthiness. These Barnacles perched upon staircases and hid in passages, waiting their orders to make houses or not to make houses; and they did all their hearing, and ohing, and cheering, and barking, under directions from the heads of the family; and they put dummy motions on the paper in the way of other men’s motions; and they stalled disagreeable subjects off until late in the night and late in the session, and then with virtuous patriotism cried out that it was too late; and they went down into the country, whenever they were sent, and swore that Lord Decimus had revived trade from a swoon, and commerce from a fit, and had doubled the harvest of corn, quadrupled the harvest of hay, and prevented no end of gold from flying out of the Bank. Also these Barnacles were dealt, by the heads of the family, like so many cards below the court-cards, to public meetings and dinners; where they bore testimony to all sorts of services on the part of their noble and honourable relatives, and buttered the Barnacles on all sorts of toasts. And they stood, under similar orders, at all sorts of elections; and they turned out of their own seats, on the shortest notice and the most unreasonable terms, to let in other men; and they fetched and carried, and toadied and jobbed, and corrupted, and ate heaps of dirt, and were indefatigable in the public service. And there was not a list, in all the Circumlocution Office, of places that might fall vacant anywhere within half a century, from a lord of the Treasury to a Chinese consul, and up again to a governor-general of India, but as applicants for such places, the names of some or of every one of these hungry and adhesive Barnacles were down.

It was necessarily but a sprinkling of any class of Barnacles that attended the marriage, for there were not two score in all, and what is that subtracted from Legion! But the sprinkling was a swarm in the Twickenham cottage, and filled it. A Barnacle (assisted by a Barnacle) married the happy pair, and it behoved Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself to conduct Mrs Meagles to breakfast.

The entertainment was not as agreeable and natural as it might have been. Mr Meagles, hove down by his good company while he highly appreciated it, was not himself. Mrs Gowan was herself, and that did not improve him. The fiction that it was not Mr Meagles who had stood in the way, but that it was the Family greatness, and that the Family greatness had made a concession, and there was now a soothing unanimity, pervaded the affair, though it was never openly expressed. Then the Barnacles felt that they for their parts would have done with the Meagleses when the present patronising occasion was over; and the Meagleses felt the same for their parts. Then Gowan asserting his rights as a disappointed man who had his grudge against the family, and who, perhaps, had allowed his mother to have them there, as much in the hope it might give them some annoyance as with any other benevolent object, aired his pencil and his poverty ostentatiously before them, and told them he hoped in time to settle a crust of bread and cheese on his wife, and that he begged such of them as (more fortunate than himself) came in for any good thing, and could buy a picture, to please to remember the poor painter. Then Lord Decimus, who was a wonder on his own Parliamentary pedestal, turned out to be the windiest creature here: proposing happiness to the bride and bridegroom in a series of platitudes that would have made the hair of any sincere disciple and believer stand on end; and trotting, with the complacency of an idiotic elephant, among howling labyrinths of sentences which he seemed to take for high roads, and never so much as wanted to get out of. Then Mr Tite Barnacle could not but feel that there was a person in company, who would have disturbed his life-long sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence in full official character, if such disturbance had been possible: while Barnacle junior did, with indignation, communicate to two vapid gentlemen, his relatives, that there was a feller here, look here, who had come to our Department without an appointment and said he wanted to know, you know; and that, look here, if he was to break out now, as he might you know (for you never could tell what an ungentlemanly Radical of that sort would be up to next), and was to say, look here, that he wanted to know this moment, you know, that would be jolly; wouldn’t it?

The pleasantest part of the occasion by far, to Clennam, was the painfullest. When Mr and Mrs Meagles at last hung about Pet in the room with the two pictures (where the company were not), before going with her to the threshold which she could never recross to be the old Pet and the old delight, nothing could be more natural and simple than the three were. Gowan himself was touched, and answered Mr Meagles’s ‘O Gowan, take care of her, take care of her!’ with an earnest ‘Don’t be so broken-hearted, sir. By Heaven I will!’

And so, with the last sobs and last loving words, and a last look to Clennam of confidence in his promise, Pet fell back in the carriage, and her husband waved his hand, and they were away for Dover; though not until the faithful Mrs Tickit, in her silk gown and jet black curls, had rushed out from some hiding-place, and thrown both her shoes after the carriage: an apparition which occasioned great surprise to the distinguished company at the windows.

The said company being now relieved from further attendance, and the chief Barnacles being rather hurried (for they had it in hand just then to send a mail or two which was in danger of going straight to its destination, beating about the seas like the Flying Dutchman, and to arrange with complexity for the stoppage of a good deal of important business otherwise in peril of being done), went their several ways; with all affability conveying to Mr and Mrs Meagles that general assurance that what they had been doing there, they had been doing at a sacrifice for Mr and Mrs Meagles’s good, which they always conveyed to Mr John Bull in their official condescension to that most unfortunate creature.

A miserable blank remained in the house and in the hearts of the father and mother and Clennam. Mr Meagles called only one remembrance to his aid, that really did him good.

‘It’s very gratifying, Arthur,’ he said, ‘after all, to look back upon.’

‘The past?’ said Clennam.

‘Yes—but I mean the company.’

It had made him much more low and unhappy at the time, but now it really did him good. ‘It’s very gratifying,’ he said, often repeating the remark in the course of the evening. ‘Such high company!’

CHAPTER 35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand

It was at this time that Mr Pancks, in discharge of his compact with Clennam, revealed to him the whole of his gipsy story, and told him Little Dorrit’s fortune. Her father was heir-at-law to a great estate that had long lain unknown of, unclaimed, and accumulating. His right was now clear, nothing interposed in his way, the Marshalsea gates stood open, the Marshalsea walls were down, a few flourishes of his pen, and he was extremely rich.

In his tracking out of the claim to its complete establishment, Mr Pancks had shown a sagacity that nothing could baffle, and a patience and secrecy that nothing could tire. ‘I little thought, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘when you and I crossed Smithfield that night, and I told you what sort of a Collector I was, that this would come of it. I little thought, sir, when I told you you were not of the Clennams of Cornwall, that I was ever going to tell you who were of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire.’ He then went on to detail. How, having that name recorded in his note-book, he was first attracted by the name alone. How, having often found two exactly similar names, even belonging to the same place, to involve no traceable consanguinity, near or distant, he did not at first give much heed to this, except in the way of speculation as to what a surprising change would be made in the condition of a little seamstress, if she could be shown to have any interest in so large a property. How he rather supposed himself to have pursued the idea into its next degree, because there was something uncommon in the quiet little seamstress, which pleased him and provoked his curiosity. How he had felt his way inch by inch, and ‘Moled it out, sir’ (that was Mr Pancks’s expression), grain by grain. How, in the beginning of the labour described by this new verb, and to render which the more expressive Mr Pancks shut his eyes in pronouncing it and shook his hair over them, he had alternated from sudden lights and hopes to sudden darkness and no hopes, and back again, and back again. How he had made acquaintances in the Prison, expressly that he might come and go there as all other comers and goers did; and how his first ray of light was unconsciously given him by Mr Dorrit himself and by his son; to both of whom he easily became known; with both of whom he talked much, casually [‘but always Moleing you’ll observe,’ said Mr Pancks): and from whom he derived, without being at all suspected, two or three little points of family history which, as he began to hold clues of his own, suggested others. How it had at length become plain to Mr Pancks that he had made a real discovery of the heir-at-law to a great fortune, and that his discovery had but to be ripened to legal fulness and perfection. How he had, thereupon, sworn his landlord, Mr Rugg, to secrecy in a solemn manner, and taken him into Moleing partnership. How they had employed John Chivery as their sole clerk and agent, seeing to whom he was devoted. And how, until the present hour, when authorities mighty in the Bank and learned in the law declared their successful labours ended, they had confided in no other human being.

‘So if the whole thing had broken down, sir,’ concluded Pancks, ‘at the very last, say the day before the other day when I showed you our papers in the Prison yard, or say that very day, nobody but ourselves would have been cruelly disappointed, or a penny the worse.’

Clennam, who had been almost incessantly shaking hands with him throughout the narrative, was reminded by this to say, in an amazement which even the preparation he had had for the main disclosure smoothed down, ‘My dear Mr Pancks, this must have cost you a great sum of money.’

‘Pretty well, sir,’ said the triumphant Pancks. ‘No trifle, though we did it as cheap as it could be done. And the outlay was a difficulty, let me tell you.’

‘A difficulty!’ repeated Clennam. ‘But the difficulties you have so wonderfully conquered in the whole business!’ shaking his hand again.

‘I’ll tell you how I did it,’ said the delighted Pancks, putting his hair into a condition as elevated as himself. ‘First, I spent all I had of my own. That wasn’t much.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ said Clennam: ‘not that it matters now, though. Then, what did you do?’

‘Then,’ answered Pancks, ‘I borrowed a sum of my proprietor.’

‘Of Mr Casby?’ said Clennam. ‘He’s a fine old fellow.’

‘Noble old boy; an’t he?’ said Mr Pancks, entering on a series of the dryest snorts. ‘Generous old buck. Confiding old boy. Philanthropic old buck. Benevolent old boy! Twenty per cent. I engaged to pay him, sir. But we never do business for less at our shop.’

Arthur felt an awkward consciousness of having, in his exultant condition, been a little premature.

‘I said to that boiling-over old Christian,’ Mr Pancks pursued, appearing greatly to relish this descriptive epithet, ‘that I had got a little project on hand; a hopeful one; I told him a hopeful one; which wanted a certain small capital. I proposed to him to lend me the money on my note. Which he did, at twenty; sticking the twenty on in a business-like way, and putting it into the note, to look like a part of the principal. If I had broken down after that, I should have been his grubber for the next seven years at half wages and double grind. But he’s a perfect Patriarch; and it would do a man good to serve him on such terms—on any terms.’

Arthur for his life could not have said with confidence whether Pancks really thought so or not.

‘When that was gone, sir,’ resumed Pancks, ‘and it did go, though I dribbled it out like so much blood, I had taken Mr Rugg into the secret. I proposed to borrow of Mr Rugg (or of Miss Rugg; it’s the same thing; she made a little money by a speculation in the Common Pleas once). He lent it at ten, and thought that pretty high. But Mr Rugg’s a red-haired man, sir, and gets his hair cut. And as to the crown of his hat, it’s high. And as to the brim of his hat, it’s narrow. And there’s no more benevolence bubbling out of him, than out of a ninepin.’

‘Your own recompense for all this, Mr Pancks,’ said Clennam, ‘ought to be a large one.’

‘I don’t mistrust getting it, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I have made no bargain. I owed you one on that score; now I have paid it. Money out of pocket made good, time fairly allowed for, and Mr Rugg’s bill settled, a thousand pounds would be a fortune to me. That matter I place in your hands. I authorize you now to break all this to the family in any way you think best. Miss Amy Dorrit will be with Mrs Finching this morning. The sooner done the better. Can’t be done too soon.’

This conversation took place in Clennam’s bed-room, while he was yet in bed. For Mr Pancks had knocked up the house and made his way in, very early in the morning; and, without once sitting down or standing still, had delivered himself of the whole of his details (illustrated with a variety of documents) at the bedside. He now said he would ‘go and look up Mr Rugg’, from whom his excited state of mind appeared to require another back; and bundling up his papers, and exchanging one more hearty shake of the hand with Clennam, he went at full speed down-stairs, and steamed off.

Clennam, of course, resolved to go direct to Mr Casby’s. He dressed and got out so quickly that he found himself at the corner of the patriarchal street nearly an hour before her time; but he was not sorry to have the opportunity of calming himself with a leisurely walk.

When he returned to the street, and had knocked at the bright brass knocker, he was informed that she had come, and was shown up-stairs to Flora’s breakfast-room. Little Dorrit was not there herself, but Flora was, and testified the greatest amazement at seeing him.

‘Good gracious, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam!’ cried that lady, ‘who would have ever thought of seeing such a sight as this and pray excuse a wrapper for upon my word I really never and a faded check too which is worse but our little friend is making me, not that I need mind mentioning it to you for you must know that there are such things a skirt, and having arranged that a trying on should take place after breakfast is the reason though I wish not so badly starched.’

‘I ought to make an apology,’ said Arthur, ‘for so early and abrupt a visit; but you will excuse it when I tell you the cause.’

‘In times for ever fled Arthur,’ returned Mrs Finching, ‘pray excuse me Doyce and Clennam infinitely more correct and though unquestionably distant still ‘tis distance lends enchantment to the view, at least I don’t mean that and if I did I suppose it would depend considerably on the nature of the view, but I’m running on again and you put it all out of my head.’

She glanced at him tenderly, and resumed:

‘In times for ever fled I was going to say it would have sounded strange indeed for Arthur Clennam—Doyce and Clennam naturally quite different—to make apologies for coming here at any time, but that is past and what is past can never be recalled except in his own case as poor Mr F. said when he was in spirits Cucumber and therefore never ate it.’

She was making the tea when Arthur came in, and now hastily finished that operation.

‘Papa,’ she said, all mystery and whisper, as she shut down the tea-pot lid, ‘is sitting prosingly breaking his new laid egg in the back parlour over the City article exactly like the Woodpecker Tapping and need never know that you are here, and our little friend you are well aware may be fully trusted when she comes down from cutting out on the large table overhead.’

Arthur then told her, in the fewest words, that it was their little friend he came to see; and what he had to announce to their little friend. At which astounding intelligence, Flora clasped her hands, fell into a tremble, and shed tears of sympathy and pleasure, like the good-natured creature she really was.

‘For gracious sake let me get out of the way first,’ said Flora, putting her hands to her ears and moving towards the door, ‘or I know I shall go off dead and screaming and make everybody worse, and the dear little thing only this morning looking so nice and neat and good and yet so poor and now a fortune is she really and deserves it too! and might I mention it to Mr F.’s Aunt Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once or if objectionable not on any account.’

Arthur nodded his free permission, since Flora shut out all verbal communication. Flora nodded in return to thank him, and hurried out of the room.

Little Dorrit’s step was already on the stairs, and in another moment she was at the door. Do what he could to compose his face, he could not convey so much of an ordinary expression into it, but that the moment she saw it she dropped her work, and cried, ‘Mr Clennam! What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, nothing. That is, no misfortune has happened. I have come to tell you something, but it is a piece of great good-fortune.’

‘Good-fortune?’

‘Wonderful fortune!’

They stood in a window, and her eyes, full of light, were fixed upon his face. He put an arm about her, seeing her likely to sink down. She put a hand upon that arm, partly to rest upon it, and partly so to preserve their relative positions as that her intent look at him should be shaken by no change of attitude in either of them. Her lips seemed to repeat ‘Wonderful fortune?’ He repeated it again, aloud.

‘Dear Little Dorrit! Your father.’

The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights and shoots of expression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Her breath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast. He would have clasped the little figure closer, but he saw that the eyes appealed to him not to be moved.

‘Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we must go to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free within a few days. Your father will be free within a few hours. Remember we must go to him from here, to tell him of it!’

That brought her back. Her eyes were closing, but they opened again.

‘This is not all the good-fortune. This is not all the wonderful good-fortune, my dear Little Dorrit. Shall I tell you more?’

Her lips shaped ‘Yes.’

‘Your father will be no beggar when he is free. He will want for nothing. Shall I tell you more? Remember! He knows nothing of it; we must go to him, from here, to tell him of it!’

She seemed to entreat him for a little time. He held her in his arm, and, after a pause, bent down his ear to listen.

‘Did you ask me to go on?’

‘Yes.’

‘He will be a rich man. He is a rich man. A great sum of money is waiting to be paid over to him as his inheritance; you are all henceforth very wealthy. Bravest and best of children, I thank Heaven that you are rewarded!’

As he kissed her, she turned her head towards his shoulder, and raised her arm towards his neck; cried out ‘Father! Father! Father!’ and swooned away.

Upon which Flora returned to take care of her, and hovered about her on a sofa, intermingling kind offices and incoherent scraps of conversation in a manner so confounding, that whether she pressed the Marshalsea to take a spoonful of unclaimed dividends, for it would do her good; or whether she congratulated Little Dorrit’s father on coming into possession of a hundred thousand smelling-bottles; or whether she explained that she put seventy-five thousand drops of spirits of lavender on fifty thousand pounds of lump sugar, and that she entreated Little Dorrit to take that gentle restorative; or whether she bathed the foreheads of Doyce and Clennam in vinegar, and gave the late Mr F. more air; no one with any sense of responsibility could have undertaken to decide. A tributary stream of confusion, moreover, poured in from an adjoining bedroom, where Mr F.’s Aunt appeared, from the sound of her voice, to be in a horizontal posture, awaiting her breakfast; and from which bower that inexorable lady snapped off short taunts, whenever she could get a hearing, as, ‘Don’t believe it’s his doing!’ and ‘He needn’t take no credit to himself for it!’ and ‘It’ll be long enough, I expect, afore he’ll give up any of his own money!’ all designed to disparage Clennam’s share in the discovery, and to relieve those inveterate feelings with which Mr F.’s Aunt regarded him.

But Little Dorrit’s solicitude to get to her father, and to carry the joyful tidings to him, and not to leave him in his jail a moment with this happiness in store for him and still unknown to him, did more for her speedy restoration than all the skill and attention on earth could have done. ‘Come with me to my dear father. Pray come and tell my dear father!’ were the first words she said. Her father, her father. She spoke of nothing but him, thought of nothing but him. Kneeling down and pouring out her thankfulness with uplifted hands, her thanks were for her father.

Flora’s tenderness was quite overcome by this, and she launched out among the cups and saucers into a wonderful flow of tears and speech.

‘I declare,’ she sobbed, ‘I never was so cut up since your mama and my papa not Doyce and Clennam for this once but give the precious little thing a cup of tea and make her put it to her lips at least pray Arthur do, not even Mr F.’s last illness for that was of another kind and gout is not a child’s affection though very painful for all parties and Mr F. a martyr with his leg upon a rest and the wine trade in itself inflammatory for they will do it more or less among themselves and who can wonder, it seems like a dream I am sure to think of nothing at all this morning and now Mines of money is it really, but you must know my darling love because you never will be strong enough to tell him all about it upon teaspoons, mightn’t it be even best to try the directions of my own medical man for though the flavour is anything but agreeable still I force myself to do it as a prescription and find the benefit, you’d rather not why no my dear I’d rather not but still I do it as a duty, everybody will congratulate you some in earnest and some not and many will congratulate you with all their hearts but none more so I do assure you from the bottom of my own I do myself though sensible of blundering and being stupid, and will be judged by Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once so good-bye darling and God bless you and may you be very happy and excuse the liberty, vowing that the dress shall never be finished by anybody else but shall be laid by for a keepsake just as it is and called Little Dorrit though why that strangest of denominations at any time I never did myself and now I never shall!’

Thus Flora, in taking leave of her favourite. Little Dorrit thanked her, and embraced her, over and over again; and finally came out of the house with Clennam, and took coach for the Marshalsea.

It was a strangely unreal ride through the old squalid streets, with a sensation of being raised out of them into an airy world of wealth and grandeur. When Arthur told her that she would soon ride in her own carriage through very different scenes, when all the familiar experiences would have vanished away, she looked frightened. But when he substituted her father for herself, and told her how he would ride in his carriage, and how great and grand he would be, her tears of joy and innocent pride fell fast. Seeing that the happiness her mind could realise was all shining upon him, Arthur kept that single figure before her; and so they rode brightly through the poor streets in the prison neighbourhood to carry him the great news.

When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in the remotest room in the College.

Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below, struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand, he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.

‘Father! I have been made so happy this morning!’

‘You have been made so happy, my dear?’

‘By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and gentleness, prepared me for it, father—prepared me for it, father—I think I could not have borne it.’

Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face. He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam.

‘Compose yourself, sir,’ said Clennam, ‘and take a little time to think. To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They are rare, but not at an end.’

‘Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for—’ He touched himself upon the breast, instead of saying ‘me.’

‘No,’ returned Clennam.

‘What surprise,’ he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his glasses exactly level on the table: ‘what such surprise can be in store for me?’

‘Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.’

He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to change into a very old haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall beyond the window, and on the spikes at top. He slowly stretched out the hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall.

‘It is down,’ said Clennam. ‘Gone!’

He remained in the same attitude, looking steadfastly at him.

‘And in its place,’ said Clennam, slowly and distinctly, ‘are the means to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will be free, and highly prosperous. I congratulate you with all my soul on this change of fortune, and on the happy future into which you are soon to carry the treasure you have been blest with here—the best of all the riches you can have elsewhere—the treasure at your side.’

With those words, he pressed his hand and released it; and his daughter, laying her face against his, encircled him in the hour of his prosperity with her arms, as she had in the long years of his adversity encircled him with her love and toil and truth; and poured out her full heart in gratitude, hope, joy, blissful ecstasy, and all for him.

‘I shall see him as I never saw him yet. I shall see my dear love, with the dark cloud cleared away. I shall see him, as my poor mother saw him long ago. O my dear, my dear! O father, father! O thank God, thank God!’

He yielded himself to her kisses and caresses, but did not return them, except that he put an arm about her. Neither did he say one word. His steadfast look was now divided between her and Clennam, and he began to shake as if he were very cold. Explaining to Little Dorrit that he would run to the coffee-house for a bottle of wine, Arthur fetched it with all the haste he could use. While it was being brought from the cellar to the bar, a number of excited people asked him what had happened; when he hurriedly informed them that Mr Dorrit had succeeded to a fortune.

On coming back with the wine in his hand, he found that she had placed her father in his easy chair, and had loosened his shirt and neckcloth. They filled a tumbler with wine, and held it to his lips. When he had swallowed a little, he took the glass himself and emptied it. Soon after that, he leaned back in his chair and cried, with his handkerchief before his face.

After this had lasted a while Clennam thought it a good season for diverting his attention from the main surprise, by relating its details. Slowly, therefore, and in a quiet tone of voice, he explained them as best he could, and enlarged on the nature of Pancks’s service.

‘He shall be—ha—he shall be handsomely recompensed, sir,’ said the Father, starting up and moving hurriedly about the room. ‘Assure yourself, Mr Clennam, that everybody concerned shall be—ha—shall be nobly rewarded. No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an unsatisfied claim against me. I shall repay the—hum—the advances I have had from you, sir, with peculiar pleasure. I beg to be informed at your earliest convenience, what advances you have made my son.’

He had no purpose in going about the room, but he was not still a moment.

‘Everybody,’ he said, ‘shall be remembered. I will not go away from here in anybody’s debt. All the people who have been—ha—well behaved towards myself and my family, shall be rewarded. Chivery shall be rewarded. Young John shall be rewarded. I particularly wish, and intend, to act munificently, Mr Clennam.’

‘Will you allow me,’ said Arthur, laying his purse on the table, ‘to supply any present contingencies, Mr Dorrit? I thought it best to bring a sum of money for the purpose.’

‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I accept with readiness, at the present moment, what I could not an hour ago have conscientiously taken. I am obliged to you for the temporary accommodation. Exceedingly temporary, but well timed—well timed.’ His hand had closed upon the money, and he carried it about with him. ‘Be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to those former advances to which I have already referred; being careful, if you please, not to omit advances made to my son. A mere verbal statement of the gross amount is all I shall—ha—all I shall require.’

His eye fell upon his daughter at this point, and he stopped for a moment to kiss her, and to pat her head.

‘It will be necessary to find a milliner, my love, and to make a speedy and complete change in your very plain dress. Something must be done with Maggy too, who at present is—ha—barely respectable, barely respectable. And your sister, Amy, and your brother. And my brother, your uncle—poor soul, I trust this will rouse him—messengers must be despatched to fetch them. They must be informed of this. We must break it to them cautiously, but they must be informed directly. We owe it as a duty to them and to ourselves, from this moment, not to let them—hum—not to let them do anything.’

This was the first intimation he had ever given, that he was privy to the fact that they did something for a livelihood.

He was still jogging about the room, with the purse clutched in his hand, when a great cheering arose in the yard. ‘The news has spread already,’ said Clennam, looking down from the window. ‘Will you show yourself to them, Mr Dorrit? They are very earnest, and they evidently wish it.’

‘I—hum—ha—I confess I could have desired, Amy my dear,’ he said, jogging about in a more feverish flutter than before, ‘to have made some change in my dress first, and to have bought a—hum—a watch and chain. But if it must be done as it is, it—ha—it must be done. Fasten the collar of my shirt, my dear. Mr Clennam, would you oblige me—hum—with a blue neckcloth you will find in that drawer at your elbow. Button my coat across at the chest, my love. It looks—ha—it looks broader, buttoned.’

With his trembling hand he pushed his grey hair up, and then, taking Clennam and his daughter for supporters, appeared at the window leaning on an arm of each. The Collegians cheered him very heartily, and he kissed his hand to them with great urbanity and protection. When he withdrew into the room again, he said ‘Poor creatures!’ in a tone of much pity for their miserable condition.

Little Dorrit was deeply anxious that he should lie down to compose himself. On Arthur’s speaking to her of his going to inform Pancks that he might now appear as soon as he would, and pursue the joyful business to its close, she entreated him in a whisper to stay with her until her father should be quite calm and at rest. He needed no second entreaty; and she prepared her father’s bed, and begged him to lie down. For another half-hour or more he would be persuaded to do nothing but go about the room, discussing with himself the probabilities for and against the Marshal’s allowing the whole of the prisoners to go to the windows of the official residence which commanded the street, to see himself and family depart for ever in a carriage—which, he said, he thought would be a Sight for them. But gradually he began to droop and tire, and at last stretched himself upon the bed.

She took her faithful place beside him, fanning him and cooling his forehead; and he seemed to be falling asleep (always with the money in his hand), when he unexpectedly sat up and said:

‘Mr Clennam, I beg your pardon. Am I to understand, my dear sir, that I could—ha—could pass through the Lodge at this moment, and—hum—take a walk?’

‘I think not, Mr Dorrit,’ was the unwilling reply. ‘There are certain forms to be completed; and although your detention here is now in itself a form, I fear it is one that for a little longer has to be observed too.’

At this he shed tears again.

‘It is but a few hours, sir,’ Clennam cheerfully urged upon him.

‘A few hours, sir,’ he returned in a sudden passion. ‘You talk very easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a man who is choking for want of air?’

It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn’t breathe, he slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed, and the daughter fanning his face.

Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his grey hair aside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towards Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subject of her thoughts.

‘Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?’

‘No doubt. All.’

‘All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and longer?’

‘No doubt.’

There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look; something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and said:

‘You are glad that he should do so?’

‘Are you?’ asked Little Dorrit, wistfully.

‘Am I? Most heartily glad!’

‘Then I know I ought to be.’

‘And are you not?’

‘It seems to me hard,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that he should have lost so many years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well. It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both.’

‘My dear child—’ Clennam was beginning.

‘Yes, I know I am wrong,’ she pleaded timidly, ‘don’t think any worse of me; it has grown up with me here.’

The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little Dorrit’s mind no more than this. Engendered as the confusion was, in compassion for the poor prisoner, her father, it was the first speck Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the prison atmosphere upon her.

He thought this, and forbore to say another word. With the thought, her purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. The little spot made them the more beautiful.

Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room, her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her head dropped down on the pillow at her father’s side. Clennam rose softly, opened and closed the door without a sound, and passed from the prison, carrying the quiet with him into the turbulent streets.

CHAPTER 36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.

The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He had been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not submit to imposition. On that gentleman’s humbly representing that he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he forgot whom he talked to.

Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years’ standing, and with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr Dorrit’s occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal’s offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested character and its perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded.

Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in their altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them, Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers, tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great fashion and elegance; and the three passed this interval together at the best hotel in the neighbourhood—though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there; in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the Marshal’s daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets.

A great deal of business was transacted in this short period. Among other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest computed at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly proffered in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such case, ‘it is a donation, not a loan’) with a great deal of good counsel: to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and the general respect even there.

The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years’ standing, the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from hand to mouth—from the pawnbroker’s hand to the day’s dinner.

They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion or preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he received the profession of their attachment with a full conviction of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted them to follow his example—which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took the same occasion of inviting them to a comprehensive entertainment, to be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind.

He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands were of the quality he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a baron of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them well; and that he bade them welcome. His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial after all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the manner of a mere serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before them all. After this great success, which he supposed to be a failure, he gave them ‘Mr Chivery and his brother officers;’ whom he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list of toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions.

But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.

Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds and ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a serious but graceful dignity. Much of his great attention was given to his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.

‘My dear Frederick,’ said he, ‘if you will give me your arm we will pass among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.’

‘Hah!’ said Frederick. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’

‘And if, my dear Frederick—if you could, without putting any great constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a little polish into your usual demeanour—’

‘William, William,’ said the other, shaking his head, ‘it’s for you to do all that. I don’t know how. All forgotten, forgotten!’

‘But, my dear fellow,’ returned William, ‘for that very reason, if for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your position—’

‘Eh?’ said Frederick.

‘Your position, my dear Frederick.’

‘Mine?’ He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother’s, and then, drawing a long breath, cried, ‘Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes, yes.’

‘Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs to your conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it, my dear Frederick, and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to it, but to adorn it.’

‘William,’ said the other weakly, and with a sigh, ‘I will do anything you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.’

‘My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a heart as yours with.’

‘Pray trouble it,’ returned the other. ‘It finds it no trouble, William, to do anything it can for you.’

William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august satisfaction, ‘Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!’ Then he said aloud, ‘Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion—that you think about it—’

‘What would you advise me to think about it?’ returned his submissive brother.

‘Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in leaving these good people, I think myself.’

‘That’s it!’ cried his brother. ‘That will help me.’

‘I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!’

‘True,’ returned his brother. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll think that as we go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do without him!’

Twelve o’clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs arm-in-arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister Fanny followed, also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had been entrusted the removal of such of the family effects as were considered worth removing, followed, bearing bundles and burdens to be packed in a cart.

In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were Mr Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their work. In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself, on the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent that many enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the hand, and the wives and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, nothing doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man with the shadowy grievance respecting the Fund which the Marshal embezzled, who had got up at five in the morning to complete the copying of a perfectly unintelligible history of that transaction, which he had committed to Mr Dorrit’s care, as a document of the last importance, calculated to stun the Government and effect the Marshal’s downfall. In the yard, was the insolvent whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt, who broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the insolvent at his elbow—a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman, half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt—found it a hard matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner to release him with much reproof and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many children and many burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There, were the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting it off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who were much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than the seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit, cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family; there, were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the gloom of their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the light of such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into his pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now obtrusively Hail fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that assistance. It was rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that they were a little shy of the bird about to be so grandly free, and that they had a tendency to withdraw themselves towards the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he passed.

Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the head like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, he spoke to people in the background by their Christian names, he condescended to all present, and seemed for their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in golden characters, ‘Be comforted, my people! Bear it!’

At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased to ring in the echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into their carriage, and the attendant had the steps in his hand.

Then, and not before, ‘Good Gracious!’ cried Miss Fanny all at once, ‘Where’s Amy!’

Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had thought she was ‘somewhere or other.’ They had all trusted to finding her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment. This going away was perhaps the very first action of their joint lives that they had got through without her.

A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these points, when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage, commanded the long narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed indignantly.

‘Now I do say, Pa,’ cried she, ‘that this is disgraceful!’

‘What is disgraceful, Fanny?’

‘I do say,’ she repeated, ‘this is perfectly infamous! Really almost enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was dead! Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again begged and prayed her to change, and which she over and over again objected to, and promised to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as long as ever she remained in there with you—which was absolutely romantic nonsense of the lowest kind—here is that child Amy disgracing us to the last moment and at the last moment, by being carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr Clennam too!’

The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment. Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in his arms.

‘She has been forgotten,’ he said, in a tone of pity not free from reproach. ‘I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear child. She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have sunk down overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have happened sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don’t let it fall.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. ‘I believe I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open your eyes, that’s a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed and ashamed! Do rouse yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive on!’

The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp ‘By your leave, sir!’ bundled up the steps, and they drove away.

BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES

CHAPTER 1. Fellow Travellers

In the autumn of the year, Darkness and Night were creeping up to the highest ridges of the Alps.

It was vintage time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, and along the banks of the Lake of Geneva. The air there was charged with the scent of gathered grapes. Baskets, troughs, and tubs of grapes stood in the dim village doorways, stopped the steep and narrow village streets, and had been carrying all day along the roads and lanes. Grapes, split and crushed under foot, lay about everywhere. The child carried in a sling by the laden peasant woman toiling home, was quieted with picked-up grapes; the idiot sunning his big goitre under the leaves of the wooden chalet by the way to the Waterfall, sat munching grapes; the breath of the cows and goats was redolent of leaves and stalks of grapes; the company in every little cabaret were eating, drinking, talking grapes. A pity that no ripe touch of this generous abundance could be given to the thin, hard, stony wine, which after all was made from the grapes!

The air had been warm and transparent through the whole of the bright day. Shining metal spires and church-roofs, distant and rarely seen, had sparkled in the view; and the snowy mountain-tops had been so clear that unaccustomed eyes, cancelling the intervening country, and slighting their rugged heights for something fabulous, would have measured them as within a few hours easy reach. Mountain-peaks of great celebrity in the valleys, whence no trace of their existence was visible sometimes for months together, had been since morning plain and near in the blue sky. And now, when it was dark below, though they seemed solemnly to recede, like spectres who were going to vanish, as the red dye of the sunset faded out of them and left them coldly white, they were yet distinctly defined in their loneliness above the mists and shadows.

Seen from these solitudes, and from the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, which was one of them, the ascending Night came up the mountain like a rising water. When it at last rose to the walls of the convent of the Great Saint Bernard, it was as if that weather-beaten structure were another Ark, and floated on the shadowy waves.

Darkness, outstripping some visitors on mules, had risen thus to the rough convent walls, when those travellers were yet climbing the mountain. As the heat of the glowing day when they had stopped to drink at the streams of melted ice and snow, was changed to the searching cold of the frosty rarefied night air at a great height, so the fresh beauty of the lower journey had yielded to barrenness and desolation. A craggy track, up which the mules in single file scrambled and turned from block to block, as though they were ascending the broken staircase of a gigantic ruin, was their way now. No trees were to be seen, nor any vegetable growth save a poor brown scrubby moss, freezing in the chinks of rock. Blackened skeleton arms of wood by the wayside pointed upward to the convent as if the ghosts of former travellers overwhelmed by the snow haunted the scene of their distress. Icicle-hung caves and cellars built for refuges from sudden storms, were like so many whispers of the perils of the place; never-resting wreaths and mazes of mist wandered about, hunted by a moaning wind; and snow, the besetting danger of the mountain, against which all its defences were taken, drifted sharply down.

The file of mules, jaded by their day’s work, turned and wound slowly up the deep ascent; the foremost led by a guide on foot, in his broad-brimmed hat and round jacket, carrying a mountain staff or two upon his shoulder, with whom another guide conversed. There was no speaking among the string of riders. The sharp cold, the fatigue of the journey, and a new sensation of a catching in the breath, partly as if they had just emerged from very clear crisp water, and partly as if they had been sobbing, kept them silent.

At length, a light on the summit of the rocky staircase gleamed through the snow and mist. The guides called to the mules, the mules pricked up their drooping heads, the travellers’ tongues were loosened, and in a sudden burst of slipping, climbing, jingling, clinking, and talking, they arrived at the convent door.

Other mules had arrived not long before, some with peasant riders and some with goods, and had trodden the snow about the door into a pool of mud. Riding-saddles and bridles, pack-saddles and strings of bells, mules and men, lanterns, torches, sacks, provender, barrels, cheeses, kegs of honey and butter, straw bundles and packages of many shapes, were crowded confusedly together in this thawed quagmire and about the steps. Up here in the clouds, everything was seen through cloud, and seemed dissolving into cloud. The breath of the men was cloud, the breath of the mules was cloud, the lights were encircled by cloud, speakers close at hand were not seen for cloud, though their voices and all other sounds were surprisingly clear. Of the cloudy line of mules hastily tied to rings in the wall, one would bite another, or kick another, and then the whole mist would be disturbed: with men diving into it, and cries of men and beasts coming out of it, and no bystander discerning what was wrong. In the midst of this, the great stable of the convent, occupying the basement story and entered by the basement door, outside which all the disorder was, poured forth its contribution of cloud, as if the whole rugged edifice were filled with nothing else, and would collapse as soon as it had emptied itself, leaving the snow to fall upon the bare mountain summit.

While all this noise and hurry were rife among the living travellers, there, too, silently assembled in a grated house half-a-dozen paces removed, with the same cloud enfolding them and the same snow flakes drifting in upon them, were the dead travellers found upon the mountain. The mother, storm-belated many winters ago, still standing in the corner with her baby at her breast; the man who had frozen with his arm raised to his mouth in fear or hunger, still pressing it with his dry lips after years and years. An awful company, mysteriously come together! A wild destiny for that mother to have foreseen! ‘Surrounded by so many and such companions upon whom I never looked, and never shall look, I and my child will dwell together inseparable, on the Great Saint Bernard, outlasting generations who will come to see us, and will never know our name, or one word of our story but the end.’

The living travellers thought little or nothing of the dead just then. They thought much more of alighting at the convent door, and warming themselves at the convent fire. Disengaged from the turmoil, which was already calming down as the crowd of mules began to be bestowed in the stable, they hurried shivering up the steps and into the building. There was a smell within, coming up from the floor, of tethered beasts, like the smell of a menagerie of wild animals. There were strong arched galleries within, huge stone piers, great staircases, and thick walls pierced with small sunken windows—fortifications against the mountain storms, as if they had been human enemies. There were gloomy vaulted sleeping-rooms within, intensely cold, but clean and hospitably prepared for guests. Finally, there was a parlour for guests to sit in and sup in, where a table was already laid, and where a blazing fire shone red and high.

In this room, after having had their quarters for the night allotted to them by two young Fathers, the travellers presently drew round the hearth. They were in three parties; of whom the first, as the most numerous and important, was the slowest, and had been overtaken by one of the others on the way up. It consisted of an elderly lady, two grey-haired gentlemen, two young ladies, and their brother. These were attended (not to mention four guides), by a courier, two footmen, and two waiting-maids: which strong body of inconvenience was accommodated elsewhere under the same roof. The party that had overtaken them, and followed in their train, consisted of only three members: one lady and two gentlemen. The third party, which had ascended from the valley on the Italian side of the Pass, and had arrived first, were four in number: a plethoric, hungry, and silent German tutor in spectacles, on a tour with three young men, his pupils, all plethoric, hungry, and silent, and all in spectacles.

These three groups sat round the fire eyeing each other drily, and waiting for supper. Only one among them, one of the gentlemen belonging to the party of three, made advances towards conversation. Throwing out his lines for the Chief of the important tribe, while addressing himself to his own companions, he remarked, in a tone of voice which included all the company if they chose to be included, that it had been a long day, and that he felt for the ladies. That he feared one of the young ladies was not a strong or accustomed traveller, and had been over-fatigued two or three hours ago. That he had observed, from his station in the rear, that she sat her mule as if she were exhausted. That he had, twice or thrice afterwards, done himself the honour of inquiring of one of the guides, when he fell behind, how the lady did. That he had been enchanted to learn that she had recovered her spirits, and that it had been but a passing discomfort. That he trusted (by this time he had secured the eyes of the Chief, and addressed him) he might be permitted to express his hope that she was now none the worse, and that she would not regret having made the journey.

‘My daughter, I am obliged to you, sir,’ returned the Chief, ‘is quite restored, and has been greatly interested.’

‘New to mountains, perhaps?’ said the insinuating traveller.

‘New to—ha—to mountains,’ said the Chief.

‘But you are familiar with them, sir?’ the insinuating traveller assumed.

‘I am—hum—tolerably familiar. Not of late years. Not of late years,’ replied the Chief, with a flourish of his hand.

The insinuating traveller, acknowledging the flourish with an inclination of his head, passed from the Chief to the second young lady, who had not yet been referred to otherwise than as one of the ladies in whose behalf he felt so sensitive an interest.

He hoped she was not incommoded by the fatigues of the day.

‘Incommoded, certainly,’ returned the young lady, ‘but not tired.’

The insinuating traveller complimented her on the justice of the distinction. It was what he had meant to say. Every lady must doubtless be incommoded by having to do with that proverbially unaccommodating animal, the mule.

‘We have had, of course,’ said the young lady, who was rather reserved and haughty, ‘to leave the carriages and fourgon at Martigny. And the impossibility of bringing anything that one wants to this inaccessible place, and the necessity of leaving every comfort behind, is not convenient.’

‘A savage place indeed,’ said the insinuating traveller.

The elderly lady, who was a model of accurate dressing, and whose manner was perfect, considered as a piece of machinery, here interposed a remark in a low soft voice.

‘But, like other inconvenient places,’ she observed, ‘it must be seen. As a place much spoken of, it is necessary to see it.’

‘O! I have not the least objection to seeing it, I assure you, Mrs General,’ returned the other, carelessly.

‘You, madam,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘have visited this spot before?’

‘Yes,’ returned Mrs General. ‘I have been here before. Let me commend you, my dear,’ to the former young lady, ‘to shade your face from the hot wood, after exposure to the mountain air and snow. You, too, my dear,’ to the other and younger lady, who immediately did so; while the former merely said, ‘Thank you, Mrs General, I am Perfectly comfortable, and prefer remaining as I am.’

The brother, who had left his chair to open a piano that stood in the room, and who had whistled into it and shut it up again, now came strolling back to the fire with his glass in his eye. He was dressed in the very fullest and completest travelling trim. The world seemed hardly large enough to yield him an amount of travel proportionate to his equipment.

‘These fellows are an immense time with supper,’ he drawled. ‘I wonder what they’ll give us! Has anybody any idea?’

‘Not roast man, I believe,’ replied the voice of the second gentleman of the party of three.

‘I suppose not. What d’ye mean?’ he inquired.

‘That, as you are not to be served for the general supper, perhaps you will do us the favour of not cooking yourself at the general fire,’ returned the other.

The young gentleman who was standing in an easy attitude on the hearth, cocking his glass at the company, with his back to the blaze and his coat tucked under his arms, something as if he were Of the Poultry species and were trussed for roasting, lost countenance at this reply; he seemed about to demand further explanation, when it was discovered—through all eyes turning on the speaker—that the lady with him, who was young and beautiful, had not heard what had passed through having fainted with her head upon his shoulder.

‘I think,’ said the gentleman in a subdued tone, ‘I had best carry her straight to her room. Will you call to some one to bring a light?’ addressing his companion, ‘and to show the way? In this strange rambling place I don’t know that I could find it.’

‘Pray, let me call my maid,’ cried the taller of the young ladies.

‘Pray, let me put this water to her lips,’ said the shorter, who had not spoken yet.

Each doing what she suggested, there was no want of assistance. Indeed, when the two maids came in (escorted by the courier, lest any one should strike them dumb by addressing a foreign language to them on the road), there was a prospect of too much assistance. Seeing this, and saying as much in a few words to the slighter and younger of the two ladies, the gentleman put his wife’s arm over his shoulder, lifted her up, and carried her away.

His friend, being left alone with the other visitors, walked slowly up and down the room without coming to the fire again, pulling his black moustache in a contemplative manner, as if he felt himself committed to the late retort. While the subject of it was breathing injury in a corner, the Chief loftily addressed this gentleman.

‘Your friend, sir,’ said he, ‘is—ha—is a little impatient; and, in his impatience, is not perhaps fully sensible of what he owes to—hum—to—but we will waive that, we will waive that. Your friend is a little impatient, sir.’

‘It may be so, sir,’ returned the other. ‘But having had the honour of making that gentleman’s acquaintance at the hotel at Geneva, where we and much good company met some time ago, and having had the honour of exchanging company and conversation with that gentleman on several subsequent excursions, I can hear nothing—no, not even from one of your appearance and station, sir—detrimental to that gentleman.’

‘You are in no danger, sir, of hearing any such thing from me. In remarking that your friend has shown impatience, I say no such thing. I make that remark, because it is not to be doubted that my son, being by birth and by—ha—by education a—hum—a gentleman, would have readily adapted himself to any obligingly expressed wish on the subject of the fire being equally accessible to the whole of the present circle. Which, in principle, I—ha—for all are—hum—equal on these occasions—I consider right.’

‘Good,’ was the reply. ‘And there it ends! I am your son’s obedient servant. I beg your son to receive the assurance of my profound consideration. And now, sir, I may admit, freely admit, that my friend is sometimes of a sarcastic temper.’

‘The lady is your friend’s wife, sir?’

‘The lady is my friend’s wife, sir.’

‘She is very handsome.’

‘Sir, she is peerless. They are still in the first year of their marriage. They are still partly on a marriage, and partly on an artistic, tour.’

‘Your friend is an artist, sir?’

The gentleman replied by kissing the fingers of his right hand, and wafting the kiss the length of his arm towards Heaven. As who should say, I devote him to the celestial Powers as an immortal artist!

‘But he is a man of family,’ he added. ‘His connections are of the best. He is more than an artist: he is highly connected. He may, in effect, have repudiated his connections, proudly, impatiently, sarcastically (I make the concession of both words); but he has them. Sparks that have been struck out during our intercourse have shown me this.’

‘Well! I hope,’ said the lofty gentleman, with the air of finally disposing of the subject, ‘that the lady’s indisposition may be only temporary.’

‘Sir, I hope so.’

‘Mere fatigue, I dare say.’

‘Not altogether mere fatigue, sir, for her mule stumbled to-day, and she fell from the saddle. She fell lightly, and was up again without assistance, and rode from us laughing; but she complained towards evening of a slight bruise in the side. She spoke of it more than once, as we followed your party up the mountain.’

The head of the large retinue, who was gracious but not familiar, appeared by this time to think that he had condescended more than enough. He said no more, and there was silence for some quarter of an hour until supper appeared.

With the supper came one of the young Fathers (there seemed to be no old Fathers) to take the head of the table. It was like the supper of an ordinary Swiss hotel, and good red wine grown by the convent in more genial air was not wanting. The artist traveller calmly came and took his place at table when the rest sat down, with no apparent sense upon him of his late skirmish with the completely dressed traveller.

‘Pray,’ he inquired of the host, over his soup, ‘has your convent many of its famous dogs now?’

‘Monsieur, it has three.’

‘I saw three in the gallery below. Doubtless the three in question.’

The host, a slender, bright-eyed, dark young man of polite manners, whose garment was a black gown with strips of white crossed over it like braces, and who no more resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard monks than he resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard dogs, replied, doubtless those were the three in question.

‘And I think,’ said the artist traveller, ‘I have seen one of them before.’

It was possible. He was a dog sufficiently well known. Monsieur might have easily seen him in the valley or somewhere on the lake, when he (the dog) had gone down with one of the order to solicit aid for the convent.

‘Which is done in its regular season of the year, I think?’

Monsieur was right.

‘And never without a dog. The dog is very important.’

Again Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were justly interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated everywhere, Ma’amselle would observe.

Ma’amselle was a little slow to observe it, as though she were not yet well accustomed to the French tongue. Mrs General, however, observed it for her.

‘Ask him if he has saved many lives?’ said, in his native English, the young man who had been put out of countenance.

The host needed no translation of the question. He promptly replied in French, ‘No. Not this one.’

‘Why not?’ the same gentleman asked.

‘Pardon,’ returned the host composedly, ‘give him the opportunity and he will do it without doubt. For example, I am well convinced,’ smiling sedately, as he cut up the dish of veal to be handed round, on the young man who had been put out of countenance, ‘that if you, Monsieur, would give him the opportunity, he would hasten with great ardour to fulfil his duty.’

The artist traveller laughed. The insinuating traveller (who evinced a provident anxiety to get his full share of the supper), wiping some drops of wine from his moustache with a piece of bread, joined the conversation.

‘It is becoming late in the year, my Father,’ said he, ‘for tourist-travellers, is it not?’

‘Yes, it is late. Yet two or three weeks, at most, and we shall be left to the winter snows.’

‘And then,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘for the scratching dogs and the buried children, according to the pictures!’

‘Pardon,’ said the host, not quite understanding the allusion. ‘How, then the scratching dogs and the buried children according to the pictures?’

The artist traveller struck in again before an answer could be given.

‘Don’t you know,’ he coldly inquired across the table of his companion, ‘that none but smugglers come this way in the winter or can have any possible business this way?’

‘Holy blue! No; never heard of it.’

‘So it is, I believe. And as they know the signs of the weather tolerably well, they don’t give much employment to the dogs—who have consequently died out rather—though this house of entertainment is conveniently situated for themselves. Their young families, I am told, they usually leave at home. But it’s a grand idea!’ cried the artist traveller, unexpectedly rising into a tone of enthusiasm. ‘It’s a sublime idea. It’s the finest idea in the world, and brings tears into a man’s eyes, by Jupiter!’ He then went on eating his veal with great composure.

There was enough of mocking inconsistency at the bottom of this speech to make it rather discordant, though the manner was refined and the person well-favoured, and though the depreciatory part of it was so skilfully thrown off as to be very difficult for one not perfectly acquainted with the English language to understand, or, even understanding, to take offence at: so simple and dispassionate was its tone. After finishing his veal in the midst of silence, the speaker again addressed his friend.

‘Look,’ said he, in his former tone, ‘at this gentleman our host, not yet in the prime of life, who in so graceful a way and with such courtly urbanity and modesty presides over us! Manners fit for a crown! Dine with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an invitation) and observe the contrast. This dear fellow, with the finest cut face I ever saw, a face in perfect drawing, leaves some laborious life and comes up here I don’t know how many feet above the level of the sea, for no other purpose on earth (except enjoying himself, I hope, in a capital refectory) than to keep an hotel for idle poor devils like you and me, and leave the bill to our consciences! Why, isn’t it a beautiful sacrifice? What do we want more to touch us? Because rescued people of interesting appearance are not, for eight or nine months out of every twelve, holding on here round the necks of the most sagacious of dogs carrying wooden bottles, shall we disparage the place? No! Bless the place. It’s a great place, a glorious place!’

The chest of the grey-haired gentleman who was the Chief of the important party, had swelled as if with a protest against his being numbered among poor devils. No sooner had the artist traveller ceased speaking than he himself spoke with great dignity, as having it incumbent on him to take the lead in most places, and having deserted that duty for a little while.

He weightily communicated his opinion to their host, that his life must be a very dreary life here in the winter.

The host allowed to Monsieur that it was a little monotonous. The air was difficult to breathe for a length of time consecutively. The cold was very severe. One needed youth and strength to bear it. However, having them and the blessing of Heaven—

Yes, that was very good. ‘But the confinement,’ said the grey-haired gentleman.

There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to walk about outside. It was the custom to beat a little track, and take exercise there.

‘But the space,’ urged the grey-haired gentleman. ‘So small. So—ha—very limited.’

Monsieur would recall to himself that there were the refuges to visit, and that tracks had to be made to them also.

Monsieur still urged, on the other hand, that the space was so—ha—hum—so very contracted. More than that, it was always the same, always the same.

With a deprecating smile, the host gently raised and gently lowered his shoulders. That was true, he remarked, but permit him to say that almost all objects had their various points of view. Monsieur and he did not see this poor life of his from the same point of view. Monsieur was not used to confinement.

‘I—ha—yes, very true,’ said the grey-haired gentleman. He seemed to receive quite a shock from the force of the argument.

Monsieur, as an English traveller, surrounded by all means of travelling pleasantly; doubtless possessing fortune, carriages, and servants—

‘Perfectly, perfectly. Without doubt,’ said the gentleman.

Monsieur could not easily place himself in the position of a person who had not the power to choose, I will go here to-morrow, or there next day; I will pass these barriers, I will enlarge those bounds. Monsieur could not realise, perhaps, how the mind accommodated itself in such things to the force of necessity.

‘It is true,’ said Monsieur. ‘We will—ha—not pursue the subject. You are—hum—quite accurate, I have no doubt. We will say no more.’

The supper having come to a close, he drew his chair away as he spoke, and moved back to his former place by the fire. As it was very cold at the greater part of the table, the other guests also resumed their former seats by the fire, designing to toast themselves well before going to bed. The host, when they rose from the table, bowed to all present, wished them good night, and withdrew. But first the insinuating traveller had asked him if they could have some wine made hot; and as he had answered Yes, and had presently afterwards sent it in, that traveller, seated in the centre of the group, and in the full heat of the fire, was soon engaged in serving it out to the rest.

At this time, the younger of the two young ladies, who had been silently attentive in her dark corner (the fire-light was the chief light in the sombre room, the lamp being smoky and dull) to what had been said of the absent lady, glided out. She was at a loss which way to turn when she had softly closed the door; but, after a little hesitation among the sounding passages and the many ways, came to a room in a corner of the main gallery, where the servants were at their supper. From these she obtained a lamp, and a direction to the lady’s room.

It was up the great staircase on the story above. Here and there, the bare white walls were broken by an iron grate, and she thought as she went along that the place was something like a prison. The arched door of the lady’s room, or cell, was not quite shut. After knocking at it two or three times without receiving an answer, she pushed it gently open, and looked in.

The lady lay with closed eyes on the outside of the bed, protected from the cold by the blankets and wrappers with which she had been covered when she revived from her fainting fit. A dull light placed in the deep recess of the window, made little impression on the arched room. The visitor timidly stepped to the bed, and said, in a soft whisper, ‘Are you better?’

The lady had fallen into a slumber, and the whisper was too low to awake her. Her visitor, standing quite still, looked at her attentively.

‘She is very pretty,’ she said to herself. ‘I never saw so beautiful a face. O how unlike me!’

It was a curious thing to say, but it had some hidden meaning, for it filled her eyes with tears.

‘I know I must be right. I know he spoke of her that evening. I could very easily be wrong on any other subject, but not on this, not on this!’

With a quiet and tender hand she put aside a straying fold of the sleeper’s hair, and then touched the hand that lay outside the covering.

‘I like to look at her,’ she breathed to herself. ‘I like to see what has affected him so much.’

She had not withdrawn her hand, when the sleeper opened her eyes and started.

‘Pray don’t be alarmed. I am only one of the travellers from down-stairs. I came to ask if you were better, and if I could do anything for you.’

‘I think you have already been so kind as to send your servants to my assistance?’

‘No, not I; that was my sister. Are you better?’

‘Much better. It is only a slight bruise, and has been well looked to, and is almost easy now. It made me giddy and faint in a moment. It had hurt me before; but at last it overpowered me all at once.’

‘May I stay with you until some one comes? Would you like it?’

‘I should like it, for it is lonely here; but I am afraid you will feel the cold too much.’

‘I don’t mind cold. I am not delicate, if I look so.’ She quickly moved one of the two rough chairs to the bedside, and sat down. The other as quickly moved a part of some travelling wrapper from herself, and drew it over her, so that her arm, in keeping it about her, rested on her shoulder.

‘You have so much the air of a kind nurse,’ said the lady, smiling on her, ‘that you seem as if you had come to me from home.’

‘I am very glad of it.’

‘I was dreaming of home when I woke just now. Of my old home, I mean, before I was married.’

‘And before you were so far away from it.’

‘I have been much farther away from it than this; but then I took the best part of it with me, and missed nothing. I felt solitary as I dropped asleep here, and, missing it a little, wandered back to it.’

There was a sorrowfully affectionate and regretful sound in her voice, which made her visitor refrain from looking at her for the moment.

‘It is a curious chance which at last brings us together, under this covering in which you have wrapped me,’ said the visitor after a pause; ‘for do you know, I think I have been looking for you some time.’

‘Looking for me?’

‘I believe I have a little note here, which I was to give to you whenever I found you. This is it. Unless I greatly mistake, it is addressed to you? Is it not?’

The lady took it, and said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched her as she did so. It was very short. She flushed a little as she put her lips to her visitor’s cheek, and pressed her hand.

‘The dear young friend to whom he presents me, may be a comfort to me at some time, he says. She is truly a comfort to me the first time I see her.’

‘Perhaps you don’t,’ said the visitor, hesitating—‘perhaps you don’t know my story? Perhaps he never told you my story?’

‘No.’

‘Oh no, why should he! I have scarcely the right to tell it myself at present, because I have been entreated not to do so. There is not much in it, but it might account to you for my asking you not to say anything about the letter here. You saw my family with me, perhaps? Some of them—I only say this to you—are a little proud, a little prejudiced.’

‘You shall take it back again,’ said the other; ‘and then my husband is sure not to see it. He might see it and speak of it, otherwise, by some accident. Will you put it in your bosom again, to be certain?’

She did so with great care. Her small, slight hand was still upon the letter, when they heard some one in the gallery outside.

‘I promised,’ said the visitor, rising, ‘that I would write to him after seeing you (I could hardly fail to see you sooner or later), and tell him if you were well and happy. I had better say you were well and happy.’

‘Yes, yes, yes! Say I was very well and very happy. And that I thanked him affectionately, and would never forget him.’

‘I shall see you in the morning. After that we are sure to meet again before very long. Good night!’

‘Good night. Thank you, thank you. Good night, my dear!’

Both of them were hurried and fluttered as they exchanged this parting, and as the visitor came out of the door. She had expected to meet the lady’s husband approaching it; but the person in the gallery was not he: it was the traveller who had wiped the wine-drops from his moustache with the piece of bread. When he heard the step behind him, he turned round—for he was walking away in the dark.

His politeness, which was extreme, would not allow of the young lady’s lighting herself down-stairs, or going down alone. He took her lamp, held it so as to throw the best light on the stone steps, and followed her all the way to the supper-room. She went down, not easily hiding how much she was inclined to shrink and tremble; for the appearance of this traveller was particularly disagreeable to her. She had sat in her quiet corner before supper imagining what he would have been in the scenes and places within her experience, until he inspired her with an aversion that made him little less than terrific.

He followed her down with his smiling politeness, followed her in, and resumed his seat in the best place in the hearth. There with the wood-fire, which was beginning to burn low, rising and falling upon him in the dark room, he sat with his legs thrust out to warm, drinking the hot wine down to the lees, with a monstrous shadow imitating him on the wall and ceiling.

The tired company had broken up, and all the rest were gone to bed except the young lady’s father, who dozed in his chair by the fire. The traveller had been at the pains of going a long way up-stairs to his sleeping-room to fetch his pocket-flask of brandy. He told them so, as he poured its contents into what was left of the wine, and drank with a new relish.

‘May I ask, sir, if you are on your way to Italy?’

The grey-haired gentleman had roused himself, and was preparing to withdraw. He answered in the affirmative.

‘I also!’ said the traveller. ‘I shall hope to have the honour of offering my compliments in fairer scenes, and under softer circumstances, than on this dismal mountain.’

The gentleman bowed, distantly enough, and said he was obliged to him.

‘We poor gentlemen, sir,’ said the traveller, pulling his moustache dry with his hand, for he had dipped it in the wine and brandy; ‘we poor gentlemen do not travel like princes, but the courtesies and graces of life are precious to us. To your health, sir!’

‘Sir, I thank you.’

‘To the health of your distinguished family—of the fair ladies, your daughters!’

‘Sir, I thank you again, I wish you good night. My dear, are our—ha—our people in attendance?’

‘They are close by, father.’

‘Permit me!’ said the traveller, rising and holding the door open, as the gentleman crossed the room towards it with his arm drawn through his daughter’s. ‘Good repose! To the pleasure of seeing you once more! To to-morrow!’

As he kissed his hand, with his best manner and his daintiest smile, the young lady drew a little nearer to her father, and passed him with a dread of touching him.

‘Humph!’ said the insinuating traveller, whose manner shrunk, and whose voice dropped when he was left alone. ‘If they all go to bed, why I must go. They are in a devil of a hurry. One would think the night would be long enough, in this freezing silence and solitude, if one went to bed two hours hence.’

Throwing back his head in emptying his glass, he cast his eyes upon the travellers’ book, which lay on the piano, open, with pens and ink beside it, as if the night’s names had been registered when he was absent. Taking it in his hand, he read these entries.

William Dorrit, Esquire Frederick Dorrit, Esquire Edward Dorrit, Esquire Miss Dorrit Miss Amy Dorrit Mrs General and Suite. From France to Italy.

Mr and Mrs Henry Gowan. From France to Italy.

To which he added, in a small complicated hand, ending with a long lean flourish, not unlike a lasso thrown at all the rest of the names:

Blandois. Paris. From France to Italy.

And then, with his nose coming down over his moustache and his moustache going up and under his nose, repaired to his allotted cell.

CHAPTER 2. Mrs General

It is indispensable to present the accomplished lady who was of sufficient importance in the suite of the Dorrit Family to have a line to herself in the Travellers’ Book.

Mrs General was the daughter of a clerical dignitary in a cathedral town, where she had led the fashion until she was as near forty-five as a single lady can be. A stiff commissariat officer of sixty, famous as a martinet, had then become enamoured of the gravity with which she drove the proprieties four-in-hand through the cathedral town society, and had solicited to be taken beside her on the box of the cool coach of ceremony to which that team was harnessed. His proposal of marriage being accepted by the lady, the commissary took his seat behind the proprieties with great decorum, and Mrs General drove until the commissary died. In the course of their united journey, they ran over several people who came in the way of the proprieties; but always in a high style and with composure.

The commissary having been buried with all the decorations suitable to the service (the whole team of proprieties were harnessed to his hearse, and they all had feathers and black velvet housings with his coat of arms in the corner), Mrs General began to inquire what quantity of dust and ashes was deposited at the bankers’. It then transpired that the commissary had so far stolen a march on Mrs General as to have bought himself an annuity some years before his marriage, and to have reserved that circumstance in mentioning, at the period of his proposal, that his income was derived from the interest of his money. Mrs General consequently found her means so much diminished, that, but for the perfect regulation of her mind, she might have felt disposed to question the accuracy of that portion of the late service which had declared that the commissary could take nothing away with him.

In this state of affairs it occurred to Mrs General, that she might ‘form the mind,’ and eke the manners of some young lady of distinction. Or, that she might harness the proprieties to the carriage of some rich young heiress or widow, and become at once the driver and guard of such vehicle through the social mazes. Mrs General’s communication of this idea to her clerical and commissariat connection was so warmly applauded that, but for the lady’s undoubted merit, it might have appeared as though they wanted to get rid of her. Testimonials representing Mrs General as a prodigy of piety, learning, virtue, and gentility, were lavishly contributed from influential quarters; and one venerable archdeacon even shed tears in recording his testimony to her perfections (described to him by persons on whom he could rely), though he had never had the honour and moral gratification of setting eyes on Mrs General in all his life.

Thus delegated on her mission, as it were by Church and State, Mrs General, who had always occupied high ground, felt in a condition to keep it, and began by putting herself up at a very high figure. An interval of some duration elapsed, in which there was no bid for Mrs General. At length a county-widower, with a daughter of fourteen, opened negotiations with the lady; and as it was a part either of the native dignity or of the artificial policy of Mrs General (but certainly one or the other) to comport herself as if she were much more sought than seeking, the widower pursued Mrs General until he prevailed upon her to form his daughter’s mind and manners.

The execution of this trust occupied Mrs General about seven years, in the course of which time she made the tour of Europe, and saw most of that extensive miscellany of objects which it is essential that all persons of polite cultivation should see with other people’s eyes, and never with their own. When her charge was at length formed, the marriage, not only of the young lady, but likewise of her father, the widower, was resolved on. The widower then finding Mrs General both inconvenient and expensive, became of a sudden almost as much affected by her merits as the archdeacon had been, and circulated such praises of her surpassing worth, in all quarters where he thought an opportunity might arise of transferring the blessing to somebody else, that Mrs General was a name more honourable than ever.

The phoenix was to let, on this elevated perch, when Mr Dorrit, who had lately succeeded to his property, mentioned to his bankers that he wished to discover a lady, well-bred, accomplished, well connected, well accustomed to good society, who was qualified at once to complete the education of his daughters, and to be their matron or chaperon. Mr Dorrit’s bankers, as bankers of the county-widower, instantly said, ‘Mrs General.’

Pursuing the light so fortunately hit upon, and finding the concurrent testimony of the whole of Mrs General’s acquaintance to be of the pathetic nature already recorded, Mr Dorrit took the trouble of going down to the county of the county-widower to see Mrs General, in whom he found a lady of a quality superior to his highest expectations.

‘Might I be excused,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘if I inquired—ha—what remune—’

‘Why, indeed,’ returned Mrs General, stopping the word, ‘it is a subject on which I prefer to avoid entering. I have never entered on it with my friends here; and I cannot overcome the delicacy, Mr Dorrit, with which I have always regarded it. I am not, as I hope you are aware, a governess—’

‘O dear no!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Pray, madam, do not imagine for a moment that I think so.’ He really blushed to be suspected of it.

Mrs General gravely inclined her head. ‘I cannot, therefore, put a price upon services which it is a pleasure to me to render if I can render them spontaneously, but which I could not render in mere return for any consideration. Neither do I know how, or where, to find a case parallel to my own. It is peculiar.’

No doubt. But how then (Mr Dorrit not unnaturally hinted) could the subject be approached?

‘I cannot object,’ said Mrs General—‘though even that is disagreeable to me—to Mr Dorrit’s inquiring, in confidence of my friends here, what amount they have been accustomed, at quarterly intervals, to pay to my credit at my bankers’.’

Mr Dorrit bowed his acknowledgements.

‘Permit me to add,’ said Mrs General, ‘that beyond this, I can never resume the topic. Also that I can accept no second or inferior position. If the honour were proposed to me of becoming known to Mr Dorrit’s family—I think two daughters were mentioned?—’

‘Two daughters.’

‘I could only accept it on terms of perfect equality, as a companion, protector, Mentor, and friend.’

Mr Dorrit, in spite of his sense of his importance, felt as if it would be quite a kindness in her to accept it on any conditions. He almost said as much.

‘I think,’ repeated Mrs General, ‘two daughters were mentioned?’

‘Two daughters,’ said Mr Dorrit again.

‘It would therefore,’ said Mrs General, ‘be necessary to add a third more to the payment (whatever its amount may prove to be), which my friends here have been accustomed to make to my bankers’.’

Mr Dorrit lost no time in referring the delicate question to the county-widower, and finding that he had been accustomed to pay three hundred pounds a-year to the credit of Mrs General, arrived, without any severe strain on his arithmetic, at the conclusion that he himself must pay four. Mrs General being an article of that lustrous surface which suggests that it is worth any money, he made a formal proposal to be allowed to have the honour and pleasure of regarding her as a member of his family. Mrs General conceded that high privilege, and here she was.

In person, Mrs General, including her skirts which had much to do with it, was of a dignified and imposing appearance; ample, rustling, gravely voluminous; always upright behind the proprieties. She might have been taken—had been taken—to the top of the Alps and the bottom of Herculaneum, without disarranging a fold in her dress, or displacing a pin. If her countenance and hair had rather a floury appearance, as though from living in some transcendently genteel Mill, it was rather because she was a chalky creation altogether, than because she mended her complexion with violet powder, or had turned grey. If her eyes had no expression, it was probably because they had nothing to express. If she had few wrinkles, it was because her mind had never traced its name or any other inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, blown-out woman, who had never lighted well.

Mrs General had no opinions. Her way of forming a mind was to prevent it from forming opinions. She had a little circular set of mental grooves or rails on which she started little trains of other people’s opinions, which never overtook one another, and never got anywhere. Even her propriety could not dispute that there was impropriety in the world; but Mrs General’s way of getting rid of it was to put it out of sight, and make believe that there was no such thing. This was another of her ways of forming a mind—to cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, lock them up, and say they had no existence. It was the easiest way, and, beyond all comparison, the properest.

Mrs General was not to be told of anything shocking. Accidents, miseries, and offences, were never to be mentioned before her. Passion was to go to sleep in the presence of Mrs General, and blood was to change to milk and water. The little that was left in the world, when all these deductions were made, it was Mrs General’s province to varnish. In that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every object that came under consideration. The more cracked it was, the more Mrs General varnished it.

There was varnish in Mrs General’s voice, varnish in Mrs General’s touch, an atmosphere of varnish round Mrs General’s figure. Mrs General’s dreams ought to have been varnished—if she had any—lying asleep in the arms of the good Saint Bernard, with the feathery snow falling on his house-top.

CHAPTER 3. On the Road

The bright morning sun dazzled the eyes, the snow had ceased, the mists had vanished, the mountain air was so clear and light that the new sensation of breathing it was like the having entered on a new existence. To help the delusion, the solid ground itself seemed gone, and the mountain, a shining waste of immense white heaps and masses, to be a region of cloud floating between the blue sky above and the earth far below.

Some dark specks in the snow, like knots upon a little thread, beginning at the convent door and winding away down the descent in broken lengths which were not yet pieced together, showed where the Brethren were at work in several places clearing the track. Already the snow had begun to be foot-thawed again about the door. Mules were busily brought out, tied to the rings in the wall, and laden; strings of bells were buckled on, burdens were adjusted, the voices of drivers and riders sounded musically. Some of the earliest had even already resumed their journey; and, both on the level summit by the dark water near the convent, and on the downward way of yesterday’s ascent, little moving figures of men and mules, reduced to miniatures by the immensity around, went with a clear tinkling of bells and a pleasant harmony of tongues.

In the supper-room of last night, a new fire, piled upon the feathery ashes of the old one, shone upon a homely breakfast of loaves, butter, and milk. It also shone on the courier of the Dorrit family, making tea for his party from a supply he had brought up with him, together with several other small stores which were chiefly laid in for the use of the strong body of inconvenience. Mr Gowan and Blandois of Paris had already breakfasted, and were walking up and down by the lake, smoking their cigars.

‘Gowan, eh?’ muttered Tip, otherwise Edward Dorrit, Esquire, turning over the leaves of the book, when the courier had left them to breakfast. ‘Then Gowan is the name of a puppy, that’s all I have got to say! If it was worth my while, I’d pull his nose. But it isn’t worth my while—fortunately for him. How’s his wife, Amy? I suppose you know. You generally know things of that sort.’

‘She is better, Edward. But they are not going to-day.’

‘Oh! They are not going to-day! Fortunately for that fellow too,’ said Tip, ‘or he and I might have come into collision.’

‘It is thought better here that she should lie quiet to-day, and not be fatigued and shaken by the ride down until to-morrow.’

‘With all my heart. But you talk as if you had been nursing her. You haven’t been relapsing into (Mrs General is not here) into old habits, have you, Amy?’

He asked her the question with a sly glance of observation at Miss Fanny, and at his father too.

‘I have only been in to ask her if I could do anything for her, Tip,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘You needn’t call me Tip, Amy child,’ returned that young gentleman with a frown; ‘because that’s an old habit, and one you may as well lay aside.’

‘I didn’t mean to say so, Edward dear. I forgot. It was so natural once, that it seemed at the moment the right word.’

‘Oh yes!’ Miss Fanny struck in. ‘Natural, and right word, and once, and all the rest of it! Nonsense, you little thing! I know perfectly well why you have been taking such an interest in this Mrs Gowan. You can’t blind me.’

‘I will not try to, Fanny. Don’t be angry.’

‘Oh! angry!’ returned that young lady with a flounce. ‘I have no patience’ (which indeed was the truth).

‘Pray, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, raising his eyebrows, ‘what do you mean? Explain yourself.’

‘Oh! Never mind, Pa,’ replied Miss Fanny, ‘it’s no great matter. Amy will understand me. She knew, or knew of, this Mrs Gowan before yesterday, and she may as well admit that she did.’

‘My child,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, ‘has your sister—any—ha—authority for this curious statement?’

‘However meek we are,’ Miss Fanny struck in before she could answer, ‘we don’t go creeping into people’s rooms on the tops of cold mountains, and sitting perishing in the frost with people, unless we know something about them beforehand. It’s not very hard to divine whose friend Mrs Gowan is.’

‘Whose friend?’ inquired her father.

‘Pa, I am sorry to say,’ returned Miss Fanny, who had by this time succeeded in goading herself into a state of much ill-usage and grievance, which she was often at great pains to do: ‘that I believe her to be a friend of that very objectionable and unpleasant person, who, with a total absence of all delicacy, which our experience might have led us to expect from him, insulted us and outraged our feelings in so public and wilful a manner on an occasion to which it is understood among us that we will not more pointedly allude.’

‘Amy, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, tempering a bland severity with a dignified affection, ‘is this the case?’

Little Dorrit mildly answered, yes it was.

‘Yes it is!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘Of course! I said so! And now, Pa, I do declare once for all’—this young lady was in the habit of declaring the same thing once for all every day of her life, and even several times in a day—‘that this is shameful! I do declare once for all that it ought to be put a stop to. Is it not enough that we have gone through what is only known to ourselves, but are we to have it thrown in our faces, perseveringly and systematically, by the very person who should spare our feelings most? Are we to be exposed to this unnatural conduct every moment of our lives? Are we never to be permitted to forget? I say again, it is absolutely infamous!’

‘Well, Amy,’ observed her brother, shaking his head, ‘you know I stand by you whenever I can, and on most occasions. But I must say, that, upon my soul, I do consider it rather an unaccountable mode of showing your sisterly affection, that you should back up a man who treated me in the most ungentlemanly way in which one man can treat another. And who,’ he added convincingly, ‘must be a low-minded thief, you know, or he never could have conducted himself as he did.’

‘And see,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘see what is involved in this! Can we ever hope to be respected by our servants? Never. Here are our two women, and Pa’s valet, and a footman, and a courier, and all sorts of dependents, and yet in the midst of these, we are to have one of ourselves rushing about with tumblers of cold water, like a menial! Why, a policeman,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘if a beggar had a fit in the street, could but go plunging about with tumblers, as this very Amy did in this very room before our very eyes last night!’

‘I don’t so much mind that, once in a way,’ remarked Mr Edward; ‘but your Clennam, as he thinks proper to call himself, is another thing.’

‘He is part of the same thing,’ returned Miss Fanny, ‘and of a piece with all the rest. He obtruded himself upon us in the first instance. We never wanted him. I always showed him, for one, that I could have dispensed with his company with the greatest pleasure. He then commits that gross outrage upon our feelings, which he never could or would have committed but for the delight he took in exposing us; and then we are to be demeaned for the service of his friends! Why, I don’t wonder at this Mr Gowan’s conduct towards you. What else was to be expected when he was enjoying our past misfortunes—gloating over them at the moment!’

‘Father—Edward—no indeed!’ pleaded Little Dorrit. ‘Neither Mr nor Mrs Gowan had ever heard our name. They were, and they are, quite ignorant of our history.’

‘So much the worse,’ retorted Fanny, determined not to admit anything in extenuation, ‘for then you have no excuse. If they had known about us, you might have felt yourself called upon to conciliate them. That would have been a weak and ridiculous mistake, but I can respect a mistake, whereas I can’t respect a wilful and deliberate abasing of those who should be nearest and dearest to us. No. I can’t respect that. I can do nothing but denounce that.’

‘I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘though you are so hard with me.’

‘Then you should be more careful, Amy,’ returned her sister. ‘If you do such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I happened to have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar circumstances that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I should think myself bound to consider at every step, “Am I going, ignorantly, to compromise any near and dear relations?” That is what I fancy I should do, if it was my case.’

Mr Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by his authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom.

‘My dear,’ said he to his younger daughter, ‘I beg you to—ha—to say no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not without considerable reason. You have now a—hum—a great position to support. That great position is not occupied by yourself alone, but by—ha—by me, and—ha hum—by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent upon all people in an exalted position, but it is particularly so on this family, for reasons which I—ha—will not dwell upon, to make themselves respected. To be vigilant in making themselves respected. Dependants, to respect us, must be—ha—kept at a distance and—hum—kept down. Down. Therefore, your not exposing yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to have at any time dispensed with their services and performed them for yourself, is—ha—highly important.’

‘Why, who can doubt it?’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘It’s the essence of everything.’

‘Fanny,’ returned her father, grandiloquently, ‘give me leave, my dear. We then come to—ha—to Mr Clennam. I am free to say that I do not, Amy, share your sister’s sentiments—that is to say altogether—hum— altogether—in reference to Mr Clennam. I am content to regard that individual in the light of—ha—generally—a well-behaved person. Hum. A well-behaved person. Nor will I inquire whether Mr Clennam did, at any time, obtrude himself on—ha—my society. He knew my society to be—hum—sought, and his plea might be that he regarded me in the light of a public character. But there were circumstances attending my—ha—slight knowledge of Mr Clennam (it was very slight), which,’ here Mr Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, ‘would render it highly indelicate in Mr Clennam to—ha—to seek to renew communication with me or with any member of my family under existing circumstances. If Mr Clennam has sufficient delicacy to perceive the impropriety of any such attempt, I am bound as a responsible gentleman to—ha—defer to that delicacy on his part. If, on the other hand, Mr Clennam has not that delicacy, I cannot for a moment—ha—hold any correspondence with so—hum—coarse a mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr Clennam is put altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do with him or he with us. Ha—Mrs General!’

The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at the breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly afterwards, the courier announced that the valet, and the footman, and the two maids, and the four guides, and the fourteen mules, were in readiness; so the breakfast party went out to the convent door to join the cavalcade.

Mr Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr Blandois was on the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly pulled off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had even a more sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow, than he had in the fire-light over-night. But, as both her father and her sister received his homage with some favour, she refrained from expressing any distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a new blemish derived from her prison birth.

Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent was yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr Blandois, backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high from the chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking down after them. Long after he was a mere black stick in the snow, she felt as though she could yet see that smile of his, that high nose, and those eyes that were too near it. And even after that, when the convent was gone and some light morning clouds veiled the pass below it, the ghastly skeleton arms by the wayside seemed to be all pointing up at him.

More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they came down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again the streams descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were refreshing to drink at, again they came among the pine-trees, the rocky rivulets, the verdant heights and dales, the wooden chalets and rough zigzag fences of Swiss country. Sometimes the way so widened that she and her father could ride abreast. And then to look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and broadcloths, rich, free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving far away among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before them to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough.

Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore the clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a sacrifice to the family credit, and went where he was taken, with a certain patient animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that the air and change did him good. In all other respects, save one, he shone with no light but such as was reflected from his brother. His brother’s greatness, wealth, freedom, and grandeur, pleased him without any reference to himself. Silent and retiring, he had no use for speech when he could hear his brother speak; no desire to be waited on, so that the servants devoted themselves to his brother. The only noticeable change he originated in himself, was an alteration in his manner to his younger niece. Every day it refined more and more into a marked respect, very rarely shown by age to youth, and still more rarely susceptible, one would have said, of the fitness with which he invested it. On those occasions when Miss Fanny did declare once for all, he would take the next opportunity of baring his grey head before his younger niece, and of helping her to alight, or handing her to the carriage, or showing her any other attention, with the profoundest deference. Yet it never appeared misplaced or forced, being always heartily simple, spontaneous, and genuine. Neither would he ever consent, even at his brother’s request, to be helped to any place before her, or to take precedence of her in anything. So jealous was he of her being respected, that, on this very journey down from the Great Saint Bernard, he took sudden and violent umbrage at the footman’s being remiss to hold her stirrup, though standing near when she dismounted; and unspeakably astonished the whole retinue by charging at him on a hard-headed mule, riding him into a corner, and threatening to trample him to death.

They were a goodly company, and the Innkeepers all but worshipped them. Wherever they went, their importance preceded them in the person of the courier riding before, to see that the rooms of state were ready. He was the herald of the family procession. The great travelling-carriage came next: containing, inside, Mr Dorrit, Miss Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit, and Mrs General; outside, some of the retainers, and (in fine weather) Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for whom the box was reserved. Then came the chariot containing Frederick Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty place occupied by Edward Dorrit, Esquire, in wet weather. Then came the fourgon with the rest of the retainers, the heavy baggage, and as much as it could carry of the mud and dust which the other vehicles left behind.

These equipages adorned the yard of the hotel at Martigny, on the return of the family from their mountain excursion. Other vehicles were there, much company being on the road, from the patched Italian Vettura—like the body of a swing from an English fair put upon a wooden tray on wheels, and having another wooden tray without wheels put atop of it—to the trim English carriage. But there was another adornment of the hotel which Mr Dorrit had not bargained for. Two strange travellers embellished one of his rooms.

The Innkeeper, hat in hand in the yard, swore to the courier that he was blighted, that he was desolated, that he was profoundly afflicted, that he was the most miserable and unfortunate of beasts, that he had the head of a wooden pig. He ought never to have made the concession, he said, but the very genteel lady had so passionately prayed him for the accommodation of that room to dine in, only for a little half-hour, that he had been vanquished. The little half-hour was expired, the lady and gentleman were taking their little dessert and half-cup of coffee, the note was paid, the horses were ordered, they would depart immediately; but, owing to an unhappy destiny and the curse of Heaven, they were not yet gone.

Nothing could exceed Mr Dorrit’s indignation, as he turned at the foot of the staircase on hearing these apologies. He felt that the family dignity was struck at by an assassin’s hand. He had a sense of his dignity, which was of the most exquisite nature. He could detect a design upon it when nobody else had any perception of the fact. His life was made an agony by the number of fine scalpels that he felt to be incessantly engaged in dissecting his dignity.

‘Is it possible, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, reddening excessively, ‘that you have—ha—had the audacity to place one of my rooms at the disposition of any other person?’

Thousands of pardons! It was the host’s profound misfortune to have been overcome by that too genteel lady. He besought Monseigneur not to enrage himself. He threw himself on Monseigneur for clemency. If Monseigneur would have the distinguished goodness to occupy the other salon especially reserved for him, for but five minutes, all would go well.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not occupy any salon. I will leave your house without eating or drinking, or setting foot in it. How do you dare to act like this? Who am I that you—ha—separate me from other gentlemen?’

Alas! The host called all the universe to witness that Monseigneur was the most amiable of the whole body of nobility, the most important, the most estimable, the most honoured. If he separated Monseigneur from others, it was only because he was more distinguished, more cherished, more generous, more renowned.

‘Don’t tell me so, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit, in a mighty heat. ‘You have affronted me. You have heaped insults upon me. How dare you? Explain yourself.’

Ah, just Heaven, then, how could the host explain himself when he had nothing more to explain; when he had only to apologise, and confide himself to the so well-known magnanimity of Monseigneur!

‘I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, panting with anger, ‘that you separate me—ha—from other gentlemen; that you make distinctions between me and other gentlemen of fortune and station. I demand of you, why? I wish to know on—ha—what authority, on whose authority. Reply sir. Explain. Answer why.’

Permit the landlord humbly to submit to Monsieur the Courier then, that Monseigneur, ordinarily so gracious, enraged himself without cause. There was no why. Monsieur the Courier would represent to Monseigneur, that he deceived himself in suspecting that there was any why, but the why his devoted servant had already had the honour to present to him. The very genteel lady—

‘Silence!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Hold your tongue! I will hear no more of the very genteel lady; I will hear no more of you. Look at this family—my family—a family more genteel than any lady. You have treated this family with disrespect; you have been insolent to this family. I’ll ruin you. Ha—send for the horses, pack the carriages, I’ll not set foot in this man’s house again!’

No one had interfered in the dispute, which was beyond the French colloquial powers of Edward Dorrit, Esquire, and scarcely within the province of the ladies. Miss Fanny, however, now supported her father with great bitterness; declaring, in her native tongue, that it was quite clear there was something special in this man’s impertinence; and that she considered it important that he should be, by some means, forced to give up his authority for making distinctions between that family and other wealthy families. What the reasons of his presumption could be, she was at a loss to imagine; but reasons he must have, and they ought to be torn from him.

All the guides, mule-drivers, and idlers in the yard, had made themselves parties to the angry conference, and were much impressed by the courier’s now bestirring himself to get the carriages out. With the aid of some dozen people to each wheel, this was done at a great cost of noise; and then the loading was proceeded with, pending the arrival of the horses from the post-house.

But the very genteel lady’s English chariot being already horsed and at the inn-door, the landlord had slipped up-stairs to represent his hard case. This was notified to the yard by his now coming down the staircase in attendance on the gentleman and the lady, and by his pointing out the offended majesty of Mr Dorrit to them with a significant motion of his hand.

‘Beg your pardon,’ said the gentleman, detaching himself from the lady, and coming forward. ‘I am a man of few words and a bad hand at an explanation—but lady here is extremely anxious that there should be no Row. Lady—a mother of mine, in point of fact—wishes me to say that she hopes no Row.’

Mr Dorrit, still panting under his injury, saluted the gentleman, and saluted the lady, in a distant, final, and invincible manner.

‘No, but really—here, old feller; you!’ This was the gentleman’s way of appealing to Edward Dorrit, Esquire, on whom he pounced as a great and providential relief. ‘Let you and I try to make this all right. Lady so very much wishes no Row.’

Edward Dorrit, Esquire, led a little apart by the button, assumed a diplomatic expression of countenance in replying, ‘Why you must confess, that when you bespeak a lot of rooms beforehand, and they belong to you, it’s not pleasant to find other people in ‘em.’

‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know it isn’t. I admit it. Still, let you and I try to make it all right, and avoid Row. The fault is not this chap’s at all, but my mother’s. Being a remarkably fine woman with no bigodd nonsense about her—well educated, too—she was too many for this chap. Regularly pocketed him.’

‘If that’s the case—’ Edward Dorrit, Esquire, began.

‘Assure you ‘pon my soul ‘tis the case. Consequently,’ said the other gentleman, retiring on his main position, ‘why Row?’

‘Edmund,’ said the lady from the doorway, ‘I hope you have explained, or are explaining, to the satisfaction of this gentleman and his family that the civil landlord is not to blame?’

‘Assure you, ma’am,’ returned Edmund, ‘perfectly paralysing myself with trying it on.’ He then looked steadfastly at Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for some seconds, and suddenly added, in a burst of confidence, ‘Old feller! Is it all right?’

‘I don’t know, after all,’ said the lady, gracefully advancing a step or two towards Mr Dorrit, ‘but that I had better say myself, at once, that I assured this good man I took all the consequences on myself of occupying one of a stranger’s suite of rooms during his absence, for just as much (or as little) time as I could dine in. I had no idea the rightful owner would come back so soon, nor had I any idea that he had come back, or I should have hastened to make restoration of my ill-gotten chamber, and to have offered my explanation and apology. I trust in saying this—’

For a moment the lady, with a glass at her eye, stood transfixed and speechless before the two Miss Dorrits. At the same moment, Miss Fanny, in the foreground of a grand pictorial composition, formed by the family, the family equipages, and the family servants, held her sister tight under one arm to detain her on the spot, and with the other arm fanned herself with a distinguished air, and negligently surveyed the lady from head to foot.

The lady, recovering herself quickly—for it was Mrs Merdle and she was not easily dashed—went on to add that she trusted in saying this, she apologised for her boldness, and restored this well-behaved landlord to the favour that was so very valuable to him. Mr Dorrit, on the altar of whose dignity all this was incense, made a gracious reply; and said that his people should—ha—countermand his horses, and he would—hum—overlook what he had at first supposed to be an affront, but now regarded as an honour. Upon this the bosom bent to him; and its owner, with a wonderful command of feature, addressed a winning smile of adieu to the two sisters, as young ladies of fortune in whose favour she was much prepossessed, and whom she had never had the gratification of seeing before.

Not so, however, Mr Sparkler. This gentleman, becoming transfixed at the same moment as his lady-mother, could not by any means unfix himself again, but stood stiffly staring at the whole composition with Miss Fanny in the Foreground. On his mother saying, ‘Edmund, we are quite ready; will you give me your arm?’ he seemed, by the motion of his lips, to reply with some remark comprehending the form of words in which his shining talents found the most frequent utterance, but he relaxed no muscle. So fixed was his figure, that it would have been matter of some difficulty to bend him sufficiently to get him in the carriage-door, if he had not received the timely assistance of a maternal pull from within. He was no sooner within than the pad of the little window in the back of the chariot disappeared, and his eye usurped its place. There it remained as long as so small an object was discernible, and probably much longer, staring (as though something inexpressibly surprising should happen to a codfish) like an ill-executed eye in a large locket.

This encounter was so highly agreeable to Miss Fanny, and gave her so much to think of with triumph afterwards, that it softened her asperities exceedingly. When the procession was again in motion next day, she occupied her place in it with a new gaiety; and showed such a flow of spirits indeed, that Mrs General looked rather surprised.

Little Dorrit was glad to be found no fault with, and to see that Fanny was pleased; but her part in the procession was a musing part, and a quiet one. Sitting opposite her father in the travelling-carriage, and recalling the old Marshalsea room, her present existence was a dream. All that she saw was new and wonderful, but it was not real; it seemed to her as if those visions of mountains and picturesque countries might melt away at any moment, and the carriage, turning some abrupt corner, bring up with a jolt at the old Marshalsea gate.

To have no work to do was strange, but not half so strange as having glided into a corner where she had no one to think for, nothing to plan and contrive, no cares of others to load herself with. Strange as that was, it was far stranger yet to find a space between herself and her father, where others occupied themselves in taking care of him, and where she was never expected to be. At first, this was so much more unlike her old experience than even the mountains themselves, that she had been unable to resign herself to it, and had tried to retain her old place about him. But he had spoken to her alone, and had said that people—ha—people in an exalted position, my dear, must scrupulously exact respect from their dependents; and that for her, his daughter, Miss Amy Dorrit, of the sole remaining branch of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire, to be known to—hum—to occupy herself in fulfilling the functions of—ha hum—a valet, would be incompatible with that respect. Therefore, my dear, he—ha—he laid his parental injunctions upon her, to remember that she was a lady, who had now to conduct herself with—hum—a proper pride, and to preserve the rank of a lady; and consequently he requested her to abstain from doing what would occasion—ha—unpleasant and derogatory remarks. She had obeyed without a murmur. Thus it had been brought about that she now sat in her corner of the luxurious carriage with her little patient hands folded before her, quite displaced even from the last point of the old standing ground in life on which her feet had lingered.

It was from this position that all she saw appeared unreal; the more surprising the scenes, the more they resembled the unreality of her own inner life as she went through its vacant places all day long. The gorges of the Simplon, its enormous depths and thundering waterfalls, the wonderful road, the points of danger where a loose wheel or a faltering horse would have been destruction, the descent into Italy, the opening of that beautiful land as the rugged mountain-chasm widened and let them out from a gloomy and dark imprisonment—all a dream—only the old mean Marshalsea a reality. Nay, even the old mean Marshalsea was shaken to its foundations when she pictured it without her father. She could scarcely believe that the prisoners were still lingering in the close yard, that the mean rooms were still every one tenanted, and that the turnkey still stood in the Lodge letting people in and out, all just as she well knew it to be.

With a remembrance of her father’s old life in prison hanging about her like the burden of a sorrowful tune, Little Dorrit would wake from a dream of her birth-place into a whole day’s dream. The painted room in which she awoke, often a humbled state-chamber in a dilapidated palace, would begin it; with its wild red autumnal vine-leaves overhanging the glass, its orange-trees on the cracked white terrace outside the window, a group of monks and peasants in the little street below, misery and magnificence wrestling with each other upon every rood of ground in the prospect, no matter how widely diversified, and misery throwing magnificence with the strength of fate. To this would succeed a labyrinth of bare passages and pillared galleries, with the family procession already preparing in the quadrangle below, through the carriages and luggage being brought together by the servants for the day’s journey. Then breakfast in another painted chamber, damp-stained and of desolate proportions; and then the departure, which, to her timidity and sense of not being grand enough for her place in the ceremonies, was always an uneasy thing. For then the courier (who himself would have been a foreign gentleman of high mark in the Marshalsea) would present himself to report that all was ready; and then her father’s valet would pompously induct him into his travelling-cloak; and then Fanny’s maid, and her own maid (who was a weight on Little Dorrit’s mind—absolutely made her cry at first, she knew so little what to do with her), would be in attendance; and then her brother’s man would complete his master’s equipment; and then her father would give his arm to Mrs General, and her uncle would give his to her, and, escorted by the landlord and Inn servants, they would swoop down-stairs. There, a crowd would be collected to see them enter their carriages, which, amidst much bowing, and begging, and prancing, and lashing, and clattering, they would do; and so they would be driven madly through narrow unsavoury streets, and jerked out at the town gate.

Among the day’s unrealities would be roads where the bright red vines were looped and garlanded together on trees for many miles; woods of olives; white villages and towns on hill-sides, lovely without, but frightful in their dirt and poverty within; crosses by the way; deep blue lakes with fairy islands, and clustering boats with awnings of bright colours and sails of beautiful forms; vast piles of building mouldering to dust; hanging-gardens where the weeds had grown so strong that their stems, like wedges driven home, had split the arch and rent the wall; stone-terraced lanes, with the lizards running into and out of every chink; beggars of all sorts everywhere: pitiful, picturesque, hungry, merry; children beggars and aged beggars. Often at posting-houses and other halting places, these miserable creatures would appear to her the only realities of the day; and many a time, when the money she had brought to give them was all given away, she would sit with her folded hands, thoughtfully looking after some diminutive girl leading her grey father, as if the sight reminded her of something in the days that were gone.

Again, there would be places where they stayed the week together in splendid rooms, had banquets every day, rode out among heaps of wonders, walked through miles of palaces, and rested in dark corners of great churches; where there were winking lamps of gold and silver among pillars and arches, kneeling figures dotted about at confessionals and on the pavements; where there was the mist and scent of incense; where there were pictures, fantastic images, gaudy altars, great heights and distances, all softly lighted through stained glass, and the massive curtains that hung in the doorways. From these cities they would go on again, by the roads of vines and olives, through squalid villages, where there was not a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls, not a window with a whole inch of glass or paper; where there seemed to be nothing to support life, nothing to eat, nothing to make, nothing to grow, nothing to hope, nothing to do but die.

Again they would come to whole towns of palaces, whose proper inmates were all banished, and which were all changed into barracks: troops of idle soldiers leaning out of the state windows, where their accoutrements hung drying on the marble architecture, and showing to the mind like hosts of rats who were (happily) eating away the props of the edifices that supported them, and must soon, with them, be smashed on the heads of the other swarms of soldiers and the swarms of priests, and the swarms of spies, who were all the ill-looking population left to be ruined, in the streets below.

Through such scenes, the family procession moved on to Venice. And here it dispersed for a time, as they were to live in Venice some few months in a palace (itself six times as big as the whole Marshalsea) on the Grand Canal.

In this crowning unreality, where all the streets were paved with water, and where the deathlike stillness of the days and nights was broken by no sound but the softened ringing of church-bells, the rippling of the current, and the cry of the gondoliers turning the corners of the flowing streets, Little Dorrit, quite lost by her task being done, sat down to muse. The family began a gay life, went here and there, and turned night into day; but she was timid of joining in their gaieties, and only asked leave to be left alone.

Sometimes she would step into one of the gondolas that were always kept in waiting, moored to painted posts at the door—when she could escape from the attendance of that oppressive maid, who was her mistress, and a very hard one—and would be taken all over the strange city. Social people in other gondolas began to ask each other who the little solitary girl was whom they passed, sitting in her boat with folded hands, looking so pensively and wonderingly about her. Never thinking that it would be worth anybody’s while to notice her or her doings, Little Dorrit, in her quiet, scared, lost manner, went about the city none the less.

But her favourite station was the balcony of her own room, overhanging the canal, with other balconies below, and none above. It was of massive stone darkened by ages, built in a wild fancy which came from the East to that collection of wild fancies; and Little Dorrit was little indeed, leaning on the broad-cushioned ledge, and looking over. As she liked no place of an evening half so well, she soon began to be watched for, and many eyes in passing gondolas were raised, and many people said, There was the little figure of the English girl who was always alone.

Such people were not realities to the little figure of the English girl; such people were all unknown to her. She would watch the sunset, in its long low lines of purple and red, and its burning flush high up into the sky: so glowing on the buildings, and so lightening their structure, that it made them look as if their strong walls were transparent, and they shone from within. She would watch those glories expire; and then, after looking at the black gondolas underneath, taking guests to music and dancing, would raise her eyes to the shining stars. Was there no party of her own, in other times, on which the stars had shone? To think of that old gate now!

She would think of that old gate, and of herself sitting at it in the dead of the night, pillowing Maggy’s head; and of other places and of other scenes associated with those different times. And then she would lean upon her balcony, and look over at the water, as though they all lay underneath it. When she got to that, she would musingly watch its running, as if, in the general vision, it might run dry, and show her the prison again, and herself, and the old room, and the old inmates, and the old visitors: all lasting realities that had never changed.

CHAPTER 4. A Letter from Little Dorrit

Dear Mr Clennam,

I write to you from my own room at Venice, thinking you will be glad to hear from me. But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am to write to you; for everything about you is as you have been accustomed to see it, and you miss nothing—unless it should be me, which can only be for a very little while together and very seldom—while everything in my life is so strange, and I miss so much.

When we were in Switzerland, which appears to have been years ago, though it was only weeks, I met young Mrs Gowan, who was on a mountain excursion like ourselves. She told me she was very well and very happy. She sent you the message, by me, that she thanked you affectionately and would never forget you. She was quite confiding with me, and I loved her almost as soon as I spoke to her. But there is nothing singular in that; who could help loving so beautiful and winning a creature! I could not wonder at any one loving her. No indeed.

It will not make you uneasy on Mrs Gowan’s account, I hope—for I remember that you said you had the interest of a true friend in her—if I tell you that I wish she could have married some one better suited to her. Mr Gowan seems fond of her, and of course she is very fond of him, but I thought he was not earnest enough—I don’t mean in that respect—I mean in anything. I could not keep it out of my mind that if I was Mrs Gowan (what a change that would be, and how I must alter to become like her!) I should feel that I was rather lonely and lost, for the want of some one who was steadfast and firm in purpose. I even thought she felt this want a little, almost without knowing it. But mind you are not made uneasy by this, for she was ‘very well and very happy.’ And she looked most beautiful.

I expect to meet her again before long, and indeed have been expecting for some days past to see her here. I will ever be as good a friend to her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr Clennam, I dare say you think little of having been a friend to me when I had no other (not that I have any other now, for I have made no new friends), but I think much of it, and I never can forget it.

I wish I knew—but it is best for no one to write to me—how Mr and Mrs Plornish prosper in the business which my dear father bought for them, and that old Mr Nandy lives happily with them and his two grandchildren, and sings all his songs over and over again. I cannot quite keep back the tears from my eyes when I think of my poor Maggy, and of the blank she must have felt at first, however kind they all are to her, without her Little Mother. Will you go and tell her, as a strict secret, with my love, that she never can have regretted our separation more than I have regretted it? And will you tell them all that I have thought of them every day, and that my heart is faithful to them everywhere? O, if you could know how faithful, you would almost pity me for being so far away and being so grand!

You will be glad, I am sure, to know that my dear father is very well in health, and that all these changes are highly beneficial to him, and that he is very different indeed from what he used to be when you used to see him. There is an improvement in my uncle too, I think, though he never complained of old, and never exults now. Fanny is very graceful, quick, and clever. It is natural to her to be a lady; she has adapted herself to our new fortunes with wonderful ease.

This reminds me that I have not been able to do so, and that I sometimes almost despair of ever being able to do so. I find that I cannot learn. Mrs General is always with us, and we speak French and speak Italian, and she takes pains to form us in many ways. When I say we speak French and Italian, I mean they do. As for me, I am so slow that I scarcely get on at all. As soon as I begin to plan, and think, and try, all my planning, thinking, and trying go in old directions, and I begin to feel careful again about the expenses of the day, and about my dear father, and about my work, and then I remember with a start that there are no such cares left, and that in itself is so new and improbable that it sets me wandering again. I should not have the courage to mention this to any one but you.

It is the same with all these new countries and wonderful sights. They are very beautiful, and they astonish me, but I am not collected enough—not familiar enough with myself, if you can quite understand what I mean—to have all the pleasure in them that I might have. What I knew before them, blends with them, too, so curiously. For instance, when we were among the mountains, I often felt (I hesitate to tell such an idle thing, dear Mr Clennam, even to you) as if the Marshalsea must be behind that great rock; or as if Mrs Clennam’s room where I have worked so many days, and where I first saw you, must be just beyond that snow. Do you remember one night when I came with Maggy to your lodging in Covent Garden? That room I have often and often fancied I have seen before me, travelling along for miles by the side of our carriage, when I have looked out of the carriage-window after dark. We were shut out that night, and sat at the iron gate, and walked about till morning. I often look up at the stars, even from the balcony of this room, and believe that I am in the street again, shut out with Maggy. It is the same with people that I left in England.

When I go about here in a gondola, I surprise myself looking into other gondolas as if I hoped to see them. It would overcome me with joy to see them, but I don’t think it would surprise me much, at first. In my fanciful times, I fancy that they might be anywhere; and I almost expect to see their dear faces on the bridges or the quays.

Another difficulty that I have will seem very strange to you. It must seem very strange to any one but me, and does even to me: I often feel the old sad pity for—I need not write the word—for him. Changed as he is, and inexpressibly blest and thankful as I always am to know it, the old sorrowful feeling of compassion comes upon me sometimes with such strength that I want to put my arms round his neck, tell him how I love him, and cry a little on his breast. I should be glad after that, and proud and happy. But I know that I must not do this; that he would not like it, that Fanny would be angry, that Mrs General would be amazed; and so I quiet myself. Yet in doing so, I struggle with the feeling that I have come to be at a distance from him; and that even in the midst of all the servants and attendants, he is deserted, and in want of me.

Dear Mr Clennam, I have written a great deal about myself, but I must write a little more still, or what I wanted most of all to say in this weak letter would be left out of it. In all these foolish thoughts of mine, which I have been so hardy as to confess to you because I know you will understand me if anybody can, and will make more allowance for me than anybody else would if you cannot—in all these thoughts, there is one thought scarcely ever—never—out of my memory, and that is that I hope you sometimes, in a quiet moment, have a thought for me. I must tell you that as to this, I have felt, ever since I have been away, an anxiety which I am very anxious to relieve. I have been afraid that you may think of me in a new light, or a new character. Don’t do that, I could not bear that—it would make me more unhappy than you can suppose. It would break my heart to believe that you thought of me in any way that would make me stranger to you than I was when you were so good to me. What I have to pray and entreat of you is, that you will never think of me as the daughter of a rich person; that you will never think of me as dressing any better, or living any better, than when you first knew me. That you will remember me only as the little shabby girl you protected with so much tenderness, from whose threadbare dress you have kept away the rain, and whose wet feet you have dried at your fire. That you will think of me (when you think of me at all), and of my true affection and devoted gratitude, always without change, as of

Your poor child,

LITTLE DORRIT.

P.S.—Particularly remember that you are not to be uneasy about Mrs Gowan. Her words were, ‘Very well and very happy.’ And she looked most beautiful.

CHAPTER 5. Something Wrong Somewhere

The family had been a month or two at Venice, when Mr Dorrit, who was much among Counts and Marquises, and had but scant leisure, set an hour of one day apart, beforehand, for the purpose of holding some conference with Mrs General.

The time he had reserved in his mind arriving, he sent Mr Tinkler, his valet, to Mrs General’s apartment (which would have absorbed about a third of the area of the Marshalsea), to present his compliments to that lady, and represent him as desiring the favour of an interview. It being that period of the forenoon when the various members of the family had coffee in their own chambers, some couple of hours before assembling at breakfast in a faded hall which had once been sumptuous, but was now the prey of watery vapours and a settled melancholy, Mrs General was accessible to the valet. That envoy found her on a little square of carpet, so extremely diminutive in reference to the size of her stone and marble floor that she looked as if she might have had it spread for the trying on of a ready-made pair of shoes; or as if she had come into possession of the enchanted piece of carpet, bought for forty purses by one of the three princes in the Arabian Nights, and had that moment been transported on it, at a wish, into a palatial saloon with which it had no connection.

Mrs General, replying to the envoy, as she set down her empty coffee-cup, that she was willing at once to proceed to Mr Dorrit’s apartment, and spare him the trouble of coming to her (which, in his gallantry, he had proposed), the envoy threw open the door, and escorted Mrs General to the presence. It was quite a walk, by mysterious staircases and corridors, from Mrs General’s apartment,—hoodwinked by a narrow side street with a low gloomy bridge in it, and dungeon-like opposite tenements, their walls besmeared with a thousand downward stains and streaks, as if every crazy aperture in them had been weeping tears of rust into the Adriatic for centuries—to Mr Dorrit’s apartment: with a whole English house-front of window, a prospect of beautiful church-domes rising into the blue sky sheer out of the water which reflected them, and a hushed murmur of the Grand Canal laving the doorways below, where his gondolas and gondoliers attended his pleasure, drowsily swinging in a little forest of piles.

Mr Dorrit, in a resplendent dressing-gown and cap—the dormant grub that had so long bided its time among the Collegians had burst into a rare butterfly—rose to receive Mrs General. A chair to Mrs General. An easier chair, sir; what are you doing, what are you about, what do you mean? Now, leave us!

‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty—’

‘By no means,’ Mrs General interposed. ‘I was quite at your disposition. I had had my coffee.’

‘—I took the liberty,’ said Mr Dorrit again, with the magnificent placidity of one who was above correction, ‘to solicit the favour of a little private conversation with you, because I feel rather worried respecting my—ha—my younger daughter. You will have observed a great difference of temperament, madam, between my two daughters?’

Said Mrs General in response, crossing her gloved hands (she was never without gloves, and they never creased and always fitted), ‘There is a great difference.’

‘May I ask to be favoured with your view of it?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a deference not incompatible with majestic serenity.

‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘has force of character and self-reliance. Amy, none.’

None? O Mrs General, ask the Marshalsea stones and bars. O Mrs General, ask the milliner who taught her to work, and the dancing-master who taught her sister to dance. O Mrs General, Mrs General, ask me, her father, what I owe her; and hear my testimony touching the life of this slighted little creature from her childhood up!

No such adjuration entered Mr. Dorrit’s head. He looked at Mrs General, seated in her usual erect attitude on her coach-box behind the proprieties, and he said in a thoughtful manner, ‘True, madam.’

‘I would not,’ said Mrs General, ‘be understood to say, observe, that there is nothing to improve in Fanny. But there is material there—perhaps, indeed, a little too much.’

‘Will you be kind enough, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to be—ha—more explicit? I do not quite understand my elder daughter’s having—hum—too much material. What material?’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘at present forms too many opinions. Perfect breeding forms none, and is never demonstrative.’

Lest he himself should be found deficient in perfect breeding, Mr Dorrit hastened to reply, ‘Unquestionably, madam, you are right.’ Mrs General returned, in her emotionless and expressionless manner, ‘I believe so.’

‘But you are aware, my dear madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that my daughters had the misfortune to lose their lamented mother when they were very young; and that, in consequence of my not having been until lately the recognised heir to my property, they have lived with me as a comparatively poor, though always proud, gentleman, in—ha hum—retirement!’

‘I do not,’ said Mrs General, ‘lose sight of the circumstance.’

‘Madam,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘of my daughter Fanny, under her present guidance and with such an example constantly before her—’

(Mrs General shut her eyes.)

—‘I have no misgivings. There is adaptability of character in Fanny. But my younger daughter, Mrs General, rather worries and vexes my thoughts. I must inform you that she has always been my favourite.’

‘There is no accounting,’ said Mrs General, ‘for these partialities.’

‘Ha—no,’ assented Mr Dorrit. ‘No. Now, madam, I am troubled by noticing that Amy is not, so to speak, one of ourselves. She does not care to go about with us; she is lost in the society we have here; our tastes are evidently not her tastes. Which,’ said Mr Dorrit, summing up with judicial gravity, ‘is to say, in other words, that there is something wrong in—ha—Amy.’

‘May we incline to the supposition,’ said Mrs General, with a little touch of varnish, ‘that something is referable to the novelty of the position?’

‘Excuse me, madam,’ observed Mr Dorrit, rather quickly. ‘The daughter of a gentleman, though—ha—himself at one time comparatively far from affluent—comparatively—and herself reared in—hum—retirement, need not of necessity find this position so very novel.’

‘True,’ said Mrs General, ‘true.’

‘Therefore, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty’ (he laid an emphasis on the phrase and repeated it, as though he stipulated, with urbane firmness, that he must not be contradicted again), ‘I took the liberty of requesting this interview, in order that I might mention the topic to you, and inquire how you would advise me?’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘I have conversed with Amy several times since we have been residing here, on the general subject of the formation of a demeanour. She has expressed herself to me as wondering exceedingly at Venice. I have mentioned to her that it is better not to wonder. I have pointed out to her that the celebrated Mr Eustace, the classical tourist, did not think much of it; and that he compared the Rialto, greatly to its disadvantage, with Westminster and Blackfriars Bridges. I need not add, after what you have said, that I have not yet found my arguments successful. You do me the honour to ask me what to advise. It always appears to me (if this should prove to be a baseless assumption, I shall be pardoned), that Mr Dorrit has been accustomed to exercise influence over the minds of others.’

‘Hum—madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I have been at the head of—ha of a considerable community. You are right in supposing that I am not unaccustomed to—an influential position.’

‘I am happy,’ returned Mrs General, ‘to be so corroborated. I would therefore the more confidently recommend that Mr Dorrit should speak to Amy himself, and make his observations and wishes known to her. Being his favourite, besides, and no doubt attached to him, she is all the more likely to yield to his influence.’

‘I had anticipated your suggestion, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘but—ha—was not sure that I might—hum—not encroach on—’

‘On my province, Mr Dorrit?’ said Mrs General, graciously. ‘Do not mention it.’

‘Then, with your leave, madam,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ringing his little bell to summon his valet, ‘I will send for her at once.’

‘Does Mr Dorrit wish me to remain?’

‘Perhaps, if you have no other engagement, you would not object for a minute or two—’

‘Not at all.’

So, Tinkler the valet was instructed to find Miss Amy’s maid, and to request that subordinate to inform Miss Amy that Mr Dorrit wished to see her in his own room. In delivering this charge to Tinkler, Mr Dorrit looked severely at him, and also kept a jealous eye upon him until he went out at the door, mistrusting that he might have something in his mind prejudicial to the family dignity; that he might have even got wind of some Collegiate joke before he came into the service, and might be derisively reviving its remembrance at the present moment. If Tinkler had happened to smile, however faintly and innocently, nothing would have persuaded Mr Dorrit, to the hour of his death, but that this was the case. As Tinkler happened, however, very fortunately for himself, to be of a serious and composed countenance, he escaped the secret danger that threatened him. And as on his return—when Mr Dorrit eyed him again—he announced Miss Amy as if she had come to a funeral, he left a vague impression on Mr Dorrit’s mind that he was a well-conducted young fellow, who had been brought up in the study of his Catechism by a widowed mother.

‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have just now been the subject of some conversation between myself and Mrs General. We agree that you scarcely seem at home here. Ha—how is this?’

A pause.

‘I think, father, I require a little time.’

‘Papa is a preferable mode of address,’ observed Mrs General. ‘Father is rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to yourself in company—on entering a room, for instance—Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.’

‘Pray, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘attend to the—hum—precepts of Mrs General.’

Poor Little Dorrit, with a rather forlorn glance at that eminent varnisher, promised to try.

‘You say, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘that you think you require time. Time for what?’

Another pause.

‘To become accustomed to the novelty of my life, was all I meant,’ said Little Dorrit, with her loving eyes upon her father; whom she had very nearly addressed as poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her desire to submit herself to Mrs General and please him.

Mr Dorrit frowned, and looked anything but pleased. ‘Amy,’ he returned, ‘it appears to me, I must say, that you have had abundance of time for that. Ha—you surprise me. You disappoint me. Fanny has conquered any such little difficulties, and—hum—why not you?’

‘I hope I shall do better soon,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘I hope so,’ returned her father. ‘I—ha—I most devoutly hope so, Amy. I sent for you, in order that I might say—hum—impressively say, in the presence of Mrs General, to whom we are all so much indebted for obligingly being present among us, on—ha—on this or any other occasion,’ Mrs General shut her eyes, ‘that I—ha hum—am not pleased with you. You make Mrs General’s a thankless task. You—ha—embarrass me very much. You have always (as I have informed Mrs General) been my favourite child; I have always made you a—hum—a friend and companion; in return, I beg—I—ha—I do beg, that you accommodate yourself better to—hum—circumstances, and dutifully do what becomes your—your station.’

Mr Dorrit was even a little more fragmentary than usual, being excited on the subject and anxious to make himself particularly emphatic.

‘I do beg,’ he repeated, ‘that this may be attended to, and that you will seriously take pains and try to conduct yourself in a manner both becoming your position as—ha—Miss Amy Dorrit, and satisfactory to myself and Mrs General.’

That lady shut her eyes again, on being again referred to; then, slowly opening them and rising, added these words:

‘If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking, as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them by a very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’ Having delivered this exalted sentiment, Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and retired with an expression of mouth indicative of Prunes and Prism.

Little Dorrit, whether speaking or silent, had preserved her quiet earnestness and her loving look. It had not been clouded, except for a passing moment, until now. But now that she was left alone with him the fingers of her lightly folded hands were agitated, and there was repressed emotion in her face.

Not for herself. She might feel a little wounded, but her care was not for herself. Her thoughts still turned, as they always had turned, to him. A faint misgiving, which had hung about her since their accession to fortune, that even now she could never see him as he used to be before the prison days, had gradually begun to assume form in her mind. She felt that, in what he had just now said to her and in his whole bearing towards her, there was the well-known shadow of the Marshalsea wall. It took a new shape, but it was the old sad shadow. She began with sorrowful unwillingness to acknowledge to herself that she was not strong enough to keep off the fear that no space in the life of man could overcome that quarter of a century behind the prison bars. She had no blame to bestow upon him, therefore: nothing to reproach him with, no emotions in her faithful heart but great compassion and unbounded tenderness.

This is why it was, that, even as he sat before her on his sofa, in the brilliant light of a bright Italian day, the wonderful city without and the splendours of an old palace within, she saw him at the moment in the long-familiar gloom of his Marshalsea lodging, and wished to take her seat beside him, and comfort him, and be again full of confidence with him, and of usefulness to him. If he divined what was in her thoughts, his own were not in tune with it. After some uneasy moving in his seat, he got up and walked about, looking very much dissatisfied.

‘Is there anything else you wish to say to me, dear father?’

‘No, no. Nothing else.’

‘I am sorry you have not been pleased with me, dear. I hope you will not think of me with displeasure now. I am going to try, more than ever, to adapt myself as you wish to what surrounds me—for indeed I have tried all along, though I have failed, I know.’

‘Amy,’ he returned, turning short upon her. ‘You—ha—habitually hurt me.’

‘Hurt you, father! I!’

‘There is a—hum—a topic,’ said Mr Dorrit, looking all about the ceiling of the room, and never at the attentive, uncomplainingly shocked face, ‘a painful topic, a series of events which I wish—ha—altogether to obliterate. This is understood by your sister, who has already remonstrated with you in my presence; it is understood by your brother; it is understood by—ha hum—by every one of delicacy and sensitiveness except yourself—ha—I am sorry to say, except yourself. You, Amy—hum—you alone and only you—constantly revive the topic, though not in words.’

She laid her hand on his arm. She did nothing more. She gently touched him. The trembling hand may have said, with some expression, ‘Think of me, think how I have worked, think of my many cares!’ But she said not a syllable herself.

There was a reproach in the touch so addressed to him that she had not foreseen, or she would have withheld her hand. He began to justify himself in a heated, stumbling, angry manner, which made nothing of it.

‘I was there all those years. I was—ha—universally acknowledged as the head of the place. I—hum—I caused you to be respected there, Amy. I—ha hum—I gave my family a position there. I deserve a return. I claim a return. I say, sweep it off the face of the earth and begin afresh. Is that much? I ask, is that much?’

He did not once look at her, as he rambled on in this way; but gesticulated at, and appealed to, the empty air.

‘I have suffered. Probably I know how much I have suffered better than any one—ha—I say than any one! If I can put that aside, if I can eradicate the marks of what I have endured, and can emerge before the world—a—ha—gentleman unspoiled, unspotted—is it a great deal to expect—I say again, is it a great deal to expect—that my children should—hum—do the same and sweep that accursed experience off the face of the earth?’

In spite of his flustered state, he made all these exclamations in a carefully suppressed voice, lest the valet should overhear anything.

‘Accordingly, they do it. Your sister does it. Your brother does it. You alone, my favourite child, whom I made the friend and companion of my life when you were a mere—hum—Baby, do not do it. You alone say you can’t do it. I provide you with valuable assistance to do it. I attach an accomplished and highly bred lady—ha—Mrs General, to you, for the purpose of doing it. Is it surprising that I should be displeased? Is it necessary that I should defend myself for expressing my displeasure? No!’

Notwithstanding which, he continued to defend himself, without any abatement of his flushed mood.

‘I am careful to appeal to that lady for confirmation, before I express any displeasure at all. I—hum—I necessarily make that appeal within limited bounds, or I—ha—should render legible, by that lady, what I desire to be blotted out. Am I selfish? Do I complain for my own sake? No. No. Principally for—ha hum—your sake, Amy.’

This last consideration plainly appeared, from his manner of pursuing it, to have just that instant come into his head.

‘I said I was hurt. So I am. So I—ha—am determined to be, whatever is advanced to the contrary. I am hurt that my daughter, seated in the—hum—lap of fortune, should mope and retire and proclaim herself unequal to her destiny. I am hurt that she should—ha—systematically reproduce what the rest of us blot out; and seem—hum—I had almost said positively anxious—to announce to wealthy and distinguished society that she was born and bred in—ha hum—a place that I myself decline to name. But there is no inconsistency—ha—not the least, in my feeling hurt, and yet complaining principally for your sake, Amy. I do; I say again, I do. It is for your sake that I wish you, under the auspices of Mrs General, to form a—hum—a surface. It is for your sake that I wish you to have a—ha—truly refined mind, and (in the striking words of Mrs General) to be ignorant of everything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’

He had been running down by jerks, during his last speech, like a sort of ill-adjusted alarum. The touch was still upon his arm. He fell silent; and after looking about the ceiling again for a little while, looked down at her. Her head drooped, and he could not see her face; but her touch was tender and quiet, and in the expression of her dejected figure there was no blame—nothing but love. He began to whimper, just as he had done that night in the prison when she afterwards sat at his bedside till morning; exclaimed that he was a poor ruin and a poor wretch in the midst of his wealth; and clasped her in his arms. ‘Hush, hush, my own dear! Kiss me!’ was all she said to him. His tears were soon dried, much sooner than on the former occasion; and he was presently afterwards very high with his valet, as a way of righting himself for having shed any.

With one remarkable exception, to be recorded in its place, this was the only time, in his life of freedom and fortune, when he spoke to his daughter Amy of the old days.

But, now, the breakfast hour arrived; and with it Miss Fanny from her apartment, and Mr Edward from his apartment. Both these young persons of distinction were something the worse for late hours. As to Miss Fanny, she had become the victim of an insatiate mania for what she called ‘going into society;’ and would have gone into it head-foremost fifty times between sunset and sunrise, if so many opportunities had been at her disposal. As to Mr Edward, he, too, had a large acquaintance, and was generally engaged (for the most part, in diceing circles, or others of a kindred nature), during the greater part of every night. For this gentleman, when his fortunes changed, had stood at the great advantage of being already prepared for the highest associates, and having little to learn: so much was he indebted to the happy accidents which had made him acquainted with horse-dealing and billiard-marking.

At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated, but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned Venetians. It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them; whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances, silently presenting her to the noble Venetians.

It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, ‘I forget the name,’ said he. ‘I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?’

‘I remember ‘em well enough,’ said the latter.

‘I should think so,’ observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and a glance at her sister. ‘But they would not have been recalled to our remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn’t tumbled over the subject.’

‘My dear, what a curious phrase,’ said Mrs General. ‘Would not inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?’

‘Thank you very much, Mrs General,’ returned the young lady, ‘no, I think not. On the whole I prefer my own expression.’

This was always Miss Fanny’s way of receiving a suggestion from Mrs General. But she always stored it up in her mind, and adopted it at another time.

‘I should have mentioned our having met Mr and Mrs Gowan, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘even if Uncle had not. I have scarcely seen you since, you know. I meant to have spoken of it at breakfast; because I should like to pay a visit to Mrs Gowan, and to become better acquainted with her, if Papa and Mrs General do not object.’

‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘I am sure I am glad to find you at last expressing a wish to become better acquainted with anybody in Venice. Though whether Mr and Mrs Gowan are desirable acquaintances, remains to be determined.’

‘Mrs Gowan I spoke of, dear.’

‘No doubt,’ said Fanny. ‘But you can’t separate her from her husband, I believe, without an Act of Parliament.’

‘Do you think, Papa,’ inquired Little Dorrit, with diffidence and hesitation, ‘there is any objection to my making this visit?’

‘Really,’ he replied, ‘I—ha—what is Mrs General’s view?’

Mrs General’s view was, that not having the honour of any acquaintance with the lady and gentleman referred to, she was not in a position to varnish the present article. She could only remark, as a general principle observed in the varnishing trade, that much depended on the quarter from which the lady under consideration was accredited to a family so conspicuously niched in the social temple as the family of Dorrit.

At this remark the face of Mr Dorrit gloomed considerably. He was about (connecting the accrediting with an obtrusive person of the name of Clennam, whom he imperfectly remembered in some former state of existence) to black-ball the name of Gowan finally, when Edward Dorrit, Esquire, came into the conversation, with his glass in his eye, and the preliminary remark of ‘I say—you there! Go out, will you!’—which was addressed to a couple of men who were handing the dishes round, as a courteous intimation that their services could be temporarily dispensed with.

Those menials having obeyed the mandate, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, proceeded.

‘Perhaps it’s a matter of policy to let you all know that these Gowans—in whose favour, or at least the gentleman’s, I can’t be supposed to be much prepossessed myself—are known to people of importance, if that makes any difference.’

‘That, I would say,’ observed the fair varnisher, ‘Makes the greatest difference. The connection in question, being really people of importance and consideration—’

‘As to that,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘I’ll give you the means of judging for yourself. You are acquainted, perhaps, with the famous name of Merdle?’

‘The great Merdle!’ exclaimed Mrs General.

‘The Merdle,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire. ‘They are known to him. Mrs Gowan—I mean the dowager, my polite friend’s mother—is intimate with Mrs Merdle, and I know these two to be on their visiting list.’

‘If so, a more undeniable guarantee could not be given,’ said Mrs General to Mr Dorrit, raising her gloves and bowing her head, as if she were doing homage to some visible graven image.

‘I beg to ask my son, from motives of—ah—curiosity,’ Mr Dorrit observed, with a decided change in his manner, ‘how he becomes possessed of this—hum—timely information?’

‘It’s not a long story, sir,’ returned Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘and you shall have it out of hand. To begin with, Mrs Merdle is the lady you had the parley with at what’s-his-name place.’

‘Martigny,’ interposed Miss Fanny with an air of infinite languor.

‘Martigny,’ assented her brother, with a slight nod and a slight wink; in acknowledgment of which, Miss Fanny looked surprised, and laughed and reddened.

‘How can that be, Edward?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘You informed me that the name of the gentleman with whom you conferred was—ha—Sparkler. Indeed, you showed me his card. Hum. Sparkler.’

‘No doubt of it, father; but it doesn’t follow that his mother’s name must be the same. Mrs Merdle was married before, and he is her son. She is in Rome now; where probably we shall know more of her, as you decide to winter there. Sparkler is just come here. I passed last evening in company with Sparkler. Sparkler is a very good fellow on the whole, though rather a bore on one subject, in consequence of being tremendously smitten with a certain young lady.’ Here Edward Dorrit, Esquire, eyed Miss Fanny through his glass across the table. ‘We happened last night to compare notes about our travels, and I had the information I have given you from Sparkler himself.’ Here he ceased; continuing to eye Miss Fanny through his glass, with a face much twisted, and not ornamentally so, in part by the action of keeping his glass in his eye, and in part by the great subtlety of his smile.

‘Under these circumstances,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I believe I express the sentiments of—ha—Mrs General, no less than my own, when I say that there is no objection, but—ha hum—quite the contrary—to your gratifying your desire, Amy. I trust I may—ha—hail—this desire,’ said Mr Dorrit, in an encouraging and forgiving manner, ‘as an auspicious omen. It is quite right to know these people. It is a very proper thing. Mr Merdle’s is a name of—ha—world-wide repute. Mr Merdle’s undertakings are immense. They bring him in such vast sums of money that they are regarded as—hum—national benefits. Mr Merdle is the man of this time. The name of Merdle is the name of the age. Pray do everything on my behalf that is civil to Mr and Mrs Gowan, for we will—ha—we will certainly notice them.’

This magnificent accordance of Mr Dorrit’s recognition settled the matter. It was not observed that Uncle had pushed away his plate, and forgotten his breakfast; but he was not much observed at any time, except by Little Dorrit. The servants were recalled, and the meal proceeded to its conclusion. Mrs General rose and left the table. Little Dorrit rose and left the table. When Edward and Fanny remained whispering together across it, and when Mr Dorrit remained eating figs and reading a French newspaper, Uncle suddenly fixed the attention of all three by rising out of his chair, striking his hand upon the table, and saying, ‘Brother! I protest against it!’

If he had made a proclamation in an unknown tongue, and given up the ghost immediately afterwards, he could not have astounded his audience more. The paper fell from Mr Dorrit’s hand, and he sat petrified, with a fig half way to his mouth.

‘Brother!’ said the old man, conveying a surprising energy into his trembling voice, ‘I protest against it! I love you; you know I love you dearly. In these many years I have never been untrue to you in a single thought. Weak as I am, I would at any time have struck any man who spoke ill of you. But, brother, brother, brother, I protest against it!’

It was extraordinary to see of what a burst of earnestness such a decrepit man was capable. His eyes became bright, his grey hair rose on his head, markings of purpose on his brow and face which had faded from them for five-and-twenty years, started out again, and there was an energy in his hand that made its action nervous once more.

‘My dear Frederick!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit faintly. ‘What is wrong? What is the matter?’

‘How dare you,’ said the old man, turning round on Fanny, ‘how dare you do it? Have you no memory? Have you no heart?’

‘Uncle?’ cried Fanny, affrighted and bursting into tears, ‘why do you attack me in this cruel manner? What have I done?’

‘Done?’ returned the old man, pointing to her sister’s place, ‘where’s your affectionate invaluable friend? Where’s your devoted guardian? Where’s your more than mother? How dare you set up superiorities against all these characters combined in your sister? For shame, you false girl, for shame!’

‘I love Amy,’ cried Miss Fanny, sobbing and weeping, ‘as well as I love my life—better than I love my life. I don’t deserve to be so treated. I am as grateful to Amy, and as fond of Amy, as it’s possible for any human being to be. I wish I was dead. I never was so wickedly wronged. And only because I am anxious for the family credit.’

‘To the winds with the family credit!’ cried the old man, with great scorn and indignation. ‘Brother, I protest against pride. I protest against ingratitude. I protest against any one of us here who have known what we have known, and have seen what we have seen, setting up any pretension that puts Amy at a moment’s disadvantage, or to the cost of a moment’s pain. We may know that it’s a base pretension by its having that effect. It ought to bring a judgment on us. Brother, I protest against it in the sight of God!’

As his hand went up above his head and came down on the table, it might have been a blacksmith’s. After a few moments’ silence, it had relaxed into its usual weak condition. He went round to his brother with his ordinary shuffling step, put the hand on his shoulder, and said, in a softened voice, ‘William, my dear, I felt obliged to say it; forgive me, for I felt obliged to say it!’ and then went, in his bowed way, out of the palace hall, just as he might have gone out of the Marshalsea room.

All this time Fanny had been sobbing and crying, and still continued to do so. Edward, beyond opening his mouth in amazement, had not opened his lips, and had done nothing but stare. Mr Dorrit also had been utterly discomfited, and quite unable to assert himself in any way. Fanny was now the first to speak.

‘I never, never, never was so used!’ she sobbed. ‘There never was anything so harsh and unjustifiable, so disgracefully violent and cruel! Dear, kind, quiet little Amy, too, what would she feel if she could know that she had been innocently the means of exposing me to such treatment! But I’ll never tell her! No, good darling, I’ll never tell her!’

This helped Mr Dorrit to break his silence.

‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I—ha—approve of your resolution. It will be—ha hum—much better not to speak of this to Amy. It might—hum—it might distress her. Ha. No doubt it would distress her greatly. It is considerate and right to avoid doing so. We will—ha—keep this to ourselves.’

‘But the cruelty of Uncle!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘O, I never can forgive the wanton cruelty of Uncle!’

‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his tone, though he remained unusually pale, ‘I must request you not to say so. You must remember that your uncle is—ha—not what he formerly was. You must remember that your uncle’s state requires—hum—great forbearance from us, great forbearance.’

‘I am sure,’ cried Fanny, piteously, ‘it is only charitable to suppose that there must be something wrong in him somewhere, or he never could have so attacked Me, of all the people in the world.’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit in a deeply fraternal tone, ‘you know, with his innumerable good points, what a—hum—wreck your uncle is; and, I entreat you by the fondness that I have for him, and by the fidelity that you know I have always shown him, to—ha—to draw your own conclusions, and to spare my brotherly feelings.’

This ended the scene; Edward Dorrit, Esquire, saying nothing throughout, but looking, to the last, perplexed and doubtful. Miss Fanny awakened much affectionate uneasiness in her sister’s mind that day by passing the greater part of it in violent fits of embracing her, and in alternately giving her brooches, and wishing herself dead.

CHAPTER 6. Something Right Somewhere

To be in the halting state of Mr Henry Gowan; to have left one of two powers in disgust; to want the necessary qualifications for finding promotion with another, and to be loitering moodily about on neutral ground, cursing both; is to be in a situation unwholesome for the mind, which time is not likely to improve. The worst class of sum worked in the every-day world is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of others, and never in Addition as to their own.

The habit, too, of seeking some sort of recompense in the discontented boast of being disappointed, is a habit fraught with degeneracy. A certain idle carelessness and recklessness of consistency soon comes of it. To bring deserving things down by setting undeserving things up is one of its perverted delights; and there is no playing fast and loose with the truth, in any game, without growing the worse for it.

In his expressed opinions of all performances in the Art of painting that were completely destitute of merit, Gowan was the most liberal fellow on earth. He would declare such a man to have more power in his little finger (provided he had none), than such another had (provided he had much) in his whole mind and body. If the objection were taken that the thing commended was trash, he would reply, on behalf of his art, ‘My good fellow, what do we all turn out but trash? I turn out nothing else, and I make you a present of the confession.’

To make a vaunt of being poor was another of the incidents of his splenetic state, though this may have had the design in it of showing that he ought to be rich; just as he would publicly laud and decry the Barnacles, lest it should be forgotten that he belonged to the family. Howbeit, these two subjects were very often on his lips; and he managed them so well that he might have praised himself by the month together, and not have made himself out half so important a man as he did by his light disparagement of his claims on anybody’s consideration.

Out of this same airy talk of his, it always soon came to be understood, wherever he and his wife went, that he had married against the wishes of his exalted relations, and had had much ado to prevail on them to countenance her. He never made the representation, on the contrary seemed to laugh the idea to scorn; but it did happen that, with all his pains to depreciate himself, he was always in the superior position. From the days of their honeymoon, Minnie Gowan felt sensible of being usually regarded as the wife of a man who had made a descent in marrying her, but whose chivalrous love for her had cancelled that inequality.

To Venice they had been accompanied by Monsieur Blandois of Paris, and at Venice Monsieur Blandois of Paris was very much in the society of Gowan. When they had first met this gallant gentleman at Geneva, Gowan had been undecided whether to kick him or encourage him; and had remained for about four-and-twenty hours, so troubled to settle the point to his satisfaction, that he had thought of tossing up a five-franc piece on the terms, ‘Tails, kick; heads, encourage,’ and abiding by the voice of the oracle. It chanced, however, that his wife expressed a dislike to the engaging Blandois, and that the balance of feeling in the hotel was against him. Upon it, Gowan resolved to encourage him.

Why this perversity, if it were not in a generous fit?—which it was not. Why should Gowan, very much the superior of Blandois of Paris, and very well able to pull that prepossessing gentleman to pieces and find out the stuff he was made of, take up with such a man? In the first place, he opposed the first separate wish he observed in his wife, because her father had paid his debts and it was desirable to take an early opportunity of asserting his independence. In the second place, he opposed the prevalent feeling, because with many capacities of being otherwise, he was an ill-conditioned man. He found a pleasure in declaring that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois ought to rise to the greatest distinction in any polished country. He found a pleasure in setting up Blandois as the type of elegance, and making him a satire upon others who piqued themselves on personal graces. He seriously protested that the bow of Blandois was perfect, that the address of Blandois was irresistible, and that the picturesque ease of Blandois would be cheaply purchased (if it were not a gift, and unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That exaggeration in the manner of the man which has been noticed as appertaining to him and to every such man, whatever his original breeding, as certainly as the sun belongs to this system, was acceptable to Gowan as a caricature, which he found it a humorous resource to have at hand for the ridiculing of numbers of people who necessarily did more or less of what Blandois overdid. Thus he had taken up with him; and thus, negligently strengthening these inclinations with habit, and idly deriving some amusement from his talk, he had glided into a way of having him for a companion. This, though he supposed him to live by his wits at play-tables and the like; though he suspected him to be a coward, while he himself was daring and courageous; though he thoroughly knew him to be disliked by Minnie; and though he cared so little for him, after all, that if he had given her any tangible personal cause to regard him with aversion, he would have had no compunction whatever in flinging him out of the highest window in Venice into the deepest water of the city.

Little Dorrit would have been glad to make her visit to Mrs Gowan, alone; but as Fanny, who had not yet recovered from her Uncle’s protest, though it was four-and-twenty hours of age, pressingly offered her company, the two sisters stepped together into one of the gondolas under Mr Dorrit’s window, and, with the courier in attendance, were taken in high state to Mrs Gowan’s lodging. In truth, their state was rather too high for the lodging, which was, as Fanny complained, ‘fearfully out of the way,’ and which took them through a complexity of narrow streets of water, which the same lady disparaged as ‘mere ditches.’

The house, on a little desert island, looked as if it had broken away from somewhere else, and had floated by chance into its present anchorage in company with a vine almost as much in want of training as the poor wretches who were lying under its leaves. The features of the surrounding picture were, a church with hoarding and scaffolding about it, which had been under suppositious repair so long that the means of repair looked a hundred years old, and had themselves fallen into decay; a quantity of washed linen, spread to dry in the sun; a number of houses at odds with one another and grotesquely out of the perpendicular, like rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into fantastic shapes and full of mites; and a feverish bewilderment of windows, with their lattice-blinds all hanging askew, and something draggled and dirty dangling out of most of them.

On the first-floor of the house was a Bank—a surprising experience for any gentleman of commercial pursuits bringing laws for all mankind from a British city—where two spare clerks, like dried dragoons, in green velvet caps adorned with golden tassels, stood, bearded, behind a small counter in a small room, containing no other visible objects than an empty iron-safe with the door open, a jug of water, and a papering of garland of roses; but who, on lawful requisition, by merely dipping their hands out of sight, could produce exhaustless mounds of five-franc pieces. Below the Bank was a suite of three or four rooms with barred windows, which had the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the Bank was Mrs Gowan’s residence.

Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary maps were bursting out of them to impart geographical knowledge; notwithstanding that its weird furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the prevailing Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb tide on a weedy shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised. The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin—a temporary servant—who ushered them into the room where Mrs Gowan sat, with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see the mistress.

Mrs Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively courteous to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a veteran.

‘Papa was extremely sorry,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘to be engaged to-day (he is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!); and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr Gowan. That I may be sure to acquit myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on the table at once.’

Which she did with veteran ease.

‘We have been,’ said Fanny, ‘charmed to understand that you know the Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.’

‘They are friends,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of Mr Gowan’s family. I have not yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs Merdle, but I suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.’

‘Indeed?’ returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably quenching her own superiority. ‘I think you’ll like her.’

‘You know her very well?’

‘Why, you see,’ said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders, ‘in London one knows every one. We met her on our way here, and, to say the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the rooms that our people had ordered for us. However, of course, that soon blew over, and we were all good friends again.’

Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of conversing with Mrs Gowan, there was a silent understanding between them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs Gowan with keen and unabated interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit. She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other case—but one.

‘You have been quite well,’ she now said, ‘since that night?’

‘Quite, my dear. And you?’

‘Oh! I am always well,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly. ‘I—yes, thank you.’

There was no reason for her faltering and breaking off, other than that Mrs Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive in the large, soft eyes, had checked Little Dorrit in an instant.

‘You don’t know that you are a favourite of my husband’s, and that I am almost bound to be jealous of you?’ said Mrs Gowan.

Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.

‘He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are quieter and quicker of resource than any one he ever saw.’

‘He speaks far too well of me,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘I doubt that; but I don’t at all doubt that I must tell him you are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you—and Miss Dorrit—go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder and discomfort of a painter’s studio?’

The inquiries were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted. Mrs Gowan went to a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. ‘Do Henry the favour to come in,’ said she, ‘I knew he would be pleased!’

The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive slouched hat, standing on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She recoiled from this figure, as it smiled at her.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door. ‘It’s only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model to-day. I am making a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor painters have none to spare.’

Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted the ladies without coming out of his corner.

‘A thousand pardons!’ said he. ‘But the Professore here is so inexorable with me, that I am afraid to stir.’

‘Don’t stir, then,’ said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the easel. ‘Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they may know what it’s meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting for his prey, a distinguished noble waiting to save his country, the common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger waiting to do somebody a good turn—whatever you think he looks most like!’

‘Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage to elegance and beauty,’ remarked Blandois.

‘Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,’ returned Gowan, touching the painted face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, ‘a murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it outside the cloak. Keep it still.’

Blandois’ hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally shake it.

‘He was formerly in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a victim, you observe,’ said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, ‘and these are the tokens of it. Outside the cloak, man!—Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking of?’

Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more; now he raised it to twist his moustache, which had a damp appearance; and now he stood in the required position, with a little new swagger.

His face was so directed in reference to the spot where Little Dorrit stood by the easel, that throughout he looked at her. Once attracted by his peculiar eyes, she could not remove her own, and they had looked at each other all the time. She trembled now; Gowan, feeling it, and supposing her to be alarmed by the large dog beside him, whose head she caressed in her hand, and who had just uttered a low growl, glanced at her to say, ‘He won’t hurt you, Miss Dorrit.’

‘I am not afraid of him,’ she returned in the same breath; ‘but will you look at him?’

In a moment Gowan had thrown down his brush, and seized the dog with both hands by the collar.

‘Blandois! How can you be such a fool as to provoke him! By Heaven, and the other place too, he’ll tear you to bits! Lie down! Lion! Do you hear my voice, you rebel!’

The great dog, regardless of being half-choked by his collar, was obdurately pulling with his dead weight against his master, resolved to get across the room. He had been crouching for a spring at the moment when his master caught him.

‘Lion! Lion!’ He was up on his hind legs, and it was a wrestle between master and dog. ‘Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois! What devil have you conjured into the dog?’

‘I have done nothing to him.’

‘Get out of his sight or I can’t hold the wild beast! Get out of the room! By my soul, he’ll kill you!’

The dog, with a ferocious bark, made one other struggle as Blandois vanished; then, in the moment of the dog’s submission, the master, little less angry than the dog, felled him with a blow on the head, and standing over him, struck him many times severely with the heel of his boot, so that his mouth was presently bloody.

‘Now get you into that corner and lie down,’ said Gowan, ‘or I’ll take you out and shoot you.’

Lion did as he was ordered, and lay down licking his mouth and chest. Lion’s master stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, recovering his usual coolness of manner, turned to speak to his frightened wife and her visitors. Probably the whole occurrence had not occupied two minutes.

‘Come, come, Minnie! You know he is always good-humoured and tractable. Blandois must have irritated him,—made faces at him. The dog has his likings and dislikings, and Blandois is no great favourite of his; but I am sure you will give him a character, Minnie, for never having been like this before.’

Minnie was too much disturbed to say anything connected in reply; Little Dorrit was already occupied in soothing her; Fanny, who had cried out twice or thrice, held Gowan’s arm for protection; Lion, deeply ashamed of having caused them this alarm, came trailing himself along the ground to the feet of his mistress.

‘You furious brute,’ said Gowan, striking him with his foot again. ‘You shall do penance for this.’ And he struck him again, and yet again.

‘O, pray don’t punish him any more,’ cried Little Dorrit. ‘Don’t hurt him. See how gentle he is!’ At her entreaty, Gowan spared him; and he deserved her intercession, for truly he was as submissive, and as sorry, and as wretched as a dog could be.

It was not easy to recover this shock and make the visit unrestrained, even though Fanny had not been, under the best of circumstances, the least trifle in the way. In such further communication as passed among them before the sisters took their departure, Little Dorrit fancied it was revealed to her that Mr Gowan treated his wife, even in his very fondness, too much like a beautiful child. He seemed so unsuspicious of the depths of feeling which she knew must lie below that surface, that she doubted if there could be any such depths in himself. She wondered whether his want of earnestness might be the natural result of his want of such qualities, and whether it was with people as with ships, that, in too shallow and rocky waters, their anchors had no hold, and they drifted anywhere.

He attended them down the staircase, jocosely apologising for the poor quarters to which such poor fellows as himself were limited, and remarking that when the high and mighty Barnacles, his relatives, who would be dreadfully ashamed of them, presented him with better, he would live in better to oblige them. At the water’s edge they were saluted by Blandois, who looked white enough after his late adventure, but who made very light of it notwithstanding,—laughing at the mention of Lion.

Leaving the two together under the scrap of vine upon the causeway, Gowan idly scattering the leaves from it into the water, and Blandois lighting a cigarette, the sisters were paddled away in state as they had come. They had not glided on for many minutes, when Little Dorrit became aware that Fanny was more showy in manner than the occasion appeared to require, and, looking about for the cause through the window and through the open door, saw another gondola evidently in waiting on them.

As this gondola attended their progress in various artful ways; sometimes shooting on a-head, and stopping to let them pass; sometimes, when the way was broad enough, skimming along side by side with them; and sometimes following close astern; and as Fanny gradually made no disguise that she was playing off graces upon somebody within it, of whom she at the same time feigned to be unconscious; Little Dorrit at length asked who it was?

To which Fanny made the short answer, ‘That gaby.’

‘Who?’ said Little Dorrit.

‘My dear child,’ returned Fanny (in a tone suggesting that before her Uncle’s protest she might have said, You little fool, instead), ‘how slow you are! Young Sparkler.’

She lowered the window on her side, and, leaning back and resting her elbow on it negligently, fanned herself with a rich Spanish fan of black and gold. The attendant gondola, having skimmed forward again, with some swift trace of an eye in the window, Fanny laughed coquettishly and said, ‘Did you ever see such a fool, my love?’

‘Do you think he means to follow you all the way?’ asked Little Dorrit.

‘My precious child,’ returned Fanny, ‘I can’t possibly answer for what an idiot in a state of desperation may do, but I should think it highly probable. It’s not such an enormous distance. All Venice would scarcely be that, I imagine, if he’s dying for a glimpse of me.’

‘And is he?’ asked Little Dorrit in perfect simplicity.

‘Well, my love, that really is an awkward question for me to answer,’ said her sister. ‘I believe he is. You had better ask Edward. He tells Edward he is, I believe. I understand he makes a perfect spectacle of himself at the Casino, and that sort of places, by going on about me. But you had better ask Edward if you want to know.’

‘I wonder he doesn’t call,’ said Little Dorrit after thinking a moment.

‘My dear Amy, your wonder will soon cease, if I am rightly informed. I should not be at all surprised if he called to-day. The creature has only been waiting to get his courage up, I suspect.’

‘Will you see him?’

‘Indeed, my darling,’ said Fanny, ‘that’s just as it may happen. Here he is again. Look at him. O, you simpleton!’

Mr Sparkler had, undeniably, a weak appearance; with his eye in the window like a knot in the glass, and no reason on earth for stopping his bark suddenly, except the real reason.

‘When you asked me if I will see him, my dear,’ said Fanny, almost as well composed in the graceful indifference of her attitude as Mrs Merdle herself, ‘what do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ said Little Dorrit—‘I think I rather mean what do you mean, dear Fanny?’

Fanny laughed again, in a manner at once condescending, arch, and affable; and said, putting her arm round her sister in a playfully affectionate way:

‘Now tell me, my little pet. When we saw that woman at Martigny, how did you think she carried it off? Did you see what she decided on in a moment?’

‘No, Fanny.’

‘Then I’ll tell you, Amy. She settled with herself, now I’ll never refer to that meeting under such different circumstances, and I’ll never pretend to have any idea that these are the same girls. That’s her way out of a difficulty. What did I tell you when we came away from Harley Street that time? She is as insolent and false as any woman in the world. But in the first capacity, my love, she may find people who can match her.’

A significant turn of the Spanish fan towards Fanny’s bosom, indicated with great expression where one of these people was to be found.

‘Not only that,’ pursued Fanny, ‘but she gives the same charge to Young Sparkler; and doesn’t let him come after me until she has got it thoroughly into his most ridiculous of all ridiculous noddles (for one really can’t call it a head), that he is to pretend to have been first struck with me in that Inn Yard.’

‘Why?’ asked Little Dorrit.

‘Why? Good gracious, my love!’ (again very much in the tone of You stupid little creature) ‘how can you ask? Don’t you see that I may have become a rather desirable match for a noddle? And don’t you see that she puts the deception upon us, and makes a pretence, while she shifts it from her own shoulders (very good shoulders they are too, I must say),’ observed Miss Fanny, glancing complacently at herself, ‘of considering our feelings?’

‘But we can always go back to the plain truth.’

‘Yes, but if you please we won’t,’ retorted Fanny. ‘No; I am not going to have that done, Amy. The pretext is none of mine; it’s hers, and she shall have enough of it.’

In the triumphant exaltation of her feelings, Miss Fanny, using her Spanish fan with one hand, squeezed her sister’s waist with the other, as if she were crushing Mrs Merdle.

‘No,’ repeated Fanny. ‘She shall find me go her way. She took it, and I’ll follow it. And, with the blessing of fate and fortune, I’ll go on improving that woman’s acquaintance until I have given her maid, before her eyes, things from my dressmaker’s ten times as handsome and expensive as she once gave me from hers!’

Little Dorrit was silent; sensible that she was not to be heard on any question affecting the family dignity, and unwilling to lose to no purpose her sister’s newly and unexpectedly restored favour. She could not concur, but she was silent. Fanny well knew what she was thinking of; so well, that she soon asked her.

Her reply was, ‘Do you mean to encourage Mr Sparkler, Fanny?’

‘Encourage him, my dear?’ said her sister, smiling contemptuously, ‘that depends upon what you call encourage. No, I don’t mean to encourage him. But I’ll make a slave of him.’

Little Dorrit glanced seriously and doubtfully in her face, but Fanny was not to be so brought to a check. She furled her fan of black and gold, and used it to tap her sister’s nose; with the air of a proud beauty and a great spirit, who toyed with and playfully instructed a homely companion.

‘I shall make him fetch and carry, my dear, and I shall make him subject to me. And if I don’t make his mother subject to me, too, it shall not be my fault.’

‘Do you think—dear Fanny, don’t be offended, we are so comfortable together now—that you can quite see the end of that course?’

‘I can’t say I have so much as looked for it yet, my dear,’ answered Fanny, with supreme indifference; ‘all in good time. Such are my intentions. And really they have taken me so long to develop, that here we are at home. And Young Sparkler at the door, inquiring who is within. By the merest accident, of course!’

In effect, the swain was standing up in his gondola, card-case in hand, affecting to put the question to a servant. This conjunction of circumstances led to his immediately afterwards presenting himself before the young ladies in a posture, which in ancient times would not have been considered one of favourable augury for his suit; since the gondoliers of the young ladies, having been put to some inconvenience by the chase, so neatly brought their own boat in the gentlest collision with the bark of Mr Sparkler, as to tip that gentleman over like a larger species of ninepin, and cause him to exhibit the soles of his shoes to the object of his dearest wishes: while the nobler portions of his anatomy struggled at the bottom of his boat in the arms of one of his men.

However, as Miss Fanny called out with much concern, Was the gentleman hurt, Mr Sparkler rose more restored than might have been expected, and stammered for himself with blushes, ‘Not at all so.’ Miss Fanny had no recollection of having ever seen him before, and was passing on, with a distant inclination of her head, when he announced himself by name. Even then she was in a difficulty from being unable to call it to mind, until he explained that he had had the honour of seeing her at Martigny. Then she remembered him, and hoped his lady-mother was well.

‘Thank you,’ stammered Mr Sparkler, ‘she’s uncommonly well—at least, poorly.’

‘In Venice?’ said Miss Fanny.

‘In Rome,’ Mr Sparkler answered. ‘I am here by myself, myself. I came to call upon Mr Edward Dorrit myself. Indeed, upon Mr Dorrit likewise. In fact, upon the family.’

Turning graciously to the attendants, Miss Fanny inquired whether her papa or brother was within? The reply being that they were both within, Mr Sparkler humbly offered his arm. Miss Fanny accepting it, was squired up the great staircase by Mr Sparkler, who, if he still believed (which there is not any reason to doubt) that she had no nonsense about her, rather deceived himself.

Arrived in a mouldering reception-room, where the faded hangings, of a sad sea-green, had worn and withered until they looked as if they might have claimed kindred with the waifs of seaweed drifting under the windows, or clinging to the walls and weeping for their imprisoned relations, Miss Fanny despatched emissaries for her father and brother. Pending whose appearance, she showed to great advantage on a sofa, completing Mr Sparkler’s conquest with some remarks upon Dante—known to that gentleman as an eccentric man in the nature of an Old File, who used to put leaves round his head, and sit upon a stool for some unaccountable purpose, outside the cathedral at Florence.

Mr Dorrit welcomed the visitor with the highest urbanity, and most courtly manners. He inquired particularly after Mrs Merdle. He inquired particularly after Mr Merdle. Mr Sparkler said, or rather twitched out of himself in small pieces by the shirt-collar, that Mrs Merdle having completely used up her place in the country, and also her house at Brighton, and being, of course, unable, don’t you see, to remain in London when there wasn’t a soul there, and not feeling herself this year quite up to visiting about at people’s places, had resolved to have a touch at Rome, where a woman like herself, with a proverbially fine appearance, and with no nonsense about her, couldn’t fail to be a great acquisition. As to Mr Merdle, he was so much wanted by the men in the City and the rest of those places, and was such a doosed extraordinary phenomenon in Buying and Banking and that, that Mr Sparkler doubted if the monetary system of the country would be able to spare him; though that his work was occasionally one too many for him, and that he would be all the better for a temporary shy at an entirely new scene and climate, Mr Sparkler did not conceal. As to himself, Mr Sparkler conveyed to the Dorrit family that he was going, on rather particular business, wherever they were going.

This immense conversational achievement required time, but was effected. Being effected, Mr Dorrit expressed his hope that Mr Sparkler would shortly dine with them. Mr Sparkler received the idea so kindly that Mr Dorrit asked what he was going to do that day, for instance? As he was going to do nothing that day (his usual occupation, and one for which he was particularly qualified), he was secured without postponement; being further bound over to accompany the ladies to the Opera in the evening.

At dinner-time Mr Sparkler rose out of the sea, like Venus’s son taking after his mother, and made a splendid appearance ascending the great staircase. If Fanny had been charming in the morning, she was now thrice charming, very becomingly dressed in her most suitable colours, and with an air of negligence upon her that doubled Mr Sparkler’s fetters, and riveted them.

‘I hear you are acquainted, Mr Sparkler,’ said his host at dinner, ‘with—ha—Mr Gowan. Mr Henry Gowan?’

‘Perfectly, sir,’ returned Mr Sparkler. ‘His mother and my mother are cronies in fact.’

‘If I had thought of it, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a patronage as magnificent as that of Lord Decimus himself, ‘you should have despatched a note to them, asking them to dine to-day. Some of our people could have—ha—fetched them, and taken them home. We could have spared a—hum—gondola for that purpose. I am sorry to have forgotten this. Pray remind me of them to-morrow.’

Little Dorrit was not without doubts how Mr Henry Gowan might take their patronage; but she promised not to fail in the reminder.

‘Pray, does Mr Henry Gowan paint—ha—Portraits?’ inquired Mr Dorrit.

Mr Sparkler opined that he painted anything, if he could get the job.

‘He has no particular walk?’ said Mr Dorrit.

Mr Sparkler, stimulated by Love to brilliancy, replied that for a particular walk a man ought to have a particular pair of shoes; as, for example, shooting, shooting-shoes; cricket, cricket-shoes. Whereas, he believed that Henry Gowan had no particular pair of shoes.

‘No speciality?’ said Mr Dorrit.

This being a very long word for Mr Sparkler, and his mind being exhausted by his late effort, he replied, ‘No, thank you. I seldom take it.’

‘Well!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘It would be very agreeable to me to present a gentleman so connected, with some—ha—Testimonial of my desire to further his interests, and develop the—hum—germs of his genius. I think I must engage Mr Gowan to paint my picture. If the result should be—ha—mutually satisfactory, I might afterwards engage him to try his hand upon my family.’

The exquisitely bold and original thought presented itself to Mr Sparkler, that there was an opening here for saying there were some of the family (emphasising ‘some’ in a marked manner) to whom no painter could render justice. But, for want of a form of words in which to express the idea, it returned to the skies.

This was the more to be regretted as Miss Fanny greatly applauded the notion of the portrait, and urged her papa to act upon it. She surmised, she said, that Mr Gowan had lost better and higher opportunities by marrying his pretty wife; and Love in a cottage, painting pictures for dinner, was so delightfully interesting, that she begged her papa to give him the commission whether he could paint a likeness or not: though indeed both she and Amy knew he could, from having seen a speaking likeness on his easel that day, and having had the opportunity of comparing it with the original. These remarks made Mr Sparkler (as perhaps they were intended to do) nearly distracted; for while on the one hand they expressed Miss Fanny’s susceptibility of the tender passion, she herself showed such an innocent unconsciousness of his admiration that his eyes goggled in his head with jealousy of an unknown rival.

Descending into the sea again after dinner, and ascending out of it at the Opera staircase, preceded by one of their gondoliers, like an attendant Merman, with a great linen lantern, they entered their box, and Mr Sparkler entered on an evening of agony. The theatre being dark, and the box light, several visitors lounged in during the representation; in whom Fanny was so interested, and in conversation with whom she fell into such charming attitudes, as she had little confidences with them, and little disputes concerning the identity of people in distant boxes, that the wretched Sparkler hated all mankind. But he had two consolations at the close of the performance. She gave him her fan to hold while she adjusted her cloak, and it was his blessed privilege to give her his arm down-stairs again. These crumbs of encouragement, Mr Sparkler thought, would just keep him going; and it is not impossible that Miss Dorrit thought so too.

The Merman with his light was ready at the box-door, and other Mermen with other lights were ready at many of the doors. The Dorrit Merman held his lantern low, to show the steps, and Mr Sparkler put on another heavy set of fetters over his former set, as he watched her radiant feet twinkling down the stairs beside him. Among the loiterers here, was Blandois of Paris. He spoke, and moved forward beside Fanny.

Little Dorrit was in front with her brother and Mrs General (Mr Dorrit had remained at home), but on the brink of the quay they all came together. She started again to find Blandois close to her, handing Fanny into the boat.

‘Gowan has had a loss,’ he said, ‘since he was made happy to-day by a visit from fair ladies.’

‘A loss?’ repeated Fanny, relinquished by the bereaved Sparkler, and taking her seat.

‘A loss,’ said Blandois. ‘His dog Lion.’

Little Dorrit’s hand was in his, as he spoke.

‘He is dead,’ said Blandois.

‘Dead?’ echoed Little Dorrit. ‘That noble dog?’

‘Faith, dear ladies!’ said Blandois, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, ‘somebody has poisoned that noble dog. He is as dead as the Doges!’

CHAPTER 7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism

Mrs General, always on her coach-box keeping the proprieties well together, took pains to form a surface on her very dear young friend, and Mrs General’s very dear young friend tried hard to receive it. Hard as she had tried in her laborious life to attain many ends, she had never tried harder than she did now, to be varnished by Mrs General. It made her anxious and ill at ease to be operated upon by that smoothing hand, it is true; but she submitted herself to the family want in its greatness as she had submitted herself to the family want in its littleness, and yielded to her own inclinations in this thing no more than she had yielded to her hunger itself, in the days when she had saved her dinner that her father might have his supper.

One comfort that she had under the Ordeal by General was more sustaining to her, and made her more grateful than to a less devoted and affectionate spirit, not habituated to her struggles and sacrifices, might appear quite reasonable; and, indeed, it may often be observed in life, that spirits like Little Dorrit do not appear to reason half as carefully as the folks who get the better of them. The continued kindness of her sister was this comfort to Little Dorrit. It was nothing to her that the kindness took the form of tolerant patronage; she was used to that. It was nothing to her that it kept her in a tributary position, and showed her in attendance on the flaming car in which Miss Fanny sat on an elevated seat, exacting homage; she sought no better place. Always admiring Fanny’s beauty, and grace, and readiness, and not now asking herself how much of her disposition to be strongly attached to Fanny was due to her own heart, and how much to Fanny’s, she gave her all the sisterly fondness her great heart contained.

The wholesale amount of Prunes and Prism which Mrs General infused into the family life, combined with the perpetual plunges made by Fanny into society, left but a very small residue of any natural deposit at the bottom of the mixture. This rendered confidences with Fanny doubly precious to Little Dorrit, and heightened the relief they afforded her.

‘Amy,’ said Fanny to her one night when they were alone, after a day so tiring that Little Dorrit was quite worn out, though Fanny would have taken another dip into society with the greatest pleasure in life, ‘I am going to put something into your little head. You won’t guess what it is, I suspect.’

‘I don’t think that’s likely, dear,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Come, I’ll give you a clue, child,’ said Fanny. ‘Mrs General.’

Prunes and Prism, in a thousand combinations, having been wearily in the ascendant all day—everything having been surface and varnish and show without substance—Little Dorrit looked as if she had hoped that Mrs General was safely tucked up in bed for some hours.

‘Now, can you guess, Amy?’ said Fanny.

‘No, dear. Unless I have done anything,’ said Little Dorrit, rather alarmed, and meaning anything calculated to crack varnish and ruffle surface.

Fanny was so very much amused by the misgiving, that she took up her favourite fan (being then seated at her dressing-table with her armoury of cruel instruments about her, most of them reeking from the heart of Sparkler), and tapped her sister frequently on the nose with it, laughing all the time.

‘Oh, our Amy, our Amy!’ said Fanny. ‘What a timid little goose our Amy is! But this is nothing to laugh at. On the contrary, I am very cross, my dear.’

‘As it is not with me, Fanny, I don’t mind,’ returned her sister, smiling.

‘Ah! But I do mind,’ said Fanny, ‘and so will you, Pet, when I enlighten you. Amy, has it never struck you that somebody is monstrously polite to Mrs General?’

‘Everybody is polite to Mrs General,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Because—’

‘Because she freezes them into it?’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I don’t mean that; quite different from that. Come! Has it never struck you, Amy, that Pa is monstrously polite to Mrs General.’

Amy, murmuring ‘No,’ looked quite confounded.

‘No; I dare say not. But he is,’ said Fanny. ‘He is, Amy. And remember my words. Mrs General has designs on Pa!’

‘Dear Fanny, do you think it possible that Mrs General has designs on any one?’

‘Do I think it possible?’ retorted Fanny. ‘My love, I know it. I tell you she has designs on Pa. And more than that, I tell you Pa considers her such a wonder, such a paragon of accomplishment, and such an acquisition to our family, that he is ready to get himself into a state of perfect infatuation with her at any moment. And that opens a pretty picture of things, I hope? Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama!’

Little Dorrit did not reply, ‘Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama;’ but she looked anxious, and seriously inquired what had led Fanny to these conclusions.

‘Lord, my darling,’ said Fanny, tartly. ‘You might as well ask me how I know when a man is struck with myself! But, of course I do know. It happens pretty often: but I always know it. I know this in much the same way, I suppose. At all events, I know it.’

‘You never heard Papa say anything?’

‘Say anything?’ repeated Fanny. ‘My dearest, darling child, what necessity has he had, yet awhile, to say anything?’

‘And you have never heard Mrs General say anything?’

‘My goodness me, Amy,’ returned Fanny, ‘is she the sort of woman to say anything? Isn’t it perfectly plain and clear that she has nothing to do at present but to hold herself upright, keep her aggravating gloves on, and go sweeping about? Say anything! If she had the ace of trumps in her hand at whist, she wouldn’t say anything, child. It would come out when she played it.’

‘At least, you may be mistaken, Fanny. Now, may you not?’

‘O yes, I may be,’ said Fanny, ‘but I am not. However, I am glad you can contemplate such an escape, my dear, and I am glad that you can take this for the present with sufficient coolness to think of such a chance. It makes me hope that you may be able to bear the connection. I should not be able to bear it, and I should not try. I’d marry young Sparkler first.’

‘O, you would never marry him, Fanny, under any circumstances.’

‘Upon my word, my dear,’ rejoined that young lady with exceeding indifference, ‘I wouldn’t positively answer even for that. There’s no knowing what might happen. Especially as I should have many opportunities, afterwards, of treating that woman, his mother, in her own style. Which I most decidedly should not be slow to avail myself of, Amy.’

No more passed between the sisters then; but what had passed gave the two subjects of Mrs General and Mr Sparkler great prominence in Little Dorrit’s mind, and thenceforth she thought very much of both.

Mrs General, having long ago formed her own surface to such perfection that it hid whatever was below it (if anything), no observation was to be made in that quarter. Mr Dorrit was undeniably very polite to her and had a high opinion of her; but Fanny, impetuous at most times, might easily be wrong for all that. Whereas, the Sparkler question was on the different footing that any one could see what was going on there, and Little Dorrit saw it and pondered on it with many doubts and wonderings.

The devotion of Mr Sparkler was only to be equalled by the caprice and cruelty of his enslaver. Sometimes she would prefer him to such distinction of notice, that he would chuckle aloud with joy; next day, or next hour, she would overlook him so completely, and drop him into such an abyss of obscurity, that he would groan under a weak pretence of coughing. The constancy of his attendance never touched Fanny: though he was so inseparable from Edward, that, when that gentleman wished for a change of society, he was under the irksome necessity of gliding out like a conspirator in disguised boats and by secret doors and back ways; though he was so solicitous to know how Mr Dorrit was, that he called every other day to inquire, as if Mr Dorrit were the prey of an intermittent fever; though he was so constantly being paddled up and down before the principal windows, that he might have been supposed to have made a wager for a large stake to be paddled a thousand miles in a thousand hours; though whenever the gondola of his mistress left the gate, the gondola of Mr Sparkler shot out from some watery ambush and gave chase, as if she were a fair smuggler and he a custom-house officer. It was probably owing to this fortification of the natural strength of his constitution with so much exposure to the air, and the salt sea, that Mr Sparkler did not pine outwardly; but, whatever the cause, he was so far from having any prospect of moving his mistress by a languishing state of health, that he grew bluffer every day, and that peculiarity in his appearance of seeming rather a swelled boy than a young man, became developed to an extraordinary degree of ruddy puffiness.

Blandois calling to pay his respects, Mr Dorrit received him with affability as the friend of Mr Gowan, and mentioned to him his idea of commissioning Mr Gowan to transmit him to posterity. Blandois highly extolling it, it occurred to Mr Dorrit that it might be agreeable to Blandois to communicate to his friend the great opportunity reserved for him. Blandois accepted the commission with his own free elegance of manner, and swore he would discharge it before he was an hour older. On his imparting the news to Gowan, that Master gave Mr Dorrit to the Devil with great liberality some round dozen of times (for he resented patronage almost as much as he resented the want of it), and was inclined to quarrel with his friend for bringing him the message.

‘It may be a defect in my mental vision, Blandois,’ said he, ‘but may I die if I see what you have to do with this.’

‘Death of my life,’ replied Blandois, ‘nor I neither, except that I thought I was serving my friend.’

‘By putting an upstart’s hire in his pocket?’ said Gowan, frowning. ‘Do you mean that? Tell your other friend to get his head painted for the sign of some public-house, and to get it done by a sign-painter. Who am I, and who is he?’

‘Professore,’ returned the ambassador, ‘and who is Blandois?’

Without appearing at all interested in the latter question, Gowan angrily whistled Mr Dorrit away. But, next day, he resumed the subject by saying in his off-hand manner and with a slighting laugh, ‘Well, Blandois, when shall we go to this Maecenas of yours? We journeymen must take jobs when we can get them. When shall we go and look after this job?’

‘When you will,’ said the injured Blandois, ‘as you please. What have I to do with it? What is it to me?’

‘I can tell you what it is to me,’ said Gowan. ‘Bread and cheese. One must eat! So come along, my Blandois.’

Mr Dorrit received them in the presence of his daughters and of Mr Sparkler, who happened, by some surprising accident, to be calling there. ‘How are you, Sparkler?’ said Gowan carelessly. ‘When you have to live by your mother wit, old boy, I hope you may get on better than I do.’

Mr Dorrit then mentioned his proposal. ‘Sir,’ said Gowan, laughing, after receiving it gracefully enough, ‘I am new to the trade, and not expert at its mysteries. I believe I ought to look at you in various lights, tell you you are a capital subject, and consider when I shall be sufficiently disengaged to devote myself with the necessary enthusiasm to the fine picture I mean to make of you. I assure you,’ and he laughed again, ‘I feel quite a traitor in the camp of those dear, gifted, good, noble fellows, my brother artists, by not doing the hocus-pocus better. But I have not been brought up to it, and it’s too late to learn it. Now, the fact is, I am a very bad painter, but not much worse than the generality. If you are going to throw away a hundred guineas or so, I am as poor as a poor relation of great people usually is, and I shall be very much obliged to you, if you’ll throw them away upon me. I’ll do the best I can for the money; and if the best should be bad, why even then, you may probably have a bad picture with a small name to it, instead of a bad picture with a large name to it.’

This tone, though not what he had expected, on the whole suited Mr Dorrit remarkably well. It showed that the gentleman, highly connected, and not a mere workman, would be under an obligation to him. He expressed his satisfaction in placing himself in Mr Gowan’s hands, and trusted that he would have the pleasure, in their characters of private gentlemen, of improving his acquaintance.

‘You are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘I have not forsworn society since I joined the brotherhood of the brush (the most delightful fellows on the face of the earth), and am glad enough to smell the old fine gunpowder now and then, though it did blow me into mid-air and my present calling. You’ll not think, Mr Dorrit,’ and here he laughed again in the easiest way, ‘that I am lapsing into the freemasonry of the craft—for it’s not so; upon my life I can’t help betraying it wherever I go, though, by Jupiter, I love and honour the craft with all my might—if I propose a stipulation as to time and place?’

Ha! Mr Dorrit could erect no—hum—suspicion of that kind on Mr Gowan’s frankness.

‘Again you are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘Mr Dorrit, I hear you are going to Rome. I am going to Rome, having friends there. Let me begin to do you the injustice I have conspired to do you, there—not here. We shall all be hurried during the rest of our stay here; and though there’s not a poorer man with whole elbows in Venice, than myself, I have not quite got all the Amateur out of me yet—comprising the trade again, you see!—and can’t fall on to order, in a hurry, for the mere sake of the sixpences.’

These remarks were not less favourably received by Mr Dorrit than their predecessors. They were the prelude to the first reception of Mr and Mrs Gowan at dinner, and they skilfully placed Gowan on his usual ground in the new family.

His wife, too, they placed on her usual ground. Miss Fanny understood, with particular distinctness, that Mrs Gowan’s good looks had cost her husband very dear; that there had been a great disturbance about her in the Barnacle family; and that the Dowager Mrs Gowan, nearly heart-broken, had resolutely set her face against the marriage until overpowered by her maternal feelings. Mrs General likewise clearly understood that the attachment had occasioned much family grief and dissension. Of honest Mr Meagles no mention was made; except that it was natural enough that a person of that sort should wish to raise his daughter out of his own obscurity, and that no one could blame him for trying his best to do so.

Little Dorrit’s interest in the fair subject of this easily accepted belief was too earnest and watchful to fail in accurate observation. She could see that it had its part in throwing upon Mrs Gowan the touch of a shadow under which she lived, and she even had an instinctive knowledge that there was not the least truth in it. But it had an influence in placing obstacles in the way of her association with Mrs Gowan by making the Prunes and Prism school excessively polite to her, but not very intimate with her; and Little Dorrit, as an enforced sizar of that college, was obliged to submit herself humbly to its ordinances.

Nevertheless, there was a sympathetic understanding already established between the two, which would have carried them over greater difficulties, and made a friendship out of a more restricted intercourse. As though accidents were determined to be favourable to it, they had a new assurance of congeniality in the aversion which each perceived that the other felt towards Blandois of Paris; an aversion amounting to the repugnance and horror of a natural antipathy towards an odious creature of the reptile kind.

And there was a passive congeniality between them, besides this active one. To both of them, Blandois behaved in exactly the same manner; and to both of them his manner had uniformly something in it, which they both knew to be different from his bearing towards others. The difference was too minute in its expression to be perceived by others, but they knew it to be there. A mere trick of his evil eyes, a mere turn of his smooth white hand, a mere hair’s-breadth of addition to the fall of his nose and the rise of the moustache in the most frequent movement of his face, conveyed to both of them, equally, a swagger personal to themselves. It was as if he had said, ‘I have a secret power in this quarter. I know what I know.’

This had never been felt by them both in so great a degree, and never by each so perfectly to the knowledge of the other, as on a day when he came to Mr Dorrit’s to take his leave before quitting Venice. Mrs Gowan was herself there for the same purpose, and he came upon the two together; the rest of the family being out. The two had not been together five minutes, and the peculiar manner seemed to convey to them, ‘You were going to talk about me. Ha! Behold me here to prevent it!’

‘Gowan is coming here?’ said Blandois, with a smile.

Mrs Gowan replied he was not coming.

‘Not coming!’ said Blandois. ‘Permit your devoted servant, when you leave here, to escort you home.’

‘Thank you: I am not going home.’

‘Not going home!’ said Blandois. ‘Then I am forlorn.’

That he might be; but he was not so forlorn as to roam away and leave them together. He sat entertaining them with his finest compliments, and his choicest conversation; but he conveyed to them, all the time, ‘No, no, no, dear ladies. Behold me here expressly to prevent it!’

He conveyed it to them with so much meaning, and he had such a diabolical persistency in him, that at length, Mrs Gowan rose to depart. On his offering his hand to Mrs Gowan to lead her down the staircase, she retained Little Dorrit’s hand in hers, with a cautious pressure, and said, ‘No, thank you. But, if you will please to see if my boatman is there, I shall be obliged to you.’

It left him no choice but to go down before them. As he did so, hat in hand, Mrs Gowan whispered:

‘He killed the dog.’

‘Does Mr Gowan know it?’ Little Dorrit whispered.

‘No one knows it. Don’t look towards me; look towards him. He will turn his face in a moment. No one knows it, but I am sure he did. You are?’

‘I—I think so,’ Little Dorrit answered.

‘Henry likes him, and he will not think ill of him; he is so generous and open himself. But you and I feel sure that we think of him as he deserves. He argued with Henry that the dog had been already poisoned when he changed so, and sprang at him. Henry believes it, but we do not. I see he is listening, but can’t hear. Good-bye, my love! Good-bye!’

The last words were spoken aloud, as the vigilant Blandois stopped, turned his head, and looked at them from the bottom of the staircase. Assuredly he did look then, though he looked his politest, as if any real philanthropist could have desired no better employment than to lash a great stone to his neck, and drop him into the water flowing beyond the dark arched gateway in which he stood. No such benefactor to mankind being on the spot, he handed Mrs Gowan to her boat, and stood there until it had shot out of the narrow view; when he handed himself into his own boat and followed.

Little Dorrit had sometimes thought, and now thought again as she retraced her steps up the staircase, that he had made his way too easily into her father’s house. But so many and such varieties of people did the same, through Mr Dorrit’s participation in his elder daughter’s society mania, that it was hardly an exceptional case. A perfect fury for making acquaintances on whom to impress their riches and importance, had seized the House of Dorrit.

It appeared on the whole, to Little Dorrit herself, that this same society in which they lived, greatly resembled a superior sort of Marshalsea. Numbers of people seemed to come abroad, pretty much as people had come into the prison; through debt, through idleness, relationship, curiosity, and general unfitness for getting on at home. They were brought into these foreign towns in the custody of couriers and local followers, just as the debtors had been brought into the prison. They prowled about the churches and picture-galleries, much in the old, dreary, prison-yard manner. They were usually going away again to-morrow or next week, and rarely knew their own minds, and seldom did what they said they would do, or went where they said they would go: in all this again, very like the prison debtors. They paid high for poor accommodation, and disparaged a place while they pretended to like it: which was exactly the Marshalsea custom. They were envied when they went away by people left behind, feigning not to want to go: and that again was the Marshalsea habit invariably. A certain set of words and phrases, as much belonging to tourists as the College and the Snuggery belonged to the jail, was always in their mouths. They had precisely the same incapacity for settling down to anything, as the prisoners used to have; they rather deteriorated one another, as the prisoners used to do; and they wore untidy dresses, and fell into a slouching way of life: still, always like the people in the Marshalsea.

The period of the family’s stay at Venice came, in its course, to an end, and they moved, with their retinue, to Rome. Through a repetition of the former Italian scenes, growing more dirty and more haggard as they went on, and bringing them at length to where the very air was diseased, they passed to their destination. A fine residence had been taken for them on the Corso, and there they took up their abode, in a city where everything seemed to be trying to stand still for ever on the ruins of something else—except the water, which, following eternal laws, tumbled and rolled from its glorious multitude of fountains.

Here it seemed to Little Dorrit that a change came over the Marshalsea spirit of their society, and that Prunes and Prism got the upper hand. Everybody was walking about St Peter’s and the Vatican on somebody else’s cork legs, and straining every visible object through somebody else’s sieve. Nobody said what anything was, but everybody said what the Mrs Generals, Mr Eustace, or somebody else said it was. The whole body of travellers seemed to be a collection of voluntary human sacrifices, bound hand and foot, and delivered over to Mr Eustace and his attendants, to have the entrails of their intellects arranged according to the taste of that sacred priesthood. Through the rugged remains of temples and tombs and palaces and senate halls and theatres and amphitheatres of ancient days, hosts of tongue-tied and blindfolded moderns were carefully feeling their way, incessantly repeating Prunes and Prism in the endeavour to set their lips according to the received form. Mrs General was in her pure element. Nobody had an opinion. There was a formation of surface going on around her on an amazing scale, and it had not a flaw of courage or honest free speech in it.

Another modification of Prunes and Prism insinuated itself on Little Dorrit’s notice very shortly after their arrival. They received an early visit from Mrs Merdle, who led that extensive department of life in the Eternal City that winter; and the skilful manner in which she and Fanny fenced with one another on the occasion, almost made her quiet sister wink, like the glittering of small-swords.

‘So delighted,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘to resume an acquaintance so inauspiciously begun at Martigny.’

‘At Martigny, of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Charmed, I am sure!’

‘I understand,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘from my son Edmund Sparkler, that he has already improved that chance occasion. He has returned quite transported with Venice.’

‘Indeed?’ returned the careless Fanny. ‘Was he there long?’

‘I might refer that question to Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, turning the bosom towards that gentleman; ‘Edmund having been so much indebted to him for rendering his stay agreeable.’

‘Oh, pray don’t speak of it,’ returned Fanny. ‘I believe Papa had the pleasure of inviting Mr Sparkler twice or thrice,—but it was nothing. We had so many people about us, and kept such open house, that if he had that pleasure, it was less than nothing.’

‘Except, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘except—ha—as it afforded me unusual gratification to—hum—show by any means, however slight and worthless, the—ha, hum—high estimation in which, in—ha—common with the rest of the world, I hold so distinguished and princely a character as Mr Merdle’s.’

The bosom received this tribute in its most engaging manner. ‘Mr Merdle,’ observed Fanny, as a means of dismissing Mr Sparkler into the background, ‘is quite a theme of Papa’s, you must know, Mrs Merdle.’

‘I have been—ha—disappointed, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to understand from Mr Sparkler that there is no great—hum—probability of Mr Merdle’s coming abroad.’

‘Why, indeed,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘he is so much engaged and in such request, that I fear not. He has not been able to get abroad for years. You, Miss Dorrit, I believe have been almost continually abroad for a long time.’

‘Oh dear yes,’ drawled Fanny, with the greatest hardihood. ‘An immense number of years.’

‘So I should have inferred,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Exactly,’ said Fanny.

‘I trust, however,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ‘that if I have not the—hum—great advantage of becoming known to Mr Merdle on this side of the Alps or Mediterranean, I shall have that honour on returning to England. It is an honour I particularly desire and shall particularly esteem.’

‘Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle, who had been looking admiringly at Fanny through her eye-glass, ‘will esteem it, I am sure, no less.’

Little Dorrit, still habitually thoughtful and solitary though no longer alone, at first supposed this to be mere Prunes and Prism. But as her father when they had been to a brilliant reception at Mrs Merdle’s, harped at their own family breakfast-table on his wish to know Mr Merdle, with the contingent view of benefiting by the advice of that wonderful man in the disposal of his fortune, she began to think it had a real meaning, and to entertain a curiosity on her own part to see the shining light of the time.

CHAPTER 8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’

While the waters of Venice and the ruins of Rome were sunning themselves for the pleasure of the Dorrit family, and were daily being sketched out of all earthly proportion, lineament, and likeness, by travelling pencils innumerable, the firm of Doyce and Clennam hammered away in Bleeding Heart Yard, and the vigorous clink of iron upon iron was heard there through the working hours.

The younger partner had, by this time, brought the business into sound trim; and the elder, left free to follow his own ingenious devices, had done much to enhance the character of the factory. As an ingenious man, he had necessarily to encounter every discouragement that the ruling powers for a length of time had been able by any means to put in the way of this class of culprits; but that was only reasonable self-defence in the powers, since How to do it must obviously be regarded as the natural and mortal enemy of How not to do it. In this was to be found the basis of the wise system, by tooth and nail upheld by the Circumlocution Office, of warning every ingenious British subject to be ingenious at his peril: of harassing him, obstructing him, inviting robbers (by making his remedy uncertain, and expensive) to plunder him, and at the best of confiscating his property after a short term of enjoyment, as though invention were on a par with felony. The system had uniformly found great favour with the Barnacles, and that was only reasonable, too; for one who worthily invents must be in earnest, and the Barnacles abhorred and dreaded nothing half so much. That again was very reasonable; since in a country suffering under the affliction of a great amount of earnestness, there might, in an exceeding short space of time, be not a single Barnacle left sticking to a post.

Daniel Doyce faced his condition with its pains and penalties attached to it, and soberly worked on for the work’s sake. Clennam cheering him with a hearty co-operation, was a moral support to him, besides doing good service in his business relation. The concern prospered, and the partners were fast friends.

But Daniel could not forget the old design of so many years. It was not in reason to be expected that he should; if he could have lightly forgotten it, he could never have conceived it, or had the patience and perseverance to work it out. So Clennam thought, when he sometimes observed him of an evening looking over the models and drawings, and consoling himself by muttering with a sigh as he put them away again, that the thing was as true as it ever was.

To show no sympathy with so much endeavour, and so much disappointment, would have been to fail in what Clennam regarded as among the implied obligations of his partnership. A revival of the passing interest in the subject which had been by chance awakened at the door of the Circumlocution Office, originated in this feeling. He asked his partner to explain the invention to him; ‘having a lenient consideration,’ he stipulated, ‘for my being no workman, Doyce.’

‘No workman?’ said Doyce. ‘You would have been a thorough workman if you had given yourself to it. You have as good a head for understanding such things as I have met with.’

‘A totally uneducated one, I am sorry to add,’ said Clennam.

‘I don’t know that,’ returned Doyce, ‘and I wouldn’t have you say that. No man of sense who has been generally improved, and has improved himself, can be called quite uneducated as to anything. I don’t particularly favour mysteries. I would as soon, on a fair and clear explanation, be judged by one class of man as another, provided he had the qualification I have named.’

‘At all events,’ said Clennam—‘this sounds as if we were exchanging compliments, but we know we are not—I shall have the advantage of as plain an explanation as can be given.’

‘Well!’ said Daniel, in his steady even way, ‘I’ll try to make it so.’

He had the power, often to be found in union with such a character, of explaining what he himself perceived, and meant, with the direct force and distinctness with which it struck his own mind. His manner of demonstration was so orderly and neat and simple, that it was not easy to mistake him. There was something almost ludicrous in the complete irreconcilability of a vague conventional notion that he must be a visionary man, with the precise, sagacious travelling of his eye and thumb over the plans, their patient stoppages at particular points, their careful returns to other points whence little channels of explanation had to be traced up, and his steady manner of making everything good and everything sound at each important stage, before taking his hearer on a line’s-breadth further. His dismissal of himself from his description, was hardly less remarkable. He never said, I discovered this adaptation or invented that combination; but showed the whole thing as if the Divine artificer had made it, and he had happened to find it; so modest he was about it, such a pleasant touch of respect was mingled with his quiet admiration of it, and so calmly convinced he was that it was established on irrefragable laws.

Not only that evening, but for several succeeding evenings, Clennam was quite charmed by this investigation. The more he pursued it, and the oftener he glanced at the grey head bending over it, and the shrewd eye kindling with pleasure in it and love of it—instrument for probing his heart though it had been made for twelve long years—the less he could reconcile it to his younger energy to let it go without one effort more. At length he said:

‘Doyce, it came to this at last—that the business was to be sunk with Heaven knows how many more wrecks, or begun all over again?’

‘Yes,’ returned Doyce, ‘that’s what the noblemen and gentlemen made of it after a dozen years.’

‘And pretty fellows too!’ said Clennam, bitterly.

‘The usual thing!’ observed Doyce. ‘I must not make a martyr of myself, when I am one of so large a company.’

‘Relinquish it, or begin it all over again?’ mused Clennam.

‘That was exactly the long and the short of it,’ said Doyce.

‘Then, my friend,’ cried Clennam, starting up and taking his work-roughened hand, ‘it shall be begun all over again!’

Doyce looked alarmed, and replied in a hurry—for him, ‘No, no. Better put it by. Far better put it by. It will be heard of, one day. I can put it by. You forget, my good Clennam; I have put it by. It’s all at an end.’

‘Yes, Doyce,’ returned Clennam, ‘at an end as far as your efforts and rebuffs are concerned, I admit, but not as far as mine are. I am younger than you: I have only once set foot in that precious office, and I am fresh game for them. Come! I’ll try them. You shall do exactly as you have been doing since we have been together. I will add (as I easily can) to what I have been doing, the attempt to get public justice done to you; and, unless I have some success to report, you shall hear no more of it.’

Daniel Doyce was still reluctant to consent, and again and again urged that they had better put it by. But it was natural that he should gradually allow himself to be over-persuaded by Clennam, and should yield. Yield he did. So Arthur resumed the long and hopeless labour of striving to make way with the Circumlocution Office.

The waiting-rooms of that Department soon began to be familiar with his presence, and he was generally ushered into them by its janitors much as a pickpocket might be shown into a police-office; the principal difference being that the object of the latter class of public business is to keep the pickpocket, while the Circumlocution object was to get rid of Clennam. However, he was resolved to stick to the Great Department; and so the work of form-filling, corresponding, minuting, memorandum-making, signing, counter-signing, counter-counter-signing, referring backwards and forwards, and referring sideways, crosswise, and zig-zag, recommenced.

Here arises a feature of the Circumlocution Office, not previously mentioned in the present record. When that admirable Department got into trouble, and was, by some infuriated members of Parliament whom the smaller Barnacles almost suspected of labouring under diabolic possession, attacked on the merits of no individual case, but as an Institution wholly abominable and Bedlamite; then the noble or right honourable Barnacle who represented it in the House, would smite that member and cleave him asunder, with a statement of the quantity of business (for the prevention of business) done by the Circumlocution Office. Then would that noble or right honourable Barnacle hold in his hand a paper containing a few figures, to which, with the permission of the House, he would entreat its attention. Then would the inferior Barnacles exclaim, obeying orders, ‘Hear, Hear, Hear!’ and ‘Read!’ Then would the noble or right honourable Barnacle perceive, sir, from this little document, which he thought might carry conviction even to the perversest mind (Derisive laughter and cheering from the Barnacle fry), that within the short compass of the last financial half-year, this much-maligned Department (Cheers) had written and received fifteen thousand letters (Loud cheers), had written twenty-four thousand minutes (Louder cheers), and thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventeen memoranda (Vehement cheering). Nay, an ingenious gentleman connected with the Department, and himself a valuable public servant, had done him the favour to make a curious calculation of the amount of stationery consumed in it during the same period. It formed a part of this same short document; and he derived from it the remarkable fact that the sheets of foolscap paper it had devoted to the public service would pave the footways on both sides of Oxford Street from end to end, and leave nearly a quarter of a mile to spare for the park (Immense cheering and laughter); while of tape—red tape—it had used enough to stretch, in graceful festoons, from Hyde Park Corner to the General Post Office. Then, amidst a burst of official exultation, would the noble or right honourable Barnacle sit down, leaving the mutilated fragments of the Member on the field. No one, after that exemplary demolition of him, would have the hardihood to hint that the more the Circumlocution Office did, the less was done, and that the greatest blessing it could confer on an unhappy public would be to do nothing.

With sufficient occupation on his hands, now that he had this additional task—such a task had many and many a serviceable man died of before his day—Arthur Clennam led a life of slight variety. Regular visits to his mother’s dull sick room, and visits scarcely less regular to Mr Meagles at Twickenham, were its only changes during many months.

He sadly and sorely missed Little Dorrit. He had been prepared to miss her very much, but not so much. He knew to the full extent only through experience, what a large place in his life was left blank when her familiar little figure went out of it. He felt, too, that he must relinquish the hope of its return, understanding the family character sufficiently well to be assured that he and she were divided by a broad ground of separation. The old interest he had had in her, and her old trusting reliance on him, were tinged with melancholy in his mind: so soon had change stolen over them, and so soon had they glided into the past with other secret tendernesses.

When he received her letter he was greatly moved, but did not the less sensibly feel that she was far divided from him by more than distance. It helped him to a clearer and keener perception of the place assigned him by the family. He saw that he was cherished in her grateful remembrance secretly, and that they resented him with the jail and the rest of its belongings.

Through all these meditations which every day of his life crowded about her, he thought of her otherwise in the old way. She was his innocent friend, his delicate child, his dear Little Dorrit. This very change of circumstances fitted curiously in with the habit, begun on the night when the roses floated away, of considering himself as a much older man than his years really made him. He regarded her from a point of view which in its remoteness, tender as it was, he little thought would have been unspeakable agony to her. He speculated about her future destiny, and about the husband she might have, with an affection for her which would have drained her heart of its dearest drop of hope, and broken it.

Everything about him tended to confirm him in the custom of looking on himself as an elderly man, from whom such aspirations as he had combated in the case of Minnie Gowan (though that was not so long ago either, reckoning by months and seasons), were finally departed. His relations with her father and mother were like those on which a widower son-in-law might have stood. If the twin sister who was dead had lived to pass away in the bloom of womanhood, and he had been her husband, the nature of his intercourse with Mr and Mrs Meagles would probably have been just what it was. This imperceptibly helped to render habitual the impression within him, that he had done with, and dismissed that part of life.

He invariably heard of Minnie from them, as telling them in her letters how happy she was, and how she loved her husband; but inseparable from that subject, he invariably saw the old cloud on Mr Meagles’s face. Mr Meagles had never been quite so radiant since the marriage as before. He had never quite recovered the separation from Pet. He was the same good-humoured, open creature; but as if his face, from being much turned towards the pictures of his two children which could show him only one look, unconsciously adopted a characteristic from them, it always had now, through all its changes of expression, a look of loss in it.

One wintry Saturday when Clennam was at the cottage, the Dowager Mrs Gowan drove up, in the Hampton Court equipage which pretended to be the exclusive equipage of so many individual proprietors. She descended, in her shady ambuscade of green fan, to favour Mr and Mrs Meagles with a call.

‘And how do you both do, Papa and Mama Meagles?’ said she, encouraging her humble connections. ‘And when did you last hear from or about my poor fellow?’

My poor fellow was her son; and this mode of speaking of him politely kept alive, without any offence in the world, the pretence that he had fallen a victim to the Meagles’ wiles.

‘And the dear pretty one?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Have you later news of her than I have?’

Which also delicately implied that her son had been captured by mere beauty, and under its fascination had forgone all sorts of worldly advantages.

‘I am sure,’ said Mrs Gowan, without straining her attention on the answers she received, ‘it’s an unspeakable comfort to know they continue happy. My poor fellow is of such a restless disposition, and has been so used to roving about, and to being inconstant and popular among all manner of people, that it’s the greatest comfort in life. I suppose they’re as poor as mice, Papa Meagles?’

Mr Meagles, fidgety under the question, replied, ‘I hope not, ma’am. I hope they will manage their little income.’

‘Oh! my dearest Meagles!’ returned the lady, tapping him on the arm with the green fan and then adroitly interposing it between a yawn and the company, ‘how can you, as a man of the world and one of the most business-like of human beings—for you know you are business-like, and a great deal too much for us who are not—’

(Which went to the former purpose, by making Mr Meagles out to be an artful schemer.)

‘—How can you talk about their managing their little means? My poor dear fellow! The idea of his managing hundreds! And the sweet pretty creature too. The notion of her managing! Papa Meagles! Don’t!’

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, gravely, ‘I am sorry to admit, then, that Henry certainly does anticipate his means.’

‘My dear good man—I use no ceremony with you, because we are a kind of relations;—positively, Mama Meagles,’ exclaimed Mrs Gowan cheerfully, as if the absurd coincidence then flashed upon her for the first time, ‘a kind of relations! My dear good man, in this world none of us can have everything our own way.’

This again went to the former point, and showed Mr Meagles with all good breeding that, so far, he had been brilliantly successful in his deep designs. Mrs Gowan thought the hit so good a one, that she dwelt upon it; repeating ‘Not everything. No, no; in this world we must not expect everything, Papa Meagles.’

‘And may I ask, ma’am,’ retorted Mr Meagles, a little heightened in colour, ‘who does expect everything?’

‘Oh, nobody, nobody!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I was going to say—but you put me out. You interrupting Papa, what was I going to say?’

Drooping her large green fan, she looked musingly at Mr Meagles while she thought about it; a performance not tending to the cooling of that gentleman’s rather heated spirits.

‘Ah! Yes, to be sure!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘You must remember that my poor fellow has always been accustomed to expectations. They may have been realised, or they may not have been realised—’

‘Let us say, then, may not have been realised,’ observed Mr Meagles.

The Dowager for a moment gave him an angry look; but tossed it off with her head and her fan, and pursued the tenor of her way in her former manner.

‘It makes no difference. My poor fellow has been accustomed to that sort of thing, and of course you knew it, and were prepared for the consequences. I myself always clearly foresaw the consequences, and am not surprised. And you must not be surprised. In fact, can’t be surprised. Must have been prepared for it.’

Mr Meagles looked at his wife and at Clennam; bit his lip; and coughed.

‘And now here’s my poor fellow,’ Mrs Gowan pursued, ‘receiving notice that he is to hold himself in expectation of a baby, and all the expenses attendant on such an addition to his family! Poor Henry! But it can’t be helped now; it’s too late to help it now. Only don’t talk of anticipating means, Papa Meagles, as a discovery; because that would be too much.’

‘Too much, ma’am?’ said Mr Meagles, as seeking an explanation.

‘There, there!’ said Mrs Gowan, putting him in his inferior place with an expressive action of her hand. ‘Too much for my poor fellow’s mother to bear at this time of day. They are fast married, and can’t be unmarried. There, there! I know that! You needn’t tell me that, Papa Meagles. I know it very well. What was it I said just now? That it was a great comfort they continued happy. It is to be hoped they will still continue happy. It is to be hoped Pretty One will do everything she can to make my poor fellow happy, and keep him contented. Papa and Mama Meagles, we had better say no more about it. We never did look at this subject from the same side, and we never shall. There, there! Now I am good.’

Truly, having by this time said everything she could say in maintenance of her wonderfully mythical position, and in admonition to Mr Meagles that he must not expect to bear his honours of alliance too cheaply, Mrs Gowan was disposed to forgo the rest. If Mr Meagles had submitted to a glance of entreaty from Mrs Meagles, and an expressive gesture from Clennam, he would have left her in the undisturbed enjoyment of this state of mind. But Pet was the darling and pride of his heart; and if he could ever have championed her more devotedly, or loved her better, than in the days when she was the sunlight of his house, it would have been now, when, as its daily grace and delight, she was lost to it.

‘Mrs Gowan, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I have been a plain man all my life. If I was to try—no matter whether on myself, on somebody else, or both—any genteel mystifications, I should probably not succeed in them.’

‘Papa Meagles,’ returned the Dowager, with an affable smile, but with the bloom on her cheeks standing out a little more vividly than usual as the neighbouring surface became paler, ‘probably not.’

‘Therefore, my good madam,’ said Mr Meagles, at great pains to restrain himself, ‘I hope I may, without offence, ask to have no such mystification played off upon me.’

‘Mama Meagles,’ observed Mrs Gowan, ‘your good man is incomprehensible.’

Her turning to that worthy lady was an artifice to bring her into the discussion, quarrel with her, and vanquish her. Mr Meagles interposed to prevent that consummation.

‘Mother,’ said he, ‘you are inexpert, my dear, and it is not a fair match. Let me beg of you to remain quiet. Come, Mrs Gowan, come! Let us try to be sensible; let us try to be good-natured; let us try to be fair. Don’t you pity Henry, and I won’t pity Pet. And don’t be one-sided, my dear madam; it’s not considerate, it’s not kind. Don’t let us say that we hope Pet will make Henry happy, or even that we hope Henry will make Pet happy,’ (Mr Meagles himself did not look happy as he spoke the words,) ‘but let us hope they will make each other happy.’

‘Yes, sure, and there leave it, father,’ said Mrs Meagles the kind-hearted and comfortable.

‘Why, mother, no,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘not exactly there. I can’t quite leave it there; I must say just half-a-dozen words more. Mrs Gowan, I hope I am not over-sensitive. I believe I don’t look it.’

‘Indeed you do not,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her head and the great green fan together, for emphasis.

‘Thank you, ma’am; that’s well. Notwithstanding which, I feel a little—I don’t want to use a strong word—now shall I say hurt?’ asked Mr Meagles at once with frankness and moderation, and with a conciliatory appeal in his tone.

‘Say what you like,’ answered Mrs Gowan. ‘It is perfectly indifferent to me.’

‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Mr Meagles, ‘because that’s not responding amiably. I feel a little hurt when I hear references made to consequences having been foreseen, and to its being too late now, and so forth.’

‘Do you, Papa Meagles?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I am not surprised.’

‘Well, ma’am,’ reasoned Mr Meagles, ‘I was in hopes you would have been at least surprised, because to hurt me wilfully on so tender a subject is surely not generous.’

‘I am not responsible,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for your conscience, you know.’

Poor Mr Meagles looked aghast with astonishment.

‘If I am unluckily obliged to carry a cap about with me, which is yours and fits you,’ pursued Mrs Gowan, ‘don’t blame me for its pattern, Papa Meagles, I beg!’

‘Why, good Lord, ma’am!’ Mr Meagles broke out, ‘that’s as much as to state—’

‘Now, Papa Meagles, Papa Meagles,’ said Mrs Gowan, who became extremely deliberate and prepossessing in manner whenever that gentleman became at all warm, ‘perhaps to prevent confusion, I had better speak for myself than trouble your kindness to speak for me. It’s as much as to state, you begin. If you please, I will finish the sentence. It is as much as to state—not that I wish to press it or even recall it, for it is of no use now, and my only wish is to make the best of existing circumstances—that from the first to the last I always objected to this match of yours, and at a very late period yielded a most unwilling consent to it.’

‘Mother!’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Do you hear this! Arthur! Do you hear this!’

‘The room being of a convenient size,’ said Mrs Gowan, looking about as she fanned herself, ‘and quite charmingly adapted in all respects to conversation, I should imagine I am audible in any part of it.’

Some moments passed in silence, before Mr Meagles could hold himself in his chair with sufficient security to prevent his breaking out of it at the next word he spoke. At last he said: ‘Ma’am, I am very unwilling to revive them, but I must remind you what my opinions and my course were, all along, on that unfortunate subject.’

‘O, my dear sir!’ said Mrs Gowan, smiling and shaking her head with accusatory intelligence, ‘they were well understood by me, I assure you.’

‘I never, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘knew unhappiness before that time, I never knew anxiety before that time. It was a time of such distress to me that—’ That Mr Meagles could really say no more about it, in short, but passed his handkerchief before his face.

‘I understood the whole affair,’ said Mrs Gowan, composedly looking over her fan. ‘As you have appealed to Mr Clennam, I may appeal to Mr Clennam, too. He knows whether I did or not.’

‘I am very unwilling,’ said Clennam, looked to by all parties, ‘to take any share in this discussion, more especially because I wish to preserve the best understanding and the clearest relations with Mr Henry Gowan. I have very strong reasons indeed, for entertaining that wish. Mrs Gowan attributed certain views of furthering the marriage to my friend here, in conversation with me before it took place; and I endeavoured to undeceive her. I represented that I knew him (as I did and do) to be strenuously opposed to it, both in opinion and action.’

‘You see?’ said Mrs Gowan, turning the palms of her hands towards Mr Meagles, as if she were Justice herself, representing to him that he had better confess, for he had not a leg to stand on. ‘You see? Very good! Now Papa and Mama Meagles both!’ here she rose; ‘allow me to take the liberty of putting an end to this rather formidable controversy. I will not say another word upon its merits. I will only say that it is an additional proof of what one knows from all experience; that this kind of thing never answers—as my poor fellow himself would say, that it never pays—in one word, that it never does.’

Mr Meagles asked, What kind of thing?

‘It is in vain,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for people to attempt to get on together who have such extremely different antecedents; who are jumbled against each other in this accidental, matrimonial sort of way; and who cannot look at the untoward circumstance which has shaken them together in the same light. It never does.’

Mr Meagles was beginning, ‘Permit me to say, ma’am—’

‘No, don’t,’ returned Mrs Gowan. ‘Why should you! It is an ascertained fact. It never does. I will therefore, if you please, go my way, leaving you to yours. I shall at all times be happy to receive my poor fellow’s pretty wife, and I shall always make a point of being on the most affectionate terms with her. But as to these terms, semi-family and semi-stranger, semi-goring and semi-boring, they form a state of things quite amusing in its impracticability. I assure you it never does.’

The Dowager here made a smiling obeisance, rather to the room than to any one in it, and therewith took a final farewell of Papa and Mama Meagles. Clennam stepped forward to hand her to the Pill-Box which was at the service of all the Pills in Hampton Court Palace; and she got into that vehicle with distinguished serenity, and was driven away.

Thenceforth the Dowager, with a light and careless humour, often recounted to her particular acquaintance how, after a hard trial, she had found it impossible to know those people who belonged to Henry’s wife, and who had made that desperate set to catch him. Whether she had come to the conclusion beforehand, that to get rid of them would give her favourite pretence a better air, might save her some occasional inconvenience, and could risk no loss (the pretty creature being fast married, and her father devoted to her), was best known to herself. Though this history has its opinion on that point too, and decidedly in the affirmative.

CHAPTER 9. Appearance and Disappearance

‘Arthur, my dear boy,’ said Mr Meagles, on the evening of the following day, ‘Mother and I have been talking this over, and we don’t feel comfortable in remaining as we are. That elegant connection of ours—that dear lady who was here yesterday—’

‘I understand,’ said Arthur.

‘Even that affable and condescending ornament of society,’ pursued Mr Meagles, ‘may misrepresent us, we are afraid. We could bear a great deal, Arthur, for her sake; but we think we would rather not bear that, if it was all the same to her.’

‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Go on.’

‘You see,’ proceeded Mr Meagles ‘it might put us wrong with our son-in-law, it might even put us wrong with our daughter, and it might lead to a great deal of domestic trouble. You see, don’t you?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ returned Arthur, ‘there is much reason in what you say.’ He had glanced at Mrs Meagles, who was always on the good and sensible side; and a petition had shone out of her honest face that he would support Mr Meagles in his present inclinings.

‘So we are very much disposed, are Mother and I,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘to pack up bags and baggage and go among the Allongers and Marshongers once more. I mean, we are very much disposed to be off, strike right through France into Italy, and see our Pet.’

‘And I don’t think,’ replied Arthur, touched by the motherly anticipation in the bright face of Mrs Meagles (she must have been very like her daughter, once), ‘that you could do better. And if you ask me for my advice, it is that you set off to-morrow.’

‘Is it really, though?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Mother, this is being backed in an idea!’

Mother, with a look which thanked Clennam in a manner very agreeable to him, answered that it was indeed.

‘The fact is, besides, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, the old cloud coming over his face, ‘that my son-in-law is already in debt again, and that I suppose I must clear him again. It may be as well, even on this account, that I should step over there, and look him up in a friendly way. Then again, here’s Mother foolishly anxious (and yet naturally too) about Pet’s state of health, and that she should not be left to feel lonesome at the present time. It’s undeniably a long way off, Arthur, and a strange place for the poor love under all the circumstances. Let her be as well cared for as any lady in that land, still it is a long way off. just as Home is Home though it’s never so Homely, why you see,’ said Mr Meagles, adding a new version to the proverb, ‘Rome is Rome, though it’s never so Romely.’

‘All perfectly true,’ observed Arthur, ‘and all sufficient reasons for going.’

‘I am glad you think so; it decides me. Mother, my dear, you may get ready. We have lost our pleasant interpreter (she spoke three foreign languages beautifully, Arthur; you have heard her many a time), and you must pull me through it, Mother, as well as you can. I require a deal of pulling through, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head, ‘a deal of pulling through. I stick at everything beyond a noun-substantive—and I stick at him, if he’s at all a tight one.’

‘Now I think of it,’ returned Clennam, ‘there’s Cavalletto. He shall go with you, if you like. I could not afford to lose him, but you will bring him safe back.’

‘Well! I am much obliged to you, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, turning it over, ‘but I think not. No, I think I’ll be pulled through by Mother. Cavallooro (I stick at his very name to start with, and it sounds like the chorus to a comic song) is so necessary to you, that I don’t like the thought of taking him away. More than that, there’s no saying when we may come home again; and it would never do to take him away for an indefinite time. The cottage is not what it was. It only holds two little people less than it ever did, Pet, and her poor unfortunate maid Tattycoram; but it seems empty now. Once out of it, there’s no knowing when we may come back to it. No, Arthur, I’ll be pulled through by Mother.’

They would do best by themselves perhaps, after all, Clennam thought; therefore did not press his proposal.

‘If you would come down and stay here for a change, when it wouldn’t trouble you,’ Mr Meagles resumed, ‘I should be glad to think—and so would Mother too, I know—that you were brightening up the old place with a bit of life it was used to when it was full, and that the Babies on the wall there had a kind eye upon them sometimes. You so belong to the spot, and to them, Arthur, and we should every one of us have been so happy if it had fallen out—but, let us see—how’s the weather for travelling now?’ Mr Meagles broke off, cleared his throat, and got up to look out of the window.

They agreed that the weather was of high promise; and Clennam kept the talk in that safe direction until it had become easy again, when he gently diverted it to Henry Gowan and his quick sense and agreeable qualities when he was delicately dealt with; he likewise dwelt on the indisputable affection he entertained for his wife. Clennam did not fail of his effect upon good Mr Meagles, whom these commendations greatly cheered; and who took Mother to witness that the single and cordial desire of his heart in reference to their daughter’s husband, was harmoniously to exchange friendship for friendship, and confidence for confidence. Within a few hours the cottage furniture began to be wrapped up for preservation in the family absence—or, as Mr Meagles expressed it, the house began to put its hair in papers—and within a few days Father and Mother were gone, Mrs Tickit and Dr Buchan were posted, as of yore, behind the parlour blind, and Arthur’s solitary feet were rustling among the dry fallen leaves in the garden walks.

As he had a liking for the spot, he seldom let a week pass without paying a visit. Sometimes, he went down alone from Saturday to Monday; sometimes his partner accompanied him; sometimes, he merely strolled for an hour or two about the house and garden, saw that all was right, and returned to London again. At all times, and under all circumstances, Mrs Tickit, with her dark row of curls, and Dr Buchan, sat in the parlour window, looking out for the family return.

On one of his visits Mrs Tickit received him with the words, ‘I have something to tell you, Mr Clennam, that will surprise you.’ So surprising was the something in question, that it actually brought Mrs Tickit out of the parlour window and produced her in the garden walk, when Clennam went in at the gate on its being opened for him.

‘What is it, Mrs Tickit?’ said he.

‘Sir,’ returned that faithful housekeeper, having taken him into the parlour and closed the door; ‘if ever I saw the led away and deluded child in my life, I saw her identically in the dusk of yesterday evening.’

‘You don’t mean Tatty—’

‘Coram yes I do!’ quoth Mrs Tickit, clearing the disclosure at a leap.

‘Where?’

‘Mr Clennam,’ returned Mrs Tickit, ‘I was a little heavy in my eyes, being that I was waiting longer than customary for my cup of tea which was then preparing by Mary Jane. I was not sleeping, nor what a person would term correctly, dozing. I was more what a person would strictly call watching with my eyes closed.’

Without entering upon an inquiry into this curious abnormal condition, Clennam said, ‘Exactly. Well?’

‘Well, sir,’ proceeded Mrs Tickit, ‘I was thinking of one thing and thinking of another, just as you yourself might. Just as anybody might.’

‘Precisely so,’ said Clennam. ‘Well?’

‘And when I do think of one thing and do think of another,’ pursued Mrs Tickit, ‘I hardly need to tell you, Mr Clennam, that I think of the family. Because, dear me! a person’s thoughts,’ Mrs Tickit said this with an argumentative and philosophic air, ‘however they may stray, will go more or less on what is uppermost in their minds. They will do it, sir, and a person can’t prevent them.’

Arthur subscribed to this discovery with a nod.

‘You find it so yourself, sir, I’ll be bold to say,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and we all find it so. It an’t our stations in life that changes us, Mr Clennam; thoughts is free!—As I was saying, I was thinking of one thing and thinking of another, and thinking very much of the family. Not of the family in the present times only, but in the past times too. For when a person does begin thinking of one thing and thinking of another in that manner, as it’s getting dark, what I say is, that all times seem to be present, and a person must get out of that state and consider before they can say which is which.’

He nodded again; afraid to utter a word, lest it should present any new opening to Mrs Tickit’s conversational powers.

‘In consequence of which,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘when I quivered my eyes and saw her actual form and figure looking in at the gate, I let them close again without so much as starting, for that actual form and figure came so pat to the time when it belonged to the house as much as mine or your own, that I never thought at the moment of its having gone away. But, sir, when I quivered my eyes again, and saw that it wasn’t there, then it all flooded upon me with a fright, and I jumped up.’

‘You ran out directly?’ said Clennam.

‘I ran out,’ assented Mrs Tickit, ‘as fast as ever my feet would carry me; and if you’ll credit it, Mr Clennam, there wasn’t in the whole shining Heavens, no not so much as a finger of that young woman.’

Passing over the absence from the firmament of this novel constellation, Arthur inquired of Mrs Tickit if she herself went beyond the gate?

‘Went to and fro, and high and low,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and saw no sign of her!’

He then asked Mrs Tickit how long a space of time she supposed there might have been between the two sets of ocular quiverings she had experienced? Mrs Tickit, though minutely circumstantial in her reply, had no settled opinion between five seconds and ten minutes. She was so plainly at sea on this part of the case, and had so clearly been startled out of slumber, that Clennam was much disposed to regard the appearance as a dream. Without hurting Mrs Tickit’s feelings with that infidel solution of her mystery, he took it away from the cottage with him; and probably would have retained it ever afterwards if a circumstance had not soon happened to change his opinion.

He was passing at nightfall along the Strand, and the lamp-lighter was going on before him, under whose hand the street-lamps, blurred by the foggy air, burst out one after another, like so many blazing sunflowers coming into full-blow all at once,—when a stoppage on the pavement, caused by a train of coal-waggons toiling up from the wharves at the river-side, brought him to a stand-still. He had been walking quickly, and going with some current of thought, and the sudden check given to both operations caused him to look freshly about him, as people under such circumstances usually do.

Immediately, he saw in advance—a few people intervening, but still so near to him that he could have touched them by stretching out his arm—Tattycoram and a strange man of a remarkable appearance: a swaggering man, with a high nose, and a black moustache as false in its colour as his eyes were false in their expression, who wore his heavy cloak with the air of a foreigner. His dress and general appearance were those of a man on travel, and he seemed to have very recently joined the girl. In bending down (being much taller than she was), listening to whatever she said to him, he looked over his shoulder with the suspicious glance of one who was not unused to be mistrustful that his footsteps might be dogged. It was then that Clennam saw his face; as his eyes lowered on the people behind him in the aggregate, without particularly resting upon Clennam’s face or any other.

He had scarcely turned his head about again, and it was still bent down, listening to the girl, when the stoppage ceased, and the obstructed stream of people flowed on. Still bending his head and listening to the girl, he went on at her side, and Clennam followed them, resolved to play this unexpected play out, and see where they went.

He had hardly made the determination (though he was not long about it), when he was again as suddenly brought up as he had been by the stoppage. They turned short into the Adelphi,—the girl evidently leading,—and went straight on, as if they were going to the Terrace which overhangs the river.

There is always, to this day, a sudden pause in that place to the roar of the great thoroughfare. The many sounds become so deadened that the change is like putting cotton in the ears, or having the head thickly muffled. At that time the contrast was far greater; there being no small steam-boats on the river, no landing places but slippery wooden stairs and foot-causeways, no railroad on the opposite bank, no hanging bridge or fish-market near at hand, no traffic on the nearest bridge of stone, nothing moving on the stream but watermen’s wherries and coal-lighters. Long and broad black tiers of the latter, moored fast in the mud as if they were never to move again, made the shore funereal and silent after dark; and kept what little water-movement there was, far out towards mid-stream. At any hour later than sunset, and not least at that hour when most of the people who have anything to eat at home are going home to eat it, and when most of those who have nothing have hardly yet slunk out to beg or steal, it was a deserted place and looked on a deserted scene.

Such was the hour when Clennam stopped at the corner, observing the girl and the strange man as they went down the street. The man’s footsteps were so noisy on the echoing stones that he was unwilling to add the sound of his own. But when they had passed the turning and were in the darkness of the dark corner leading to the terrace, he made after them with such indifferent appearance of being a casual passenger on his way, as he could assume.

When he rounded the dark corner, they were walking along the terrace towards a figure which was coming towards them. If he had seen it by itself, under such conditions of gas-lamp, mist, and distance, he might not have known it at first sight, but with the figure of the girl to prompt him, he at once recognised Miss Wade.

He stopped at the corner, seeming to look back expectantly up the street as if he had made an appointment with some one to meet him there; but he kept a careful eye on the three. When they came together, the man took off his hat, and made Miss Wade a bow. The girl appeared to say a few words as though she presented him, or accounted for his being late, or early, or what not; and then fell a pace or so behind, by herself. Miss Wade and the man then began to walk up and down; the man having the appearance of being extremely courteous and complimentary in manner; Miss Wade having the appearance of being extremely haughty.

When they came down to the corner and turned, she was saying, ‘If I pinch myself for it, sir, that is my business. Confine yourself to yours, and ask me no question.’

‘By Heaven, ma’am!’ he replied, making her another bow. ‘It was my profound respect for the strength of your character, and my admiration of your beauty.’

‘I want neither the one nor the other from any one,’ said she, ‘and certainly not from you of all creatures. Go on with your report.’

‘Am I pardoned?’ he asked, with an air of half abashed gallantry.

‘You are paid,’ she said, ‘and that is all you want.’

Whether the girl hung behind because she was not to hear the business, or as already knowing enough about it, Clennam could not determine. They turned and she turned. She looked away at the river, as she walked with her hands folded before her; and that was all he could make of her without showing his face. There happened, by good fortune, to be a lounger really waiting for some one; and he sometimes looked over the railing at the water, and sometimes came to the dark corner and looked up the street, rendering Arthur less conspicuous.

When Miss Wade and the man came back again, she was saying, ‘You must wait until to-morrow.’

‘A thousand pardons?’ he returned. ‘My faith! Then it’s not convenient to-night?’

‘No. I tell you I must get it before I can give it to you.’

She stopped in the roadway, as if to put an end to the conference. He of course stopped too. And the girl stopped.

‘It’s a little inconvenient,’ said the man. ‘A little. But, Holy Blue! that’s nothing in such a service. I am without money to-night, by chance. I have a good banker in this city, but I would not wish to draw upon the house until the time when I shall draw for a round sum.’

‘Harriet,’ said Miss Wade, ‘arrange with him—this gentleman here—for sending him some money to-morrow.’ She said it with a slur of the word gentleman which was more contemptuous than any emphasis, and walked slowly on.

The man bent his head again, and the girl spoke to him as they both followed her. Clennam ventured to look at the girl as they moved away. He could note that her rich black eyes were fastened upon the man with a scrutinising expression, and that she kept at a little distance from him, as they walked side by side to the further end of the terrace.

A loud and altered clank upon the pavement warned him, before he could discern what was passing there, that the man was coming back alone. Clennam lounged into the road, towards the railing; and the man passed at a quick swing, with the end of his cloak thrown over his shoulder, singing a scrap of a French song.

The whole vista had no one in it now but himself. The lounger had lounged out of view, and Miss Wade and Tattycoram were gone. More than ever bent on seeing what became of them, and on having some information to give his good friend, Mr Meagles, he went out at the further end of the terrace, looking cautiously about him. He rightly judged that, at first at all events, they would go in a contrary direction from their late companion. He soon saw them in a neighbouring bye-street, which was not a thoroughfare, evidently allowing time for the man to get well out of their way. They walked leisurely arm-in-arm down one side of the street, and returned on the opposite side. When they came back to the street-corner, they changed their pace for the pace of people with an object and a distance before them, and walked steadily away. Clennam, no less steadily, kept them in sight.

They crossed the Strand, and passed through Covent Garden (under the windows of his old lodging where dear Little Dorrit had come that night), and slanted away north-east, until they passed the great building whence Tattycoram derived her name, and turned into the Gray’s Inn Road. Clennam was quite at home here, in right of Flora, not to mention the Patriarch and Pancks, and kept them in view with ease. He was beginning to wonder where they might be going next, when that wonder was lost in the greater wonder with which he saw them turn into the Patriarchal street. That wonder was in its turn swallowed up on the greater wonder with which he saw them stop at the Patriarchal door. A low double knock at the bright brass knocker, a gleam of light into the road from the opened door, a brief pause for inquiry and answer and the door was shut, and they were housed.

After looking at the surrounding objects for assurance that he was not in an odd dream, and after pacing a little while before the house, Arthur knocked at the door. It was opened by the usual maid-servant, and she showed him up at once, with her usual alacrity, to Flora’s sitting-room.

There was no one with Flora but Mr F.’s Aunt, which respectable gentlewoman, basking in a balmy atmosphere of tea and toast, was ensconced in an easy-chair by the fireside, with a little table at her elbow, and a clean white handkerchief spread over her lap on which two pieces of toast at that moment awaited consumption. Bending over a steaming vessel of tea, and looking through the steam, and breathing forth the steam, like a malignant Chinese enchantress engaged in the performance of unholy rites, Mr F.’s Aunt put down her great teacup and exclaimed, ‘Drat him, if he an’t come back again!’

It would seem from the foregoing exclamation that this uncompromising relative of the lamented Mr F., measuring time by the acuteness of her sensations and not by the clock, supposed Clennam to have lately gone away; whereas at least a quarter of a year had elapsed since he had had the temerity to present himself before her.

‘My goodness Arthur!’ cried Flora, rising to give him a cordial reception, ‘Doyce and Clennam what a start and a surprise for though not far from the machinery and foundry business and surely might be taken sometimes if at no other time about mid-day when a glass of sherry and a humble sandwich of whatever cold meat in the larder might not come amiss nor taste the worse for being friendly for you know you buy it somewhere and wherever bought a profit must be made or they would never keep the place it stands to reason without a motive still never seen and learnt now not to be expected, for as Mr F. himself said if seeing is believing not seeing is believing too and when you don’t see you may fully believe you’re not remembered not that I expect you Arthur Doyce and Clennam to remember me why should I for the days are gone but bring another teacup here directly and tell her fresh toast and pray sit near the fire.’

Arthur was in the greatest anxiety to explain the object of his visit; but was put off for the moment, in spite of himself, by what he understood of the reproachful purport of these words, and by the genuine pleasure she testified in seeing him.

‘And now pray tell me something all you know,’ said Flora, drawing her chair near to his, ‘about the good dear quiet little thing and all the changes of her fortunes carriage people now no doubt and horses without number most romantic, a coat of arms of course and wild beasts on their hind legs showing it as if it was a copy they had done with mouths from ear to ear good gracious, and has she her health which is the first consideration after all for what is wealth without it Mr F. himself so often saying when his twinges came that sixpence a day and find yourself and no gout so much preferable, not that he could have lived on anything like it being the last man or that the previous little thing though far too familiar an expression now had any tendency of that sort much too slight and small but looked so fragile bless her?’

Mr F.’s Aunt, who had eaten a piece of toast down to the crust, here solemnly handed the crust to Flora, who ate it for her as a matter of business. Mr F.’s Aunt then moistened her ten fingers in slow succession at her lips, and wiped them in exactly the same order on the white handkerchief; then took the other piece of toast, and fell to work upon it. While pursuing this routine, she looked at Clennam with an expression of such intense severity that he felt obliged to look at her in return, against his personal inclinations.

‘She is in Italy, with all her family, Flora,’ he said, when the dreaded lady was occupied again.

‘In Italy is she really?’ said Flora, ‘with the grapes growing everywhere and lava necklaces and bracelets too that land of poetry with burning mountains picturesque beyond belief though if the organ-boys come away from the neighbourhood not to be scorched nobody can wonder being so young and bringing their white mice with them most humane, and is she really in that favoured land with nothing but blue about her and dying gladiators and Belvederes though Mr F. himself did not believe for his objection when in spirits was that the images could not be true there being no medium between expensive quantities of linen badly got up and all in creases and none whatever, which certainly does not seem probable though perhaps in consequence of the extremes of rich and poor which may account for it.’

Arthur tried to edge a word in, but Flora hurried on again.

‘Venice Preserved too,’ said she, ‘I think you have been there is it well or ill preserved for people differ so and Maccaroni if they really eat it like the conjurors why not cut it shorter, you are acquainted Arthur—dear Doyce and Clennam at least not dear and most assuredly not Doyce for I have not the pleasure but pray excuse me—acquainted I believe with Mantua what has it got to do with Mantua-making for I never have been able to conceive?’

‘I believe there is no connection, Flora, between the two,’ Arthur was beginning, when she caught him up again.

‘Upon your word no isn’t there I never did but that’s like me I run away with an idea and having none to spare I keep it, alas there was a time dear Arthur that is to say decidedly not dear nor Arthur neither but you understand me when one bright idea gilded the what’s-his-name horizon of et cetera but it is darkly clouded now and all is over.’

Arthur’s increasing wish to speak of something very different was by this time so plainly written on his face, that Flora stopped in a tender look, and asked him what it was?

‘I have the greatest desire, Flora, to speak to some one who is now in this house—with Mr Casby no doubt. Some one whom I saw come in, and who, in a misguided and deplorable way, has deserted the house of a friend of mine.’

‘Papa sees so many and such odd people,’ said Flora, rising, ‘that I shouldn’t venture to go down for any one but you Arthur but for you I would willingly go down in a diving-bell much more a dining-room and will come back directly if you’ll mind and at the same time not mind Mr F.’s Aunt while I’m gone.’

With those words and a parting glance, Flora bustled out, leaving Clennam under dreadful apprehension of this terrible charge.

The first variation which manifested itself in Mr F.’s Aunt’s demeanour when she had finished her piece of toast, was a loud and prolonged sniff. Finding it impossible to avoid construing this demonstration into a defiance of himself, its gloomy significance being unmistakable, Clennam looked plaintively at the excellent though prejudiced lady from whom it emanated, in the hope that she might be disarmed by a meek submission.

‘None of your eyes at me,’ said Mr F.’s Aunt, shivering with hostility. ‘Take that.’

‘That’ was the crust of the piece of toast. Clennam accepted the boon with a look of gratitude, and held it in his hand under the pressure of a little embarrassment, which was not relieved when Mr F.’s Aunt, elevating her voice into a cry of considerable power, exclaimed, ‘He has a proud stomach, this chap! He’s too proud a chap to eat it!’ and, coming out of her chair, shook her venerable fist so very close to his nose as to tickle the surface. But for the timely return of Flora, to find him in this difficult situation, further consequences might have ensued. Flora, without the least discomposure or surprise, but congratulating the old lady in an approving manner on being ‘very lively to-night’, handed her back to her chair.

‘He has a proud stomach, this chap,’ said Mr F.’s relation, on being reseated. ‘Give him a meal of chaff!’

‘Oh! I don’t think he would like that, aunt,’ returned Flora.

‘Give him a meal of chaff, I tell you,’ said Mr F.’s Aunt, glaring round Flora on her enemy. ‘It’s the only thing for a proud stomach. Let him eat up every morsel. Drat him, give him a meal of chaff!’

Under a general pretence of helping him to this refreshment, Flora got him out on the staircase; Mr F.’s Aunt even then constantly reiterating, with inexpressible bitterness, that he was ‘a chap,’ and had a ‘proud stomach,’ and over and over again insisting on that equine provision being made for him which she had already so strongly prescribed.

‘Such an inconvenient staircase and so many corner-stairs Arthur,’ whispered Flora, ‘would you object to putting your arm round me under my pelerine?’

With a sense of going down-stairs in a highly-ridiculous manner, Clennam descended in the required attitude, and only released his fair burden at the dining-room door; indeed, even there she was rather difficult to be got rid of, remaining in his embrace to murmur, ‘Arthur, for mercy’s sake, don’t breathe it to papa!’

She accompanied Arthur into the room, where the Patriarch sat alone, with his list shoes on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had never left off. The youthful Patriarch, aged ten, looked out of his picture-frame above him with no calmer air than he. Both smooth heads were alike beaming, blundering, and bumpy.

‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, sir, I hope you are well. Please to sit down, please to sit down.’

‘I had hoped, sir,’ said Clennam, doing so, and looking round with a face of blank disappointment, ‘not to find you alone.’

‘Ah, indeed?’ said the Patriarch, sweetly. ‘Ah, indeed?’

‘I told you so you know papa,’ cried Flora.

‘Ah, to be sure!’ returned the Patriarch. ‘Yes, just so. Ah, to be sure!’

‘Pray, sir,’ demanded Clennam, anxiously, ‘is Miss Wade gone?’

‘Miss—? Oh, you call her Wade,’ returned Mr Casby. ‘Highly proper.’

Arthur quickly returned, ‘What do you call her?’

‘Wade,’ said Mr Casby. ‘Oh, always Wade.’

After looking at the philanthropic visage and the long silky white hair for a few seconds, during which Mr Casby twirled his thumbs, and smiled at the fire as if he were benevolently wishing it to burn him that he might forgive it, Arthur began:

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Casby—’

‘Not so, not so,’ said the Patriarch, ‘not so.’

‘—But, Miss Wade had an attendant with her—a young woman brought up by friends of mine, over whom her influence is not considered very salutary, and to whom I should be glad to have the opportunity of giving the assurance that she has not yet forfeited the interest of those protectors.’

‘Really, really?’ returned the Patriarch.

‘Will you therefore be so good as to give me the address of Miss Wade?’

‘Dear, dear, dear!’ said the Patriarch, ‘how very unfortunate! If you had only sent in to me when they were here! I observed the young woman, Mr Clennam. A fine full-coloured young woman, Mr Clennam, with very dark hair and very dark eyes. If I mistake not, if I mistake not?’

Arthur assented, and said once more with new expression, ‘If you would be so good as to give me the address.’

‘Dear, dear, dear!’ exclaimed the Patriarch in sweet regret. ‘Tut, tut, tut! what a pity, what a pity! I have no address, sir. Miss Wade mostly lives abroad, Mr Clennam. She has done so for some years, and she is (if I may say so of a fellow-creature and a lady) fitful and uncertain to a fault, Mr Clennam. I may not see her again for a long, long time. I may never see her again. What a pity, what a pity!’

Clennam saw now, that he had as much hope of getting assistance out of the Portrait as out of the Patriarch; but he said nevertheless:

‘Mr Casby, could you, for the satisfaction of the friends I have mentioned, and under any obligation of secrecy that you may consider it your duty to impose, give me any information at all touching Miss Wade? I have seen her abroad, and I have seen her at home, but I know nothing of her. Could you give me any account of her whatever?’

‘None,’ returned the Patriarch, shaking his big head with his utmost benevolence. ‘None at all. Dear, dear, dear! What a real pity that she stayed so short a time, and you delayed! As confidential agency business, agency business, I have occasionally paid this lady money; but what satisfaction is it to you, sir, to know that?’

‘Truly, none at all,’ said Clennam.

‘Truly,’ assented the Patriarch, with a shining face as he philanthropically smiled at the fire, ‘none at all, sir. You hit the wise answer, Mr Clennam. Truly, none at all, sir.’

His turning of his smooth thumbs over one another as he sat there, was so typical to Clennam of the way in which he would make the subject revolve if it were pursued, never showing any new part of it nor allowing it to make the smallest advance, that it did much to help to convince him of his labour having been in vain. He might have taken any time to think about it, for Mr Casby, well accustomed to get on anywhere by leaving everything to his bumps and his white hair, knew his strength to lie in silence. So there Casby sat, twirling and twirling, and making his polished head and forehead look largely benevolent in every knob.

With this spectacle before him, Arthur had risen to go, when from the inner Dock where the good ship Pancks was hove down when out in no cruising ground, the noise was heard of that steamer labouring towards him. It struck Arthur that the noise began demonstratively far off, as though Mr Pancks sought to impress on any one who might happen to think about it, that he was working on from out of hearing.

Mr Pancks and he shook hands, and the former brought his employer a letter or two to sign. Mr Pancks in shaking hands merely scratched his eyebrow with his left forefinger and snorted once, but Clennam, who understood him better now than of old, comprehended that he had almost done for the evening and wished to say a word to him outside. Therefore, when he had taken his leave of Mr Casby, and (which was a more difficult process) of Flora, he sauntered in the neighbourhood on Mr Pancks’s line of road.

He had waited but a short time when Mr Pancks appeared. Mr Pancks shaking hands again with another expressive snort, and taking off his hat to put his hair up, Arthur thought he received his cue to speak to him as one who knew pretty well what had just now passed. Therefore he said, without any preface:

‘I suppose they were really gone, Pancks?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pancks. ‘They were really gone.’

‘Does he know where to find that lady?’

‘Can’t say. I should think so.’

Mr Pancks did not? No, Mr Pancks did not. Did Mr Pancks know anything about her?

‘I expect,’ rejoined that worthy, ‘I know as much about her as she knows about herself. She is somebody’s child—anybody’s, nobody’s. Put her in a room in London here with any six people old enough to be her parents, and her parents may be there for anything she knows. They may be in any house she sees, they may be in any churchyard she passes, she may run against ‘em in any street, she may make chance acquaintance of ‘em at any time; and never know it. She knows nothing about ‘em. She knows nothing about any relative whatever. Never did. Never will.’

‘Mr Casby could enlighten her, perhaps?’

‘May be,’ said Pancks. ‘I expect so, but don’t know. He has long had money (not overmuch as I make out) in trust to dole out to her when she can’t do without it. Sometimes she’s proud and won’t touch it for a length of time; sometimes she’s so poor that she must have it. She writhes under her life. A woman more angry, passionate, reckless, and revengeful never lived. She came for money to-night. Said she had peculiar occasion for it.’

‘I think,’ observed Clennam musing, ‘I by chance know what occasion—I mean into whose pocket the money is to go.’

‘Indeed?’ said Pancks. ‘If it’s a compact, I recommend that party to be exact in it. I wouldn’t trust myself to that woman, young and handsome as she is, if I had wronged her; no, not for twice my proprietor’s money! Unless,’ Pancks added as a saving clause, ‘I had a lingering illness on me, and wanted to get it over.’

Arthur, hurriedly reviewing his own observation of her, found it to tally pretty nearly with Mr Pancks’s view.

‘The wonder is to me,’ pursued Pancks, ‘that she has never done for my proprietor, as the only person connected with her story she can lay hold of. Mentioning that, I may tell you, between ourselves, that I am sometimes tempted to do for him myself.’

Arthur started and said, ‘Dear me, Pancks, don’t say that!’

‘Understand me,’ said Pancks, extending five cropped coaly finger-nails on Arthur’s arm; ‘I don’t mean, cut his throat. But by all that’s precious, if he goes too far, I’ll cut his hair!’

Having exhibited himself in the new light of enunciating this tremendous threat, Mr Pancks, with a countenance of grave import, snorted several times and steamed away.

CHAPTER 10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken

The shady waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office, where he passed a good deal of time in company with various troublesome Convicts who were under sentence to be broken alive on that wheel, had afforded Arthur Clennam ample leisure, in three or four successive days, to exhaust the subject of his late glimpse of Miss Wade and Tattycoram. He had been able to make no more of it and no less of it, and in this unsatisfactory condition he was fain to leave it.

During this space he had not been to his mother’s dismal old house. One of his customary evenings for repairing thither now coming round, he left his dwelling and his partner at nearly nine o’clock, and slowly walked in the direction of that grim home of his youth.

It always affected his imagination as wrathful, mysterious, and sad; and his imagination was sufficiently impressible to see the whole neighbourhood under some tinge of its dark shadow. As he went along, upon a dreary night, the dim streets by which he went, seemed all depositories of oppressive secrets. The deserted counting-houses, with their secrets of books and papers locked up in chests and safes; the banking-houses, with their secrets of strong rooms and wells, the keys of which were in a very few secret pockets and a very few secret breasts; the secrets of all the dispersed grinders in the vast mill, among whom there were doubtless plunderers, forgers, and trust-betrayers of many sorts, whom the light of any day that dawned might reveal; he could have fancied that these things, in hiding, imparted a heaviness to the air. The shadow thickening and thickening as he approached its source, he thought of the secrets of the lonely church-vaults, where the people who had hoarded and secreted in iron coffers were in their turn similarly hoarded, not yet at rest from doing harm; and then of the secrets of the river, as it rolled its turbid tide between two frowning wildernesses of secrets, extending, thick and dense, for many miles, and warding off the free air and the free country swept by winds and wings of birds.

The shadow still darkening as he drew near the house, the melancholy room which his father had once occupied, haunted by the appealing face he had himself seen fade away with him when there was no other watcher by the bed, arose before his mind. Its close air was secret. The gloom, and must, and dust of the whole tenement, were secret. At the heart of it his mother presided, inflexible of face, indomitable of will, firmly holding all the secrets of her own and his father’s life, and austerely opposing herself, front to front, to the great final secret of all life.

He had turned into the narrow and steep street from which the court of enclosure wherein the house stood opened, when another footstep turned into it behind him, and so close upon his own that he was jostled to the wall. As his mind was teeming with these thoughts, the encounter took him altogether unprepared, so that the other passenger had had time to say, boisterously, ‘Pardon! Not my fault!’ and to pass on before the instant had elapsed which was requisite to his recovery of the realities about him.

When that moment had flashed away, he saw that the man striding on before him was the man who had been so much in his mind during the last few days. It was no casual resemblance, helped out by the force of the impression the man made upon him. It was the man; the man he had followed in company with the girl, and whom he had overheard talking to Miss Wade.

The street was a sharp descent and was crooked too, and the man (who although not drunk had the air of being flushed with some strong drink) went down it so fast that Clennam lost him as he looked at him. With no defined intention of following him, but with an impulse to keep the figure in view a little longer, Clennam quickened his pace to pass the twist in the street which hid him from his sight. On turning it, he saw the man no more.

Standing now, close to the gateway of his mother’s house, he looked down the street: but it was empty. There was no projecting shadow large enough to obscure the man; there was no turning near that he could have taken; nor had there been any audible sound of the opening and closing of a door. Nevertheless, he concluded that the man must have had a key in his hand, and must have opened one of the many house-doors and gone in.

Ruminating on this strange chance and strange glimpse, he turned into the court-yard. As he looked, by mere habit, towards the feebly lighted windows of his mother’s room, his eyes encountered the figure he had just lost, standing against the iron railings of the little waste enclosure looking up at those windows and laughing to himself. Some of the many vagrant cats who were always prowling about there by night, and who had taken fright at him, appeared to have stopped when he had stopped, and were looking at him with eyes by no means unlike his own from tops of walls and porches, and other safe points of pause. He had only halted for a moment to entertain himself thus; he immediately went forward, throwing the end of his cloak off his shoulder as he went, ascended the unevenly sunken steps, and knocked a sounding knock at the door.

Clennam’s surprise was not so absorbing but that he took his resolution without any incertitude. He went up to the door too, and ascended the steps too. His friend looked at him with a braggart air, and sang to himself.

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine; Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!’

After which he knocked again.

‘You are impatient, sir,’ said Arthur.

‘I am, sir. Death of my life, sir,’ returned the stranger, ‘it’s my character to be impatient!’

The sound of Mistress Affery cautiously chaining the door before she opened it, caused them both to look that way. Affery opened it a very little, with a flaring candle in her hands and asked who was that, at that time of night, with that knock! ‘Why, Arthur!’ she added with astonishment, seeing him first. ‘Not you sure? Ah, Lord save us! No,’ she cried out, seeing the other. ‘Him again!’

‘It’s true! Him again, dear Mrs Flintwinch,’ cried the stranger. ‘Open the door, and let me take my dear friend Jeremiah to my arms! Open the door, and let me hasten myself to embrace my Flintwinch!’

‘He’s not at home,’ cried Affery.

‘Fetch him!’ cried the stranger. ‘Fetch my Flintwinch! Tell him that it is his old Blandois, who comes from arriving in England; tell him that it is his little boy who is here, his cabbage, his well-beloved! Open the door, beautiful Mrs Flintwinch, and in the meantime let me to pass upstairs, to present my compliments—homage of Blandois—to my lady! My lady lives always? It is well. Open then!’

To Arthur’s increased surprise, Mistress Affery, stretching her eyes wide at himself, as if in warning that this was not a gentleman for him to interfere with, drew back the chain, and opened the door. The stranger, without ceremony, walked into the hall, leaving Arthur to follow him.

‘Despatch then! Achieve then! Bring my Flintwinch! Announce me to my lady!’ cried the stranger, clanking about the stone floor.

‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ said Arthur aloud and sternly, as he surveyed him from head to foot with indignation; ‘who is this gentleman?’

‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ the stranger repeated in his turn, ‘who—ha, ha, ha!—who is this gentleman?’

The voice of Mrs Clennam opportunely called from her chamber above, ‘Affery, let them both come up. Arthur, come straight to me!’

‘Arthur?’ exclaimed Blandois, taking off his hat at arm’s length, and bringing his heels together from a great stride in making him a flourishing bow. ‘The son of my lady? I am the all-devoted of the son of my lady!’

Arthur looked at him again in no more flattering manner than before, and, turning on his heel without acknowledgment, went up-stairs. The visitor followed him up-stairs. Mistress Affery took the key from behind the door, and deftly slipped out to fetch her lord.

A bystander, informed of the previous appearance of Monsieur Blandois in that room, would have observed a difference in Mrs Clennam’s present reception of him. Her face was not one to betray it; and her suppressed manner, and her set voice, were equally under her control. It wholly consisted in her never taking her eyes off his face from the moment of his entrance, and in her twice or thrice, when he was becoming noisy, swaying herself a very little forward in the chair in which she sat upright, with her hands immovable upon its elbows; as if she gave him the assurance that he should be presently heard at any length he would. Arthur did not fail to observe this; though the difference between the present occasion and the former was not within his power of observation.

‘Madame,’ said Blandois, ‘do me the honour to present me to Monsieur, your son. It appears to me, madame, that Monsieur, your son, is disposed to complain of me. He is not polite.’

‘Sir,’ said Arthur, striking in expeditiously, ‘whoever you are, and however you come to be here, if I were the master of this house I would lose no time in placing you on the outside of it.’

‘But you are not,’ said his mother, without looking at him. ‘Unfortunately for the gratification of your unreasonable temper, you are not the master, Arthur.’

‘I make no claim to be, mother. If I object to this person’s manner of conducting himself here, and object to it so much, that if I had any authority here I certainly would not suffer him to remain a minute, I object on your account.’

‘In the case of objection being necessary,’ she returned, ‘I could object for myself. And of course I should.’

The subject of their dispute, who had seated himself, laughed aloud, and rapped his legs with his hand.

‘You have no right,’ said Mrs Clennam, always intent on Blandois, however directly she addressed her son, ‘to speak to the prejudice of any gentleman (least of all a gentleman from another country), because he does not conform to your standard, or square his behaviour by your rules. It is possible that the gentleman may, on similar grounds, object to you.’

‘I hope so,’ returned Arthur.

‘The gentleman,’ pursued Mrs Clennam, ‘on a former occasion brought a letter of recommendation to us from highly esteemed and responsible correspondents. I am perfectly unacquainted with the gentleman’s object in coming here at present. I am entirely ignorant of it, and cannot be supposed likely to be able to form the remotest guess at its nature;’ her habitual frown became stronger, as she very slowly and weightily emphasised those words; ‘but, when the gentleman proceeds to explain his object, as I shall beg him to have the goodness to do to myself and Flintwinch, when Flintwinch returns, it will prove, no doubt, to be one more or less in the usual way of our business, which it will be both our business and our pleasure to advance. It can be nothing else.’

‘We shall see, madame!’ said the man of business.

‘We shall see,’ she assented. ‘The gentleman is acquainted with Flintwinch; and when the gentleman was in London last, I remember to have heard that he and Flintwinch had some entertainment or good-fellowship together. I am not in the way of knowing much that passes outside this room, and the jingle of little worldly things beyond it does not much interest me; but I remember to have heard that.’

‘Right, madame. It is true.’ He laughed again, and whistled the burden of the tune he had sung at the door.

‘Therefore, Arthur,’ said his mother, ‘the gentleman comes here as an acquaintance, and no stranger; and it is much to be regretted that your unreasonable temper should have found offence in him. I regret it. I say so to the gentleman. You will not say so, I know; therefore I say it for myself and Flintwinch, since with us two the gentleman’s business lies.’

The key of the door below was now heard in the lock, and the door was heard to open and close. In due sequence Mr Flintwinch appeared; on whose entrance the visitor rose from his chair, laughing loud, and folded him in a close embrace.

‘How goes it, my cherished friend!’ said he. ‘How goes the world, my Flintwinch? Rose-coloured? So much the better, so much the better! Ah, but you look charming! Ah, but you look young and fresh as the flowers of Spring! Ah, good little boy! Brave child, brave child!’

While heaping these compliments on Mr Flintwinch, he rolled him about with a hand on each of his shoulders, until the staggerings of that gentleman, who under the circumstances was dryer and more twisted than ever, were like those of a teetotum nearly spent.

‘I had a presentiment, last time, that we should be better and more intimately acquainted. Is it coming on you, Flintwinch? Is it yet coming on?’

‘Why, no, sir,’ retorted Mr Flintwinch. ‘Not unusually. Hadn’t you better be seated? You have been calling for some more of that port, sir, I guess?’

‘Ah, Little joker! Little pig!’ cried the visitor. ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ And throwing Mr Flintwinch away, as a closing piece of raillery, he sat down again.

The amazement, suspicion, resentment, and shame, with which Arthur looked on at all this, struck him dumb. Mr Flintwinch, who had spun backward some two or three yards under the impetus last given to him, brought himself up with a face completely unchanged in its stolidity except as it was affected by shortness of breath, and looked hard at Arthur. Not a whit less reticent and wooden was Mr Flintwinch outwardly, than in the usual course of things: the only perceptible difference in him being that the knot of cravat which was generally under his ear, had worked round to the back of his head: where it formed an ornamental appendage not unlike a bagwig, and gave him something of a courtly appearance.

As Mrs Clennam never removed her eyes from Blandois (on whom they had some effect, as a steady look has on a lower sort of dog), so Jeremiah never removed his from Arthur. It was as if they had tacitly agreed to take their different provinces. Thus, in the ensuing silence, Jeremiah stood scraping his chin and looking at Arthur as though he were trying to screw his thoughts out of him with an instrument.

After a little, the visitor, as if he felt the silence irksome, rose, and impatiently put himself with his back to the sacred fire which had burned through so many years. Thereupon Mrs Clennam said, moving one of her hands for the first time, and moving it very slightly with an action of dismissal:

‘Please to leave us to our business, Arthur.’

‘Mother, I do so with reluctance.’

‘Never mind with what,’ she returned, ‘or with what not. Please to leave us. Come back at any other time when you may consider it a duty to bury half an hour wearily here. Good night.’

She held up her muffled fingers that he might touch them with his, according to their usual custom, and he stood over her wheeled chair to touch her face with his lips. He thought, then, that her cheek was more strained than usual, and that it was colder. As he followed the direction of her eyes, in rising again, towards Mr Flintwinch’s good friend, Mr Blandois, Mr Blandois snapped his finger and thumb with one loud contemptuous snap.

‘I leave your—your business acquaintance in my mother’s room, Mr Flintwinch,’ said Clennam, ‘with a great deal of surprise and a great deal of unwillingness.’

The person referred to snapped his finger and thumb again.

‘Good night, mother.’

‘Good night.’

‘I had a friend once, my good comrade Flintwinch,’ said Blandois, standing astride before the fire, and so evidently saying it to arrest Clennam’s retreating steps, that he lingered near the door; ‘I had a friend once, who had heard so much of the dark side of this city and its ways, that he wouldn’t have confided himself alone by night with two people who had an interest in getting him under the ground—my faith! not even in a respectable house like this—unless he was bodily too strong for them. Bah! What a poltroon, my Flintwinch! Eh?’

‘A cur, sir.’

‘Agreed! A cur. But he wouldn’t have done it, my Flintwinch, unless he had known them to have the will to silence him, without the power. He wouldn’t have drunk from a glass of water under such circumstances—not even in a respectable house like this, my Flintwinch—unless he had seen one of them drink first, and swallow too!’

Disdaining to speak, and indeed not very well able, for he was half-choking, Clennam only glanced at the visitor as he passed out. The visitor saluted him with another parting snap, and his nose came down over his moustache and his moustache went up under his nose, in an ominous and ugly smile.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Affery,’ whispered Clennam, as she opened the door for him in the dark hall, and he groped his way to the sight of the night-sky, ‘what is going on here?’

Her own appearance was sufficiently ghastly, standing in the dark with her apron thrown over her head, and speaking behind it in a low, deadened voice.

‘Don’t ask me anything, Arthur. I’ve been in a dream for ever so long. Go away!’

He went out, and she shut the door upon him. He looked up at the windows of his mother’s room, and the dim light, deadened by the yellow blinds, seemed to say a response after Affery, and to mutter, ‘Don’t ask me anything. Go away!’

CHAPTER 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit

Dear Mr Clennam,

As I said in my last that it was best for nobody to write to me, and as my sending you another little letter can therefore give you no other trouble than the trouble of reading it (perhaps you may not find leisure for even that, though I hope you will some day), I am now going to devote an hour to writing to you again. This time, I write from Rome.

We left Venice before Mr and Mrs Gowan did, but they were not so long upon the road as we were, and did not travel by the same way, and so when we arrived we found them in a lodging here, in a place called the Via Gregoriana. I dare say you know it.

Now I am going to tell you all I can about them, because I know that is what you most want to hear. Theirs is not a very comfortable lodging, but perhaps I thought it less so when I first saw it than you would have done, because you have been in many different countries and have seen many different customs. Of course it is a far, far better place—millions of times—than any I have ever been used to until lately; and I fancy I don’t look at it with my own eyes, but with hers. For it would be easy to see that she has always been brought up in a tender and happy home, even if she had not told me so with great love for it.

Well, it is a rather bare lodging up a rather dark common staircase, and it is nearly all a large dull room, where Mr Gowan paints. The windows are blocked up where any one could look out, and the walls have been all drawn over with chalk and charcoal by others who have lived there before—oh,—I should think, for years! There is a curtain more dust-coloured than red, which divides it, and the part behind the curtain makes the private sitting-room. When I first saw her there she was alone, and her work had fallen out of her hand, and she was looking up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows. Pray do not be uneasy when I tell you, but it was not quite so airy, nor so bright, nor so cheerful, nor so happy and youthful altogether as I should have liked it to be.

On account of Mr Gowan’s painting Papa’s picture (which I am not quite convinced I should have known from the likeness if I had not seen him doing it), I have had more opportunities of being with her since then than I might have had without this fortunate chance. She is very much alone. Very much alone indeed.

Shall I tell you about the second time I saw her? I went one day, when it happened that I could run round by myself, at four or five o’clock in the afternoon. She was then dining alone, and her solitary dinner had been brought in from somewhere, over a kind of brazier with a fire in it, and she had no company or prospect of company, that I could see, but the old man who had brought it. He was telling her a long story (of robbers outside the walls being taken up by a stone statue of a Saint), to entertain her—as he said to me when I came out, ‘because he had a daughter of his own, though she was not so pretty.’

I ought now to mention Mr Gowan, before I say what little more I have to say about her. He must admire her beauty, and he must be proud of her, for everybody praises it, and he must be fond of her, and I do not doubt that he is—but in his way. You know his way, and if it appears as careless and discontented in your eyes as it does in mine, I am not wrong in thinking that it might be better suited to her. If it does not seem so to you, I am quite sure I am wholly mistaken; for your unchanged poor child confides in your knowledge and goodness more than she could ever tell you if she was to try. But don’t be frightened, I am not going to try.

Owing (as I think, if you think so too) to Mr Gowan’s unsettled and dissatisfied way, he applies himself to his profession very little. He does nothing steadily or patiently; but equally takes things up and throws them down, and does them, or leaves them undone, without caring about them. When I have heard him talking to Papa during the sittings for the picture, I have sat wondering whether it could be that he has no belief in anybody else, because he has no belief in himself. Is it so? I wonder what you will say when you come to this! I know how you will look, and I can almost hear the voice in which you would tell me on the Iron Bridge.

Mr Gowan goes out a good deal among what is considered the best company here—though he does not look as if he enjoyed it or liked it when he is with it—and she sometimes accompanies him, but lately she has gone out very little. I think I have noticed that they have an inconsistent way of speaking about her, as if she had made some great self-interested success in marrying Mr Gowan, though, at the same time, the very same people, would not have dreamed of taking him for themselves or their daughters. Then he goes into the country besides, to think about making sketches; and in all places where there are visitors, he has a large acquaintance and is very well known. Besides all this, he has a friend who is much in his society both at home and away from home, though he treats this friend very coolly and is very uncertain in his behaviour to him. I am quite sure (because she has told me so), that she does not like this friend. He is so revolting to me, too, that his being away from here, at present, is quite a relief to my mind. How much more to hers!

But what I particularly want you to know, and why I have resolved to tell you so much while I am afraid it may make you a little uncomfortable without occasion, is this. She is so true and so devoted, and knows so completely that all her love and duty are his for ever, that you may be certain she will love him, admire him, praise him, and conceal all his faults, until she dies. I believe she conceals them, and always will conceal them, even from herself. She has given him a heart that can never be taken back; and however much he may try it, he will never wear out its affection. You know the truth of this, as you know everything, far far better than I; but I cannot help telling you what a nature she shows, and that you can never think too well of her.

I have not yet called her by her name in this letter, but we are such friends now that I do so when we are quietly together, and she speaks to me by my name—I mean, not my Christian name, but the name you gave me. When she began to call me Amy, I told her my short story, and that you had always called me Little Dorrit. I told her that the name was much dearer to me than any other, and so she calls me Little Dorrit too.

Perhaps you have not heard from her father or mother yet, and may not know that she has a baby son. He was born only two days ago, and just a week after they came. It has made them very happy. However, I must tell you, as I am to tell you all, that I fancy they are under a constraint with Mr Gowan, and that they feel as if his mocking way with them was sometimes a slight given to their love for her. It was but yesterday, when I was there, that I saw Mr Meagles change colour, and get up and go out, as if he was afraid that he might say so, unless he prevented himself by that means. Yet I am sure they are both so considerate, good-humoured, and reasonable, that he might spare them. It is hard in him not to think of them a little more.

I stopped at the last full stop to read all this over. It looked at first as if I was taking on myself to understand and explain so much, that I was half inclined not to send it. But when I thought it over a little, I felt more hopeful for your knowing at once that I had only been watchful for you, and had only noticed what I think I have noticed, because I was quickened by your interest in it. Indeed, you may be sure that is the truth.

And now I have done with the subject in the present letter, and have little left to say.

We are all quite well, and Fanny improves every day. You can hardly think how kind she is to me, and what pains she takes with me. She has a lover, who has followed her, first all the way from Switzerland, and then all the way from Venice, and who has just confided to me that he means to follow her everywhere. I was much confused by his speaking to me about it, but he would. I did not know what to say, but at last I told him that I thought he had better not. For Fanny (but I did not tell him this) is much too spirited and clever to suit him. Still, he said he would, all the same. I have no lover, of course.

If you should ever get so far as this in this long letter, you will perhaps say, Surely Little Dorrit will not leave off without telling me something about her travels, and surely it is time she did. I think it is indeed, but I don’t know what to tell you. Since we left Venice we have been in a great many wonderful places, Genoa and Florence among them, and have seen so many wonderful sights, that I am almost giddy when I think what a crowd they make. But you can tell me so much more about them than I can tell you, that why should I tire you with my accounts and descriptions?

Dear Mr Clennam, as I had the courage to tell you what the familiar difficulties in my travelling mind were before, I will not be a coward now. One of my frequent thoughts is this:—Old as these cities are, their age itself is hardly so curious, to my reflections, as that they should have been in their places all through those days when I did not even know of the existence of more than two or three of them, and when I scarcely knew of anything outside our old walls. There is something melancholy in it, and I don’t know why. When we went to see the famous leaning tower at Pisa, it was a bright sunny day, and it and the buildings near it looked so old, and the earth and the sky looked so young, and its shadow on the ground was so soft and retired! I could not at first think how beautiful it was, or how curious, but I thought, ‘O how many times when the shadow of the wall was falling on our room, and when that weary tread of feet was going up and down the yard—O how many times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is to-day!’ It quite overpowered me. My heart was so full that tears burst out of my eyes, though I did what I could to restrain them. And I have the same feeling often—often.

Do you know that since the change in our fortunes, though I appear to myself to have dreamed more than before, I have always dreamed of myself as very young indeed! I am not very old, you may say. No, but that is not what I mean. I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning to do needlework. I have often dreamed of myself as back there, seeing faces in the yard little known, and which I should have thought I had quite forgotten; but, as often as not, I have been abroad here—in Switzerland, or France, or Italy—somewhere where we have been—yet always as that little child. I have dreamed of going down to Mrs General, with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember myself. I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner at Venice when we have had a large company, in the mourning for my poor mother which I wore when I was eight years old, and wore long after it was threadbare and would mend no more. It has been a great distress to me to think how irreconcilable the company would consider it with my father’s wealth, and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret. But I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it; and at the self-same moment I have dreamed that I have sat with the heart-ache at table, calculating the expenses of the dinner, and quite distracting myself with thinking how they were ever to be made good. I have never dreamed of the change in our fortunes itself; I have never dreamed of your coming back with me that memorable morning to break it; I have never even dreamed of you.

Dear Mr Clennam, it is possible that I have thought of you—and others—so much by day, that I have no thoughts left to wander round you by night. For I must now confess to you that I suffer from home-sickness—that I long so ardently and earnestly for home, as sometimes, when no one sees me, to pine for it. I cannot bear to turn my face further away from it. My heart is a little lightened when we turn towards it, even for a few miles, and with the knowledge that we are soon to turn away again. So dearly do I love the scene of my poverty and your kindness. O so dearly, O so dearly!

Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We are all fond of the life here (except me), and there are no plans for our return. My dear father talks of a visit to London late in this next spring, on some affairs connected with the property, but I have no hope that he will bring me with him.

I have tried to get on a little better under Mrs General’s instruction, and I hope I am not quite so dull as I used to be. I have begun to speak and understand, almost easily, the hard languages I told you about. I did not remember, at the moment when I wrote last, that you knew them both; but I remembered it afterwards, and it helped me on. God bless you, dear Mr Clennam. Do not forget

Your ever grateful and affectionate

LITTLE DORRIT.

P.S.—Particularly remember that Minnie Gowan deserves the best remembrance in which you can hold her. You cannot think too generously or too highly of her. I forgot Mr Pancks last time. Please, if you should see him, give him your Little Dorrit’s kind regard. He was very good to Little D.

CHAPTER 12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden

The famous name of Merdle became, every day, more famous in the land. Nobody knew that the Merdle of such high renown had ever done any good to any one, alive or dead, or to any earthly thing; nobody knew that he had any capacity or utterance of any sort in him, which had ever thrown, for any creature, the feeblest farthing-candle ray of light on any path of duty or diversion, pain or pleasure, toil or rest, fact or fancy, among the multiplicity of paths in the labyrinth trodden by the sons of Adam; nobody had the smallest reason for supposing the clay of which this object of worship was made, to be other than the commonest clay, with as clogged a wick smouldering inside of it as ever kept an image of humanity from tumbling to pieces. All people knew (or thought they knew) that he had made himself immensely rich; and, for that reason alone, prostrated themselves before him, more degradedly and less excusably than the darkest savage creeps out of his hole in the ground to propitiate, in some log or reptile, the Deity of his benighted soul.

Nay, the high priests of this worship had the man before them as a protest against their meanness. The multitude worshipped on trust—though always distinctly knowing why—but the officiators at the altar had the man habitually in their view. They sat at his feasts, and he sat at theirs. There was a spectre always attendant on him, saying to these high priests, ‘Are such the signs you trust, and love to honour; this head, these eyes, this mode of speech, the tone and manner of this man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office, and the rulers of men. When half-a-dozen of you fall out by the ears, it seems that mother earth can give birth to no other rulers. Does your qualification lie in the superior knowledge of men which accepts, courts, and puffs this man? Or, if you are competent to judge aright the signs I never fail to show you when he appears among you, is your superior honesty your qualification?’ Two rather ugly questions these, always going about town with Mr Merdle; and there was a tacit agreement that they must be stifled.

In Mrs Merdle’s absence abroad, Mr Merdle still kept the great house open for the passage through it of a stream Of visitors. A few of these took affable possession of the establishment. Three or four ladies of distinction and liveliness used to say to one another, ‘Let us dine at our dear Merdle’s next Thursday. Whom shall we have?’ Our dear Merdle would then receive his instructions; and would sit heavily among the company at table and wander lumpishly about his drawing-rooms afterwards, only remarkable for appearing to have nothing to do with the entertainment beyond being in its way.

The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man’s life, relaxed nothing of his severity. He looked on at these dinners when the bosom was not there, as he looked on at other dinners when the bosom was there; and his eye was a basilisk to Mr Merdle. He was a hard man, and would never bate an ounce of plate or a bottle of wine. He would not allow a dinner to be given, unless it was up to his mark. He set forth the table for his own dignity. If the guests chose to partake of what was served, he saw no objection; but it was served for the maintenance of his rank. As he stood by the sideboard he seemed to announce, ‘I have accepted office to look at this which is now before me, and to look at nothing less than this.’ If he missed the presiding bosom, it was as a part of his own state of which he was, from unavoidable circumstances, temporarily deprived, just as he might have missed a centre-piece, or a choice wine-cooler, which had been sent to the Banker’s.

Mr Merdle issued invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was to be there, Mr Tite Barnacle was to be there, the pleasant young Barnacle was to be there; and the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who went about the provinces when the House was up, warbling the praises of their Chief, were to be represented there. It was understood to be a great occasion. Mr Merdle was going to take up the Barnacles. Some delicate little negotiations had occurred between him and the noble Decimus—the young Barnacle of engaging manners acting as negotiator—and Mr Merdle had decided to cast the weight of his great probity and great riches into the Barnacle scale. Jobbery was suspected by the malicious; perhaps because it was indisputable that if the adherence of the immortal Enemy of Mankind could have been secured by a job, the Barnacles would have jobbed him—for the good of the country, for the good of the country.

Mrs Merdle had written to this magnificent spouse of hers, whom it was heresy to regard as anything less than all the British Merchants since the days of Whittington rolled into one, and gilded three feet deep all over—had written to this spouse of hers, several letters from Rome, in quick succession, urging upon him with importunity that now or never was the time to provide for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs Merdle had shown him that the case of Edmund was urgent, and that infinite advantages might result from his having some good thing directly. In the grammar of Mrs Merdle’s verbs on this momentous subject, there was only one mood, the Imperative; and that Mood had only one Tense, the Present. Mrs Merdle’s verbs were so pressingly presented to Mr Merdle to conjugate, that his sluggish blood and his long coat-cuffs became quite agitated.

In which state of agitation, Mr Merdle, evasively rolling his eyes round the Chief Butler’s shoes without raising them to the index of that stupendous creature’s thoughts, had signified to him his intention of giving a special dinner: not a very large dinner, but a very special dinner. The Chief Butler had signified, in return, that he had no objection to look on at the most expensive thing in that way that could be done; and the day of the dinner was now come.

Mr Merdle stood in one of his drawing-rooms, with his back to the fire, waiting for the arrival of his important guests. He seldom or never took the liberty of standing with his back to the fire unless he was quite alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he could not have done such a deed. He would have clasped himself by the wrists in that constabulary manner of his, and have paced up and down the hearthrug, or gone creeping about among the rich objects of furniture, if his oppressive retainer had appeared in the room at that very moment. The sly shadows which seemed to dart out of hiding when the fire rose, and to dart back into it when the fire fell, were sufficient witnesses of his making himself so easy. They were even more than sufficient, if his uncomfortable glances at them might be taken to mean anything.

Mr Merdle’s right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the evening paper was full of Mr Merdle. His wonderful enterprise, his wonderful wealth, his wonderful Bank, were the fattening food of the evening paper that night. The wonderful Bank, of which he was the chief projector, establisher, and manager, was the latest of the many Merdle wonders. So modest was Mr Merdle withal, in the midst of these splendid achievements, that he looked far more like a man in possession of his house under a distraint, than a commercial Colossus bestriding his own hearthrug, while the little ships were sailing into dinner.

Behold the vessels coming into port! The engaging young Barnacle was the first arrival; but Bar overtook him on the staircase. Bar, strengthened as usual with his double eye-glass and his little jury droop, was overjoyed to see the engaging young Barnacle; and opined that we were going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to take a special argument?

‘Indeed,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand; ‘how so?’

‘Nay,’ smiled Bar. ‘If you don’t know, how can I know? You are in the innermost sanctuary of the temple; I am one of the admiring concourse on the plain without.’

Bar could be light in hand, or heavy in hand, according to the customer he had to deal with. With Ferdinand Barnacle he was gossamer. Bar was likewise always modest and self-depreciatory—in his way. Bar was a man of great variety; but one leading thread ran through the woof of all his patterns. Every man with whom he had to do was in his eyes a jury-man; and he must get that jury-man over, if he could.

‘Our illustrious host and friend,’ said Bar; ‘our shining mercantile star;—going into politics?’

‘Going? He has been in Parliament some time, you know,’ returned the engaging young Barnacle.

‘True,’ said Bar, with his light-comedy laugh for special jury-men, which was a very different thing from his low-comedy laugh for comic tradesmen on common juries: ‘he has been in Parliament for some time. Yet hitherto our star has been a vacillating and wavering star? Humph?’

An average witness would have been seduced by the Humph? into an affirmative answer, But Ferdinand Barnacle looked knowingly at Bar as he strolled up-stairs, and gave him no answer at all.

‘Just so, just so,’ said Bar, nodding his head, for he was not to be put off in that way, ‘and therefore I spoke of our sitting in Banco to take a special argument—meaning this to be a high and solemn occasion, when, as Captain Macheath says, “the judges are met: a terrible show!” We lawyers are sufficiently liberal, you see, to quote the Captain, though the Captain is severe upon us. Nevertheless, I think I could put in evidence an admission of the Captain’s,’ said Bar, with a little jocose roll of his head; for, in his legal current of speech, he always assumed the air of rallying himself with the best grace in the world; ‘an admission of the Captain’s that Law, in the gross, is at least intended to be impartial. For what says the Captain, if I quote him correctly—and if not,’ with a light-comedy touch of his double eye-glass on his companion’s shoulder, ‘my learned friend will set me right:

“Since laws were made for every degree, To curb vice in others as well as in me, I wonder we ha’n’t better company Upon Tyburn Tree!”’

These words brought them to the drawing-room, where Mr Merdle stood before the fire. So immensely astounded was Mr Merdle by the entrance of Bar with such a reference in his mouth, that Bar explained himself to have been quoting Gay. ‘Assuredly not one of our Westminster Hall authorities,’ said he, ‘but still no despicable one to a man possessing the largely-practical Mr Merdle’s knowledge of the world.’

Mr Merdle looked as if he thought he would say something, but subsequently looked as if he thought he wouldn’t. The interval afforded time for Bishop to be announced.

Bishop came in with meekness, and yet with a strong and rapid step as if he wanted to get his seven-league dress-shoes on, and go round the world to see that everybody was in a satisfactory state. Bishop had no idea that there was anything significant in the occasion. That was the most remarkable trait in his demeanour. He was crisp, fresh, cheerful, affable, bland; but so surprisingly innocent.

Bar sidled up to prefer his politest inquiries in reference to the health of Mrs Bishop. Mrs Bishop had been a little unfortunate in the article of taking cold at a Confirmation, but otherwise was well. Young Mr Bishop was also well. He was down, with his young wife and little family, at his Cure of Souls.

The representatives of the Barnacle Chorus dropped in next, and Mr Merdle’s physician dropped in next. Bar, who had a bit of one eye and a bit of his double eye-glass for every one who came in at the door, no matter with whom he was conversing or what he was talking about, got among them all by some skilful means, without being seen to get at them, and touched each individual gentleman of the jury on his own individual favourite spot. With some of the Chorus, he laughed about the sleepy member who had gone out into the lobby the other night, and voted the wrong way: with others, he deplored that innovating spirit in the time which could not even be prevented from taking an unnatural interest in the public service and the public money: with the physician he had a word to say about the general health; he had also a little information to ask him for, concerning a professional man of unquestioned erudition and polished manners—but those credentials in their highest development he believed were the possession of other professors of the healing art (jury droop)—whom he had happened to have in the witness-box the day before yesterday, and from whom he had elicited in cross-examination that he claimed to be one of the exponents of this new mode of treatment which appeared to Bar to—eh?—well, Bar thought so; Bar had thought, and hoped, Physician would tell him so. Without presuming to decide where doctors disagreed, it did appear to Bar, viewing it as a question of common sense and not of so-called legal penetration, that this new system was—might be, in the presence of so great an authority—say, Humbug? Ah! Fortified by such encouragement, he could venture to say Humbug; and now Bar’s mind was relieved.

Mr Tite Barnacle, who, like Dr Johnson’s celebrated acquaintance, had only one idea in his head and that was a wrong one, had appeared by this time. This eminent gentleman and Mr Merdle, seated diverse ways and with ruminating aspects on a yellow ottoman in the light of the fire, holding no verbal communication with each other, bore a strong general resemblance to the two cows in the Cuyp picture over against them.

But now, Lord Decimus arrived. The Chief Butler, who up to this time had limited himself to a branch of his usual function by looking at the company as they entered (and that, with more of defiance than favour), put himself so far out of his way as to come up-stairs with him and announce him. Lord Decimus being an overpowering peer, a bashful young member of the Lower House who was the last fish but one caught by the Barnacles, and who had been invited on this occasion to commemorate his capture, shut his eyes when his Lordship came in.

Lord Decimus, nevertheless, was glad to see the Member. He was also glad to see Mr Merdle, glad to see Bishop, glad to see Bar, glad to see Physician, glad to see Tite Barnacle, glad to see Chorus, glad to see Ferdinand his private secretary. Lord Decimus, though one of the greatest of the earth, was not remarkable for ingratiatory manners, and Ferdinand had coached him up to the point of noticing all the fellows he might find there, and saying he was glad to see them. When he had achieved this rush of vivacity and condescension, his Lordship composed himself into the picture after Cuyp, and made a third cow in the group.

Bar, who felt that he had got all the rest of the jury and must now lay hold of the Foreman, soon came sidling up, double eye-glass in hand. Bar tendered the weather, as a subject neatly aloof from official reserve, for the Foreman’s consideration. Bar said that he was told (as everybody always is told, though who tells them, and why, will ever remain a mystery), that there was to be no wall-fruit this year. Lord Decimus had not heard anything amiss of his peaches, but rather believed, if his people were correct, he was to have no apples. No apples? Bar was lost in astonishment and concern. It would have been all one to him, in reality, if there had not been a pippin on the surface of the earth, but his show of interest in this apple question was positively painful. Now, to what, Lord Decimus—for we troublesome lawyers loved to gather information, and could never tell how useful it might prove to us—to what, Lord Decimus, was this to be attributed? Lord Decimus could not undertake to propound any theory about it. This might have stopped another man; but Bar, sticking to him fresh as ever, said, ‘As to pears, now?’

Long after Bar got made Attorney-General, this was told of him as a master-stroke. Lord Decimus had a reminiscence about a pear-tree formerly growing in a garden near the back of his dame’s house at Eton, upon which pear-tree the only joke of his life perennially bloomed. It was a joke of a compact and portable nature, turning on the difference between Eton pears and Parliamentary pairs; but it was a joke, a refined relish of which would seem to have appeared to Lord Decimus impossible to be had without a thorough and intimate acquaintance with the tree. Therefore, the story at first had no idea of such a tree, sir, then gradually found it in winter, carried it through the changing season, saw it bud, saw it blossom, saw it bear fruit, saw the fruit ripen; in short, cultivated the tree in that diligent and minute manner before it got out of the bed-room window to steal the fruit, that many thanks had been offered up by belated listeners for the trees having been planted and grafted prior to Lord Decimus’s time. Bar’s interest in apples was so overtopped by the wrapt suspense in which he pursued the changes of these pears, from the moment when Lord Decimus solemnly opened with ‘Your mentioning pears recalls to my remembrance a pear-tree,’ down to the rich conclusion, ‘And so we pass, through the various changes of life, from Eton pears to Parliamentary pairs,’ that he had to go down-stairs with Lord Decimus, and even then to be seated next to him at table in order that he might hear the anecdote out. By that time, Bar felt that he had secured the Foreman, and might go to dinner with a good appetite.

It was a dinner to provoke an appetite, though he had not had one. The rarest dishes, sumptuously cooked and sumptuously served; the choicest fruits; the most exquisite wines; marvels of workmanship in gold and silver, china and glass; innumerable things delicious to the senses of taste, smell, and sight, were insinuated into its composition. O, what a wonderful man this Merdle, what a great man, what a master man, how blessedly and enviably endowed—in one word, what a rich man!

He took his usual poor eighteenpennyworth of food in his usual indigestive way, and had as little to say for himself as ever a wonderful man had. Fortunately Lord Decimus was one of those sublimities who have no occasion to be talked to, for they can be at any time sufficiently occupied with the contemplation of their own greatness. This enabled the bashful young Member to keep his eyes open long enough at a time to see his dinner. But, whenever Lord Decimus spoke, he shut them again.

The agreeable young Barnacle, and Bar, were the talkers of the party. Bishop would have been exceedingly agreeable also, but that his innocence stood in his way. He was so soon left behind. When there was any little hint of anything being in the wind, he got lost directly. Worldly affairs were too much for him; he couldn’t make them out at all.

This was observable when Bar said, incidentally, that he was happy to have heard that we were soon to have the advantage of enlisting on the good side, the sound and plain sagacity—not demonstrative or ostentatious, but thoroughly sound and practical—of our friend Mr Sparkler.

Ferdinand Barnacle laughed, and said oh yes, he believed so. A vote was a vote, and always acceptable.

Bar was sorry to miss our good friend Mr Sparkler to-day, Mr Merdle.

‘He is away with Mrs Merdle,’ returned that gentleman, slowly coming out of a long abstraction, in the course of which he had been fitting a tablespoon up his sleeve. ‘It is not indispensable for him to be on the spot.’

‘The magic name of Merdle,’ said Bar, with the jury droop, ‘no doubt will suffice for all.’

‘Why—yes—I believe so,’ assented Mr Merdle, putting the spoon aside, and clumsily hiding each of his hands in the coat-cuff of the other hand. ‘I believe the people in my interest down there will not make any difficulty.’

‘Model people!’ said Bar.

‘I am glad you approve of them,’ said Mr Merdle.

‘And the people of those other two places, now,’ pursued Bar, with a bright twinkle in his keen eye, as it slightly turned in the direction of his magnificent neighbour; ‘we lawyers are always curious, always inquisitive, always picking up odds and ends for our patchwork minds, since there is no knowing when and where they may fit into some corner;—the people of those other two places now? Do they yield so laudably to the vast and cumulative influence of such enterprise and such renown; do those little rills become absorbed so quietly and easily, and, as it were by the influence of natural laws, so beautifully, in the swoop of the majestic stream as it flows upon its wondrous way enriching the surrounding lands; that their course is perfectly to be calculated, and distinctly to be predicated?’

Mr Merdle, a little troubled by Bar’s eloquence, looked fitfully about the nearest salt-cellar for some moments, and then said hesitating:

‘They are perfectly aware, sir, of their duty to Society. They will return anybody I send to them for that purpose.’

‘Cheering to know,’ said Bar. ‘Cheering to know.’

The three places in question were three little rotten holes in this Island, containing three little ignorant, drunken, guzzling, dirty, out-of-the-way constituencies, that had reeled into Mr Merdle’s pocket. Ferdinand Barnacle laughed in his easy way, and airily said they were a nice set of fellows. Bishop, mentally perambulating among paths of peace, was altogether swallowed up in absence of mind.

‘Pray,’ asked Lord Decimus, casting his eyes around the table, ‘what is this story I have heard of a gentleman long confined in a debtors’ prison proving to be of a wealthy family, and having come into the inheritance of a large sum of money? I have met with a variety of allusions to it. Do you know anything of it, Ferdinand?’

‘I only know this much,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that he has given the Department with which I have the honour to be associated;’ this sparkling young Barnacle threw off the phrase sportively, as who should say, We know all about these forms of speech, but we must keep it up, we must keep the game alive; ‘no end of trouble, and has put us into innumerable fixes.’

‘Fixes?’ repeated Lord Decimus, with a majestic pausing and pondering on the word that made the bashful Member shut his eyes quite tight. ‘Fixes?’

‘A very perplexing business indeed,’ observed Mr Tite Barnacle, with an air of grave resentment.

‘What,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘was the character of his business; what was the nature of these—a—Fixes, Ferdinand?’

‘Oh, it’s a good story, as a story,’ returned that gentleman; ‘as good a thing of its kind as need be. This Mr Dorrit (his name is Dorrit) had incurred a responsibility to us, ages before the fairy came out of the Bank and gave him his fortune, under a bond he had signed for the performance of a contract which was not at all performed. He was a partner in a house in some large way—spirits, or buttons, or wine, or blacking, or oatmeal, or woollen, or pork, or hooks and eyes, or iron, or treacle, or shoes, or something or other that was wanted for troops, or seamen, or somebody—and the house burst, and we being among the creditors, detainees were lodged on the part of the Crown in a scientific manner, and all the rest of it. When the fairy had appeared and he wanted to pay us off, Egad we had got into such an exemplary state of checking and counter-checking, signing and counter-signing, that it was six months before we knew how to take the money, or how to give a receipt for it. It was a triumph of public business,’ said this handsome young Barnacle, laughing heartily, ‘You never saw such a lot of forms in your life. “Why,” the attorney said to me one day, “if I wanted this office to give me two or three thousand pounds instead of take it, I couldn’t have more trouble about it.” “You are right, old fellow,” I told him, “and in future you’ll know that we have something to do here.”’ The pleasant young Barnacle finished by once more laughing heartily. He was a very easy, pleasant fellow indeed, and his manners were exceedingly winning.

Mr Tite Barnacle’s view of the business was of a less airy character. He took it ill that Mr Dorrit had troubled the Department by wanting to pay the money, and considered it a grossly informal thing to do after so many years. But Mr Tite Barnacle was a buttoned-up man, and consequently a weighty one. All buttoned-up men are weighty. All buttoned-up men are believed in. Whether or no the reserved and never-exercised power of unbuttoning, fascinates mankind; whether or no wisdom is supposed to condense and augment when buttoned up, and to evaporate when unbuttoned; it is certain that the man to whom importance is accorded is the buttoned-up man. Mr Tite Barnacle never would have passed for half his current value, unless his coat had been always buttoned-up to his white cravat.

‘May I ask,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘if Mr Darrit—or Dorrit—has any family?’

Nobody else replying, the host said, ‘He has two daughters, my lord.’

‘Oh! you are acquainted with him?’ asked Lord Decimus.

‘Mrs Merdle is. Mr Sparkler is, too. In fact,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I rather believe that one of the young ladies has made an impression on Edmund Sparkler. He is susceptible, and—I—think—the conquest—’ Here Mr Merdle stopped, and looked at the table-cloth, as he usually did when he found himself observed or listened to.

Bar was uncommonly pleased to find that the Merdle family, and this family, had already been brought into contact. He submitted, in a low voice across the table to Bishop, that it was a kind of analogical illustration of those physical laws, in virtue of which Like flies to Like. He regarded this power of attraction in wealth to draw wealth to it, as something remarkably interesting and curious—something indefinably allied to the loadstone and gravitation. Bishop, who had ambled back to earth again when the present theme was broached, acquiesced. He said it was indeed highly important to Society that one in the trying situation of unexpectedly finding himself invested with a power for good or for evil in Society, should become, as it were, merged in the superior power of a more legitimate and more gigantic growth, the influence of which (as in the case of our friend at whose board we sat) was habitually exercised in harmony with the best interests of Society. Thus, instead of two rival and contending flames, a larger and a lesser, each burning with a lurid and uncertain glare, we had a blended and a softened light whose genial ray diffused an equable warmth throughout the land. Bishop seemed to like his own way of putting the case very much, and rather dwelt upon it; Bar, meanwhile (not to throw away a jury-man), making a show of sitting at his feet and feeding on his precepts.

The dinner and dessert being three hours long, the bashful Member cooled in the shadow of Lord Decimus faster than he warmed with food and drink, and had but a chilly time of it. Lord Decimus, like a tall tower in a flat country, seemed to project himself across the table-cloth, hide the light from the honourable Member, cool the honourable Member’s marrow, and give him a woeful idea of distance. When he asked this unfortunate traveller to take wine, he encompassed his faltering steps with the gloomiest of shades; and when he said, ‘Your health sir!’ all around him was barrenness and desolation.

At length Lord Decimus, with a coffee-cup in his hand, began to hover about among the pictures, and to cause an interesting speculation to arise in all minds as to the probabilities of his ceasing to hover, and enabling the smaller birds to flutter up-stairs; which could not be done until he had urged his noble pinions in that direction. After some delay, and several stretches of his wings which came to nothing, he soared to the drawing-rooms.

And here a difficulty arose, which always does arise when two people are specially brought together at a dinner to confer with one another. Everybody (except Bishop, who had no suspicion of it) knew perfectly well that this dinner had been eaten and drunk, specifically to the end that Lord Decimus and Mr Merdle should have five minutes’ conversation together. The opportunity so elaborately prepared was now arrived, and it seemed from that moment that no mere human ingenuity could so much as get the two chieftains into the same room. Mr Merdle and his noble guest persisted in prowling about at opposite ends of the perspective. It was in vain for the engaging Ferdinand to bring Lord Decimus to look at the bronze horses near Mr Merdle. Then Mr Merdle evaded, and wandered away. It was in vain for him to bring Mr Merdle to Lord Decimus to tell him the history of the unique Dresden vases. Then Lord Decimus evaded and wandered away, while he was getting his man up to the mark.

‘Did you ever see such a thing as this?’ said Ferdinand to Bar when he had been baffled twenty times.

‘Often,’ returned Bar.

‘Unless I butt one of them into an appointed corner, and you butt the other,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it will not come off after all.’

‘Very good,’ said Bar. ‘I’ll butt Merdle, if you like; but not my lord.’

Ferdinand laughed, in the midst of his vexation. ‘Confound them both!’ said he, looking at his watch. ‘I want to get away. Why the deuce can’t they come together! They both know what they want and mean to do. Look at them!’

They were still looming at opposite ends of the perspective, each with an absurd pretence of not having the other on his mind, which could not have been more transparently ridiculous though his real mind had been chalked on his back. Bishop, who had just now made a third with Bar and Ferdinand, but whose innocence had again cut him out of the subject and washed him in sweet oil, was seen to approach Lord Decimus and glide into conversation.

‘I must get Merdle’s doctor to catch and secure him, I suppose,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and then I must lay hold of my illustrious kinsman, and decoy him if I can—drag him if I can’t—to the conference.’

‘Since you do me the honour,’ said Bar, with his slyest smile, to ask for my poor aid, it shall be yours with the greatest pleasure. I don’t think this is to be done by one man. But if you will undertake to pen my lord into that furthest drawing-room where he is now so profoundly engaged, I will undertake to bring our dear Merdle into the presence, without the possibility of getting away.’

‘Done!’ said Ferdinand. ‘Done!’ said Bar.

Bar was a sight wondrous to behold, and full of matter, when, jauntily waving his double eye-glass by its ribbon, and jauntily drooping to an Universe of Jurymen, he, in the most accidental manner ever seen, found himself at Mr Merdle’s shoulder, and embraced that opportunity of mentioning a little point to him, on which he particularly wished to be guided by the light of his practical knowledge. (Here he took Mr Merdle’s arm and walked him gently away.) A banker, whom we would call A. B., advanced a considerable sum of money, which we would call fifteen thousand pounds, to a client or customer of his, whom he would call P. Q. (Here, as they were getting towards Lord Decimus, he held Mr Merdle tight.) As a security for the repayment of this advance to P. Q. whom we would call a widow lady, there were placed in A. B.’s hands the title-deeds of a freehold estate, which we would call Blinkiter Doddles. Now, the point was this. A limited right of felling and lopping in the woods of Blinkiter Doddles, lay in the son of P. Q. then past his majority, and whom we would call X. Y.—but really this was too bad! In the presence of Lord Decimus, to detain the host with chopping our dry chaff of law, was really too bad! Another time! Bar was truly repentant, and would not say another syllable. Would Bishop favour him with half-a-dozen words? (He had now set Mr Merdle down on a couch, side by side with Lord Decimus, and to it they must go, now or never.)

And now the rest of the company, highly excited and interested, always excepting Bishop, who had not the slightest idea that anything was going on, formed in one group round the fire in the next drawing-room, and pretended to be chatting easily on the infinite variety of small topics, while everybody’s thoughts and eyes were secretly straying towards the secluded pair. The Chorus were excessively nervous, perhaps as labouring under the dreadful apprehension that some good thing was going to be diverted from them! Bishop alone talked steadily and evenly. He conversed with the great Physician on that relaxation of the throat with which young curates were too frequently afflicted, and on the means of lessening the great prevalence of that disorder in the church. Physician, as a general rule, was of opinion that the best way to avoid it was to know how to read, before you made a profession of reading. Bishop said dubiously, did he really think so? And Physician said, decidedly, yes he did.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, was the only one of the party who skirmished on the outside of the circle; he kept about mid-way between it and the two, as if some sort of surgical operation were being performed by Lord Decimus on Mr Merdle, or by Mr Merdle on Lord Decimus, and his services might at any moment be required as Dresser. In fact, within a quarter of an hour Lord Decimus called to him ‘Ferdinand!’ and he went, and took his place in the conference for some five minutes more. Then a half-suppressed gasp broke out among the Chorus; for Lord Decimus rose to take his leave. Again coached up by Ferdinand to the point of making himself popular, he shook hands in the most brilliant manner with the whole company, and even said to Bar, ‘I hope you were not bored by my pears?’ To which Bar retorted, ‘Eton, my lord, or Parliamentary?’ neatly showing that he had mastered the joke, and delicately insinuating that he could never forget it while his life remained.

All the grave importance that was buttoned up in Mr Tite Barnacle, took itself away next; and Ferdinand took himself away next, to the opera. Some of the rest lingered a little, marrying golden liqueur glasses to Buhl tables with sticky rings; on the desperate chance of Mr Merdle’s saying something. But Merdle, as usual, oozed sluggishly and muddily about his drawing-room, saying never a word.

In a day or two it was announced to all the town, that Edmund Sparkler, Esquire, son-in-law of the eminent Mr Merdle of worldwide renown, was made one of the Lords of the Circumlocution Office; and proclamation was issued, to all true believers, that this admirable appointment was to be hailed as a graceful and gracious mark of homage, rendered by the graceful and gracious Decimus, to that commercial interest which must ever in a great commercial country—and all the rest of it, with blast of trumpet. So, bolstered by this mark of Government homage, the wonderful Bank and all the other wonderful undertakings went on and went up; and gapers came to Harley Street, Cavendish Square, only to look at the house where the golden wonder lived.

And when they saw the Chief Butler looking out at the hall-door in his moments of condescension, the gapers said how rich he looked, and wondered how much money he had in the wonderful Bank. But, if they had known that respectable Nemesis better, they would not have wondered about it, and might have stated the amount with the utmost precision.

CHAPTER 13. The Progress of an Epidemic

That it is at least as difficult to stay a moral infection as a physical one; that such a disease will spread with the malignity and rapidity of the Plague; that the contagion, when it has once made head, will spare no pursuit or condition, but will lay hold on people in the soundest health, and become developed in the most unlikely constitutions: is a fact as firmly established by experience as that we human creatures breathe an atmosphere. A blessing beyond appreciation would be conferred upon mankind, if the tainted, in whose weakness or wickedness these virulent disorders are bred, could be instantly seized and placed in close confinement (not to say summarily smothered) before the poison is communicable.

As a vast fire will fill the air to a great distance with its roar, so the sacred flame which the mighty Barnacles had fanned caused the air to resound more and more with the name of Merdle. It was deposited on every lip, and carried into every ear. There never was, there never had been, there never again should be, such a man as Mr Merdle. Nobody, as aforesaid, knew what he had done; but everybody knew him to be the greatest that had appeared.

Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, where there was not one unappropriated halfpenny, as lively an interest was taken in this paragon of men as on the Stock Exchange. Mrs Plornish, now established in the small grocery and general trade in a snug little shop at the crack end of the Yard, at the top of the steps, with her little old father and Maggy acting as assistants, habitually held forth about him over the counter in conversation with her customers. Mr Plornish, who had a small share in a small builder’s business in the neighbourhood, said, trowel in hand, on the tops of scaffolds and on the tiles of houses, that people did tell him as Mr Merdle was the one, mind you, to put us all to rights in respects of that which all on us looked to, and to bring us all safe home as much as we needed, mind you, fur toe be brought. Mr Baptist, sole lodger of Mr and Mrs Plornish was reputed in whispers to lay by the savings which were the result of his simple and moderate life, for investment in one of Mr Merdle’s certain enterprises. The female Bleeding Hearts, when they came for ounces of tea, and hundredweights of talk, gave Mrs Plornish to understand, That how, ma’am, they had heard from their cousin Mary Anne, which worked in the line, that his lady’s dresses would fill three waggons. That how she was as handsome a lady, ma’am, as lived, no matter wheres, and a busk like marble itself. That how, according to what they was told, ma’am, it was her son by a former husband as was took into the Government; and a General he had been, and armies he had marched again and victory crowned, if all you heard was to be believed. That how it was reported that Mr Merdle’s words had been, that if they could have made it worth his while to take the whole Government he would have took it without a profit, but that take it he could not and stand a loss. That how it was not to be expected, ma’am, that he should lose by it, his ways being, as you might say and utter no falsehood, paved with gold; but that how it was much to be regretted that something handsome hadn’t been got up to make it worth his while; for it was such and only such that knowed the heighth to which the bread and butchers’ meat had rose, and it was such and only such that both could and would bring that heighth down.

So rife and potent was the fever in Bleeding Heart Yard, that Mr Pancks’s rent-days caused no interval in the patients. The disease took the singular form, on those occasions, of causing the infected to find an unfathomable excuse and consolation in allusions to the magic name.

‘Now, then!’ Mr Pancks would say, to a defaulting lodger. ‘Pay up! Come on!’

‘I haven’t got it, Mr Pancks,’ Defaulter would reply. ‘I tell you the truth, sir, when I say I haven’t got so much as a single sixpence of it to bless myself with.’

‘This won’t do, you know,’ Mr Pancks would retort. ‘You don’t expect it will do; do you?’

Defaulter would admit, with a low-spirited ‘No, sir,’ having no such expectation.

‘My proprietor isn’t going to stand this, you know,’ Mr Pancks would proceed. ‘He don’t send me here for this. Pay up! Come!’

The Defaulter would make answer, ‘Ah, Mr Pancks. If I was the rich gentleman whose name is in everybody’s mouth—if my name was Merdle, sir—I’d soon pay up, and be glad to do it.’

Dialogues on the rent-question usually took place at the house-doors or in the entries, and in the presence of several deeply interested Bleeding Hearts. They always received a reference of this kind with a low murmur of response, as if it were convincing; and the Defaulter, however black and discomfited before, always cheered up a little in making it.

‘If I was Mr Merdle, sir, you wouldn’t have cause to complain of me then. No, believe me!’ the Defaulter would proceed with a shake of the head. ‘I’d pay up so quick then, Mr Pancks, that you shouldn’t have to ask me.’

The response would be heard again here, implying that it was impossible to say anything fairer, and that this was the next thing to paying the money down.

Mr Pancks would be now reduced to saying as he booked the case, ‘Well! You’ll have the broker in, and be turned out; that’s what’ll happen to you. It’s no use talking to me about Mr Merdle. You are not Mr Merdle, any more than I am.’

‘No, sir,’ the Defaulter would reply. ‘I only wish you were him, sir.’

The response would take this up quickly; replying with great feeling, ‘Only wish you were him, sir.’

‘You’d be easier with us if you were Mr Merdle, sir,’ the Defaulter would go on with rising spirits, ‘and it would be better for all parties. Better for our sakes, and better for yours, too. You wouldn’t have to worry no one, then, sir. You wouldn’t have to worry us, and you wouldn’t have to worry yourself. You’d be easier in your own mind, sir, and you’d leave others easier, too, you would, if you were Mr Merdle.’

Mr Pancks, in whom these impersonal compliments produced an irresistible sheepishness, never rallied after such a charge. He could only bite his nails and puff away to the next Defaulter. The responsive Bleeding Hearts would then gather round the Defaulter whom he had just abandoned, and the most extravagant rumours would circulate among them, to their great comfort, touching the amount of Mr Merdle’s ready money.

From one of the many such defeats of one of many rent-days, Mr Pancks, having finished his day’s collection, repaired with his note-book under his arm to Mrs Plornish’s corner. Mr Pancks’s object was not professional, but social. He had had a trying day, and wanted a little brightening. By this time he was on friendly terms with the Plornish family, having often looked in upon them at similar seasons, and borne his part in recollections of Miss Dorrit.

Mrs Plornish’s shop-parlour had been decorated under her own eye, and presented, on the side towards the shop, a little fiction in which Mrs Plornish unspeakably rejoiced. This poetical heightening of the parlour consisted in the wall being painted to represent the exterior of a thatched cottage; the artist having introduced (in as effective a manner as he found compatible with their highly disproportionate dimensions) the real door and window. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were depicted as flourishing with great luxuriance on this rustic dwelling, while a quantity of dense smoke issuing from the chimney indicated good cheer within, and also, perhaps, that it had not been lately swept. A faithful dog was represented as flying at the legs of the friendly visitor, from the threshold; and a circular pigeon-house, enveloped in a cloud of pigeons, arose from behind the garden-paling. On the door (when it was shut), appeared the semblance of a brass-plate, presenting the inscription, Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish; the partnership expressing man and wife. No Poetry and no Art ever charmed the imagination more than the union of the two in this counterfeit cottage charmed Mrs Plornish. It was nothing to her that Plornish had a habit of leaning against it as he smoked his pipe after work, when his hat blotted out the pigeon-house and all the pigeons, when his back swallowed up the dwelling, when his hands in his pockets uprooted the blooming garden and laid waste the adjacent country. To Mrs Plornish, it was still a most beautiful cottage, a most wonderful deception; and it made no difference that Mr Plornish’s eye was some inches above the level of the gable bed-room in the thatch. To come out into the shop after it was shut, and hear her father sing a song inside this cottage, was a perfect Pastoral to Mrs Plornish, the Golden Age revived. And truly if that famous period had been revived, or had ever been at all, it may be doubted whether it would have produced many more heartily admiring daughters than the poor woman.

Warned of a visitor by the tinkling bell at the shop-door, Mrs Plornish came out of Happy Cottage to see who it might be. ‘I guessed it was you, Mr Pancks,’ said she, ‘for it’s quite your regular night; ain’t it? Here’s father, you see, come out to serve at the sound of the bell, like a brisk young shopman. Ain’t he looking well? Father’s more pleased to see you than if you was a customer, for he dearly loves a gossip; and when it turns upon Miss Dorrit, he loves it all the more. You never heard father in such voice as he is at present,’ said Mrs Plornish, her own voice quavering, she was so proud and pleased. ‘He gave us Strephon last night to that degree that Plornish gets up and makes him this speech across the table. “John Edward Nandy,” says Plornish to father, “I never heard you come the warbles as I have heard you come the warbles this night.” An’t it gratifying, Mr Pancks, though; really?’

Mr Pancks, who had snorted at the old man in his friendliest manner, replied in the affirmative, and casually asked whether that lively Altro chap had come in yet? Mrs Plornish answered no, not yet, though he had gone to the West-End with some work, and had said he should be back by tea-time. Mr Pancks was then hospitably pressed into Happy Cottage, where he encountered the elder Master Plornish just come home from school. Examining that young student, lightly, on the educational proceedings of the day, he found that the more advanced pupils who were in the large text and the letter M, had been set the copy ‘Merdle, Millions.’

‘And how are you getting on, Mrs Plornish,’ said Pancks, ‘since we’re mentioning millions?’

‘Very steady, indeed, sir,’ returned Mrs Plornish. ‘Father, dear, would you go into the shop and tidy the window a little bit before tea, your taste being so beautiful?’

John Edward Nandy trotted away, much gratified, to comply with his daughter’s request. Mrs Plornish, who was always in mortal terror of mentioning pecuniary affairs before the old gentleman, lest any disclosure she made might rouse his spirit and induce him to run away to the workhouse, was thus left free to be confidential with Mr Pancks.

‘It’s quite true that the business is very steady indeed,’ said Mrs Plornish, lowering her voice; ‘and has a excellent connection. The only thing that stands in its way, sir, is the Credit.’

This drawback, rather severely felt by most people who engaged in commercial transactions with the inhabitants of Bleeding Heart Yard, was a large stumbling-block in Mrs Plornish’s trade. When Mr Dorrit had established her in the business, the Bleeding Hearts had shown an amount of emotion and a determination to support her in it, that did honour to human nature. Recognising her claim upon their generous feelings as one who had long been a member of their community, they pledged themselves, with great feeling, to deal with Mrs Plornish, come what would and bestow their patronage on no other establishment. Influenced by these noble sentiments, they had even gone out of their way to purchase little luxuries in the grocery and butter line to which they were unaccustomed; saying to one another, that if they did stretch a point, was it not for a neighbour and a friend, and for whom ought a point to be stretched if not for such? So stimulated, the business was extremely brisk, and the articles in stock went off with the greatest celerity. In short, if the

Bleeding Hearts had but paid, the undertaking would have been a complete success; whereas, by reason of their exclusively confining themselves to owing, the profits actually realised had not yet begun to appear in the books.

Mr Pancks was making a very porcupine of himself by sticking his hair up in the contemplation of this state of accounts, when old Mr Nandy, re-entering the cottage with an air of mystery, entreated them to come and look at the strange behaviour of Mr Baptist, who seemed to have met with something that had scared him. All three going into the shop, and watching through the window, then saw Mr Baptist, pale and agitated, go through the following extraordinary performances. First, he was observed hiding at the top of the steps leading down into the Yard, and peeping up and down the street with his head cautiously thrust out close to the side of the shop-door. After very anxious scrutiny, he came out of his retreat, and went briskly down the street as if he were going away altogether; then, suddenly turned about, and went, at the same pace, and with the same feint, up the street. He had gone no further up the street than he had gone down, when he crossed the road and disappeared. The object of this last manoeuvre was only apparent, when his entering the shop with a sudden twist, from the steps again, explained that he had made a wide and obscure circuit round to the other, or Doyce and Clennam, end of the Yard, and had come through the Yard and bolted in. He was out of breath by that time, as he might well be, and his heart seemed to jerk faster than the little shop-bell, as it quivered and jingled behind him with his hasty shutting of the door.

‘Hallo, old chap!’ said Mr Pancks. ‘Altro, old boy! What’s the matter?’

Mr Baptist, or Signor Cavalletto, understood English now almost as well as Mr Pancks himself, and could speak it very well too. Nevertheless, Mrs Plornish, with a pardonable vanity in that accomplishment of hers which made her all but Italian, stepped in as interpreter.

‘E ask know,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘what go wrong?’

‘Come into the happy little cottage, Padrona,’ returned Mr Baptist, imparting great stealthiness to his flurried back-handed shake of his right forefinger. ‘Come there!’

Mrs Plornish was proud of the title Padrona, which she regarded as signifying: not so much Mistress of the house, as Mistress of the Italian tongue. She immediately complied with Mr Baptist’s request, and they all went into the cottage.

‘E ope you no fright,’ said Mrs Plornish then, interpreting Mr Pancks in a new way with her usual fertility of resource. ‘What appen? Peaka Padrona!’

‘I have seen some one,’ returned Baptist. ‘I have rincontrato him.’

‘Im? Oo him?’ asked Mrs Plornish.

‘A bad man. A baddest man. I have hoped that I should never see him again.’

‘Ow you know him bad?’ asked Mrs Plornish.

‘It does not matter, Padrona. I know it too well.’

‘E see you?’ asked Mrs Plornish.

‘No. I hope not. I believe not.’

‘He says,’ Mrs Plornish then interpreted, addressing her father and Pancks with mild condescension, ‘that he has met a bad man, but he hopes the bad man didn’t see him—Why,’ inquired Mrs Plornish, reverting to the Italian language, ‘why ope bad man no see?’

‘Padrona, dearest,’ returned the little foreigner whom she so considerately protected, ‘do not ask, I pray. Once again I say it matters not. I have fear of this man. I do not wish to see him, I do not wish to be known of him—never again! Enough, most beautiful. Leave it.’

The topic was so disagreeable to him, and so put his usual liveliness to the rout, that Mrs Plornish forbore to press him further: the rather as the tea had been drawing for some time on the hob. But she was not the less surprised and curious for asking no more questions; neither was Mr Pancks, whose expressive breathing had been labouring hard since the entrance of the little man, like a locomotive engine with a great load getting up a steep incline. Maggy, now better dressed than of yore, though still faithful to the monstrous character of her cap, had been in the background from the first with open mouth and eyes, which staring and gaping features were not diminished in breadth by the untimely suppression of the subject. However, no more was said about it, though much appeared to be thought on all sides: by no means excepting the two young Plornishes, who partook of the evening meal as if their eating the bread and butter were rendered almost superfluous by the painful probability of the worst of men shortly presenting himself for the purpose of eating them. Mr Baptist, by degrees began to chirp a little; but never stirred from the seat he had taken behind the door and close to the window, though it was not his usual place. As often as the little bell rang, he started and peeped out secretly, with the end of the little curtain in his hand and the rest before his face; evidently not at all satisfied but that the man he dreaded had tracked him through all his doublings and turnings, with the certainty of a terrible bloodhound.

The entrance, at various times, of two or three customers and of Mr Plornish, gave Mr Baptist just enough of this employment to keep the attention of the company fixed upon him. Tea was over, and the children were abed, and Mrs Plornish was feeling her way to the dutiful proposal that her father should favour them with Chloe, when the bell rang again, and Mr Clennam came in.

Clennam had been poring late over his books and letters; for the waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office ravaged his time sorely. Over and above that, he was depressed and made uneasy by the late occurrence at his mother’s. He looked worn and solitary. He felt so, too; but, nevertheless, was returning home from his counting-house by that end of the Yard to give them the intelligence that he had received another letter from Miss Dorrit.

The news made a sensation in the cottage which drew off the general attention from Mr Baptist. Maggy, who pushed her way into the foreground immediately, would have seemed to draw in the tidings of her Little Mother equally at her ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, but that the last were obstructed by tears. She was particularly delighted when Clennam assured her that there were hospitals, and very kindly conducted hospitals, in Rome. Mr Pancks rose into new distinction in virtue of being specially remembered in the letter. Everybody was pleased and interested, and Clennam was well repaid for his trouble.

‘But you are tired, sir. Let me make you a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘if you’d condescend to take such a thing in the cottage; and many thanks to you, too, I am sure, for bearing us in mind so kindly.’

Mr Plornish deeming it incumbent on him, as host, to add his personal acknowledgments, tendered them in the form which always expressed his highest ideal of a combination of ceremony with sincerity.

‘John Edward Nandy,’ said Mr Plornish, addressing the old gentleman. ‘Sir. It’s not too often that you see unpretending actions without a spark of pride, and therefore when you see them give grateful honour unto the same, being that if you don’t, and live to want ‘em, it follows serve you right.’

To which Mr Nandy replied:

‘I am heartily of your opinion, Thomas, and which your opinion is the same as mine, and therefore no more words and not being backwards with that opinion, which opinion giving it as yes, Thomas, yes, is the opinion in which yourself and me must ever be unanimously jined by all, and where there is not difference of opinion there can be none but one opinion, which fully no, Thomas, Thomas, no!’

Arthur, with less formality, expressed himself gratified by their high appreciation of so very slight an attention on his part; and explained as to the tea that he had not yet dined, and was going straight home to refresh after a long day’s labour, or he would have readily accepted the hospitable offer. As Mr Pancks was somewhat noisily getting his steam up for departure, he concluded by asking that gentleman if he would walk with him? Mr Pancks said he desired no better engagement, and the two took leave of Happy Cottage.

‘If you will come home with me, Pancks,’ said Arthur, when they got into the street, ‘and will share what dinner or supper there is, it will be next door to an act of charity; for I am weary and out of sorts to-night.’

‘Ask me to do a greater thing than that,’ said Pancks, ‘when you want it done, and I’ll do it.’

Between this eccentric personage and Clennam, a tacit understanding and accord had been always improving since Mr Pancks flew over Mr Rugg’s back in the Marshalsea Yard. When the carriage drove away on the memorable day of the family’s departure, these two had looked after it together, and had walked slowly away together. When the first letter came from little Dorrit, nobody was more interested in hearing of her than Mr Pancks. The second letter, at that moment in Clennam’s breast-pocket, particularly remembered him by name. Though he had never before made any profession or protestation to Clennam, and though what he had just said was little enough as to the words in which it was expressed, Clennam had long had a growing belief that Mr Pancks, in his own odd way, was becoming attached to him. All these strings intertwining made Pancks a very cable of anchorage that night.

‘I am quite alone,’ Arthur explained as they walked on. ‘My partner is away, busily engaged at a distance on his branch of our business, and you shall do just as you like.’

‘Thank you. You didn’t take particular notice of little Altro just now; did you?’ said Pancks.

‘No. Why?’

‘He’s a bright fellow, and I like him,’ said Pancks. ‘Something has gone amiss with him to-day. Have you any idea of any cause that can have overset him?’

‘You surprise me! None whatever.’

Mr Pancks gave his reasons for the inquiry. Arthur was quite unprepared for them, and quite unable to suggest an explanation of them.

‘Perhaps you’ll ask him,’ said Pancks, ‘as he’s a stranger?’

‘Ask him what?’ returned Clennam.

‘What he has on his mind.’

‘I ought first to see for myself that he has something on his mind, I think,’ said Clennam. ‘I have found him in every way so diligent, so grateful (for little enough), and so trustworthy, that it might look like suspecting him. And that would be very unjust.’

‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘But, I say! You oughtn’t to be anybody’s proprietor, Mr Clennam. You’re much too delicate.’

‘For the matter of that,’ returned Clennam laughing, ‘I have not a large proprietary share in Cavalletto. His carving is his livelihood. He keeps the keys of the Factory, watches it every alternate night, and acts as a sort of housekeeper to it generally; but we have little work in the way of his ingenuity, though we give him what we have. No! I am rather his adviser than his proprietor. To call me his standing counsel and his banker would be nearer the fact. Speaking of being his banker, is it not curious, Pancks, that the ventures which run just now in so many people’s heads, should run even in little Cavalletto’s?’

‘Ventures?’ retorted Pancks, with a snort. ‘What ventures?’

‘These Merdle enterprises.’

‘Oh! Investments,’ said Pancks. ‘Ay, ay! I didn’t know you were speaking of investments.’

His quick way of replying caused Clennam to look at him, with a doubt whether he meant more than he said. As it was accompanied, however, with a quickening of his pace and a corresponding increase in the labouring of his machinery, Arthur did not pursue the matter, and they soon arrived at his house.

A dinner of soup and a pigeon-pie, served on a little round table before the fire, and flavoured with a bottle of good wine, oiled Mr Pancks’s works in a highly effective manner; so that when Clennam produced his Eastern pipe, and handed Mr Pancks another Eastern pipe, the latter gentleman was perfectly comfortable.

They puffed for a while in silence, Mr Pancks like a steam-vessel with wind, tide, calm water, and all other sea-going conditions in her favour. He was the first to speak, and he spoke thus:

‘Yes. Investments is the word.’

Clennam, with his former look, said ‘Ah!’

‘I am going back to it, you see,’ said Pancks.

‘Yes. I see you are going back to it,’ returned Clennam, wondering why.

‘Wasn’t it a curious thing that they should run in little Altro’s head? Eh?’ said Pancks as he smoked. ‘Wasn’t that how you put it?’

‘That was what I said.’

‘Ay! But think of the whole Yard having got it. Think of their all meeting me with it, on my collecting days, here and there and everywhere. Whether they pay, or whether they don’t pay. Merdle, Merdle, Merdle. Always Merdle.’

‘Very strange how these runs on an infatuation prevail,’ said Arthur.

‘An’t it?’ returned Pancks. After smoking for a minute or so, more drily than comported with his recent oiling, he added: ‘Because you see these people don’t understand the subject.’

‘Not a bit,’ assented Clennam.

‘Not a bit,’ cried Pancks. ‘Know nothing of figures. Know nothing of money questions. Never made a calculation. Never worked it, sir!’

‘If they had—’ Clennam was going on to say; when Mr Pancks, without change of countenance, produced a sound so far surpassing all his usual efforts, nasal or bronchial, that he stopped.

‘If they had?’ repeated Pancks in an inquiring tone.

‘I thought you—spoke,’ said Arthur, hesitating what name to give the interruption.

‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Not yet. I may in a minute. If they had?’

‘If they had,’ observed Clennam, who was a little at a loss how to take his friend, ‘why, I suppose they would have known better.’

‘How so, Mr Clennam?’ Pancks asked quickly, and with an odd effect of having been from the commencement of the conversation loaded with the heavy charge he now fired off. ‘They’re right, you know. They don’t mean to be, but they’re right.’

‘Right in sharing Cavalletto’s inclination to speculate with Mr Merdle?’

‘Per-fectly, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve gone into it. I’ve made the calculations. I’ve worked it. They’re safe and genuine.’ Relieved by having got to this, Mr Pancks took as long a pull as his lungs would permit at his Eastern pipe, and looked sagaciously and steadily at Clennam while inhaling and exhaling too.

In those moments, Mr Pancks began to give out the dangerous infection with which he was laden. It is the manner of communicating these diseases; it is the subtle way in which they go about.

‘Do you mean, my good Pancks,’ asked Clennam emphatically, ‘that you would put that thousand pounds of yours, let us say, for instance, out at this kind of interest?’

‘Certainly,’ said Pancks. ‘Already done it, sir.’

Mr Pancks took another long inhalation, another long exhalation, another long sagacious look at Clennam.

‘I tell you, Mr Clennam, I’ve gone into it,’ said Pancks. ‘He’s a man of immense resources—enormous capital—government influence. They’re the best schemes afloat. They’re safe. They’re certain.’

‘Well!’ returned Clennam, looking first at him gravely and then at the fire gravely. ‘You surprise me!’

‘Bah!’ Pancks retorted. ‘Don’t say that, sir. It’s what you ought to do yourself! Why don’t you do as I do?’

Of whom Mr Pancks had taken the prevalent disease, he could no more have told than if he had unconsciously taken a fever. Bred at first, as many physical diseases are, in the wickedness of men, and then disseminated in their ignorance, these epidemics, after a period, get communicated to many sufferers who are neither ignorant nor wicked. Mr Pancks might, or might not, have caught the illness himself from a subject of this class; but in this category he appeared before Clennam, and the infection he threw off was all the more virulent.

‘And you have really invested,’ Clennam had already passed to that word, ‘your thousand pounds, Pancks?’

‘To be sure, sir!’ replied Pancks boldly, with a puff of smoke. ‘And only wish it ten!’

Now, Clennam had two subjects lying heavy on his lonely mind that night; the one, his partner’s long-deferred hope; the other, what he had seen and heard at his mother’s. In the relief of having this companion, and of feeling that he could trust him, he passed on to both, and both brought him round again, with an increase and acceleration of force, to his point of departure.

It came about in the simplest manner. Quitting the investment subject, after an interval of silent looking at the fire through the smoke of his pipe, he told Pancks how and why he was occupied with the great National Department. ‘A hard case it has been, and a hard case it is on Doyce,’ he finished by saying, with all the honest feeling the topic roused in him.

‘Hard indeed,’ Pancks acquiesced. ‘But you manage for him, Mr Clennam?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Manage the money part of the business?’

‘Yes. As well as I can.’

‘Manage it better, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘Recompense him for his toils and disappointments. Give him the chances of the time. He’ll never benefit himself in that way, patient and preoccupied workman. He looks to you, sir.’

‘I do my best, Pancks,’ returned Clennam, uneasily. ‘As to duly weighing and considering these new enterprises of which I have had no experience, I doubt if I am fit for it, I am growing old.’

‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Ha, ha!’

There was something so indubitably genuine in the wonderful laugh, and series of snorts and puffs, engendered in Mr Pancks’s astonishment at, and utter rejection of, the idea, that his being quite in earnest could not be questioned.

‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Old? Hear him, hear him!’

The positive refusal expressed in Mr Pancks’s continued snorts, no less than in these exclamations, to entertain the sentiment for a single instant, drove Arthur away from it. Indeed, he was fearful of something happening to Mr Pancks in the violent conflict that took place between the breath he jerked out of himself and the smoke he jerked into himself. This abandonment of the second topic threw him on the third.

‘Young, old, or middle-aged, Pancks,’ he said, when there was a favourable pause, ‘I am in a very anxious and uncertain state; a state that even leads me to doubt whether anything now seeming to belong to me, may be really mine. Shall I tell you how this is? Shall I put a great trust in you?’

‘You shall, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you believe me worthy of it.’

‘I do.’

‘You may!’ Mr Pancks’s short and sharp rejoinder, confirmed by the sudden outstretching of his coaly hand, was most expressive and convincing. Arthur shook the hand warmly.

He then, softening the nature of his old apprehensions as much as was possible consistently with their being made intelligible and never alluding to his mother by name, but speaking vaguely of a relation of his, confided to Mr Pancks a broad outline of the misgivings he entertained, and of the interview he had witnessed. Mr Pancks listened with such interest that, regardless of the charms of the Eastern pipe, he put it in the grate among the fire-irons, and occupied his hands during the whole recital in so erecting the loops and hooks of hair all over his head, that he looked, when it came to a conclusion, like a journeyman Hamlet in conversation with his father’s spirit.

‘Brings me back, sir,’ was his exclamation then, with a startling touch on Clennam’s knee, ‘brings me back, sir, to the Investments! I don’t say anything of your making yourself poor to repair a wrong you never committed. That’s you. A man must be himself. But I say this, fearing you may want money to save your own blood from exposure and disgrace—make as much as you can!’

Arthur shook his head, but looked at him thoughtfully too.

‘Be as rich as you can, sir,’ Pancks adjured him with a powerful concentration of all his energies on the advice. ‘Be as rich as you honestly can. It’s your duty. Not for your sake, but for the sake of others. Take time by the forelock. Poor Mr Doyce (who really is growing old) depends upon you. Your relative depends upon you. You don’t know what depends upon you.’

‘Well, well, well!’ returned Arthur. ‘Enough for to-night.’

‘One word more, Mr Clennam,’ retorted Pancks, ‘and then enough for to-night. Why should you leave all the gains to the gluttons, knaves, and impostors? Why should you leave all the gains that are to be got to my proprietor and the like of him? Yet you’re always doing it. When I say you, I mean such men as you. You know you are. Why, I see it every day of my life. I see nothing else. It’s my business to see it. Therefore I say,’ urged Pancks, ‘Go in and win!’

‘But what of Go in and lose?’ said Arthur.

‘Can’t be done, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘I have looked into it. Name up everywhere—immense resources—enormous capital—great position—high connection—government influence. Can’t be done!’

Gradually, after this closing exposition, Mr Pancks subsided; allowed his hair to droop as much as it ever would droop on the utmost persuasion; reclaimed the pipe from the fire-irons, filled it anew, and smoked it out. They said little more; but were company to one another in silently pursuing the same subjects, and did not part until midnight. On taking his leave, Mr Pancks, when he had shaken hands with Clennam, worked completely round him before he steamed out at the door. This, Arthur received as an assurance that he might implicitly rely on Pancks, if he ever should come to need assistance; either in any of the matters of which they had spoken that night, or any other subject that could in any way affect himself.

At intervals all next day, and even while his attention was fixed on other things, he thought of Mr Pancks’s investment of his thousand pounds, and of his having ‘looked into it.’ He thought of Mr Pancks’s being so sanguine in this matter, and of his not being usually of a sanguine character. He thought of the great National Department, and of the delight it would be to him to see Doyce better off. He thought of the darkly threatening place that went by the name of Home in his remembrance, and of the gathering shadows which made it yet more darkly threatening than of old. He observed anew that wherever he went, he saw, or heard, or touched, the celebrated name of Merdle; he found it difficult even to remain at his desk a couple of hours, without having it presented to one of his bodily senses through some agency or other. He began to think it was curious too that it should be everywhere, and that nobody but he should seem to have any mistrust of it. Though indeed he began to remember, when he got to this, even he did not mistrust it; he had only happened to keep aloof from it.

Such symptoms, when a disease of the kind is rife, are usually the signs of sickening.

CHAPTER 14. Taking Advice

When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow Tiber that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one of the Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a piece of news with which they had no nearer concern than with any other piece of news—any other Accident or Offence—in the English papers. Some laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that the post was virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his name was good enough for it; some, and these the more solemn political oracles, said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen himself, and that the sole constitutional purpose of all places within the gift of Decimus, was, that Decimus should strengthen himself. A few bilious Britons there were who would not subscribe to this article of faith; but their objection was purely theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great numbers of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty consecutive hours, that those invisible and anonymous Britons ‘ought to take it up;’ and that if they quietly acquiesced in it, they deserved it. But of what class the remiss Britons were composed, and where the unlucky creatures hid themselves, and why they hid themselves, and how it constantly happened that they neglected their interests, when so many other Britons were quite at a loss to account for their not looking after those interests, was not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the shore of the black Thames, made apparent to men.

Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on it, with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the setting displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the place. Mr Merdle wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She hoped Edmund might like it, but really she didn’t know. It would keep him in town a good deal, and he preferred the country. Still, it was not a disagreeable position—and it was a position. There was no denying that the thing was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and was not a bad thing for Edmund if he liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and it was just as well that he should have something for doing it. Whether it would be more agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen.

Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things of small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While Henry Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole round of his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano, vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted, altogether most lovable jackass that ever grazed on the public common; and that only one circumstance could have delighted him (Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass’s) getting this post, and that would have been his (Gowan’s) getting it himself. He said it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing to do, and he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to draw, and he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate, capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great an affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence stop here. He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr Sparkler out, and make him conspicuous before the company; and, although the considerate action always resulted in that young gentleman’s making a dreary and forlorn mental spectacle of himself, the friendly intention was not to be doubted.

Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr Sparkler’s affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult situation of being universally known in that light, and of not having dismissed Mr Sparkler, however capriciously she used him. Hence, she was sufficiently identified with the gentleman to feel compromised by his being more than usually ridiculous; and hence, being by no means deficient in quickness, she sometimes came to his rescue against Gowan, and did him very good service. But, while doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined whether to get rid of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted with apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it is no subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in a state of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle’s house, and on her sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was dead.

‘Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.’

‘Matter, you little Mole,’ said Fanny. ‘If you were not the blindest of the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what’s the matter!’

‘Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?’

‘Mis-ter Spark-ler!’ repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he were the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be near her mind. ‘No, Miss Bat, it is not.’

Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.

‘I don’t think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ replied the young lady, turning angry again; ‘I am as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of it.’

Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never was told so, and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told her looking-glass), she didn’t want to be forgiven. It was not a right example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a younger sister. And this was the Art of it—that she was always being placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not. Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and sat close at her side to comfort her, said, ‘Amy, you’re an Angel!’

‘But, I tell you what, my Pet,’ said Fanny, when her sister’s gentleness had calmed her, ‘it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not go on as they are at present going on, and that there must be an end of this, one way or another.’

As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little Dorrit returned, ‘Let us talk about it.’

‘Quite so, my dear,’ assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. ‘Let us talk about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise me. Will you advise me, my sweet child?’

Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, ‘I will, Fanny, as well as I can.’

‘Thank you, dearest Amy,’ returned Fanny, kissing her. ‘You are my anchor.’

Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her maid for a fine handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant for the night, and went on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and forehead from time to time to cool them.

‘My love,’ Fanny began, ‘our characters and points of view are sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What I am going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property, we labour, socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don’t quite understand what I mean, Amy?’

‘I have no doubt I shall,’ said Amy, mildly, ‘after a few words more.’

‘Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers into fashionable life.’

‘I am sure, Fanny,’ Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous admiration, ‘no one need find that out in you.’

‘Well, my dear child, perhaps not,’ said Fanny, ‘though it’s most kind and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.’ Here she dabbed her sister’s forehead, and blew upon it a little. ‘But you are,’ resumed Fanny, ‘as is well known, the dearest little thing that ever was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely gentlemanly and extremely well informed, but he is, in some trifling respects, a little different from other gentlemen of his fortune: partly on account of what he has gone through, poor dear: partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in his mind that other people are thinking about that, while he is talking to them. Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking, shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don’t mean that there is anything ungenteel in that itself—far from it—but I do mean that he doesn’t do it well, and that he doesn’t, if I may so express myself, get the money’s-worth in the sort of dissipated reputation that attaches to him.’

‘Poor Edward!’ sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history in the sigh.

‘Yes. And poor you and me, too,’ returned Fanny, rather sharply. ‘Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs General. And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may reverse a common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves who will catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident, will be our mother-in-law.’

‘I can hardly think, Fanny—’ Fanny stopped her.

‘Now, don’t argue with me about it, Amy,’ said she, ‘because I know better.’ Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her sister’s forehead again, and blew upon it again. ‘To resume once more, my dear. It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you very well know: too much so, I dare say) whether I shall make up my mind to take it upon myself to carry the family through.’

‘How?’ asked her sister, anxiously.

‘I will not,’ said Fanny, without answering the question, ‘submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be, in any respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs Merdle.’

Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of sweet water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite punishing her own forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to give it, fitfully went on.

‘That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence, attained a very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very good connection, no one can deny. And as to the question of clever or not clever, I doubt very much whether a clever husband would be suitable to me. I cannot submit. I should not be able to defer to him enough.’

‘O, my dear Fanny!’ expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant. ‘If you loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved any one, you would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose and forget yourself in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny—’ Fanny had stopped the dabbing hand, and was looking at her fixedly.

‘O, indeed!’ cried Fanny. ‘Really? Bless me, how much some people know of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I certainly seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was only in fun,’ dabbing her sister’s forehead; ‘but don’t you be a silly puss, and don’t you think flightily and eloquently about degenerate impossibilities. There! Now, I’ll go back to myself.’

‘Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked for a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to Mr Sparkler.’

‘Let you say, my dear?’ retorted Fanny. ‘Why, of course, I will let you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We are together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I have not the slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or to-morrow morning either.’

‘But at some time?’

‘At no time, for anything I know at present,’ answered Fanny, with indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a burning restlessness, she added, ‘You talk about the clever men, you little thing! It’s all very fine and easy to talk about the clever men; but where are they? I don’t see them anywhere near me!’

‘My dear Fanny, so short a time—’

‘Short time or long time,’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I am impatient of our situation. I don’t like our situation, and very little would induce me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and differently circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or may do. Let them. They are driven by their lives and characters; I am driven by mine.’

‘Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you the wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.’

‘Amy, my dear Amy,’ retorted Fanny, parodying her words, ‘I know that I wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which I can assert myself with greater effect against that insolent woman.’

‘Would you therefore—forgive my asking, Fanny—therefore marry her son?’

‘Why, perhaps,’ said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. ‘There may be many less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, my dear. That piece of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great success to get her son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps, she little thinks how I would retort upon her if I married her son. I would oppose her in everything, and compete with her. I would make it the business of my life.’

Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about the room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke.

‘One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older. And I would!’

This was followed by another walk.

‘I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know—if I didn’t, but I should from her son—all about her age. And she should hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately: how well she looked, considering her time of life. I could make her seem older at once, by being myself so much younger. I may not be as handsome as she is; I am not a fair judge of that question, I suppose; but I know I am handsome enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!’

‘My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for this?’

‘It wouldn’t be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am fitted for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances, is no matter; I am better fitted for such a life than for almost any other.’

There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great looking-glass came to another stop.

‘Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will give her her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all others that it is altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am not so sure of it. Give some much younger woman the latitude as to dress that she has, being married; and we would see about that, my dear!’

Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought her back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister’s hands in hers, and clapped all four hands above her head as she looked in her sister’s face laughing:

‘And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten—the dancer who bore no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her, oh dear no!—should dance through her life, and dance in her way, to such a tune as would disturb her insolent placidity a little. Just a little, my dear Amy, just a little!’

Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy’s face, she brought the four hands down, and laid only one on Amy’s lips.

‘Now, don’t argue with me, child,’ she said in a sterner way, ‘because it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better than you do. I have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be. Now we have talked this over comfortably, and may go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse, Good night!’ With those words Fanny weighed her Anchor, and—having taken so much advice—left off being advised for that occasion.

Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler’s treatment by his enslaver, with new reasons for attaching importance to all that passed between them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite unable to endure his mental feebleness, and when she became so sharply impatient of it that she would all but dismiss him for good. There were other times when she got on much better with him; when he amused her, and when her sense of superiority seemed to counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If Mr Sparkler had been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of swains, he was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of his trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to London between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater will of his own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship; and he followed his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on equally strong compulsion.

Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through her eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations of her beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands. The defiant character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings (as it generally happened that she did), was not expressive of concessions to the impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the bosom took was, to say audibly, ‘A spoilt beauty—but with that face and shape, who could wonder?’

It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of the new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some new understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as if in attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first looking towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet ever to look back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to speak, she remained silent; if he had not, she herself spoke. Moreover, it became plain whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform the friendly office of drawing him out, that he was not to be drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would presently, without any pointed application in the world, chance to say something with such a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he had put his hand into a bee-hive.

There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance in itself. Mr Sparkler’s demeanour towards herself changed. It became fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of assemblies—at their own residence, at Mrs Merdle’s, or elsewhere—she would find herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr Sparkler’s arm. Mr Sparkler never offered the slightest explanation of this attention; but merely smiled with an air of blundering, contented, good-natured proprietorship, which, in so heavy a gentleman, was ominously expressive.

Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, nearly all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street, and commanding all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso, both up and down. At three or four o’clock in the afternoon, English time, the view from this window was very bright and peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time in her balcony at Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the shoulder, and Fanny said, ‘Well, Amy dear,’ and took her seat at her side. Their seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in the way of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies hung out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no procession that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by Fanny’s being at home at that hour, as she was generally out on horseback then.

‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘what are you thinking of, little one?’

‘I was thinking of you, Fanny.’

‘No? What a coincidence! I declare here’s some one else. You were not thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?’

Amy had been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr Sparkler. She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand. Mr Sparkler came and sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the fraternal railing come behind her, and apparently stretch on to include Fanny.

‘Well, my little sister,’ said Fanny with a sigh, ‘I suppose you know what this means?’

‘She’s as beautiful as she’s doated on,’ stammered Mr Sparkler—‘and there’s no nonsense about her—it’s arranged—’

‘You needn’t explain, Edmund,’ said Fanny.

‘No, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘In short, pet,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘on the whole, we are engaged. We must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according to the opportunities. Then it’s done, and very little more need be said.’

‘My dear Fanny,’ said Mr Sparkler, with deference, ‘I should like to say a word to Amy.’

‘Well, well! Say it for goodness’ sake,’ returned the young lady.

‘I am convinced, my dear Amy,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that if ever there was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister, who had no nonsense about her—’

‘We know all about that, Edmund,’ interposed Miss Fanny. ‘Never mind that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no nonsense about us.’

‘Yes, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘And I assure you, Amy, that nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself—next to the happiness of being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious girl who hasn’t an atom of—’

‘Pray, Edmund, pray!’ interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her pretty foot upon the floor.

‘My love, you’re quite right,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘and I know I have a habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of being united to pre-eminently the most glorious of girls—than to have the happiness of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of Amy. I may not myself,’ said Mr Sparkler manfully, ‘be up to the mark on some other subjects at a short notice, and I am aware that if you were to poll Society the general opinion would be that I am not; but on the subject of Amy I AM up to the mark!’

Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof.

‘A knife and fork and an apartment,’ proceeded Mr Sparkler, growing, in comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite diffuse, ‘will ever be at Amy’s disposal. My Governor, I am sure, will always be proud to entertain one whom I so much esteem. And regarding my mother,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘who is a remarkably fine woman, with—’

‘Edmund, Edmund!’ cried Miss Fanny, as before.

‘With submission, my soul,’ pleaded Mr Sparkler. ‘I know I have a habit of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for taking the trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all sides to be a remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn’t any.’

‘That may be, or may not be,’ returned Fanny, ‘but pray don’t mention it any more.’

‘I will not, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?’ inquired Fanny.

‘So far from it, my adorable girl,’ answered Mr Sparkler, ‘I apologise for having said so much.’

Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission, take his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy, as well as she could discharge that office in the flutter and distress of her spirits.

When he was gone, she said, ‘O Fanny, Fanny!’ and turned to her sister in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried there. Fanny laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her sister’s and cried too—a little. It was the last time Fanny ever showed that there was any hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling in her on the matter. From that hour the way she had chosen lay before her, and she trod it with her own imperious self-willed step.

CHAPTER 15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons should not be joined together

Mr Dorrit, on being informed by his elder daughter that she had accepted matrimonial overtures from Mr Sparkler, to whom she had plighted her troth, received the communication at once with great dignity and with a large display of parental pride; his dignity dilating with the widened prospect of advantageous ground from which to make acquaintances, and his parental pride being developed by Miss Fanny’s ready sympathy with that great object of his existence. He gave her to understand that her noble ambition found harmonious echoes in his heart; and bestowed his blessing on her, as a child brimful of duty and good principle, self-devoted to the aggrandisement of the family name.

To Mr Sparkler, when Miss Fanny permitted him to appear, Mr Dorrit said, he would not disguise that the alliance Mr Sparkler did him the honour to propose was highly congenial to his feelings; both as being in unison with the spontaneous affections of his daughter Fanny, and as opening a family connection of a gratifying nature with Mr Merdle, the master spirit of the age. Mrs Merdle also, as a leading lady rich in distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty, he mentioned in very laudatory terms. He felt it his duty to remark (he was sure a gentleman of Mr Sparkler’s fine sense would interpret him with all delicacy), that he could not consider this proposal definitely determined on, until he should have had the privilege of holding some correspondence with Mr Merdle; and of ascertaining it to be so far accordant with the views of that eminent gentleman as that his (Mr Dorrit’s) daughter would be received on that footing which her station in life and her dowry and expectations warranted him in requiring that she should maintain in what he trusted he might be allowed, without the appearance of being mercenary, to call the Eye of the Great World. While saying this, which his character as a gentleman of some little station, and his character as a father, equally demanded of him, he would not be so diplomatic as to conceal that the proposal remained in hopeful abeyance and under conditional acceptance, and that he thanked Mr Sparkler for the compliment rendered to himself and to his family. He concluded with some further and more general observations on the—ha—character of an independent gentleman, and the—hum—character of a possibly too partial and admiring parent. To sum the whole up shortly, he received Mr Sparkler’s offer very much as he would have received three or four half-crowns from him in the days that were gone.

Mr Sparkler, finding himself stunned by the words thus heaped upon his inoffensive head, made a brief though pertinent rejoinder; the same being neither more nor less than that he had long perceived Miss Fanny to have no nonsense about her, and that he had no doubt of its being all right with his Governor. At that point the object of his affections shut him up like a box with a spring lid, and sent him away.

Proceeding shortly afterwards to pay his respects to the Bosom, Mr Dorrit was received by it with great consideration. Mrs Merdle had heard of this affair from Edmund. She had been surprised at first, because she had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Society had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Still, of course she had seen, as a woman (we women did instinctively see these things, Mr Dorrit!), that Edmund had been immensely captivated by Miss Dorrit, and she had openly said that Mr Dorrit had much to answer for in bringing so charming a girl abroad to turn the heads of his countrymen.

‘Have I the honour to conclude, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that the direction which Mr Sparkler’s affections have taken, is—ha-approved of by you?’

‘I assure you, Mr Dorrit,’ returned the lady, ‘that, personally, I am charmed.’

That was very gratifying to Mr Dorrit.

‘Personally,’ repeated Mrs Merdle, ‘charmed.’

This casual repetition of the word ‘personally,’ moved Mr Dorrit to express his hope that Mr Merdle’s approval, too, would not be wanting?

‘I cannot,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘take upon myself to answer positively for Mr Merdle; gentlemen, especially gentlemen who are what Society calls capitalists, having their own ideas of these matters. But I should think—merely giving an opinion, Mr Dorrit—I should think Mr Merdle would be upon the whole,’ here she held a review of herself before adding at her leisure, ‘quite charmed.’

At the mention of gentlemen whom Society called capitalists, Mr Dorrit had coughed, as if some internal demur were breaking out of him. Mrs Merdle had observed it, and went on to take up the cue.

‘Though, indeed, Mr Dorrit, it is scarcely necessary for me to make that remark, except in the mere openness of saying what is uppermost to one whom I so highly regard, and with whom I hope I may have the pleasure of being brought into still more agreeable relations. For one cannot but see the great probability of your considering such things from Mr Merdle’s own point of view, except indeed that circumstances have made it Mr Merdle’s accidental fortune, or misfortune, to be engaged in business transactions, and that they, however vast, may a little cramp his horizons. I am a very child as to having any notion of business,’ said Mrs Merdle; ‘but I am afraid, Mr Dorrit, it may have that tendency.’

This skilful see-saw of Mr Dorrit and Mrs Merdle, so that each of them sent the other up, and each of them sent the other down, and neither had the advantage, acted as a sedative on Mr Dorrit’s cough. He remarked with his utmost politeness, that he must beg to protest against its being supposed, even by Mrs Merdle, the accomplished and graceful (to which compliment she bent herself), that such enterprises as Mr Merdle’s, apart as they were from the puny undertakings of the rest of men, had any lower tendency than to enlarge and expand the genius in which they were conceived. ‘You are generosity itself,’ said Mrs Merdle in return, smiling her best smile; ‘let us hope so. But I confess I am almost superstitious in my ideas about business.’

Mr Dorrit threw in another compliment here, to the effect that business, like the time which was precious in it, was made for slaves; and that it was not for Mrs Merdle, who ruled all hearts at her supreme pleasure, to have anything to do with it. Mrs Merdle laughed, and conveyed to Mr Dorrit an idea that the Bosom flushed—which was one of her best effects.

‘I say so much,’ she then explained, ‘merely because Mr Merdle has always taken the greatest interest in Edmund, and has always expressed the strongest desire to advance his prospects. Edmund’s public position, I think you know. His private position rests solely with Mr Merdle. In my foolish incapacity for business, I assure you I know no more.’

Mr Dorrit again expressed, in his own way, the sentiment that business was below the ken of enslavers and enchantresses. He then mentioned his intention, as a gentleman and a parent, of writing to Mr Merdle. Mrs Merdle concurred with all her heart—or with all her art, which was exactly the same thing—and herself despatched a preparatory letter by the next post to the eighth wonder of the world.

In his epistolary communication, as in his dialogues and discourses on the great question to which it related, Mr Dorrit surrounded the subject with flourishes, as writing-masters embellish copy-books and ciphering-books: where the titles of the elementary rules of arithmetic diverge into swans, eagles, griffins, and other calligraphic recreations, and where the capital letters go out of their minds and bodies into ecstasies of pen and ink. Nevertheless, he did render the purport of his letter sufficiently clear, to enable Mr Merdle to make a decent pretence of having learnt it from that source. Mr Merdle replied to it accordingly. Mr Dorrit replied to Mr Merdle; Mr Merdle replied to Mr Dorrit; and it was soon announced that the corresponding powers had come to a satisfactory understanding.

Now, and not before, Miss Fanny burst upon the scene, completely arrayed for her new part. Now and not before, she wholly absorbed Mr Sparkler in her light, and shone for both, and twenty more. No longer feeling that want of a defined place and character which had caused her so much trouble, this fair ship began to steer steadily on a shaped course, and to swim with a weight and balance that developed her sailing qualities.

‘The preliminaries being so satisfactorily arranged, I think I will now, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘announce—ha—formally, to Mrs General—’

‘Papa,’ returned Fanny, taking him up short upon that name, ‘I don’t see what Mrs General has got to do with it.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘it will be an act of courtesy to—hum—a lady, well bred and refined—’

‘Oh! I am sick of Mrs General’s good breeding and refinement, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I am tired of Mrs General.’

‘Tired,’ repeated Mr Dorrit in reproachful astonishment, ‘of—ha—Mrs General.’

‘Quite disgusted with her, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I really don’t see what she has to do with my marriage. Let her keep to her own matrimonial projects—if she has any.’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with a grave and weighty slowness upon him, contrasting strongly with his daughter’s levity: ‘I beg the favour of your explaining—ha—what it is you mean.’

‘I mean, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘that if Mrs General should happen to have any matrimonial projects of her own, I dare say they are quite enough to occupy her spare time. And that if she has not, so much the better; but still I don’t wish to have the honour of making announcements to her.’

‘Permit me to ask you, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘why not?’

‘Because she can find my engagement out for herself, papa,’ retorted Fanny. ‘She is watchful enough, I dare say. I think I have seen her so. Let her find it out for herself. If she should not find it out for herself, she will know it when I am married. And I hope you will not consider me wanting in affection for you, papa, if I say it strikes me that will be quite enough for Mrs General.’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, ‘I am amazed, I am displeased by this—hum—this capricious and unintelligible display of animosity towards—ha—Mrs General.’

‘Do not, if you please, papa,’ urged Fanny, ‘call it animosity, because I assure you I do not consider Mrs General worth my animosity.’

At this, Mr Dorrit rose from his chair with a fixed look of severe reproof, and remained standing in his dignity before his daughter. His daughter, turning the bracelet on her arm, and now looking at him, and now looking from him, said, ‘Very well, papa. I am truly sorry if you don’t like it; but I can’t help it. I am not a child, and I am not Amy, and I must speak.’

‘Fanny,’ gasped Mr Dorrit, after a majestic silence, ‘if I request you to remain here, while I formally announce to Mrs General, as an exemplary lady, who is—hum—a trusted member of this family, the—ha—the change that is contemplated among us; if I—ha—not only request it, but—hum—insist upon it—’

‘Oh, papa,’ Fanny broke in with pointed significance, ‘if you make so much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help it under the circumstances.’ So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which, in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler into his presence.

‘Mrs General.’

Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, ‘How dare you, sir? What do you mean?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ pleaded Mr Tinkler, ‘I was wishful to know—’

‘You wished to know nothing, sir,’ cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed. ‘Don’t tell me you did. Ha. You didn’t. You are guilty of mockery, sir.’

‘I assure you, sir—’ Mr Tinkler began.

‘Don’t assure me!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not be assured by a domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me—hum—the whole establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?’

‘Only for my orders, sir.’

‘It’s false,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have your orders. Ha—hum. My compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.’

In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General’s skirts were very speedily heard outside, coming along—one might almost have said bouncing along—with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness.

‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘take a chair.’

Mrs General, with a graceful curve of acknowledgment, descended into the chair which Mr Dorrit offered.

‘Madam,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘as you have had the kindness to undertake the—hum—formation of my daughters, and as I am persuaded that nothing nearly affecting them can—ha—be indifferent to you—’

‘Wholly impossible,’ said Mrs General in the calmest of ways.

‘—I therefore wish to announce to you, madam, that my daughter now present—’

Mrs General made a slight inclination of her head to Fanny, who made a very low inclination of her head to Mrs General, and came loftily upright again.

‘—That my daughter Fanny is—ha—contracted to be married to Mr Sparkler, with whom you are acquainted. Hence, madam, you will be relieved of half your difficult charge—ha—difficult charge.’ Mr Dorrit repeated it with his angry eye on Fanny. ‘But not, I hope, to the—hum—diminution of any other portion, direct or indirect, of the footing you have at present the kindness to occupy in my family.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloved hands resting on one another in exemplary repose, ‘is ever considerate, and ever but too appreciative of my friendly services.’

(Miss Fanny coughed, as much as to say, ‘You are right.’)

‘Miss Dorrit has no doubt exercised the soundest discretion of which the circumstances admitted, and I trust will allow me to offer her my sincere congratulations. When free from the trammels of passion,’ Mrs General closed her eyes at the word, as if she could not utter it, and see anybody; ‘when occurring with the approbation of near relatives; and when cementing the proud structure of a family edifice; these are usually auspicious events. I trust Miss Dorrit will allow me to offer her my best congratulations.’

Here Mrs General stopped, and added internally, for the setting of her face, ‘Papa, potatoes, poultry, Prunes, and prism.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ she superadded aloud, ‘is ever most obliging; and for the attention, and I will add distinction, of having this confidence imparted to me by himself and Miss Dorrit at this early time, I beg to offer the tribute of my thanks. My thanks, and my congratulations, are equally the meed of Mr Dorrit and of Miss Dorrit.’

‘To me,’ observed Miss Fanny, ‘they are excessively gratifying—inexpressibly so. The relief of finding that you have no objection to make, Mrs General, quite takes a load off my mind, I am sure. I hardly know what I should have done,’ said Fanny, ‘if you had interposed any objection, Mrs General.’

Mrs General changed her gloves, as to the right glove being uppermost and the left undermost, with a Prunes and Prism smile.

‘To preserve your approbation, Mrs General,’ said Fanny, returning the smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, ‘will of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of course be perfect wretchedness. I am sure your great kindness will not object, and I hope papa will not object, to my correcting a small mistake you have made, however. The best of us are so liable to mistakes, that even you, Mrs General, have fallen into a little error. The attention and distinction you have so impressively mentioned, Mrs General, as attaching to this confidence, are, I have no doubt, of the most complimentary and gratifying description; but they don’t at all proceed from me. The merit of having consulted you on the subject would have been so great in me, that I feel I must not lay claim to it when it really is not mine. It is wholly papa’s. I am deeply obliged to you for your encouragement and patronage, but it was papa who asked for it. I have to thank you, Mrs General, for relieving my breast of a great weight by so handsomely giving your consent to my engagement, but you have really nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of my proceedings after I have left home and that my sister also may long remain the favoured object of your condescension, Mrs General.’

With this address, which was delivered in her politest manner, Fanny left the room with an elegant and cheerful air—to tear up-stairs with a flushed face as soon as she was out of hearing, pounce in upon her sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her for the better opening of her eyes, tell her what had passed below, and ask her what she thought of Pa now?

Towards Mrs Merdle, the young lady comported herself with great independence and self-possession; but not as yet with any more decided opening of hostilities. Occasionally they had a slight skirmish, as when Fanny considered herself patted on the back by that lady, or as when Mrs Merdle looked particularly young and well; but Mrs Merdle always soon terminated those passages of arms by sinking among her cushions with the gracefullest indifference, and finding her attention otherwise engaged. Society (for that mysterious creature sat upon the Seven Hills too) found Miss Fanny vastly improved by her engagement. She was much more accessible, much more free and engaging, much less exacting; insomuch that she now entertained a host of followers and admirers, to the bitter indignation of ladies with daughters to marry, who were to be regarded as Having revolted from Society on the Miss Dorrit grievance, and erected a rebellious standard. Enjoying the flutter she caused. Miss Dorrit not only haughtily moved through it in her own proper person, but haughtily, even Ostentatiously, led Mr Sparkler through it too: seeming to say to them all, ‘If I think proper to march among you in triumphal procession attended by this weak captive in bonds, rather than a stronger one, that is my business. Enough that I choose to do it!’ Mr Sparkler for his part, questioned nothing; but went wherever he was taken, did whatever he was told, felt that for his bride-elect to be distinguished was for him to be distinguished on the easiest terms, and was truly grateful for being so openly acknowledged.

The winter passing on towards the spring while this condition of affairs prevailed, it became necessary for Mr Sparkler to repair to England, and take his appointed part in the expression and direction of its genius, learning, commerce, spirit, and sense. The land of Shakespeare, Milton, Bacon, Newton, Watt, the land of a host of past and present abstract philosophers, natural philosophers, and subduers of Nature and Art in their myriad forms, called to Mr Sparkler to come and take care of it, lest it should perish. Mr Sparkler, unable to resist the agonised cry from the depths of his country’s soul, declared that he must go.

It followed that the question was rendered pressing when, where, and how Mr Sparkler should be married to the foremost girl in all this world with no nonsense about her. Its solution, after some little mystery and secrecy, Miss Fanny herself announced to her sister.

‘Now, my child,’ said she, seeking her out one day, ‘I am going to tell you something. It is only this moment broached; and naturally I hurry to you the moment it is broached.’

‘Your marriage, Fanny?’

‘My precious child,’ said Fanny, ‘don’t anticipate me. Let me impart my confidence to you, you flurried little thing, in my own way. As to your guess, if I answered it literally, I should answer no. For really it is not my marriage that is in question, half as much as it is Edmund’s.’

Little Dorrit looked, and perhaps not altogether without cause, somewhat at a loss to understand this fine distinction.

‘I am in no difficulty,’ exclaimed Fanny, ‘and in no hurry. I am not wanted at any public office, or to give any vote anywhere else. But Edmund is. And Edmund is deeply dejected at the idea of going away by himself, and, indeed, I don’t like that he should be trusted by himself. For, if it’s possible—and it generally is—to do a foolish thing, he is sure to do it.’

As she concluded this impartial summary of the reliance that might be safely placed upon her future husband, she took off, with an air of business, the bonnet she wore, and dangled it by its strings upon the ground.

‘It is far more Edmund’s question, therefore, than mine. However, we need say no more about that. That is self-evident on the face of it. Well, my dearest Amy! The point arising, is he to go by himself, or is he not to go by himself, this other point arises, are we to be married here and shortly, or are we to be married at home months hence?’

‘I see I am going to lose you, Fanny.’

‘What a little thing you are,’ cried Fanny, half tolerant and half impatient, ‘for anticipating one! Pray, my darling, hear me out. That woman,’ she spoke of Mrs Merdle, of course, ‘remains here until after Easter; so, in the case of my being married here and going to London with Edmund, I should have the start of her. That is something. Further, Amy. That woman being out of the way, I don’t know that I greatly object to Mr Merdle’s proposal to Pa that Edmund and I should take up our abode in that house—you know—where you once went with a dancer, my dear, until our own house can be chosen and fitted up. Further still, Amy. Papa having always intended to go to town himself, in the spring,—you see, if Edmund and I were married here, we might go off to Florence, where papa might join us, and we might all three travel home together. Mr Merdle has entreated Pa to stay with him in that same mansion I have mentioned, and I suppose he will. But he is master of his own actions; and upon that point (which is not at all material) I can’t speak positively.’

The difference between papa’s being master of his own actions and Mr Sparkler’s being nothing of the sort, was forcibly expressed by Fanny in her manner of stating the case. Not that her sister noticed it; for she was divided between regret at the coming separation, and a lingering wish that she had been included in the plans for visiting England.

‘And these are the arrangements, Fanny dear?’

‘Arrangements!’ repeated Fanny. ‘Now, really, child, you are a little trying. You know I particularly guarded myself against laying my words open to any such construction. What I said was, that certain questions present themselves; and these are the questions.’

Little Dorrit’s thoughtful eyes met hers, tenderly and quietly.

‘Now, my own sweet girl,’ said Fanny, weighing her bonnet by the strings with considerable impatience, ‘it’s no use staring. A little owl could stare. I look to you for advice, Amy. What do you advise me to do?’

‘Do you think,’ asked Little Dorrit, persuasively, after a short hesitation, ‘do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a few months, it might be, considering all things, best?’

‘No, little Tortoise,’ retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. ‘I don’t think anything of the kind.’

Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and all, in her arms.

‘Don’t suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not. But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off, when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn’t I tell you, you dearest baby, that Edmund can’t be trusted by himself? And don’t you know that he can’t?’

‘Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.’

‘And you know it, I know,’ retorted Fanny. ‘Well, my precious child! If he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should go with him?’

‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you advise me to make them?’

‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit again.

‘Very well,’ cried Fanny with an air of resignation, ‘then I suppose it must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.’

After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. ‘After all, my Amy,’ she said to her sister, ‘you are the best of small creatures, and full of good sense; and I don’t know what I shall ever do without you!’

With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond one.

‘Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs General—’

‘I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?’ said Little Dorrit, quietly.

‘Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I was going to say—but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting one out—when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don’t you let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can. I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But don’t you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice to you is, that you say at once, “Papa, I beg to object most strongly. Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object.” I don’t mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree of firmness. But there is a principle involved—a filial principle—and I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General, without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as possible. I don’t expect you to stand by it—indeed, I know you won’t, Pa being concerned—but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of attractions—used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that woman—I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and false hair (for I am confident it’s not all real, ugly as it is and unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the expense of buying it) of Mrs General!’

Little Dorrit received this counsel without venturing to oppose it but without giving Fanny any reason to believe that she intended to act upon it. Having now, as it were, formally wound up her single life and arranged her worldly affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour to prepare for the serious change in her condition.

The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated the Beggar’s Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions, that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch, and arrived at its journey’s end in fine condition.

There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn’t had such a marriage in the whole of his Consularity.

The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days. The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery, whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient things—even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes—might have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter denied that he had anything to do with it.

But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day’s journey towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to have gone the same road, before and since.

If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must have put on caps as high as the Pope’s Mitre, and have performed the mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before he could have got it.

He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him as he was—when had she not accepted him as he was!—and made the most and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries, amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little Dorrit then put her arm round her father’s neck, to bid him good night.

‘Amy, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, ‘this is the close of a day, that has—ha—greatly impressed and gratified me.’

‘A little tired you, dear, too?’

‘No,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises from an occasion so—hum—replete with gratification of the purest kind.’

Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her own heart.

‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘this is an occasion—ha—teeming with a good example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child—hum—to you.’

Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though he stopped as if he expected her to say something.

‘Amy,’ he resumed; ‘your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted ha hum—a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of our—ha—connection, and to—hum—consolidate our social relations. My love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some—ha—eligible partner may be found for you.’

‘Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I want nothing but to stay and take care of you!’

She said it like one in sudden alarm.

‘Nay, Amy, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘This is weak and foolish, weak and foolish. You have a—ha—responsibility imposed upon you by your position. It is to develop that position, and be—hum—worthy of that position. As to taking care of me; I can—ha—take care of myself. Or,’ he added after a moment, ‘if I should need to be taken care of, I—hum—can, with the—ha—blessing of Providence, be taken care of, I—ha hum—I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and—ha—as it were, sacrificing you.’

O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial; at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to believe it, if such a thing could be!

‘Don’t speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I—ha—must not do it. My—hum—conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion of—ha—solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose of mine to see you—ha—eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.’

‘Oh no, dear! Pray!’

‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I am well persuaded that if the topic were referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior delicacy and sense—let us say, for instance, to—ha—Mrs General—that there would not be two opinions as to the—hum—affectionate character and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful nature from—hum—from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is necessary to say no more. I have—hum—no husband to propose at present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we should—ha—understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!’

If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit’s head that night, that he could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that they should continue rich, and grow richer.

They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny. Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to her, as long as any one could be got for money.

Mrs General took life easily—as easily, that is, as she could take anything—when the Roman establishment remained in their sole occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old Marshalsea—ruins of her own old life—ruins of the faces and forms that of old peopled it—ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys. Two ruined spheres of action and suffering were before the solitary girl often sitting on some broken fragment; and in the lonely places, under the blue sky, she saw them both together.

Up, then, would come Mrs General; taking all the colour out of everything, as Nature and Art had taken it out of herself; writing Prunes and Prism, in Mr Eustace’s text, wherever she could lay a hand; looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else; scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them whole without any human visitings—like a Ghoule in gloves.

CHAPTER 16. Getting on

The newly married pair, on their arrival in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, London, were received by the Chief Butler. That great man was not interested in them, but on the whole endured them. People must continue to be married and given in marriage, or Chief Butlers would not be wanted. As nations are made to be taxed, so families are made to be butlered. The Chief Butler, no doubt, reflected that the course of nature required the wealthy population to be kept up, on his account.

He therefore condescended to look at the carriage from the Hall-door without frowning at it, and said, in a very handsome way, to one of his men, ‘Thomas, help with the luggage.’ He even escorted the Bride up-stairs into Mr Merdle’s presence; but this must be considered as an act of homage to the sex (of which he was an admirer, being notoriously captivated by the charms of a certain Duchess), and not as a committal of himself with the family.

Mr Merdle was slinking about the hearthrug, waiting to welcome Mrs Sparkler. His hand seemed to retreat up his sleeve as he advanced to do so, and he gave her such a superfluity of coat-cuff that it was like being received by the popular conception of Guy Fawkes. When he put his lips to hers, besides, he took himself into custody by the wrists, and backed himself among the ottomans and chairs and tables as if he were his own Police officer, saying to himself, ‘Now, none of that! Come! I’ve got you, you know, and you go quietly along with me!’

Mrs Sparkler, installed in the rooms of state—the innermost sanctuary of down, silk, chintz, and fine linen—felt that so far her triumph was good, and her way made, step by step. On the day before her marriage, she had bestowed on Mrs Merdle’s maid with an air of gracious indifference, in Mrs Merdle’s presence, a trifling little keepsake (bracelet, bonnet, and two dresses, all new) about four times as valuable as the present formerly made by Mrs Merdle to her. She was now established in Mrs Merdle’s own rooms, to which some extra touches had been given to render them more worthy of her occupation. In her mind’s eye, as she lounged there, surrounded by every luxurious accessory that wealth could obtain or invention devise, she saw the fair bosom that beat in unison with the exultation of her thoughts, competing with the bosom that had been famous so long, outshining it, and deposing it. Happy? Fanny must have been happy. No more wishing one’s self dead now.

The Courier had not approved of Mr Dorrit’s staying in the house of a friend, and had preferred to take him to an hotel in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. Mr Merdle ordered his carriage to be ready early in the morning that he might wait upon Mr Dorrit immediately after breakfast.

Bright the carriage looked, sleek the horses looked, gleaming the harness looked, luscious and lasting the liveries looked. A rich, responsible turn-out. An equipage for a Merdle. Early people looked after it as it rattled along the streets, and said, with awe in their breath, ‘There he goes!’

There he went, until Brook Street stopped him. Then, forth from its magnificent case came the jewel; not lustrous in itself, but quite the contrary.

Commotion in the office of the hotel. Merdle! The landlord, though a gentleman of a haughty spirit who had just driven a pair of thorough-bred horses into town, turned out to show him up-stairs. The clerks and servants cut him off by back-passages, and were found accidentally hovering in doorways and angles, that they might look upon him. Merdle! O ye sun, moon, and stars, the great man! The rich man, who had in a manner revised the New Testament, and already entered into the kingdom of Heaven. The man who could have any one he chose to dine with him, and who had made the money! As he went up the stairs, people were already posted on the lower stairs, that his shadow might fall upon them when he came down. So were the sick brought out and laid in the track of the Apostle—who had not got into the good society, and had not made the money.

Mr Dorrit, dressing-gowned and newspapered, was at his breakfast. The Courier, with agitation in his voice, announced ‘Miss Mairdale!’ Mr Dorrit’s overwrought heart bounded as he leaped up.

‘Mr Merdle, this is—ha—indeed an honour. Permit me to express the—hum—sense, the high sense, I entertain of this—ha hum—highly gratifying act of attention. I am well aware, sir, of the many demands upon your time, and its—ha—enormous value,’ Mr Dorrit could not say enormous roundly enough for his own satisfaction. ‘That you should—ha—at this early hour, bestow any of your priceless time upon me, is—ha—a compliment that I acknowledge with the greatest esteem.’ Mr Dorrit positively trembled in addressing the great man.

Mr Merdle uttered, in his subdued, inward, hesitating voice, a few sounds that were to no purpose whatever; and finally said, ‘I am glad to see you, sir.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Truly kind.’ By this time the visitor was seated, and was passing his great hand over his exhausted forehead. ‘You are well, I hope, Mr Merdle?’

‘I am as well as I—yes, I am as well as I usually am,’ said Mr Merdle.

‘Your occupations must be immense.’

‘Tolerably so. But—Oh dear no, there’s not much the matter with me,’ said Mr Merdle, looking round the room.

‘A little dyspeptic?’ Mr Dorrit hinted.

‘Very likely. But I—Oh, I am well enough,’ said Mr Merdle.

There were black traces on his lips where they met, as if a little train of gunpowder had been fired there; and he looked like a man who, if his natural temperament had been quicker, would have been very feverish that morning. This, and his heavy way of passing his hand over his forehead, had prompted Mr Dorrit’s solicitous inquiries.

‘Mrs Merdle,’ Mr Dorrit insinuatingly pursued, ‘I left, as you will be prepared to hear, the—ha—observed of all observers, the—hum—admired of all admirers, the leading fascination and charm of Society in Rome. She was looking wonderfully well when I quitted it.’

‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘is generally considered a very attractive woman. And she is, no doubt. I am sensible of her being so.’

‘Who can be otherwise?’ responded Mr Dorrit.

Mr Merdle turned his tongue in his closed mouth—it seemed rather a stiff and unmanageable tongue—moistened his lips, passed his hand over his forehead again, and looked all round the room again, principally under the chairs.

‘But,’ he said, looking Mr Dorrit in the face for the first time, and immediately afterwards dropping his eyes to the buttons of Mr Dorrit’s waistcoat; ‘if we speak of attractions, your daughter ought to be the subject of our conversation. She is extremely beautiful. Both in face and figure, she is quite uncommon. When the young people arrived last night, I was really surprised to see such charms.’

Mr Dorrit’s gratification was such that he said—ha—he could not refrain from telling Mr Merdle verbally, as he had already done by letter, what honour and happiness he felt in this union of their families. And he offered his hand. Mr Merdle looked at the hand for a little while, took it on his for a moment as if his were a yellow salver or fish-slice, and then returned it to Mr Dorrit.

‘I thought I would drive round the first thing,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘to offer my services, in case I can do anything for you; and to say that I hope you will at least do me the honour of dining with me to-day, and every day when you are not better engaged during your stay in town.’

Mr Dorrit was enraptured by these attentions.

‘Do you stay long, sir?’

‘I have not at present the intention,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘of—ha—exceeding a fortnight.’

‘That’s a very short stay, after so long a journey,’ returned Mr Merdle.

‘Hum. Yes,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘But the truth is—ha—my dear Mr Merdle, that I find a foreign life so well suited to my health and taste, that I—hum—have but two objects in my present visit to London. First, the—ha—the distinguished happiness and—ha—privilege which I now enjoy and appreciate; secondly, the arrangement—hum—the laying out, that is to say, in the best way, of—ha, hum—my money.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, after turning his tongue again, ‘if I can be of any use to you in that respect, you may command me.’

Mr Dorrit’s speech had had more hesitation in it than usual, as he approached the ticklish topic, for he was not perfectly clear how so exalted a potentate might take it. He had doubts whether reference to any individual capital, or fortune, might not seem a wretchedly retail affair to so wholesale a dealer. Greatly relieved by Mr Merdle’s affable offer of assistance, he caught at it directly, and heaped acknowledgments upon him.

‘I scarcely—ha—dared,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I assure you, to hope for so—hum—vast an advantage as your direct advice and assistance. Though of course I should, under any circumstances, like the—ha, hum—rest of the civilised world, have followed in Mr Merdle’s train.’

‘You know we may almost say we are related, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, curiously interested in the pattern of the carpet, ‘and, therefore, you may consider me at your service.’

‘Ha. Very handsome, indeed!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha. Most handsome!’

‘It would not,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘be at the present moment easy for what I may call a mere outsider to come into any of the good things—of course I speak of my own good things—’

‘Of course, of course!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in a tone implying that there were no other good things.

‘—Unless at a high price. At what we are accustomed to term a very long figure.’

Mr Dorrit laughed in the buoyancy of his spirit. Ha, ha, ha! Long figure. Good. Ha. Very expressive to be sure!

‘However,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I do generally retain in my own hands the power of exercising some preference—people in general would be pleased to call it favour—as a sort of compliment for my care and trouble.’

‘And public spirit and genius,’ Mr Dorrit suggested.

Mr Merdle, with a dry, swallowing action, seemed to dispose of those qualities like a bolus; then added, ‘As a sort of return for it. I will see, if you please, how I can exert this limited power (for people are jealous, and it is limited), to your advantage.’

‘You are very good,’ replied Mr Dorrit. ‘You are very good.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘there must be the strictest integrity and uprightness in these transactions; there must be the purest faith between man and man; there must be unimpeached and unimpeachable confidence; or business could not be carried on.’

Mr Dorrit hailed these generous sentiments with fervour.

‘Therefore,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I can only give you a preference to a certain extent.’

‘I perceive. To a defined extent,’ observed Mr Dorrit.

‘Defined extent. And perfectly above-board. As to my advice, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘that is another matter. That, such as it is—’

Oh! Such as it was! (Mr Dorrit could not bear the faintest appearance of its being depreciated, even by Mr Merdle himself.)

‘—That, there is nothing in the bonds of spotless honour between myself and my fellow-man to prevent my parting with, if I choose. And that,’ said Mr Merdle, now deeply intent upon a dust-cart that was passing the windows, ‘shall be at your command whenever you think proper.’

New acknowledgments from Mr Dorrit. New passages of Mr Merdle’s hand over his forehead. Calm and silence. Contemplation of Mr Dorrit’s waistcoat buttons by Mr Merdle.

‘My time being rather precious,’ said Mr Merdle, suddenly getting up, as if he had been waiting in the interval for his legs and they had just come, ‘I must be moving towards the City. Can I take you anywhere, sir? I shall be happy to set you down, or send you on. My carriage is at your disposal.’

Mr Dorrit bethought himself that he had business at his banker’s. His banker’s was in the City. That was fortunate; Mr Merdle would take him into the City. But, surely, he might not detain Mr Merdle while he assumed his coat? Yes, he might and must; Mr Merdle insisted on it. So Mr Dorrit, retiring into the next room, put himself under the hands of his valet, and in five minutes came back glorious.

Then said Mr Merdle, ‘Allow me, sir. Take my arm!’ Then leaning on Mr Merdle’s arm, did Mr Dorrit descend the staircase, seeing the worshippers on the steps, and feeling that the light of Mr Merdle shone by reflection in himself. Then the carriage, and the ride into the City; and the people who looked at them; and the hats that flew off grey heads; and the general bowing and crouching before this wonderful mortal the like of which prostration of spirit was not to be seen—no, by high Heaven, no! It may be worth thinking of by Fawners of all denominations—in Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul’s Cathedral put together, on any Sunday in the year. It was a rapturous dream to Mr Dorrit to find himself set aloft in this public car of triumph, making a magnificent progress to that befitting destination, the golden Street of the Lombards.

There Mr Merdle insisted on alighting and going his way a-foot, and leaving his poor equipage at Mr Dorrit’s disposition. So the dream increased in rapture when Mr Dorrit came out of the bank alone, and people looked at him in default of Mr Merdle, and when, with the ears of his mind, he heard the frequent exclamation as he rolled glibly along, ‘A wonderful man to be Mr Merdle’s friend!’

At dinner that day, although the occasion was not foreseen and provided for, a brilliant company of such as are not made of the dust of the earth, but of some superior article for the present unknown, shed their lustrous benediction upon Mr Dorrit’s daughter’s marriage. And Mr Dorrit’s daughter that day began, in earnest, her competition with that woman not present; and began it so well that Mr Dorrit could all but have taken his affidavit, if required, that Mrs Sparkler had all her life been lying at full length in the lap of luxury, and had never heard of such a rough word in the English tongue as Marshalsea.

Next day, and the day after, and every day, all graced by more dinner company, cards descended on Mr Dorrit like theatrical snow. As the friend and relative by marriage of the illustrious Merdle, Bar, Bishop, Treasury, Chorus, Everybody, wanted to make or improve Mr Dorrit’s acquaintance. In Mr Merdle’s heap of offices in the City, when Mr Dorrit appeared at any of them on his business taking him Eastward (which it frequently did, for it throve amazingly), the name of Dorrit was always a passport to the great presence of Merdle. So the dream increased in rapture every hour, as Mr Dorrit felt increasingly sensible that this connection had brought him forward indeed.

Only one thing sat otherwise than auriferously, and at the same time lightly, on Mr Dorrit’s mind. It was the Chief Butler. That stupendous character looked at him, in the course of his official looking at the dinners, in a manner that Mr Dorrit considered questionable. He looked at him, as he passed through the hall and up the staircase, going to dinner, with a glazed fixedness that Mr Dorrit did not like. Seated at table in the act of drinking, Mr Dorrit still saw him through his wine-glass, regarding him with a cold and ghostly eye. It misgave him that the Chief Butler must have known a Collegian, and must have seen him in the College—perhaps had been presented to him. He looked as closely at the Chief Butler as such a man could be looked at, and yet he did not recall that he had ever seen him elsewhere. Ultimately he was inclined to think that there was no reverence in the man, no sentiment in the great creature. But he was not relieved by that; for, let him think what he would, the Chief Butler had him in his supercilious eye, even when that eye was on the plate and other table-garniture; and he never let him out of it. To hint to him that this confinement in his eye was disagreeable, or to ask him what he meant, was an act too daring to venture upon; his severity with his employers and their visitors being terrific, and he never permitting himself to be approached with the slightest liberty.

CHAPTER 17. Missing

The term of Mr Dorrit’s visit was within two days of being out, and he was about to dress for another inspection by the Chief Butler (whose victims were always dressed expressly for him), when one of the servants of the hotel presented himself bearing a card. Mr Dorrit, taking it, read:

‘Mrs Finching.’

The servant waited in speechless deference.

‘Man, man,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning upon him with grievous indignation, ‘explain your motive in bringing me this ridiculous name. I am wholly unacquainted with it. Finching, sir?’ said Mr Dorrit, perhaps avenging himself on the Chief Butler by Substitute. ‘Ha! What do you mean by Finching?’

The man, man, seemed to mean Flinching as much as anything else, for he backed away from Mr Dorrit’s severe regard, as he replied, ‘A lady, sir.’

‘I know no such lady, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Take this card away. I know no Finching of either sex.’

‘Ask your pardon, sir. The lady said she was aware she might be unknown by name. But she begged me to say, sir, that she had formerly the honour of being acquainted with Miss Dorrit. The lady said, sir, the youngest Miss Dorrit.’

Mr Dorrit knitted his brows and rejoined, after a moment or two, ‘Inform Mrs Finching, sir,’ emphasising the name as if the innocent man were solely responsible for it, ‘that she can come up.’

He had reflected, in his momentary pause, that unless she were admitted she might leave some message, or might say something below, having a disgraceful reference to that former state of existence. Hence the concession, and hence the appearance of Flora, piloted in by the man, man.

‘I have not the pleasure,’ said Mr Dorrit, standing with the card in his hand, and with an air which imported that it would scarcely have been a first-class pleasure if he had had it, ‘of knowing either this name, or yourself, madam. Place a chair, sir.’

The responsible man, with a start, obeyed, and went out on tiptoe. Flora, putting aside her veil with a bashful tremor upon her, proceeded to introduce herself. At the same time a singular combination of perfumes was diffused through the room, as if some brandy had been put by mistake in a lavender-water bottle, or as if some lavender-water had been put by mistake in a brandy-bottle.

‘I beg Mr Dorrit to offer a thousand apologies and indeed they would be far too few for such an intrusion which I know must appear extremely bold in a lady and alone too, but I thought it best upon the whole however difficult and even apparently improper though Mr F.’s Aunt would have willingly accompanied me and as a character of great force and spirit would probably have struck one possessed of such a knowledge of life as no doubt with so many changes must have been acquired, for Mr F. himself said frequently that although well educated in the neighbourhood of Blackheath at as high as eighty guineas which is a good deal for parents and the plate kept back too on going away but that is more a meanness than its value that he had learnt more in his first years as a commercial traveller with a large commission on the sale of an article that nobody would hear of much less buy which preceded the wine trade a long time than in the whole six years in that academy conducted by a college Bachelor, though why a Bachelor more clever than a married man I do not see and never did but pray excuse me that is not the point.’

Mr Dorrit stood rooted to the carpet, a statue of mystification.

‘I must openly admit that I have no pretensions,’ said Flora, ‘but having known the dear little thing which under altered circumstances appears a liberty but is not so intended and Goodness knows there was no favour in half-a-crown a-day to such a needle as herself but quite the other way and as to anything lowering in it far from it the labourer is worthy of his hire and I am sure I only wish he got it oftener and more animal food and less rheumatism in the back and legs poor soul.’

‘Madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his breath by a great effort, as the relict of the late Mr Finching stopped to take hers; ‘madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, very red in the face, ‘if I understand you to refer to—ha—to anything in the antecedents of—hum—a daughter of mine, involving—ha hum—daily compensation, madam, I beg to observe that the—ha—fact, assuming it—ha—to be fact, never was within my knowledge. Hum. I should not have permitted it. Ha. Never! Never!’

‘Unnecessary to pursue the subject,’ returned Flora, ‘and would not have mentioned it on any account except as supposing it a favourable and only letter of introduction but as to being fact no doubt whatever and you may set your mind at rest for the very dress I have on now can prove it and sweetly made though there is no denying that it would tell better on a better figure for my own is much too fat though how to bring it down I know not, pray excuse me I am roving off again.’

Mr Dorrit backed to his chair in a stony way, and seated himself, as Flora gave him a softening look and played with her parasol.

‘The dear little thing,’ said Flora, ‘having gone off perfectly limp and white and cold in my own house or at least papa’s for though not a freehold still a long lease at a peppercorn on the morning when Arthur—foolish habit of our youthful days and Mr Clennam far more adapted to existing circumstances particularly addressing a stranger and that stranger a gentleman in an elevated station—communicated the glad tidings imparted by a person of name of Pancks emboldens me.’

At the mention of these two names, Mr Dorrit frowned, stared, frowned again, hesitated with his fingers at his lips, as he had hesitated long ago, and said, ‘Do me the favour to—ha—state your pleasure, madam.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Flora, ‘you are very kind in giving me permission and highly natural it seems to me that you should be kind for though more stately I perceive a likeness filled out of course but a likeness still, the object of my intruding is my own without the slightest consultation with any human being and most decidedly not with Arthur—pray excuse me Doyce and Clennam I don’t know what I am saying Mr Clennam solus—for to put that individual linked by a golden chain to a purple time when all was ethereal out of any anxiety would be worth to me the ransom of a monarch not that I have the least idea how much that would come to but using it as the total of all I have in the world and more.’

Mr Dorrit, without greatly regarding the earnestness of these latter words, repeated, ‘State your pleasure, madam.’

‘It’s not likely I well know,’ said Flora, ‘but it’s possible and being possible when I had the gratification of reading in the papers that you had arrived from Italy and were going back I made up my mind to try it for you might come across him or hear something of him and if so what a blessing and relief to all!’

‘Allow me to ask, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with his ideas in wild confusion, ‘to whom—ha—TO WHOM,’ he repeated it with a raised voice in mere desperation, ‘you at present allude?’

‘To the foreigner from Italy who disappeared in the City as no doubt you have read in the papers equally with myself,’ said Flora, ‘not referring to private sources by the name of Pancks from which one gathers what dreadfully ill-natured things some people are wicked enough to whisper most likely judging others by themselves and what the uneasiness and indignation of Arthur—quite unable to overcome it Doyce and Clennam—cannot fail to be.’

It happened, fortunately for the elucidation of any intelligible result, that Mr Dorrit had heard or read nothing about the matter. This caused Mrs Finching, with many apologies for being in great practical difficulties as to finding the way to her pocket among the stripes of her dress at length to produce a police handbill, setting forth that a foreign gentleman of the name of Blandois, last from Venice, had unaccountably disappeared on such a night in such a part of the city of London; that he was known to have entered such a house, at such an hour; that he was stated by the inmates of that house to have left it, about so many minutes before midnight; and that he had never been beheld since. This, with exact particulars of time and locality, and with a good detailed description of the foreign gentleman who had so mysteriously vanished, Mr Dorrit read at large.

‘Blandois!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Venice! And this description! I know this gentleman. He has been in my house. He is intimately acquainted with a gentleman of good family (but in indifferent circumstances), of whom I am a—hum—patron.’

‘Then my humble and pressing entreaty is the more,’ said Flora, ‘that in travelling back you will have the kindness to look for this foreign gentleman along all the roads and up and down all the turnings and to make inquiries for him at all the hotels and orange-trees and vineyards and volcanoes and places for he must be somewhere and why doesn’t he come forward and say he’s there and clear all parties up?’

‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, referring to the handbill again, ‘who is Clennam and Co.? Ha. I see the name mentioned here, in connection with the occupation of the house which Monsieur Blandois was seen to enter: who is Clennam and Co.? Is it the individual of whom I had formerly—hum—some—ha—slight transitory knowledge, and to whom I believe you have referred? Is it—ha—that person?’

‘It’s a very different person indeed,’ replied Flora, ‘with no limbs and wheels instead and the grimmest of women though his mother.’

‘Clennam and Co. a—hum—a mother!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit.

‘And an old man besides,’ said Flora.

Mr Dorrit looked as if he must immediately be driven out of his mind by this account. Neither was it rendered more favourable to sanity by Flora’s dashing into a rapid analysis of Mr Flintwinch’s cravat, and describing him, without the lightest boundary line of separation between his identity and Mrs Clennam’s, as a rusty screw in gaiters. Which compound of man and woman, no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and gaiters, so completely stupefied Mr Dorrit, that he was a spectacle to be pitied.

‘But I would not detain you one moment longer,’ said Flora, upon whom his condition wrought its effect, though she was quite unconscious of having produced it, ‘if you would have the goodness to give your promise as a gentleman that both in going back to Italy and in Italy too you would look for this Mr Blandois high and low and if you found or heard of him make him come forward for the clearing of all parties.’

By that time Mr Dorrit had so far recovered from his bewilderment, as to be able to say, in a tolerably connected manner, that he should consider that his duty. Flora was delighted with her success, and rose to take her leave.

‘With a million thanks,’ said she, ‘and my address upon my card in case of anything to be communicated personally, I will not send my love to the dear little thing for it might not be acceptable, and indeed there is no dear little thing left in the transformation so why do it but both myself and Mr F.’s Aunt ever wish her well and lay no claim to any favour on our side you may be sure of that but quite the other way for what she undertook to do she did and that is more than a great many of us do, not to say anything of her doing it as well as it could be done and I myself am one of them for I have said ever since I began to recover the blow of Mr F’s death that I would learn the Organ of which I am extremely fond but of which I am ashamed to say I do not yet know a note, good evening!’

When Mr Dorrit, who attended her to the room-door, had had a little time to collect his senses, he found that the interview had summoned back discarded reminiscences which jarred with the Merdle dinner-table. He wrote and sent off a brief note excusing himself for that day, and ordered dinner presently in his own rooms at the hotel. He had another reason for this. His time in London was very nearly out, and was anticipated by engagements; his plans were made for returning; and he thought it behoved his importance to pursue some direct inquiry into the Blandois disappearance, and be in a condition to carry back to Mr Henry Gowan the result of his own personal investigation. He therefore resolved that he would take advantage of that evening’s freedom to go down to Clennam and Co.’s, easily to be found by the direction set forth in the handbill; and see the place, and ask a question or two there himself.

Having dined as plainly as the establishment and the Courier would let him, and having taken a short sleep by the fire for his better recovery from Mrs Finching, he set out in a hackney-cabriolet alone. The deep bell of St Paul’s was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of Temple Bar, headless and forlorn in these degenerate days.

As he approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side ways, that part of London seemed to him an uglier spot at such an hour than he had ever supposed it to be. Many long years had passed since he had seen it; he had never known much of it; and it wore a mysterious and dismal aspect in his eyes. So powerfully was his imagination impressed by it, that when his driver stopped, after having asked the way more than once, and said to the best of his belief this was the gateway they wanted, Mr Dorrit stood hesitating, with the coach-door in his hand, half afraid of the dark look of the place.

Truly, it looked as gloomy that night as even it had ever looked. Two of the handbills were posted on the entrance wall, one on either side, and as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows passed over them, not unlike the shadows of fingers following the lines. A watch was evidently kept upon the place. As Mr Dorrit paused, a man passed in from over the way, and another man passed out from some dark corner within; and both looked at him in passing, and both remained standing about.

As there was only one house in the enclosure, there was no room for uncertainty, so he went up the steps of that house and knocked. There was a dim light in two windows on the first-floor. The door gave back a dreary, vacant sound, as though the house were empty; but it was not, for a light was visible, and a step was audible, almost directly. They both came to the door, and a chain grated, and a woman with her apron thrown over her face and head stood in the aperture.

‘Who is it?’ said the woman.

Mr Dorrit, much amazed by this appearance, replied that he was from Italy, and that he wished to ask a question relative to the missing person, whom he knew.

‘Hi!’ cried the woman, raising a cracked voice. ‘Jeremiah!’

Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and disclosed a pale affrighted face. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ said the old man; ‘and let the gentleman in.’

Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. ‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here, sir.’

Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman’s, called from above, ‘Who is it?’

‘Who is it?’ returned Jeremiah. ‘More inquiries. A gentleman from Italy.’

‘Bring him up here!’

Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning to Mr Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs Clennam. She will do as she likes. I’ll show you the way.’ He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase; that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former ghastly manner.

Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. ‘Oh!’ said she abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. ‘You are from Italy, sir, are you. Well?’

Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment than ‘Ha—well?’

‘Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where he is? I hope you have?’

‘So far from it, I—hum—have come to seek information.’

‘Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take away. Hold the light for him to read it.’

Mr Flintwinch did as he was directed, and Mr Dorrit read it through, as if he had not previously seen it; glad enough of the opportunity of collecting his presence of mind, which the air of the house and of the people in it had a little disturbed. While his eyes were on the paper, he felt that the eyes of Mr Flintwinch and of Mrs Clennam were on him. He found, when he looked up, that this sensation was not a fanciful one.

‘Now you know as much,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘as we know, sir. Is Mr Blandois a friend of yours?’

‘No—a—hum—an acquaintance,’ answered Mr Dorrit.

‘You have no commission from him, perhaps?’

‘I? Ha. Certainly not.’

The searching look turned gradually to the floor, after taking Mr Flintwinch’s face in its way. Mr Dorrit, discomfited by finding that he was the questioned instead of the questioner, applied himself to the reversal of that unexpected order of things.

‘I am—ha—a gentleman of property, at present residing in Italy with my family, my servants, and—hum—my rather large establishment. Being in London for a short time on affairs connected with—ha—my estate, and hearing of this strange disappearance, I wished to make myself acquainted with the circumstances at first-hand, because there is—ha hum—an English gentleman in Italy whom I shall no doubt see on my return, who has been in habits of close and daily intimacy with Monsieur Blandois. Mr Henry Gowan. You may know the name.’

‘Never heard of it.’

Mrs Clennam said it, and Mr Flintwinch echoed it.

‘Wishing to—ha—make the narrative coherent and consecutive to him,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘may I ask—say, three questions?’

‘Thirty, if you choose.’

‘Have you known Monsieur Blandois long?’

‘Not a twelvemonth. Mr Flintwinch here, will refer to the books and tell you when, and by whom at Paris he was introduced to us. If that,’ Mrs Clennam added, ‘should be any satisfaction to you. It is poor satisfaction to us.’

‘Have you seen him often?’

‘No. Twice. Once before, and—’

‘That once,’ suggested Mr Flintwinch.

‘And that once.’

‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a growing fancy upon him as he recovered his importance, that he was in some superior way in the Commission of the Peace; ‘pray, madam, may I inquire, for the greater satisfaction of the gentleman whom I have the honour to—ha—retain, or protect or let me say to—hum—know—to know—Was Monsieur Blandois here on business on the night indicated in this present sheet?’

‘On what he called business,’ returned Mrs Clennam.

‘Is—ha—excuse me—is its nature to be communicated?’

‘No.’

It was evidently impracticable to pass the barrier of that reply.

‘The question has been asked before,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and the answer has been, No. We don’t choose to publish our transactions, however unimportant, to all the town. We say, No.’

‘I mean, he took away no money with him, for example,’ said Mr Dorrit.

‘He took away none of ours, sir, and got none here.’

‘I suppose,’ observed Mr Dorrit, glancing from Mrs Clennam to Mr Flintwinch, and from Mr Flintwinch to Mrs Clennam, ‘you have no way of accounting to yourself for this mystery?’

‘Why do you suppose so?’ rejoined Mrs Clennam.

Disconcerted by the cold and hard inquiry, Mr Dorrit was unable to assign any reason for his supposing so.

‘I account for it, sir,’ she pursued after an awkward silence on Mr Dorrit’s part, ‘by having no doubt that he is travelling somewhere, or hiding somewhere.’

‘Do you know—ha—why he should hide anywhere?’

‘No.’

It was exactly the same No as before, and put another barrier up.

‘You asked me if I accounted for the disappearance to myself,’ Mrs Clennam sternly reminded him, ‘not if I accounted for it to you. I do not pretend to account for it to you, sir. I understand it to be no more my business to do that, than it is yours to require that.’

Mr Dorrit answered with an apologetic bend of his head. As he stepped back, preparatory to saying he had no more to ask, he could not but observe how gloomily and fixedly she sat with her eyes fastened on the ground, and a certain air upon her of resolute waiting; also, how exactly the self-same expression was reflected in Mr Flintwinch, standing at a little distance from her chair, with his eyes also on the ground, and his right hand softly rubbing his chin.

At that moment, Mistress Affery (of course, the woman with the apron) dropped the candlestick she held, and cried out, ‘There! O good Lord! there it is again. Hark, Jeremiah! Now!’

If there were any sound at all, it was so slight that she must have fallen into a confirmed habit of listening for sounds; but Mr Dorrit believed he did hear a something, like the falling of dry leaves. The woman’s terror, for a very short space, seemed to touch the three; and they all listened.

Mr Flintwinch was the first to stir. ‘Affery, my woman,’ said he, sidling at her with his fists clenched, and his elbows quivering with impatience to shake her, ‘you are at your old tricks. You’ll be walking in your sleep next, my woman, and playing the whole round of your distempered antics. You must have some physic. When I have shown this gentleman out, I’ll make you up such a comfortable dose, my woman; such a comfortable dose!’

It did not appear altogether comfortable in expectation to Mistress Affery; but Jeremiah, without further reference to his healing medicine, took another candle from Mrs Clennam’s table, and said, ‘Now, sir; shall I light you down?’

Mr Dorrit professed himself obliged, and went down. Mr Flintwinch shut him out, and chained him out, without a moment’s loss of time. He was again passed by the two men, one going out and the other coming in; got into the vehicle he had left waiting, and was driven away.

Before he had gone far, the driver stopped to let him know that he had given his name, number, and address to the two men, on their joint requisition; and also the address at which he had taken Mr Dorrit up, the hour at which he had been called from his stand and the way by which he had come. This did not make the night’s adventure run any less hotly in Mr Dorrit’s mind, either when he sat down by his fire again, or when he went to bed. All night he haunted the dismal house, saw the two people resolutely waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face cry out about the noise, and found the body of the missing Blandois, now buried in the cellar, and now bricked up in a wall.

CHAPTER 18. A Castle in the Air

Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit’s satisfaction in remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped over-night, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge—a course which would have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to think what the Chief Butler’s opinion of him would have been, if that illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the stream of his meditations.

The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished—but without abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of his favourite child—that he had such another daughter.

‘My dear,’ he told her at parting, ‘our family looks to you to—ha—assert its dignity and—hum—maintain its importance. I know you will never disappoint it.’

‘No, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘you may rely upon that, I think. My best love to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.’

‘Shall I convey any message to—ha—anybody else?’ asked Mr Dorrit, in an insinuating manner.

‘Papa,’ said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, ‘no, I thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at all agreeable to you to take.’

They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit’s protestations being in vain, he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of beholding the grandeur of his departure.

The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence, when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!

‘Now, young man,’ said the porter. ‘This is the gentleman. This young man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.’

Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of tones, ‘Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Young John.

‘I—ha—thought it was Young John!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘The young man may come up,’ turning to the attendants, as he passed on: ‘oh yes, he may come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.’

Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit’s rooms were reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.

‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the collar when they were safely alone. ‘What do you mean by this?’

The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John’s face—for he had rather expected to be embraced next—were of that powerfully expressive nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at him.

‘How dare you do this?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘How do you presume to come here? How dare you insult me?’

‘I insult you, sir?’ cried Young John. ‘Oh!’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit. ‘Insult me. Your coming here is an affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here. Who sent you here? What—ha—the Devil do you do here?’

‘I thought, sir,’ said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit’s in his life—even in his College life: ‘I thought, sir, you mightn’t object to have the goodness to accept a bundle—’

‘Damn your bundle, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage. ‘I—hum—don’t smoke.’

‘I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.’

‘Tell me that again,’ cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, ‘and I’ll take the poker to you!’

John Chivery backed to the door.

‘Stop, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!’

John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once, he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:

‘What else did you come for, Sir?’

‘Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?’

‘What’s that to you, sir?’ retorted Mr Dorrit.

‘It’s nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it’s a liberty, sir, but I never thought you’d have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,’ said Young John, with emotion, ‘in my poor way, I am too proud to have come, I assure you, if I had thought so.’

Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and he looked tired and ill.

‘Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but—ha—some remembrances are not happy remembrances, and—hum—you shouldn’t have come.’

‘I feel that now, sir,’ returned John Chivery; ‘but I didn’t before, and Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.’

‘No. No,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I am—hum—sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand, Young John, give me your hand.’

Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.

‘There!’ said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. ‘Sit down again, Young John.’

‘Thank you, sir—but I’d rather stand.’

Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:

‘And how is your father, Young John? How—ha—how are they all, Young John?’

‘Thank you, sir, They’re all pretty well, sir. They’re not any ways complaining.’

‘Hum. You are in your—ha—old business I see, John?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.

‘Partly, sir. I am in my’—John hesitated a little—‘father’s business likewise.’

‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Do you—ha hum—go upon the ha—’

‘Lock, sir? Yes, sir.’

‘Much to do, John?’

‘Yes, sir; we’re pretty heavy at present. I don’t know how it is, but we generally are pretty heavy.’

‘At this time of the year, Young John?’

‘Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don’t know the time that makes much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.’

‘Stay a moment, John—ha—stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John, I—ha—beg.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.

‘Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a—ha—a gratification to me to send a little—hum—Testimonial, by such a trusty messenger, to be divided among—ha hum—them—them—according to their wants. Would you object to take it, John?’

‘Not in any ways, sir. There’s many of them, I’m sure, that would be the better for it.’

‘Thank you, John. I—ha—I’ll write it, John.’

His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He folded it up, put it in Young John’s hand, and pressed the hand in his.

‘I hope you’ll—ha—overlook—hum—what has passed, John.’

‘Don’t speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don’t in any ways bear malice, I’m sure.’

But nothing while John was there could change John’s face to its natural colour and expression, or restore John’s natural manner.

‘And, John,’ said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and releasing it, ‘I hope we—ha—agree that we have spoken together in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying anything to any one that might—hum—suggest that—ha—once I—’

‘Oh! I assure you, sir,’ returned John Chivery, ‘in my poor humble way, sir, I’m too proud and honourable to do it, sir.’

Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step. After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier, who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back towards him and his face to the fire. ‘You can take that bundle of cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Ha—brought by—hum—little offering from—ha—son of old tenant of mine.’

Next morning’s sun saw Mr Dorrit’s equipage upon the Dover road, where every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the Courier’s business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next chalky rise in the dusty highway.

Another day’s sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.

On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls, strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior, making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a special physiognomical treatise.

Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and particularly the jewellers’ windows. Ultimately, he went into the most famous jeweller’s, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.

It was a charming little woman to whom he said it—a sprightly little woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which looked in itself like a sweetmeat.

For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did Monsieur desire? A love-gift?

Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?

Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts. For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.

Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with the nuptial offering?

Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with gifts would find them irresistible.

Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.

Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles. Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young John’s best cigars, left a little thread of thin light smoke behind—perhaps as he built a castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit’s money.

Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit’s castle. Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through the filth that festered on the way.

CHAPTER 19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air

The sun had gone down full four hours, and it was later than most travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls of Rome, when Mr Dorrit’s carriage, still on its last wearisome stage, rattled over the solitary Campagna. The savage herdsmen and the fierce-looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light lasted, had all gone down with the sun, and left the wilderness blank. At some turns of the road, a pale flare on the horizon, like an exhalation from the ruin-sown land, showed that the city was yet far off; but this poor relief was rare and short-lived. The carriage dipped down again into a hollow of the black dry sea, and for a long time there was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky.

Mr Dorrit, though he had his castle-building to engage his mind, could not be quite easy in that desolate place. He was far more curious, in every swerve of the carriage, and every cry of the postilions, than he had been since he quitted London. The valet on the box evidently quaked. The Courier in the rumble was not altogether comfortable in his mind. As often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him (which was very often), he saw him smoking John Chivery out, it is true, but still generally standing up the while and looking about him, like a man who had his suspicions, and kept upon his guard. Then would Mr Dorrit, pulling up the glass again, reflect that those postilions were cut-throat looking fellows, and that he would have done better to have slept at Civita Vecchia, and have started betimes in the morning. But, for all this, he worked at his castle in the intervals.

And now, fragments of ruinous enclosure, yawning window-gap and crazy wall, deserted houses, leaking wells, broken water-tanks, spectral cypress-trees, patches of tangled vine, and the changing of the track to a long, irregular, disordered lane where everything was crumbling away, from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road—now, these objects showed that they were nearing Rome. And now, a sudden twist and stoppage of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand moment was come for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him; until, letting down the glass again and looking out, he perceived himself assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which came mechanically chaunting by, with an indistinct show of dirty vestments, lurid torches, swinging censers, and a great cross borne before a priest. He was an ugly priest by torchlight; of a lowering aspect, with an overhanging brow; and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit, looking bareheaded out of the carriage, his lips, moving as they chaunted, seemed to threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of his hand, which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller’s salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr Dorrit, made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling, as the priest drifted past him, and the procession straggled away, taking its dead along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr Dorrit’s company too; and soon, with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals of Europe, they were (like the Goths reversed) beating at the gates of Rome.

Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had been; but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that it was later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus, when his equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter appeared to receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked. No. She was within. Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants; let them keep where they were; let them help to unload the carriage; he would find Miss Dorrit for himself.

So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and tired, and looked into various chambers which were empty, until he saw a light in a small ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, within two other rooms; and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he approached it through the dark avenue they made.

There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here, looking in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For why like jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother there: he, with his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood fire; she seated at a little table, busied with some embroidery work. Allowing for the great difference in the still-life of the picture, the figures were much the same as of old; his brother being sufficiently like himself to represent himself, for a moment, in the composition. So had he sat many a night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat, devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old miserable poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart?

‘Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?’

Her uncle shook his head and said, ‘Since when, my dear; since when?’

‘I think,’ returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, ‘that you have been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and so ready, and so interested.’

‘My dear child—all you.’

‘All me, uncle!’

‘Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying to hide your attentions from me, that I—well, well, well! It’s treasured up, my darling, treasured up.’

‘There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy, uncle,’ said Little Dorrit, cheerfully.

‘Well, well, well!’ murmured the old man. ‘Thank God!’

She paused for an instant in her work to look at him, and her look revived that former pain in her father’s breast; in his poor weak breast, so full of contradictions, vacillations, inconsistencies, the little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life, mists which the morning without a night only can clear away.

‘I have been freer with you, you see, my dove,’ said the old man, ‘since we have been alone. I say, alone, for I don’t count Mrs General; I don’t care for her; she has nothing to do with me. But I know Fanny was impatient of me. And I don’t wonder at it, or complain of it, for I am sensible that I must be in the way, though I try to keep out of it as well as I can. I know I am not fit company for our company. My brother William,’ said the old man admiringly, ‘is fit company for monarchs; but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit is no credit to William Dorrit, and he knows it quite well. Ah! Why, here’s your father, Amy! My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I am rejoiced to see you!’

(Turning his head in speaking, he had caught sight of him as he stood in the doorway.)

Little Dorrit with a cry of pleasure put her arms about her father’s neck, and kissed him again and again. Her father was a little impatient, and a little querulous. ‘I am glad to find you at last, Amy,’ he said. ‘Ha. Really I am glad to find—hum—any one to receive me at last. I appear to have been—ha—so little expected, that upon my word I began—ha hum—to think it might be right to offer an apology for—ha—taking the liberty of coming back at all.’

‘It was so late, my dear William,’ said his brother, ‘that we had given you up for to-night.’

‘I am stronger than you, dear Frederick,’ returned his brother with an elaboration of fraternity in which there was severity; ‘and I hope I can travel without detriment at—ha—any hour I choose.’

‘Surely, surely,’ returned the other, with a misgiving that he had given offence. ‘Surely, William.’

‘Thank you, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, as she helped him to put off his wrappers. ‘I can do it without assistance. I—ha—need not trouble you, Amy. Could I have a morsel of bread and a glass of wine, or—hum—would it cause too much inconvenience?’

‘Dear father, you shall have supper in a very few minutes.’

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a reproachful frost upon him; ‘I—ha—am afraid I am causing inconvenience. Hum. Mrs General pretty well?’

‘Mrs General complained of a headache, and of being fatigued; and so, when we gave you up, she went to bed, dear.’

Perhaps Mr Dorrit thought that Mrs General had done well in being overcome by the disappointment of his not arriving. At any rate, his face relaxed, and he said with obvious satisfaction, ‘Extremely sorry to hear that Mrs General is not well.’

During this short dialogue, his daughter had been observant of him, with something more than her usual interest. It would seem as though he had a changed or worn appearance in her eyes, and he perceived and resented it; for he said with renewed peevishness, when he had divested himself of his travelling-cloak, and had come to the fire:

‘Amy, what are you looking at? What do you see in me that causes you to—ha—concentrate your solicitude on me in that—hum—very particular manner?’

‘I did not know it, father; I beg your pardon. It gladdens my eyes to see you again; that’s all.’

‘Don’t say that’s all, because—ha—that’s not all. You—hum—you think,’ said Mr Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, ‘that I am not looking well.’

‘I thought you looked a little tired, love.’

‘Then you are mistaken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha, I am not tired. Ha, hum. I am very much fresher than I was when I went away.’

He was so inclined to be angry that she said nothing more in her justification, but remained quietly beside him embracing his arm. As he stood thus, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a heavy doze, of not a minute’s duration, and awoke with a start.

‘Frederick,’ he said, turning to his brother: ‘I recommend you to go to bed immediately.’

‘No, William. I’ll wait and see you sup.’

‘Frederick,’ he retorted, ‘I beg you to go to bed. I—ha—make it a personal request that you go to bed. You ought to have been in bed long ago. You are very feeble.’

‘Hah!’ said the old man, who had no wish but to please him. ‘Well, well, well! I dare say I am.’

‘My dear Frederick,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with an astonishing superiority to his brother’s failing powers, ‘there can be no doubt of it. It is painful to me to see you so weak. Ha. It distresses me. Hum. I don’t find you looking at all well. You are not fit for this sort of thing. You should be more careful, you should be very careful.’

‘Shall I go to bed?’ asked Frederick.

‘Dear Frederick,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘do, I adjure you! Good night, brother. I hope you will be stronger to-morrow. I am not at all pleased with your looks. Good night, dear fellow.’ After dismissing his brother in this gracious way, he fell into a doze again before the old man was well out of the room: and he would have stumbled forward upon the logs, but for his daughter’s restraining hold.

‘Your uncle wanders very much, Amy,’ he said, when he was thus roused. ‘He is less—ha—coherent, and his conversation is more—hum—broken, than I have—ha, hum—ever known. Has he had any illness since I have been gone?’

‘No, father.’

‘You—ha—see a great change in him, Amy?’

‘I have not observed it, dear.’

‘Greatly broken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Greatly broken. My poor, affectionate, failing Frederick! Ha. Even taking into account what he was before, he is—hum—sadly broken!’

His supper, which was brought to him there, and spread upon the little table where he had seen her working, diverted his attention. She sat at his side as in the days that were gone, for the first time since those days ended. They were alone, and she helped him to his meat and poured out his drink for him, as she had been used to do in the prison. All this happened now, for the first time since their accession to wealth. She was afraid to look at him much, after the offence he had taken; but she noticed two occasions in the course of his meal, when he all of a sudden looked at her, and looked about him, as if the association were so strong that he needed assurance from his sense of sight that they were not in the old prison-room. Both times, he put his hand to his head as if he missed his old black cap—though it had been ignominiously given away in the Marshalsea, and had never got free to that hour, but still hovered about the yards on the head of his successor.

He took very little supper, but was a long time over it, and often reverted to his brother’s declining state. Though he expressed the greatest pity for him, he was almost bitter upon him. He said that poor Frederick—ha hum—drivelled. There was no other word to express it; drivelled. Poor fellow! It was melancholy to reflect what Amy must have undergone from the excessive tediousness of his Society—wandering and babbling on, poor dear estimable creature, wandering and babbling on—if it had not been for the relief she had had in Mrs General. Extremely sorry, he then repeated with his former satisfaction, that that—ha—superior woman was poorly.

Little Dorrit, in her watchful love, would have remembered the lightest thing he said or did that night, though she had had no subsequent reason to recall that night. She always remembered that, when he looked about him under the strong influence of the old association, he tried to keep it out of her mind, and perhaps out of his own too, by immediately expatiating on the great riches and great company that had encompassed him in his absence, and on the lofty position he and his family had to sustain. Nor did she fail to recall that there were two under-currents, side by side, pervading all his discourse and all his manner; one showing her how well he had got on without her, and how independent he was of her; the other, in a fitful and unintelligible way almost complaining of her, as if it had been possible that she had neglected him while he was away.

His telling her of the glorious state that Mr Merdle kept, and of the court that bowed before him, naturally brought him to Mrs Merdle. So naturally indeed, that although there was an unusual want of sequence in the greater part of his remarks, he passed to her at once, and asked how she was.

‘She is very well. She is going away next week.’

‘Home?’ asked Mr Dorrit.

‘After a few weeks’ stay upon the road.’

‘She will be a vast loss here,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘A vast—ha—acquisition at home. To Fanny, and to—hum—the rest of the—ha—great world.’

Little Dorrit thought of the competition that was to be entered upon, and assented very softly.

‘Mrs Merdle is going to have a great farewell Assembly, dear, and a dinner before it. She has been expressing her anxiety that you should return in time. She has invited both you and me to her dinner.’

‘She is—ha—very kind. When is the day?’

‘The day after to-morrow.’

‘Write round in the morning, and say that I have returned, and shall—hum—be delighted.’

‘May I walk with you up the stairs to your room, dear?’

‘No!’ he answered, looking angrily round; for he was moving away, as if forgetful of leave-taking. ‘You may not, Amy. I want no help. I am your father, not your infirm uncle!’ He checked himself, as abruptly as he had broken into this reply, and said, ‘You have not kissed me, Amy. Good night, my dear! We must marry—ha—we must marry you, now.’ With that he went, more slowly and more tired, up the staircase to his rooms, and, almost as soon as he got there, dismissed his valet. His next care was to look about him for his Paris purchases, and, after opening their cases and carefully surveying them, to put them away under lock and key. After that, what with dozing and what with castle-building, he lost himself for a long time, so that there was a touch of morning on the eastward rim of the desolate Campagna when he crept to bed.

Mrs General sent up her compliments in good time next day, and hoped he had rested well after this fatiguing journey. He sent down his compliments, and begged to inform Mrs General that he had rested very well indeed, and was in high condition. Nevertheless, he did not come forth from his own rooms until late in the afternoon; and, although he then caused himself to be magnificently arrayed for a drive with Mrs General and his daughter, his appearance was scarcely up to his description of himself.

As the family had no visitors that day, its four members dined alone together. He conducted Mrs General to the seat at his right hand with immense ceremony; and Little Dorrit could not but notice as she followed with her uncle, both that he was again elaborately dressed, and that his manner towards Mrs General was very particular. The perfect formation of that accomplished lady’s surface rendered it difficult to displace an atom of its genteel glaze, but Little Dorrit thought she descried a slight thaw of triumph in a corner of her frosty eye.

Notwithstanding what may be called in these pages the Pruney and Prismatic nature of the family banquet, Mr Dorrit several times fell asleep while it was in progress. His fits of dozing were as sudden as they had been overnight, and were as short and profound. When the first of these slumberings seized him, Mrs General looked almost amazed: but, on each recurrence of the symptoms, she told her polite beads, Papa, Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes, and Prism; and, by dint of going through that infallible performance very slowly, appeared to finish her rosary at about the same time as Mr Dorrit started from his sleep.

He was again painfully aware of a somnolent tendency in Frederick (which had no existence out of his own imagination), and after dinner, when Frederick had withdrawn, privately apologised to Mrs General for the poor man. ‘The most estimable and affectionate of brothers,’ he said, ‘but—ha, hum—broken up altogether. Unhappily, declining fast.’

‘Mr Frederick, sir,’ quoth Mrs General, ‘is habitually absent and drooping, but let us hope it is not so bad as that.’

Mr Dorrit, however, was determined not to let him off. ‘Fast declining, madam. A wreck. A ruin. Mouldering away before our eyes. Hum. Good Frederick!’

‘You left Mrs Sparkler quite well and happy, I trust?’ said Mrs General, after heaving a cool sigh for Frederick.

‘Surrounded,’ replied Mr Dorrit, ‘by—ha—all that can charm the taste, and—hum—elevate the mind. Happy, my dear madam, in a—hum—husband.’

Mrs General was a little fluttered; seeming delicately to put the word away with her gloves, as if there were no knowing what it might lead to.

‘Fanny,’ Mr Dorrit continued. ‘Fanny, Mrs General, has high qualities. Ha. Ambition—hum—purpose, consciousness of—ha—position, determination to support that position—ha, hum—grace, beauty, and native nobility.’

‘No doubt,’ said Mrs General (with a little extra stiffness).

‘Combined with these qualities, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘Fanny has—ha—manifested one blemish which has made me—hum—made me uneasy, and—ha—I must add, angry; but which I trust may now be considered at an end, even as to herself, and which is undoubtedly at an end as to—ha—others.’

‘To what, Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloves again somewhat excited, ‘can you allude? I am at a loss to—’

‘Do not say that, my dear madam,’ interrupted Mr Dorrit.

Mrs General’s voice, as it died away, pronounced the words, ‘at a loss to imagine.’

After which Mr Dorrit was seized with a doze for about a minute, out of which he sprang with spasmodic nimbleness.

‘I refer, Mrs General, to that—ha—strong spirit of opposition, or—hum—I might say—ha—jealousy in Fanny, which has occasionally risen against the—ha—sense I entertain of—hum—the claims of—ha—the lady with whom I have now the honour of communing.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘is ever but too obliging, ever but too appreciative. If there have been moments when I have imagined that Miss Dorrit has indeed resented the favourable opinion Mr Dorrit has formed of my services, I have found, in that only too high opinion, my consolation and recompense.’

‘Opinion of your services, madam?’ said Mr Dorrit.

‘Of,’ Mrs General repeated, in an elegantly impressive manner, ‘my services.’

‘Of your services alone, dear madam?’ said Mr Dorrit.

‘I presume,’ retorted Mrs General, in her former impressive manner, ‘of my services alone. For, to what else,’ said Mrs General, with a slightly interrogative action of her gloves, ‘could I impute—’

‘To—ha—yourself, Mrs General. Ha, hum. To yourself and your merits,’ was Mr Dorrit’s rejoinder.

‘Mr Dorrit will pardon me,’ said Mrs General, ‘if I remark that this is not a time or place for the pursuit of the present conversation. Mr Dorrit will excuse me if I remind him that Miss Dorrit is in the adjoining room, and is visible to myself while I utter her name. Mr Dorrit will forgive me if I observe that I am agitated, and that I find there are moments when weaknesses I supposed myself to have subdued, return with redoubled power. Mr Dorrit will allow me to withdraw.’

‘Hum. Perhaps we may resume this—ha—interesting conversation,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘at another time; unless it should be, what I hope it is not—hum—in any way disagreeable to—ah—Mrs General.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs General, casting down her eyes as she rose with a bend, ‘must ever claim my homage and obedience.’

Mrs General then took herself off in a stately way, and not with that amount of trepidation upon her which might have been expected in a less remarkable woman. Mr Dorrit, who had conducted his part of the dialogue with a certain majestic and admiring condescension—much as some people may be seen to conduct themselves in Church, and to perform their part in the service—appeared, on the whole, very well satisfied with himself and with Mrs General too. On the return of that lady to tea, she had touched herself up with a little powder and pomatum, and was not without moral enchantment likewise: the latter showing itself in much sweet patronage of manner towards Miss Dorrit, and in an air of as tender interest in Mr Dorrit as was consistent with rigid propriety. At the close of the evening, when she rose to retire, Mr Dorrit took her by the hand as if he were going to lead her out into the Piazza of the people to walk a minuet by moonlight, and with great solemnity conducted her to the room door, where he raised her knuckles to his lips. Having parted from her with what may be conjectured to have been a rather bony kiss of a cosmetic flavour, he gave his daughter his blessing, graciously. And having thus hinted that there was something remarkable in the wind, he again went to bed.

He remained in the seclusion of his own chamber next morning; but, early in the afternoon, sent down his best compliments to Mrs General, by Mr Tinkler, and begged she would accompany Miss Dorrit on an airing without him. His daughter was dressed for Mrs Merdle’s dinner before he appeared. He then presented himself in a refulgent condition as to his attire, but looking indefinably shrunken and old. However, as he was plainly determined to be angry with her if she so much as asked him how he was, she only ventured to kiss his cheek, before accompanying him to Mrs Merdle’s with an anxious heart.

The distance that they had to go was very short, but he was at his building work again before the carriage had half traversed it. Mrs Merdle received him with great distinction; the bosom was in admirable preservation, and on the best terms with itself; the dinner was very choice; and the company was very select.

It was principally English; saving that it comprised the usual French Count and the usual Italian Marchese—decorative social milestones, always to be found in certain places, and varying very little in appearance. The table was long, and the dinner was long; and Little Dorrit, overshadowed by a large pair of black whiskers and a large white cravat, lost sight of her father altogether, until a servant put a scrap of paper in her hand, with a whispered request from Mrs Merdle that she would read it directly. Mrs Merdle had written on it in pencil, ‘Pray come and speak to Mr Dorrit, I doubt if he is well.’

She was hurrying to him, unobserved, when he got up out of his chair, and leaning over the table called to her, supposing her to be still in her place:

‘Amy, Amy, my child!’

The action was so unusual, to say nothing of his strange eager appearance and strange eager voice, that it instantaneously caused a profound silence.

‘Amy, my dear,’ he repeated. ‘Will you go and see if Bob is on the lock?’

She was at his side, and touching him, but he still perversely supposed her to be in her seat, and called out, still leaning over the table, ‘Amy, Amy. I don’t feel quite myself. Ha. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I particularly wish to see Bob. Ha. Of all the turnkeys, he’s as much my friend as yours. See if Bob is in the lodge, and beg him to come to me.’

All the guests were now in consternation, and everybody rose.

‘Dear father, I am not there; I am here, by you.’

‘Oh! You are here, Amy! Good. Hum. Good. Ha. Call Bob. If he has been relieved, and is not on the lock, tell Mrs Bangham to go and fetch him.’

She was gently trying to get him away; but he resisted, and would not go.

‘I tell you, child,’ he said petulantly, ‘I can’t be got up the narrow stairs without Bob. Ha. Send for Bob. Hum. Send for Bob—best of all the turnkeys—send for Bob!’

He looked confusedly about him, and, becoming conscious of the number of faces by which he was surrounded, addressed them:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the duty—ha—devolves upon me of—hum—welcoming you to the Marshalsea! Welcome to the Marshalsea! The space is—ha—limited—limited—the parade might be wider; but you will find it apparently grow larger after a time—a time, ladies and gentlemen—and the air is, all things considered, very good. It blows over the—ha—Surrey hills. Blows over the Surrey hills. This is the Snuggery. Hum. Supported by a small subscription of the—ha—Collegiate body. In return for which—hot water—general kitchen—and little domestic advantages. Those who are habituated to the—ha—Marshalsea, are pleased to call me its father. I am accustomed to be complimented by strangers as the—ha—Father of the Marshalsea. Certainly, if years of residence may establish a claim to so—ha—honourable a title, I may accept the—hum—conferred distinction. My child, ladies and gentlemen. My daughter. Born here!’

She was not ashamed of it, or ashamed of him. She was pale and frightened; but she had no other care than to soothe him and get him away, for his own dear sake. She was between him and the wondering faces, turned round upon his breast with her own face raised to his. He held her clasped in his left arm, and between whiles her low voice was heard tenderly imploring him to go away with her.

‘Born here,’ he repeated, shedding tears. ‘Bred here. Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter. Child of an unfortunate father, but—ha—always a gentleman. Poor, no doubt, but—hum—proud. Always proud. It has become a—hum—not infrequent custom for my—ha—personal admirers—personal admirers solely—to be pleased to express their desire to acknowledge my semi-official position here, by offering—ha—little tributes, which usually take the form of—ha—voluntary recognitions of my humble endeavours to—hum—to uphold a Tone here—a Tone—I beg it to be understood that I do not consider myself compromised. Ha. Not compromised. Ha. Not a beggar. No; I repudiate the title! At the same time far be it from me to—hum—to put upon the fine feelings by which my partial friends are actuated, the slight of scrupling to admit that those offerings are—hum—highly acceptable. On the contrary, they are most acceptable. In my child’s name, if not in my own, I make the admission in the fullest manner, at the same time reserving—ha—shall I say my personal dignity? Ladies and gentlemen, God bless you all!’

By this time, the exceeding mortification undergone by the Bosom had occasioned the withdrawal of the greater part of the company into other rooms. The few who had lingered thus long followed the rest, and Little Dorrit and her father were left to the servants and themselves. Dearest and most precious to her, he would come with her now, would he not? He replied to her fervid entreaties, that he would never be able to get up the narrow stairs without Bob; where was Bob, would nobody fetch Bob? Under pretence of looking for Bob, she got him out against the stream of gay company now pouring in for the evening assembly, and got him into a coach that had just set down its load, and got him home.

The broad stairs of his Roman palace were contracted in his failing sight to the narrow stairs of his London prison; and he would suffer no one but her to touch him, his brother excepted. They got him up to his room without help, and laid him down on his bed. And from that hour his poor maimed spirit, only remembering the place where it had broken its wings, cancelled the dream through which it had since groped, and knew of nothing beyond the Marshalsea. When he heard footsteps in the street, he took them for the old weary tread in the yards. When the hour came for locking up, he supposed all strangers to be excluded for the night. When the time for opening came again, he was so anxious to see Bob, that they were fain to patch up a narrative how that Bob—many a year dead then, gentle turnkey—had taken cold, but hoped to be out to-morrow, or the next day, or the next at furthest.

He fell away into a weakness so extreme that he could not raise his hand. But he still protected his brother according to his long usage; and would say with some complacency, fifty times a day, when he saw him standing by his bed, ‘My good Frederick, sit down. You are very feeble indeed.’

They tried him with Mrs General, but he had not the faintest knowledge of her. Some injurious suspicion lodged itself in his brain, that she wanted to supplant Mrs Bangham, and that she was given to drinking. He charged her with it in no measured terms; and was so urgent with his daughter to go round to the Marshal and entreat him to turn her out, that she was never reproduced after the first failure.

Saving that he once asked ‘if Tip had gone outside?’ the remembrance of his two children not present seemed to have departed from him. But the child who had done so much for him and had been so poorly repaid, was never out of his mind. Not that he spared her, or was fearful of her being spent by watching and fatigue; he was not more troubled on that score than he had usually been. No; he loved her in his old way. They were in the jail again, and she tended him, and he had constant need of her, and could not turn without her; and he even told her, sometimes, that he was content to have undergone a great deal for her sake. As to her, she bent over his bed with her quiet face against his, and would have laid down her own life to restore him.

When he had been sinking in this painless way for two or three days, she observed him to be troubled by the ticking of his watch—a pompous gold watch that made as great a to-do about its going as if nothing else went but itself and Time. She suffered it to run down; but he was still uneasy, and showed that was not what he wanted. At length he roused himself to explain that he wanted money to be raised on this watch. He was quite pleased when she pretended to take it away for the purpose, and afterwards had a relish for his little tastes of wine and jelly, that he had not had before.

He soon made it plain that this was so; for, in another day or two he sent off his sleeve-buttons and finger-rings. He had an amazing satisfaction in entrusting her with these errands, and appeared to consider it equivalent to making the most methodical and provident arrangements. After his trinkets, or such of them as he had been able to see about him, were gone, his clothes engaged his attention; and it is as likely as not that he was kept alive for some days by the satisfaction of sending them, piece by piece, to an imaginary pawnbroker’s.

Thus for ten days Little Dorrit bent over his pillow, laying her cheek against his. Sometimes she was so worn out that for a few minutes they would slumber together. Then she would awake; to recollect with fast-flowing silent tears what it was that touched her face, and to see, stealing over the cherished face upon the pillow, a deeper shadow than the shadow of the Marshalsea Wall.

Quietly, quietly, all the lines of the plan of the great Castle melted one after another. Quietly, quietly, the ruled and cross-ruled countenance on which they were traced, became fair and blank. Quietly, quietly, the reflected marks of the prison bars and of the zig-zag iron on the wall-top, faded away. Quietly, quietly, the face subsided into a far younger likeness of her own than she had ever seen under the grey hair, and sank to rest.

At first her uncle was stark distracted. ‘O my brother! O William, William! You to go before me; you to go alone; you to go, and I to remain! You, so far superior, so distinguished, so noble; I, a poor useless creature fit for nothing, and whom no one would have missed!’

It did her, for the time, the good of having him to think of and to succour.

‘Uncle, dear uncle, spare yourself, spare me!’

The old man was not deaf to the last words. When he did begin to restrain himself, it was that he might spare her. He had no care for himself; but, with all the remaining power of the honest heart, stunned so long and now awaking to be broken, he honoured and blessed her.

‘O God,’ he cried, before they left the room, with his wrinkled hands clasped over her. ‘Thou seest this daughter of my dear dead brother! All that I have looked upon, with my half-blind and sinful eyes, Thou hast discerned clearly, brightly. Not a hair of her head shall be harmed before Thee. Thou wilt uphold her here to her last hour. And I know Thou wilt reward her hereafter!’

They remained in a dim room near, until it was almost midnight, quiet and sad together. At times his grief would seek relief in a burst like that in which it had found its earliest expression; but, besides that his little strength would soon have been unequal to such strains, he never failed to recall her words, and to reproach himself and calm himself. The only utterance with which he indulged his sorrow, was the frequent exclamation that his brother was gone, alone; that they had been together in the outset of their lives, that they had fallen into misfortune together, that they had kept together through their many years of poverty, that they had remained together to that day; and that his brother was gone alone, alone!

They parted, heavy and sorrowful. She would not consent to leave him anywhere but in his own room, and she saw him lie down in his clothes upon his bed, and covered him with her own hands. Then she sank upon her own bed, and fell into a deep sleep: the sleep of exhaustion and rest, though not of complete release from a pervading consciousness of affliction. Sleep, good Little Dorrit. Sleep through the night!

It was a moonlight night; but the moon rose late, being long past the full. When it was high in the peaceful firmament, it shone through half-closed lattice blinds into the solemn room where the stumblings and wanderings of a life had so lately ended. Two quiet figures were within the room; two figures, equally still and impassive, equally removed by an untraversable distance from the teeming earth and all that it contains, though soon to lie in it.

One figure reposed upon the bed. The other, kneeling on the floor, drooped over it; the arms easily and peacefully resting on the coverlet; the face bowed down, so that the lips touched the hand over which with its last breath it had bent. The two brothers were before their Father; far beyond the twilight judgment of this world; high above its mists and obscurities.

CHAPTER 20. Introduces the next

The passengers were landing from the packet on the pier at Calais. A low-lying place and a low-spirited place Calais was, with the tide ebbing out towards low water-mark. There had been no more water on the bar than had sufficed to float the packet in; and now the bar itself, with a shallow break of sea over it, looked like a lazy marine monster just risen to the surface, whose form was indistinctly shown as it lay asleep. The meagre lighthouse all in white, haunting the seaboard as if it were the ghost of an edifice that had once had colour and rotundity, dropped melancholy tears after its late buffeting by the waves. The long rows of gaunt black piles, slimy and wet and weather-worn, with funeral garlands of seaweed twisted about them by the late tide, might have represented an unsightly marine cemetery. Every wave-dashed, storm-beaten object, was so low and so little, under the broad grey sky, in the noise of the wind and sea, and before the curling lines of surf, making at it ferociously, that the wonder was there was any Calais left, and that its low gates and low wall and low roofs and low ditches and low sand-hills and low ramparts and flat streets, had not yielded long ago to the undermining and besieging sea, like the fortifications children make on the sea-shore.

After slipping among oozy piles and planks, stumbling up wet steps and encountering many salt difficulties, the passengers entered on their comfortless peregrination along the pier; where all the French vagabonds and English outlaws in the town (half the population) attended to prevent their recovery from bewilderment. After being minutely inspected by all the English, and claimed and reclaimed and counter-claimed as prizes by all the French in a hand-to-hand scuffle three quarters of a mile long, they were at last free to enter the streets, and to make off in their various directions, hotly pursued.

Clennam, harassed by more anxieties than one, was among this devoted band. Having rescued the most defenceless of his compatriots from situations of great extremity, he now went his way alone, or as nearly alone as he could be, with a native gentleman in a suit of grease and a cap of the same material, giving chase at a distance of some fifty yards, and continually calling after him, ‘Hi! Ice-say! You! Seer! Ice-say! Nice Oatel!’

Even this hospitable person, however, was left behind at last, and Clennam pursued his way, unmolested. There was a tranquil air in the town after the turbulence of the Channel and the beach, and its dulness in that comparison was agreeable. He met new groups of his countrymen, who had all a straggling air of having at one time overblown themselves, like certain uncomfortable kinds of flowers, and of being now mere weeds. They had all an air, too, of lounging out a limited round, day after day, which strongly reminded him of the Marshalsea. But, taking no further note of them than was sufficient to give birth to the reflection, he sought out a certain street and number which he kept in his mind.

‘So Pancks said,’ he murmured to himself, as he stopped before a dull house answering to the address. ‘I suppose his information to be correct and his discovery, among Mr Casby’s loose papers, indisputable; but, without it, I should hardly have supposed this to be a likely place.’

A dead sort of house, with a dead wall over the way and a dead gateway at the side, where a pendant bell-handle produced two dead tinkles, and a knocker produced a dead, flat, surface-tapping, that seemed not to have depth enough in it to penetrate even the cracked door. However, the door jarred open on a dead sort of spring; and he closed it behind him as he entered a dull yard, soon brought to a close by another dead wall, where an attempt had been made to train some creeping shrubs, which were dead; and to make a little fountain in a grotto, which was dry; and to decorate that with a little statue, which was gone.

The entry to the house was on the left, and it was garnished as the outer gateway was, with two printed bills in French and English, announcing Furnished Apartments to let, with immediate possession. A strong cheerful peasant woman, all stocking, petticoat, white cap, and ear-ring, stood here in a dark doorway, and said with a pleasant show of teeth, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’

Clennam, replying in French, said the English lady; he wished to see the English lady. ‘Enter then and ascend, if you please,’ returned the peasant woman, in French likewise. He did both, and followed her up a dark bare staircase to a back room on the first-floor. Hence, there was a gloomy view of the yard that was dull, and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the pedestal of the statue that was gone.

‘Monsieur Blandois,’ said Clennam.

‘With pleasure, Monsieur.’

Thereupon the woman withdrew and left him to look at the room. It was the pattern of room always to be found in such a house. Cool, dull, and dark. Waxed floor very slippery. A room not large enough to skate in; nor adapted to the easy pursuit of any other occupation. Red and white curtained windows, little straw mat, little round table with a tumultuous assemblage of legs underneath, clumsy rush-bottomed chairs, two great red velvet arm-chairs affording plenty of space to be uncomfortable in, bureau, chimney-glass in several pieces pretending to be in one piece, pair of gaudy vases of very artificial flowers; between them a Greek warrior with his helmet off, sacrificing a clock to the Genius of France.

After some pause, a door of communication with another room was opened, and a lady entered. She manifested great surprise on seeing Clennam, and her glance went round the room in search of some one else.

‘Pardon me, Miss Wade. I am alone.’

‘It was not your name that was brought to me.’

‘No; I know that. Excuse me. I have already had experience that my name does not predispose you to an interview; and I ventured to mention the name of one I am in search of.’

‘Pray,’ she returned, motioning him to a chair so coldly that he remained standing, ‘what name was it that you gave?’

‘I mentioned the name of Blandois.’

‘Blandois?’

‘A name you are acquainted with.’

‘It is strange,’ she said, frowning, ‘that you should still press an undesired interest in me and my acquaintances, in me and my affairs, Mr Clennam. I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Pardon me. You know the name?’

‘What can you have to do with the name? What can I have to do with the name? What can you have to do with my knowing or not knowing any name? I know many names and I have forgotten many more. This may be in the one class, or it may be in the other, or I may never have heard it. I am acquainted with no reason for examining myself, or for being examined, about it.’

‘If you will allow me,’ said Clennam, ‘I will tell you my reason for pressing the subject. I admit that I do press it, and I must beg you to forgive me if I do so, very earnestly. The reason is all mine, I do not insinuate that it is in any way yours.’

‘Well, sir,’ she returned, repeating a little less haughtily than before her former invitation to him to be seated: to which he now deferred, as she seated herself. ‘I am at least glad to know that this is not another bondswoman of some friend of yours, who is bereft of free choice, and whom I have spirited away. I will hear your reason, if you please.’

‘First, to identify the person of whom we speak,’ said Clennam, ‘let me observe that it is the person you met in London some time back. You will remember meeting him near the river—in the Adelphi!’

‘You mix yourself most unaccountably with my business,’ she replied, looking full at him with stern displeasure. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I entreat you not to take it ill. By mere accident.’

‘What accident?’

‘Solely the accident of coming upon you in the street and seeing the meeting.’

‘Do you speak of yourself, or of some one else?’

‘Of myself. I saw it.’

‘To be sure it was in the open street,’ she observed, after a few moments of less and less angry reflection. ‘Fifty people might have seen it. It would have signified nothing if they had.’

‘Nor do I make my having seen it of any moment, nor (otherwise than as an explanation of my coming here) do I connect my visit with it or the favour that I have to ask.’

‘Oh! You have to ask a favour! It occurred to me,’ and the handsome face looked bitterly at him, ‘that your manner was softened, Mr Clennam.’

He was content to protest against this by a slight action without contesting it in words. He then referred to Blandois’ disappearance, of which it was probable she had heard? However probable it was to him, she had heard of no such thing. Let him look round him (she said) and judge for himself what general intelligence was likely to reach the ears of a woman who had been shut up there while it was rife, devouring her own heart. When she had uttered this denial, which he believed to be true, she asked him what he meant by disappearance? That led to his narrating the circumstances in detail, and expressing something of his anxiety to discover what had really become of the man, and to repel the dark suspicions that clouded about his mother’s house. She heard him with evident surprise, and with more marks of suppressed interest than he had seen in her; still they did not overcome her distant, proud, and self-secluded manner. When he had finished, she said nothing but these words:

‘You have not yet told me, sir, what I have to do with it, or what the favour is? Will you be so good as come to that?’

‘I assume,’ said Arthur, persevering, in his endeavour to soften her scornful demeanour, ‘that being in communication—may I say, confidential communication?—with this person—’

‘You may say, of course, whatever you like,’ she remarked; ‘but I do not subscribe to your assumptions, Mr Clennam, or to any one’s.’

‘—that being, at least in personal communication with him,’ said Clennam, changing the form of his position in the hope of making it unobjectionable, ‘you can tell me something of his antecedents, pursuits, habits, usual place of residence. Can give me some little clue by which to seek him out in the likeliest manner, and either produce him, or establish what has become of him. This is the favour I ask, and I ask it in a distress of mind for which I hope you will feel some consideration. If you should have any reason for imposing conditions upon me, I will respect it without asking what it is.’

‘You chanced to see me in the street with the man,’ she observed, after being, to his mortification, evidently more occupied with her own reflections on the matter than with his appeal. ‘Then you knew the man before?’

‘Not before; afterwards. I never saw him before, but I saw him again on this very night of his disappearance. In my mother’s room, in fact. I left him there. You will read in this paper all that is known of him.’

He handed her one of the printed bills, which she read with a steady and attentive face.

‘This is more than I knew of him,’ she said, giving it back. Clennam’s looks expressed his heavy disappointment, perhaps his incredulity; for she added in the same unsympathetic tone: ‘You don’t believe it. Still, it is so. As to personal communication: it seems that there was personal communication between him and your mother. And yet you say you believe her declaration that she knows no more of him!’

A sufficiently expressive hint of suspicion was conveyed in these words, and in the smile by which they were accompanied, to bring the blood into Clennam’s cheeks.

‘Come, sir,’ she said, with a cruel pleasure in repeating the stab, ‘I will be as open with you as you can desire. I will confess that if I cared for my credit (which I do not), or had a good name to preserve (which I have not, for I am utterly indifferent to its being considered good or bad), I should regard myself as heavily compromised by having had anything to do with this fellow. Yet he never passed in at my door—never sat in colloquy with me until midnight.’

She took her revenge for her old grudge in thus turning his subject against him. Hers was not the nature to spare him, and she had no compunction.

‘That he is a low, mercenary wretch; that I first saw him prowling about Italy (where I was, not long ago), and that I hired him there, as the suitable instrument of a purpose I happened to have; I have no objection to tell you. In short, it was worth my while, for my own pleasure—the gratification of a strong feeling—to pay a spy who would fetch and carry for money. I paid this creature. And I dare say that if I had wanted to make such a bargain, and if I could have paid him enough, and if he could have done it in the dark, free from all risk, he would have taken any life with as little scruple as he took my money. That, at least, is my opinion of him; and I see it is not very far removed from yours. Your mother’s opinion of him, I am to assume (following your example of assuming this and that), was vastly different.’

‘My mother, let me remind you,’ said Clennam, ‘was first brought into communication with him in the unlucky course of business.’

‘It appears to have been an unlucky course of business that last brought her into communication with him,’ returned Miss Wade; ‘and business hours on that occasion were late.’

‘You imply,’ said Arthur, smarting under these cool-handed thrusts, of which he had deeply felt the force already, ‘that there was something—’

‘Mr Clennam,’ she composedly interrupted, ‘recollect that I do not speak by implication about the man. He is, I say again without disguise, a low mercenary wretch. I suppose such a creature goes where there is occasion for him. If I had not had occasion for him, you would not have seen him and me together.’

Wrung by her persistence in keeping that dark side of the case before him, of which there was a half-hidden shadow in his own breast, Clennam was silent.

‘I have spoken of him as still living,’ she added, ‘but he may have been put out of the way for anything I know. For anything I care, also. I have no further occasion for him.’

With a heavy sigh and a despondent air, Arthur Clennam slowly rose. She did not rise also, but said, having looked at him in the meanwhile with a fixed look of suspicion, and lips angrily compressed:

‘He was the chosen associate of your dear friend, Mr Gowan, was he not? Why don’t you ask your dear friend to help you?’

The denial that he was a dear friend rose to Arthur’s lips; but he repressed it, remembering his old struggles and resolutions, and said:

‘Further than that he has never seen Blandois since Blandois set out for England, Mr Gowan knows nothing additional about him. He was a chance acquaintance, made abroad.’

‘A chance acquaintance made abroad!’ she repeated. ‘Yes. Your dear friend has need to divert himself with all the acquaintances he can make, seeing what a wife he has. I hate his wife, sir.’

The anger with which she said it, the more remarkable for being so much under her restraint, fixed Clennam’s attention, and kept him on the spot. It flashed out of her dark eyes as they regarded him, quivered in her nostrils, and fired the very breath she exhaled; but her face was otherwise composed into a disdainful serenity; and her attitude was as calmly and haughtily graceful as if she had been in a mood of complete indifference.

‘All I will say is, Miss Wade,’ he remarked, ‘that you can have received no provocation to a feeling in which I believe you have no sharer.’

‘You may ask your dear friend, if you choose,’ she returned, ‘for his opinion upon that subject.’

‘I am scarcely on those intimate terms with my dear friend,’ said Arthur, in spite of his resolutions, ‘that would render my approaching the subject very probable, Miss Wade.’

‘I hate him,’ she returned. ‘Worse than his wife, because I was once dupe enough, and false enough to myself, almost to love him. You have seen me, sir, only on common-place occasions, when I dare say you have thought me a common-place woman, a little more self-willed than the generality. You don’t know what I mean by hating, if you know me no better than that; you can’t know, without knowing with what care I have studied myself and people about me. For this reason I have for some time inclined to tell you what my life has been—not to propitiate your opinion, for I set no value on it; but that you may comprehend, when you think of your dear friend and his dear wife, what I mean by hating. Shall I give you something I have written and put by for your perusal, or shall I hold my hand?’

Arthur begged her to give it to him. She went to the bureau, unlocked it, and took from an inner drawer a few folded sheets of paper. Without any conciliation of him, scarcely addressing him, rather speaking as if she were speaking to her own looking-glass for the justification of her own stubbornness, she said, as she gave them to him:

‘Now you may know what I mean by hating! No more of that. Sir, whether you find me temporarily and cheaply lodging in an empty London house, or in a Calais apartment, you find Harriet with me. You may like to see her before you leave. Harriet, come in!’ She called Harriet again. The second call produced Harriet, once Tattycoram.

‘Here is Mr Clennam,’ said Miss Wade; ‘not come for you; he has given you up,—I suppose you have, by this time?’

‘Having no authority, or influence—yes,’ assented Clennam.

‘Not come in search of you, you see; but still seeking some one. He wants that Blandois man.’

‘With whom I saw you in the Strand in London,’ hinted Arthur.

‘If you know anything of him, Harriet, except that he came from Venice—which we all know—tell it to Mr Clennam freely.’

‘I know nothing more about him,’ said the girl.

‘Are you satisfied?’ Miss Wade inquired of Arthur.

He had no reason to disbelieve them; the girl’s manner being so natural as to be almost convincing, if he had had any previous doubts. He replied, ‘I must seek for intelligence elsewhere.’

He was not going in the same breath; but he had risen before the girl entered, and she evidently thought he was. She looked quickly at him, and said:

‘Are they well, sir?’

‘Who?’

She stopped herself in saying what would have been ‘all of them;’ glanced at Miss Wade; and said ‘Mr and Mrs Meagles.’

‘They were, when I last heard of them. They are not at home. By the way, let me ask you. Is it true that you were seen there?’

‘Where? Where does any one say I was seen?’ returned the girl, sullenly casting down her eyes.

‘Looking in at the garden gate of the cottage.’

‘No,’ said Miss Wade. ‘She has never been near it.’

‘You are wrong, then,’ said the girl. ‘I went down there the last time we were in London. I went one afternoon when you left me alone. And I did look in.’

‘You poor-spirited girl,’ returned Miss Wade with infinite contempt; ‘does all our companionship, do all our conversations, do all your old complainings, tell for so little as that?’

‘There was no harm in looking in at the gate for an instant,’ said the girl. ‘I saw by the windows that the family were not there.’

‘Why should you go near the place?’

‘Because I wanted to see it. Because I felt that I should like to look at it again.’

As each of the two handsome faces looked at the other, Clennam felt how each of the two natures must be constantly tearing the other to pieces.

‘Oh!’ said Miss Wade, coldly subduing and removing her glance; ‘if you had any desire to see the place where you led the life from which I rescued you because you had found out what it was, that is another thing. But is that your truth to me? Is that your fidelity to me? Is that the common cause I make with you? You are not worth the confidence I have placed in you. You are not worth the favour I have shown you. You are no higher than a spaniel, and had better go back to the people who did worse than whip you.’

‘If you speak so of them with any one else by to hear, you’ll provoke me to take their part,’ said the girl.

‘Go back to them,’ Miss Wade retorted. ‘Go back to them.’

‘You know very well,’ retorted Harriet in her turn, ‘that I won’t go back to them. You know very well that I have thrown them off, and never can, never shall, never will, go back to them. Let them alone, then, Miss Wade.’

‘You prefer their plenty to your less fat living here,’ she rejoined. ‘You exalt them, and slight me. What else should I have expected? I ought to have known it.’

‘It’s not so,’ said the girl, flushing high, ‘and you don’t say what you mean. I know what you mean. You are reproaching me, underhanded, with having nobody but you to look to. And because I have nobody but you to look to, you think you are to make me do, or not do, everything you please, and are to put any affront upon me. You are as bad as they were, every bit. But I will not be quite tamed, and made submissive. I will say again that I went to look at the house, because I had often thought that I should like to see it once more. I will ask again how they are, because I once liked them and at times thought they were kind to me.’

Hereupon Clennam said that he was sure they would still receive her kindly, if she should ever desire to return.

‘Never!’ said the girl passionately. ‘I shall never do that. Nobody knows that better than Miss Wade, though she taunts me because she has made me her dependent. And I know I am so; and I know she is overjoyed when she can bring it to my mind.’

‘A good pretence!’ said Miss Wade, with no less anger, haughtiness, and bitterness; ‘but too threadbare to cover what I plainly see in this. My poverty will not bear competition with their money. Better go back at once, better go back at once, and have done with it!’

Arthur Clennam looked at them, standing a little distance asunder in the dull confined room, each proudly cherishing her own anger; each, with a fixed determination, torturing her own breast, and torturing the other’s. He said a word or two of leave-taking; but Miss Wade barely inclined her head, and Harriet, with the assumed humiliation of an abject dependent and serf (but not without defiance for all that), made as if she were too low to notice or to be noticed.

He came down the dark winding stairs into the yard with an increased sense upon him of the gloom of the wall that was dead, and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the statue that was gone. Pondering much on what he had seen and heard in that house, as well as on the failure of all his efforts to trace the suspicious character who was lost, he returned to London and to England by the packet that had taken him over. On the way he unfolded the sheets of paper, and read in them what is reproduced in the next chapter.

CHAPTER 21. The History of a Self-Tormentor

I have the misfortune of not being a fool. From a very early age I have detected what those about me thought they hid from me. If I could have been habitually imposed upon, instead of habitually discerning the truth, I might have lived as smoothly as most fools do.

My childhood was passed with a grandmother; that is to say, with a lady who represented that relative to me, and who took that title on herself. She had no claim to it, but I—being to that extent a little fool—had no suspicion of her. She had some children of her own family in her house, and some children of other people. All girls; ten in number, including me. We all lived together and were educated together.

I must have been about twelve years old when I began to see how determinedly those girls patronised me. I was told I was an orphan. There was no other orphan among us; and I perceived (here was the first disadvantage of not being a fool) that they conciliated me in an insolent pity, and in a sense of superiority. I did not set this down as a discovery, rashly. I tried them often. I could hardly make them quarrel with me. When I succeeded with any of them, they were sure to come after an hour or two, and begin a reconciliation. I tried them over and over again, and I never knew them wait for me to begin. They were always forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension. Little images of grown people!

One of them was my chosen friend. I loved that stupid mite in a passionate way that she could no more deserve than I can remember without feeling ashamed of, though I was but a child. She had what they called an amiable temper, an affectionate temper. She could distribute, and did distribute pretty looks and smiles to every one among them. I believe there was not a soul in the place, except myself, who knew that she did it purposely to wound and gall me!

Nevertheless, I so loved that unworthy girl that my life was made stormy by my fondness for her. I was constantly lectured and disgraced for what was called ‘trying her;’ in other words charging her with her little perfidy and throwing her into tears by showing her that I read her heart. However, I loved her faithfully; and one time I went home with her for the holidays.

She was worse at home than she had been at school. She had a crowd of cousins and acquaintances, and we had dances at her house, and went out to dances at other houses, and, both at home and out, she tormented my love beyond endurance. Her plan was, to make them all fond of her—and so drive me wild with jealousy. To be familiar and endearing with them all—and so make me mad with envying them. When we were left alone in our bedroom at night, I would reproach her with my perfect knowledge of her baseness; and then she would cry and cry and say I was cruel, and then I would hold her in my arms till morning: loving her as much as ever, and often feeling as if, rather than suffer so, I could so hold her in my arms and plunge to the bottom of a river—where I would still hold her after we were both dead.

It came to an end, and I was relieved. In the family there was an aunt who was not fond of me. I doubt if any of the family liked me much; but I never wanted them to like me, being altogether bound up in the one girl. The aunt was a young woman, and she had a serious way with her eyes of watching me. She was an audacious woman, and openly looked compassionately at me. After one of the nights that I have spoken of, I came down into a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I heard this aunt speaking to her about me as I entered. I stopped where I was, among the leaves, and listened.

The aunt said, ‘Charlotte, Miss Wade is wearing you to death, and this must not continue.’ I repeat the very words I heard.

Now, what did she answer? Did she say, ‘It is I who am wearing her to death, I who am keeping her on a rack and am the executioner, yet she tells me every night that she loves me devotedly, though she knows what I make her undergo?’ No; my first memorable experience was true to what I knew her to be, and to all my experience. She began sobbing and weeping (to secure the aunt’s sympathy to herself), and said, ‘Dear aunt, she has an unhappy temper; other girls at school, besides I, try hard to make it better; we all try hard.’

Upon that the aunt fondled her, as if she had said something noble instead of despicable and false, and kept up the infamous pretence by replying, ‘But there are reasonable limits, my dear love, to everything, and I see that this poor miserable girl causes you more constant and useless distress than even so good an effort justifies.’

The poor miserable girl came out of her concealment, as you may be prepared to hear, and said, ‘Send me home.’ I never said another word to either of them, or to any of them, but ‘Send me home, or I will walk home alone, night and day!’ When I got home, I told my supposed grandmother that, unless I was sent away to finish my education somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any one of them came back, I would burn my sight away by throwing myself into the fire, rather than I would endure to look at their plotting faces.

I went among young women next, and I found them no better. Fair words and fair pretences; but I penetrated below those assertions of themselves and depreciations of me, and they were no better. Before I left them, I learned that I had no grandmother and no recognised relation. I carried the light of that information both into my past and into my future. It showed me many new occasions on which people triumphed over me, when they made a pretence of treating me with consideration, or doing me a service.

A man of business had a small property in trust for me. I was to be a governess; I became a governess; and went into the family of a poor nobleman, where there were two daughters—little children, but the parents wished them to grow up, if possible, under one instructress. The mother was young and pretty. From the first, she made a show of behaving to me with great delicacy. I kept my resentment to myself; but I knew very well that it was her way of petting the knowledge that she was my Mistress, and might have behaved differently to her servant if it had been her fancy.

I say I did not resent it, nor did I; but I showed her, by not gratifying her, that I understood her. When she pressed me to take wine, I took water. If there happened to be anything choice at table, she always sent it to me: but I always declined it, and ate of the rejected dishes. These disappointments of her patronage were a sharp retort, and made me feel independent.

I liked the children. They were timid, but on the whole disposed to attach themselves to me. There was a nurse, however, in the house, a rosy-faced woman always making an obtrusive pretence of being gay and good-humoured, who had nursed them both, and who had secured their affections before I saw them. I could almost have settled down to my fate but for this woman. Her artful devices for keeping herself before the children in constant competition with me, might have blinded many in my place; but I saw through them from the first. On the pretext of arranging my rooms and waiting on me and taking care of my wardrobe (all of which she did busily), she was never absent. The most crafty of her many subtleties was her feint of seeking to make the children fonder of me. She would lead them to me and coax them to me. ‘Come to good Miss Wade, come to dear Miss Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you very much. Miss Wade is a clever lady, who has read heaps of books, and can tell you far better and more interesting stories than I know. Come and hear Miss Wade!’ How could I engage their attentions, when my heart was burning against these ignorant designs? How could I wonder, when I saw their innocent faces shrinking away, and their arms twining round her neck, instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking their curls from her face, and say, ‘They’ll come round soon, Miss Wade; they’re very simple and loving, ma’am; don’t be at all cast down about it, ma’am’—exulting over me!

There was another thing the woman did. At times, when she saw that she had safely plunged me into a black despondent brooding by these means, she would call the attention of the children to it, and would show them the difference between herself and me. ‘Hush! Poor Miss Wade is not well. Don’t make a noise, my dears, her head aches. Come and comfort her. Come and ask her if she is better; come and ask her to lie down. I hope you have nothing on your mind, ma’am. Don’t take on, ma’am, and be sorry!’

It became intolerable. Her ladyship, my Mistress, coming in one day when I was alone, and at the height of feeling that I could support it no longer, I told her I must go. I could not bear the presence of that woman Dawes.

‘Miss Wade! Poor Dawes is devoted to you; would do anything for you!’

I knew beforehand she would say so; I was quite prepared for it; I only answered, it was not for me to contradict my Mistress; I must go.

‘I hope, Miss Wade,’ she returned, instantly assuming the tone of superiority she had always so thinly concealed, ‘that nothing I have ever said or done since we have been together, has justified your use of that disagreeable word, “Mistress.” It must have been wholly inadvertent on my part. Pray tell me what it is.’

I replied that I had no complaint to make, either of my Mistress or to my Mistress; but I must go.

She hesitated a moment, and then sat down beside me, and laid her hand on mine. As if that honour would obliterate any remembrance!

‘Miss Wade, I fear you are unhappy, through causes over which I have no influence.’

I smiled, thinking of the experience the word awakened, and said, ‘I have an unhappy temper, I suppose.’

‘I did not say that.’

‘It is an easy way of accounting for anything,’ said I.

‘It may be; but I did not say so. What I wish to approach is something very different. My husband and I have exchanged some remarks upon the subject, when we have observed with pain that you have not been easy with us.’

‘Easy? Oh! You are such great people, my lady,’ said I.

‘I am unfortunate in using a word which may convey a meaning—and evidently does—quite opposite to my intention.’ (She had not expected my reply, and it shamed her.) ‘I only mean, not happy with us. It is a difficult topic to enter on; but, from one young woman to another, perhaps—in short, we have been apprehensive that you may allow some family circumstances of which no one can be more innocent than yourself, to prey upon your spirits. If so, let us entreat you not to make them a cause of grief. My husband himself, as is well known, formerly had a very dear sister who was not in law his sister, but who was universally beloved and respected—’

I saw directly that they had taken me in for the sake of the dead woman, whoever she was, and to have that boast of me and advantage of me; I saw, in the nurse’s knowledge of it, an encouragement to goad me as she had done; and I saw, in the children’s shrinking away, a vague impression, that I was not like other people. I left that house that night.

After one or two short and very similar experiences, which are not to the present purpose, I entered another family where I had but one pupil: a girl of fifteen, who was the only daughter. The parents here were elderly people: people of station, and rich. A nephew whom they had brought up was a frequent visitor at the house, among many other visitors; and he began to pay me attention. I was resolute in repulsing him; for I had determined when I went there, that no one should pity me or condescend to me. But he wrote me a letter. It led to our being engaged to be married.

He was a year younger than I, and young-looking even when that allowance was made. He was on absence from India, where he had a post that was soon to grow into a very good one. In six months we were to be married, and were to go to India. I was to stay in the house, and was to be married from the house. Nobody objected to any part of the plan.

I cannot avoid saying he admired me; but, if I could, I would. Vanity has nothing to do with the declaration, for his admiration worried me. He took no pains to hide it; and caused me to feel among the rich people as if he had bought me for my looks, and made a show of his purchase to justify himself. They appraised me in their own minds, I saw, and were curious to ascertain what my full value was. I resolved that they should not know. I was immovable and silent before them; and would have suffered any one of them to kill me sooner than I would have laid myself out to bespeak their approval.

He told me I did not do myself justice. I told him I did, and it was because I did and meant to do so to the last, that I would not stoop to propitiate any of them. He was concerned and even shocked, when I added that I wished he would not parade his attachment before them; but he said he would sacrifice even the honest impulses of his affection to my peace.

Under that pretence he began to retort upon me. By the hour together, he would keep at a distance from me, talking to any one rather than to me. I have sat alone and unnoticed, half an evening, while he conversed with his young cousin, my pupil. I have seen all the while, in people’s eyes, that they thought the two looked nearer on an equality than he and I. I have sat, divining their thoughts, until I have felt that his young appearance made me ridiculous, and have raged against myself for ever loving him.

For I did love him once. Undeserving as he was, and little as he thought of all these agonies that it cost me—agonies which should have made him wholly and gratefully mine to his life’s end—I loved him. I bore with his cousin’s praising him to my face, and with her pretending to think that it pleased me, but full well knowing that it rankled in my breast; for his sake. While I have sat in his presence recalling all my slights and wrongs, and deliberating whether I should not fly from the house at once and never see him again—I have loved him.

His aunt (my Mistress you will please to remember) deliberately, wilfully, added to my trials and vexations. It was her delight to expatiate on the style in which we were to live in India, and on the establishment we should keep, and the company we should entertain when he got his advancement. My pride rose against this barefaced way of pointing out the contrast my married life was to present to my then dependent and inferior position. I suppressed my indignation; but I showed her that her intention was not lost upon me, and I repaid her annoyance by affecting humility. What she described would surely be a great deal too much honour for me, I would tell her. I was afraid I might not be able to support so great a change. Think of a mere governess, her daughter’s governess, coming to that high distinction! It made her uneasy, and made them all uneasy, when I answered in this way. They knew that I fully understood her.

It was at the time when my troubles were at their highest, and when I was most incensed against my lover for his ingratitude in caring as little as he did for the innumerable distresses and mortifications I underwent on his account, that your dear friend, Mr Gowan, appeared at the house. He had been intimate there for a long time, but had been abroad. He understood the state of things at a glance, and he understood me.

He was the first person I had ever seen in my life who had understood me. He was not in the house three times before I knew that he accompanied every movement of my mind. In his coldly easy way with all of them, and with me, and with the whole subject, I saw it clearly. In his light protestations of admiration of my future husband, in his enthusiasm regarding our engagement and our prospects, in his hopeful congratulations on our future wealth and his despondent references to his own poverty—all equally hollow, and jesting, and full of mockery—I saw it clearly. He made me feel more and more resentful, and more and more contemptible, by always presenting to me everything that surrounded me with some new hateful light upon it, while he pretended to exhibit it in its best aspect for my admiration and his own. He was like the dressed-up Death in the Dutch series; whatever figure he took upon his arm, whether it was youth or age, beauty or ugliness, whether he danced with it, sang with it, played with it, or prayed with it, he made it ghastly.

You will understand, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, he really condoled with me; that when he soothed me under my vexations, he laid bare every smarting wound I had; that when he declared my ‘faithful swain’ to be ‘the most loving young fellow in the world, with the tenderest heart that ever beat,’ he touched my old misgiving that I was made ridiculous. These were not great services, you may say. They were acceptable to me, because they echoed my own mind, and confirmed my own knowledge. I soon began to like the society of your dear friend better than any other.

When I perceived (which I did, almost as soon) that jealousy was growing out of this, I liked this society still better. Had I not been subject to jealousy, and were the endurances to be all mine? No. Let him know what it was! I was delighted that he should know it; I was delighted that he should feel keenly, and I hoped he did. More than that. He was tame in comparison with Mr Gowan, who knew how to address me on equal terms, and how to anatomise the wretched people around us.

This went on, until the aunt, my Mistress, took it upon herself to speak to me. It was scarcely worth alluding to; she knew I meant nothing; but she suggested from herself, knowing it was only necessary to suggest, that it might be better if I were a little less companionable with Mr Gowan.

I asked her how she could answer for what I meant? She could always answer, she replied, for my meaning nothing wrong. I thanked her, but said I would prefer to answer for myself and to myself. Her other servants would probably be grateful for good characters, but I wanted none.

Other conversation followed, and induced me to ask her how she knew that it was only necessary for her to make a suggestion to me, to have it obeyed? Did she presume on my birth, or on my hire? I was not bought, body and soul. She seemed to think that her distinguished nephew had gone into a slave-market and purchased a wife.

It would probably have come, sooner or later, to the end to which it did come, but she brought it to its issue at once. She told me, with assumed commiseration, that I had an unhappy temper. On this repetition of the old wicked injury, I withheld no longer, but exposed to her all I had known of her and seen in her, and all I had undergone within myself since I had occupied the despicable position of being engaged to her nephew. I told her that Mr Gowan was the only relief I had had in my degradation; that I had borne it too long, and that I shook it off too late; but that I would see none of them more. And I never did.

Your dear friend followed me to my retreat, and was very droll on the severance of the connection; though he was sorry, too, for the excellent people (in their way the best he had ever met), and deplored the necessity of breaking mere house-flies on the wheel. He protested before long, and far more truly than I then supposed, that he was not worth acceptance by a woman of such endowments, and such power of character; but—well, well—!

Your dear friend amused me and amused himself as long as it suited his inclinations; and then reminded me that we were both people of the world, that we both understood mankind, that we both knew there was no such thing as romance, that we were both prepared for going different ways to seek our fortunes like people of sense, and that we both foresaw that whenever we encountered one another again we should meet as the best friends on earth. So he said, and I did not contradict him.

It was not very long before I found that he was courting his present wife, and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated her then, quite as much as I hate her now; and naturally, therefore, could desire nothing better than that she should marry him. But I was restlessly curious to look at her—so curious that I felt it to be one of the few sources of entertainment left to me. I travelled a little: travelled until I found myself in her society, and in yours. Your dear friend, I think, was not known to you then, and had not given you any of those signal marks of his friendship which he has bestowed upon you.

In that company I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose position there was a singular likeness to my own, and in whose character I was interested and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen patronage and selfishness, calling themselves kindness, protection, benevolence, and other fine names, which I have described as inherent in my nature. I often heard it said, too, that she had ‘an unhappy temper.’ Well understanding what was meant by the convenient phrase, and wanting a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I thought I would try to release the girl from her bondage and sense of injustice. I have no occasion to relate that I succeeded.

We have been together ever since, sharing my small means.

CHAPTER 22. Who passes by this Road so late?

Arthur Clennam had made his unavailing expedition to Calais in the midst of a great pressure of business. A certain barbaric Power with valuable possessions on the map of the world, had occasion for the services of one or two engineers, quick in invention and determined in execution: practical men, who could make the men and means their ingenuity perceived to be wanted out of the best materials they could find at hand; and who were as bold and fertile in the adaptation of such materials to their purpose, as in the conception of their purpose itself. This Power, being a barbaric one, had no idea of stowing away a great national object in a Circumlocution Office, as strong wine is hidden from the light in a cellar until its fire and youth are gone, and the labourers who worked in the vineyard and pressed the grapes are dust. With characteristic ignorance, it acted on the most decided and energetic notions of How to do it; and never showed the least respect for, or gave any quarter to, the great political science, How not to do it. Indeed it had a barbarous way of striking the latter art and mystery dead, in the person of any enlightened subject who practised it.

Accordingly, the men who were wanted were sought out and found; which was in itself a most uncivilised and irregular way of proceeding. Being found, they were treated with great confidence and honour (which again showed dense political ignorance), and were invited to come at once and do what they had to do. In short, they were regarded as men who meant to do it, engaging with other men who meant it to be done.

Daniel Doyce was one of the chosen. There was no foreseeing at that time whether he would be absent months or years. The preparations for his departure, and the conscientious arrangement for him of all the details and results of their joint business, had necessitated labour within a short compass of time, which had occupied Clennam day and night. He had slipped across the water in his first leisure, and had slipped as quickly back again for his farewell interview with Doyce.

Him Arthur now showed, with pains and care, the state of their gains and losses, responsibilities and prospects. Daniel went through it all in his patient manner, and admired it all exceedingly. He audited the accounts, as if they were a far more ingenious piece of mechanism than he had ever constructed, and afterwards stood looking at them, weighing his hat over his head by the brims, as if he were absorbed in the contemplation of some wonderful engine.

‘It’s all beautiful, Clennam, in its regularity and order. Nothing can be plainer. Nothing can be better.’

‘I am glad you approve, Doyce. Now, as to the management of your capital while you are away, and as to the conversion of so much of it as the business may need from time to time—’ His partner stopped him.

‘As to that, and as to everything else of that kind, all rests with you. You will continue in all such matters to act for both of us, as you have done hitherto, and to lighten my mind of a load it is much relieved from.’

‘Though, as I often tell you,’ returned Clennam, ‘you unreasonably depreciate your business qualities.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Doyce, smiling. ‘And perhaps not. Anyhow, I have a calling that I have studied more than such matters, and that I am better fitted for. I have perfect confidence in my partner, and I am satisfied that he will do what is best. If I have a prejudice connected with money and money figures,’ continued Doyce, laying that plastic workman’s thumb of his on the lapel of his partner’s coat, ‘it is against speculating. I don’t think I have any other. I dare say I entertain that prejudice, only because I have never given my mind fully to the subject.’

‘But you shouldn’t call it a prejudice,’ said Clennam. ‘My dear Doyce, it is the soundest sense.’

‘I am glad you think so,’ returned Doyce, with his grey eye looking kind and bright.

‘It so happens,’ said Clennam, ‘that just now, not half an hour before you came down, I was saying the same thing to Pancks, who looked in here. We both agreed that to travel out of safe investments is one of the most dangerous, as it is one of the most common, of those follies which often deserve the name of vices.’

‘Pancks?’ said Doyce, tilting up his hat at the back, and nodding with an air of confidence. ‘Aye, aye, aye! That’s a cautious fellow.’

‘He is a very cautious fellow indeed,’ returned Arthur. ‘Quite a specimen of caution.’

They both appeared to derive a larger amount of satisfaction from the cautious character of Mr Pancks, than was quite intelligible, judged by the surface of their conversation.

‘And now,’ said Daniel, looking at his watch, ‘as time and tide wait for no man, my trusty partner, and as I am ready for starting, bag and baggage, at the gate below, let me say a last word. I want you to grant a request of mine.’

‘Any request you can make—Except,’ Clennam was quick with his exception, for his partner’s face was quick in suggesting it, ‘except that I will abandon your invention.’

‘That’s the request, and you know it is,’ said Doyce.

‘I say, No, then. I say positively, No. Now that I have begun, I will have some definite reason, some responsible statement, something in the nature of a real answer, from those people.’

‘You will not,’ returned Doyce, shaking his head. ‘Take my word for it, you never will.’

‘At least, I’ll try,’ said Clennam. ‘It will do me no harm to try.’

‘I am not certain of that,’ rejoined Doyce, laying his hand persuasively on his shoulder. ‘It has done me harm, my friend. It has aged me, tired me, vexed me, disappointed me. It does no man any good to have his patience worn out, and to think himself ill-used. I fancy, even already, that unavailing attendance on delays and evasions has made you something less elastic than you used to be.’

‘Private anxieties may have done that for the moment,’ said Clennam, ‘but not official harrying. Not yet. I am not hurt yet.’

‘Then you won’t grant my request?’

‘Decidedly, No,’ said Clennam. ‘I should be ashamed if I submitted to be so soon driven out of the field, where a much older and a much more sensitively interested man contended with fortitude so long.’

As there was no moving him, Daniel Doyce returned the grasp of his hand, and, casting a farewell look round the counting-house, went down-stairs with him. Doyce was to go to Southampton to join the small staff of his fellow-travellers; and a coach was at the gate, well furnished and packed, and ready to take him there. The workmen were at the gate to see him off, and were mightily proud of him. ‘Good luck to you, Mr Doyce!’ said one of the number. ‘Wherever you go, they’ll find as they’ve got a man among ‘em, a man as knows his tools and as his tools knows, a man as is willing and a man as is able, and if that’s not a man, where is a man!’ This oration from a gruff volunteer in the back-ground, not previously suspected of any powers in that way, was received with three loud cheers; and the speaker became a distinguished character for ever afterwards. In the midst of the three loud cheers, Daniel gave them all a hearty ‘Good Bye, Men!’ and the coach disappeared from sight, as if the concussion of the air had blown it out of Bleeding Heart Yard.

Mr Baptist, as a grateful little fellow in a position of trust, was among the workmen, and had done as much towards the cheering as a mere foreigner could. In truth, no men on earth can cheer like Englishmen, who do so rally one another’s blood and spirit when they cheer in earnest, that the stir is like the rush of their whole history, with all its standards waving at once, from Saxon Alfred’s downwards. Mr Baptist had been in a manner whirled away before the onset, and was taking his breath in quite a scared condition when Clennam beckoned him to follow up-stairs, and return the books and papers to their places.

In the lull consequent on the departure—in that first vacuity which ensues on every separation, foreshadowing the great separation that is always overhanging all mankind—Arthur stood at his desk, looking dreamily out at a gleam of sun. But his liberated attention soon reverted to the theme that was foremost in his thoughts, and began, for the hundredth time, to dwell upon every circumstance that had impressed itself upon his mind on the mysterious night when he had seen the man at his mother’s. Again the man jostled him in the crooked street, again he followed the man and lost him, again he came upon the man in the court-yard looking at the house, again he followed the man and stood beside him on the door-steps.

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine; Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!’

It was not the first time, by many, that he had recalled the song of the child’s game, of which the fellow had hummed this verse while they stood side by side; but he was so unconscious of having repeated it audibly, that he started to hear the next verse.

‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Compagnon de la Majolaine; Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Always gay!’

Cavalletto had deferentially suggested the words and tune, supposing him to have stopped short for want of more.

‘Ah! You know the song, Cavalletto?’

‘By Bacchus, yes, sir! They all know it in France. I have heard it many times, sung by the little children. The last time when it I have heard,’ said Mr Baptist, formerly Cavalletto, who usually went back to his native construction of sentences when his memory went near home, ‘is from a sweet little voice. A little voice, very pretty, very innocent. Altro!’

‘The last time I heard it,’ returned Arthur, ‘was in a voice quite the reverse of pretty, and quite the reverse of innocent.’ He said it more to himself than to his companion, and added to himself, repeating the man’s next words. ‘Death of my life, sir, it’s my character to be impatient!’

‘EH!’ cried Cavalletto, astounded, and with all his colour gone in a moment.

‘What is the matter?’

‘Sir! You know where I have heard that song the last time?’

With his rapid native action, his hands made the outline of a high hook nose, pushed his eyes near together, dishevelled his hair, puffed out his upper lip to represent a thick moustache, and threw the heavy end of an ideal cloak over his shoulder. While doing this, with a swiftness incredible to one who has not watched an Italian peasant, he indicated a very remarkable and sinister smile. The whole change passed over him like a flash of light, and he stood in the same instant, pale and astonished, before his patron.

‘In the name of Fate and wonder,’ said Clennam, ‘what do you mean? Do you know a man of the name of Blandois?’

‘No!’ said Mr Baptist, shaking his head.

‘You have just now described a man who was by when you heard that song; have you not?’

‘Yes!’ said Mr Baptist, nodding fifty times.

‘And was he not called Blandois?’

‘No!’ said Mr Baptist. ‘Altro, Altro, Altro, Altro!’ He could not reject the name sufficiently, with his head and his right forefinger going at once.

‘Stay!’ cried Clennam, spreading out the handbill on his desk. ‘Was this the man? You can understand what I read aloud?’

‘Altogether. Perfectly.’

‘But look at it, too. Come here and look over me, while I read.’

Mr Baptist approached, followed every word with his quick eyes, saw and heard it all out with the greatest impatience, then clapped his two hands flat upon the bill as if he had fiercely caught some noxious creature, and cried, looking eagerly at Clennam, ‘It is the man! Behold him!’

‘This is of far greater moment to me’ said Clennam, in great agitation, ‘than you can imagine. Tell me where you knew the man.’

Mr Baptist, releasing the paper very slowly and with much discomfiture, and drawing himself back two or three paces, and making as though he dusted his hands, returned, very much against his will:

‘At Marsiglia—Marseilles.’

‘What was he?’

‘A prisoner, and—Altro! I believe yes!—an,’ Mr Baptist crept closer again to whisper it, ‘Assassin!’

Clennam fell back as if the word had struck him a blow: so terrible did it make his mother’s communication with the man appear. Cavalletto dropped on one knee, and implored him, with a redundancy of gesticulation, to hear what had brought himself into such foul company.

He told with perfect truth how it had come of a little contraband trading, and how he had in time been released from prison, and how he had gone away from those antecedents. How, at the house of entertainment called the Break of Day at Chalons on the Saone, he had been awakened in his bed at night by the same assassin, then assuming the name of Lagnier, though his name had formerly been Rigaud; how the assassin had proposed that they should join their fortunes together; how he held the assassin in such dread and aversion that he had fled from him at daylight, and how he had ever since been haunted by the fear of seeing the assassin again and being claimed by him as an acquaintance. When he had related this, with an emphasis and poise on the word, ‘assassin,’ peculiarly belonging to his own language, and which did not serve to render it less terrible to Clennam, he suddenly sprang to his feet, pounced upon the bill again, and with a vehemence that would have been absolute madness in any man of Northern origin, cried ‘Behold the same assassin! Here he is!’

In his passionate raptures, he at first forgot the fact that he had lately seen the assassin in London. On his remembering it, it suggested hope to Clennam that the recognition might be of later date than the night of the visit at his mother’s; but Cavalletto was too exact and clear about time and place, to leave any opening for doubt that it had preceded that occasion.

‘Listen,’ said Arthur, very seriously. ‘This man, as we have read here, has wholly disappeared.’

‘Of it I am well content!’ said Cavalletto, raising his eyes piously. ‘A thousand thanks to Heaven! Accursed assassin!’

‘Not so,’ returned Clennam; ‘for until something more is heard of him, I can never know an hour’s peace.’

‘Enough, Benefactor; that is quite another thing. A million of excuses!’

‘Now, Cavalletto,’ said Clennam, gently turning him by the arm, so that they looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I am certain that for the little I have been able to do for you, you are the most sincerely grateful of men.’

‘I swear it!’ cried the other.

‘I know it. If you could find this man, or discover what has become of him, or gain any later intelligence whatever of him, you would render me a service above any other service I could receive in the world, and would make me (with far greater reason) as grateful to you as you are to me.’

‘I know not where to look,’ cried the little man, kissing Arthur’s hand in a transport. ‘I know not where to begin. I know not where to go. But, courage! Enough! It matters not! I go, in this instant of time!’

‘Not a word to any one but me, Cavalletto.’

‘Al-tro!’ cried Cavalletto. And was gone with great speed.

CHAPTER 23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise, respecting her Dreams

Left alone, with the expressive looks and gestures of Mr Baptist, otherwise Giovanni Baptista Cavalletto, vividly before him, Clennam entered on a weary day. It was in vain that he tried to control his attention by directing it to any business occupation or train of thought; it rode at anchor by the haunting topic, and would hold to no other idea. As though a criminal should be chained in a stationary boat on a deep clear river, condemned, whatever countless leagues of water flowed past him, always to see the body of the fellow-creature he had drowned lying at the bottom, immovable, and unchangeable, except as the eddies made it broad or long, now expanding, now contracting its terrible lineaments; so Arthur, below the shifting current of transparent thoughts and fancies which were gone and succeeded by others as soon as come, saw, steady and dark, and not to be stirred from its place, the one subject that he endeavoured with all his might to rid himself of, and that he could not fly from.

The assurance he now had, that Blandois, whatever his right name, was one of the worst of characters, greatly augmented the burden of his anxieties. Though the disappearance should be accounted for to-morrow, the fact that his mother had been in communication with such a man, would remain unalterable. That the communication had been of a secret kind, and that she had been submissive to him and afraid of him, he hoped might be known to no one beyond himself; yet, knowing it, how could he separate it from his old vague fears, and how believe that there was nothing evil in such relations?

Her resolution not to enter on the question with him, and his knowledge of her indomitable character, enhanced his sense of helplessness. It was like the oppression of a dream to believe that shame and exposure were impending over her and his father’s memory, and to be shut out, as by a brazen wall, from the possibility of coming to their aid. The purpose he had brought home to his native country, and had ever since kept in view, was, with her greatest determination, defeated by his mother herself, at the time of all others when he feared that it pressed most. His advice, energy, activity, money, credit, all his resources whatsoever, were all made useless. If she had been possessed of the old fabled influence, and had turned those who looked upon her into stone, she could not have rendered him more completely powerless (so it seemed to him in his distress of mind) than she did, when she turned her unyielding face to his in her gloomy room.

But the light of that day’s discovery, shining on these considerations, roused him to take a more decided course of action. Confident in the rectitude of his purpose, and impelled by a sense of overhanging danger closing in around, he resolved, if his mother would still admit of no approach, to make a desperate appeal to Affery. If she could be brought to become communicative, and to do what lay in her to break the spell of secrecy that enshrouded the house, he might shake off the paralysis of which every hour that passed over his head made him more acutely sensible. This was the result of his day’s anxiety, and this was the decision he put in practice when the day closed in.

His first disappointment, on arriving at the house, was to find the door open, and Mr Flintwinch smoking a pipe on the steps. If circumstances had been commonly favourable, Mistress Affery would have opened the door to his knock. Circumstances being uncommonly unfavourable, the door stood open, and Mr Flintwinch was smoking his pipe on the steps.

‘Good evening,’ said Arthur.

‘Good evening,’ said Mr Flintwinch.

The smoke came crookedly out of Mr Flintwinch’s mouth, as if it circulated through the whole of his wry figure and came back by his wry throat, before coming forth to mingle with the smoke from the crooked chimneys and the mists from the crooked river.

‘Have you any news?’ said Arthur.

‘We have no news,’ said Jeremiah.

‘I mean of the foreign man,’ Arthur explained.

‘I mean of the foreign man,’ said Jeremiah.

He looked so grim, as he stood askew, with the knot of his cravat under his ear, that the thought passed into Clennam’s mind, and not for the first time by many, could Flintwinch for a purpose of his own have got rid of Blandois? Could it have been his secret, and his safety, that were at issue? He was small and bent, and perhaps not actively strong; yet he was as tough as an old yew-tree, and as crusty as an old jackdaw. Such a man, coming behind a much younger and more vigorous man, and having the will to put an end to him and no relenting, might do it pretty surely in that solitary place at a late hour.

While, in the morbid condition of his thoughts, these thoughts drifted over the main one that was always in Clennam’s mind, Mr Flintwinch, regarding the opposite house over the gateway with his neck twisted and one eye shut up, stood smoking with a vicious expression upon him; more as if he were trying to bite off the stem of his pipe, than as if he were enjoying it. Yet he was enjoying it in his own way.

‘You’ll be able to take my likeness, the next time you call, Arthur, I should think,’ said Mr Flintwinch, drily, as he stooped to knock the ashes out.

Rather conscious and confused, Arthur asked his pardon, if he had stared at him unpolitely. ‘But my mind runs so much upon this matter,’ he said, ‘that I lose myself.’

‘Hah! Yet I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, quite at his leisure, ‘why it should trouble you, Arthur.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ said Mr Flintwinch, very shortly and decidedly: much as if he were of the canine race, and snapped at Arthur’s hand.

‘Is it nothing to see those placards about? Is it nothing to me to see my mother’s name and residence hawked up and down in such an association?’

‘I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, scraping his horny cheek, ‘that it need signify much to you. But I’ll tell you what I do see, Arthur,’ glancing up at the windows; ‘I see the light of fire and candle in your mother’s room!’

‘And what has that to do with it?’

‘Why, sir, I read by it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself at him, ‘that if it’s advisable (as the proverb says it is) to let sleeping dogs lie, it’s just as advisable, perhaps, to let missing dogs lie. Let ‘em be. They generally turn up soon enough.’

Mr Flintwinch turned short round when he had made this remark, and went into the dark hall. Clennam stood there, following him with his eyes, as he dipped for a light in the phosphorus-box in the little room at the side, got one after three or four dips, and lighted the dim lamp against the wall. All the while, Clennam was pursuing the probabilities—rather as if they were being shown to him by an invisible hand than as if he himself were conjuring them up—of Mr Flintwinch’s ways and means of doing that darker deed, and removing its traces by any of the black avenues of shadow that lay around them.

‘Now, sir,’ said the testy Jeremiah; ‘will it be agreeable to walk up-stairs?’

‘My mother is alone, I suppose?’

‘Not alone,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Mr Casby and his daughter are with her. They came in while I was smoking, and I stayed behind to have my smoke out.’

This was the second disappointment. Arthur made no remark upon it, and repaired to his mother’s room, where Mr Casby and Flora had been taking tea, anchovy paste, and hot buttered toast. The relics of those delicacies were not yet removed, either from the table or from the scorched countenance of Affery, who, with the kitchen toasting-fork still in her hand, looked like a sort of allegorical personage; except that she had a considerable advantage over the general run of such personages in point of significant emblematical purpose.

Flora had spread her bonnet and shawl upon the bed, with a care indicative of an intention to stay some time. Mr Casby, too, was beaming near the hob, with his benevolent knobs shining as if the warm butter of the toast were exuding through the patriarchal skull, and with his face as ruddy as if the colouring matter of the anchovy paste were mantling in the patriarchal visage. Seeing this, as he exchanged the usual salutations, Clennam decided to speak to his mother without postponement.

It had long been customary, as she never changed her room, for those who had anything to say to her apart, to wheel her to her desk; where she sat, usually with the back of her chair turned towards the rest of the room, and the person who talked with her seated in a corner, on a stool which was always set in that place for that purpose. Except that it was long since the mother and son had spoken together without the intervention of a third person, it was an ordinary matter of course within the experience of visitors for Mrs Clennam to be asked, with a word of apology for the interruption, if she could be spoken with on a matter of business, and, on her replying in the affirmative, to be wheeled into the position described.

Therefore, when Arthur now made such an apology, and such a request, and moved her to her desk and seated himself on the stool, Mrs Finching merely began to talk louder and faster, as a delicate hint that she could overhear nothing, and Mr Casby stroked his long white locks with sleepy calmness.

‘Mother, I have heard something to-day which I feel persuaded you don’t know, and which I think you should know, of the antecedents of that man I saw here.’

‘I know nothing of the antecedents of the man you saw here, Arthur.’

She spoke aloud. He had lowered his own voice; but she rejected that advance towards confidence as she rejected every other, and spoke in her usual key and in her usual stern voice.

‘I have received it on no circuitous information; it has come to me direct.’

She asked him, exactly as before, if he were there to tell her what it was?

‘I thought it right that you should know it.’

‘And what is it?’

‘He has been a prisoner in a French gaol.’

She answered with composure, ‘I should think that very likely.’

‘But in a gaol for criminals, mother. On an accusation of murder.’

She started at the word, and her looks expressed her natural horror. Yet she still spoke aloud, when she demanded:—

‘Who told you so?’

‘A man who was his fellow-prisoner.’

‘That man’s antecedents, I suppose, were not known to you, before he told you?’

‘No.’

‘Though the man himself was?’

‘Yes.’

‘My case and Flintwinch’s, in respect of this other man! I dare say the resemblance is not so exact, though, as that your informant became known to you through a letter from a correspondent with whom he had deposited money? How does that part of the parallel stand?’

Arthur had no choice but to say that his informant had not become known to him through the agency of any such credentials, or indeed of any credentials at all. Mrs Clennam’s attentive frown expanded by degrees into a severe look of triumph, and she retorted with emphasis, ‘Take care how you judge others, then. I say to you, Arthur, for your good, take care how you judge!’

Her emphasis had been derived from her eyes quite as much as from the stress she laid upon her words. She continued to look at him; and if, when he entered the house, he had had any latent hope of prevailing in the least with her, she now looked it out of his heart.

‘Mother, shall I do nothing to assist you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Will you entrust me with no confidence, no charge, no explanation? Will you take no counsel with me? Will you not let me come near you?’

‘How can you ask me? You separated yourself from my affairs. It was not my act; it was yours. How can you consistently ask me such a question? You know that you left me to Flintwinch, and that he occupies your place.’

Glancing at Jeremiah, Clennam saw in his very gaiters that his attention was closely directed to them, though he stood leaning against the wall scraping his jaw, and pretended to listen to Flora as she held forth in a most distracting manner on a chaos of subjects, in which mackerel, and Mr F.’s Aunt in a swing, had become entangled with cockchafers and the wine trade.

‘A prisoner, in a French gaol, on an accusation of murder,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, steadily going over what her son had said. ‘That is all you know of him from the fellow-prisoner?’

‘In substance, all.’

‘And was the fellow-prisoner his accomplice and a murderer, too? But, of course, he gives a better account of himself than of his friend; it is needless to ask. This will supply the rest of them here with something new to talk about. Casby, Arthur tells me—’

‘Stay, mother! Stay, stay!’ He interrupted her hastily, for it had not entered his imagination that she would openly proclaim what he had told her.

‘What now?’ she said with displeasure. ‘What more?’

‘I beg you to excuse me, Mr Casby—and you, too, Mrs Finching—for one other moment with my mother—’

He had laid his hand upon her chair, or she would otherwise have wheeled it round with the touch of her foot upon the ground. They were still face to face. She looked at him, as he ran over the possibilities of some result he had not intended, and could not foresee, being influenced by Cavalletto’s disclosure becoming a matter of notoriety, and hurriedly arrived at the conclusion that it had best not be talked about; though perhaps he was guided by no more distinct reason than that he had taken it for granted that his mother would reserve it to herself and her partner.

‘What now?’ she said again, impatiently. ‘What is it?’

‘I did not mean, mother, that you should repeat what I have communicated. I think you had better not repeat it.’

‘Do you make that a condition with me?’

‘Well! Yes.’

‘Observe, then! It is you who make this a secret,’ said she, holding up her hand, ‘and not I. It is you, Arthur, who bring here doubts and suspicions and entreaties for explanations, and it is you, Arthur, who bring secrets here. What is it to me, do you think, where the man has been, or what he has been? What can it be to me? The whole world may know it, if they care to know it; it is nothing to me. Now, let me go.’

He yielded to her imperious but elated look, and turned her chair back to the place from which he had wheeled it. In doing so he saw elation in the face of Mr Flintwinch, which most assuredly was not inspired by Flora. This turning of his intelligence and of his whole attempt and design against himself, did even more than his mother’s fixedness and firmness to convince him that his efforts with her were idle. Nothing remained but the appeal to his old friend Affery.

But even to get the very doubtful and preliminary stage of making the appeal, seemed one of the least promising of human undertakings. She was so completely under the thrall of the two clever ones, was so systematically kept in sight by one or other of them, and was so afraid to go about the house besides, that every opportunity of speaking to her alone appeared to be forestalled. Over and above that, Mistress Affery, by some means (it was not very difficult to guess, through the sharp arguments of her liege lord), had acquired such a lively conviction of the hazard of saying anything under any circumstances, that she had remained all this time in a corner guarding herself from approach with that symbolical instrument of hers; so that, when a word or two had been addressed to her by Flora, or even by the bottle-green patriarch himself, she had warded off conversation with the toasting-fork like a dumb woman.

After several abortive attempts to get Affery to look at him while she cleared the table and washed the tea-service, Arthur thought of an expedient which Flora might originate. To whom he therefore whispered, ‘Could you say you would like to go through the house?’

Now, poor Flora, being always in fluctuating expectation of the time when Clennam would renew his boyhood and be madly in love with her again, received the whisper with the utmost delight; not only as rendered precious by its mysterious character, but as preparing the way for a tender interview in which he would declare the state of his affections. She immediately began to work out the hint.

‘Ah dear me the poor old room,’ said Flora, glancing round, ‘looks just as ever Mrs Clennam I am touched to see except for being smokier which was to be expected with time and which we must all expect and reconcile ourselves to being whether we like it or not as I am sure I have had to do myself if not exactly smokier dreadfully stouter which is the same or worse, to think of the days when papa used to bring me here the least of girls a perfect mass of chilblains to be stuck upon a chair with my feet on the rails and stare at Arthur—pray excuse me—Mr Clennam—the least of boys in the frightfullest of frills and jackets ere yet Mr F. appeared a misty shadow on the horizon paying attentions like the well-known spectre of some place in Germany beginning with a B is a moral lesson inculcating that all the paths in life are similar to the paths down in the North of England where they get the coals and make the iron and things gravelled with ashes!’

Having paid the tribute of a sigh to the instability of human existence, Flora hurried on with her purpose.

‘Not that at any time,’ she proceeded, ‘its worst enemy could have said it was a cheerful house for that it was never made to be but always highly impressive, fond memory recalls an occasion in youth ere yet the judgment was mature when Arthur—confirmed habit—Mr Clennam—took me down into an unused kitchen eminent for mouldiness and proposed to secrete me there for life and feed me on what he could hide from his meals when he was not at home for the holidays and on dry bread in disgrace which at that halcyon period too frequently occurred, would it be inconvenient or asking too much to beg to be permitted to revive those scenes and walk through the house?’

Mrs Clennam, who responded with a constrained grace to Mrs Finching’s good nature in being there at all, though her visit (before Arthur’s unexpected arrival) was undoubtedly an act of pure good nature and no self-gratification, intimated that all the house was open to her. Flora rose and looked to Arthur for his escort. ‘Certainly,’ said he, aloud; ‘and Affery will light us, I dare say.’

Affery was excusing herself with ‘Don’t ask nothing of me, Arthur!’ when Mr Flintwinch stopped her with ‘Why not? Affery, what’s the matter with you, woman? Why not, jade!’ Thus expostulated with, she came unwillingly out of her corner, resigned the toasting-fork into one of her husband’s hands, and took the candlestick he offered from the other.

‘Go before, you fool!’ said Jeremiah. ‘Are you going up, or down, Mrs Finching?’

Flora answered, ‘Down.’

‘Then go before, and down, you Affery,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And do it properly, or I’ll come rolling down the banisters, and tumbling over you!’

Affery headed the exploring party; Jeremiah closed it. He had no intention of leaving them. Clennam looking back, and seeing him following three stairs behind, in the coolest and most methodical manner exclaimed in a low voice, ‘Is there no getting rid of him!’ Flora reassured his mind by replying promptly, ‘Why though not exactly proper Arthur and a thing I couldn’t think of before a younger man or a stranger still I don’t mind him if you so particularly wish it and provided you’ll have the goodness not to take me too tight.’

Wanting the heart to explain that this was not at all what he meant, Arthur extended his supporting arm round Flora’s figure. ‘Oh my goodness me,’ said she. ‘You are very obedient indeed really and it’s extremely honourable and gentlemanly in you I am sure but still at the same time if you would like to be a little tighter than that I shouldn’t consider it intruding.’

In this preposterous attitude, unspeakably at variance with his anxious mind, Clennam descended to the basement of the house; finding that wherever it became darker than elsewhere, Flora became heavier, and that when the house was lightest she was too. Returning from the dismal kitchen regions, which were as dreary as they could be, Mistress Affery passed with the light into his father’s old room, and then into the old dining-room; always passing on before like a phantom that was not to be overtaken, and neither turning nor answering when he whispered, ‘Affery! I want to speak to you!’

In the dining-room, a sentimental desire came over Flora to look into the dragon closet which had so often swallowed Arthur in the days of his boyhood—not improbably because, as a very dark closet, it was a likely place to be heavy in. Arthur, fast subsiding into despair, had opened it, when a knock was heard at the outer door.

Mistress Affery, with a suppressed cry, threw her apron over her head.

‘What? You want another dose!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘You shall have it, my woman, you shall have a good one! Oh! You shall have a sneezer, you shall have a teaser!’

‘In the meantime is anybody going to the door?’ said Arthur.

‘In the meantime, I am going to the door, sir,’ returned the old man so savagely, as to render it clear that in a choice of difficulties he felt he must go, though he would have preferred not to go. ‘Stay here the while, all! Affery, my woman, move an inch, or speak a word in your foolishness, and I’ll treble your dose!’

The moment he was gone, Arthur released Mrs Finching: with some difficulty, by reason of that lady misunderstanding his intentions, and making arrangements with a view to tightening instead of slackening.

‘Affery, speak to me now!’

‘Don’t touch me, Arthur!’ she cried, shrinking from him. ‘Don’t come near me. He’ll see you. Jeremiah will. Don’t.’

‘He can’t see me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the word, ‘if I blow the candle out.’

‘He’ll hear you,’ cried Affery.

‘He can’t hear me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the words again, ‘if I draw you into this black closet, and speak here. Why do you hide your face?’

‘Because I am afraid of seeing something.’

‘You can’t be afraid of seeing anything in this darkness, Affery.’

‘Yes I am. Much more than if it was light.’

‘Why are you afraid?’

‘Because the house is full of mysteries and secrets; because it’s full of whisperings and counsellings; because it’s full of noises. There never was such a house for noises. I shall die of ‘em, if Jeremiah don’t strangle me first. As I expect he will.’

‘I have never heard any noises here, worth speaking of.’

‘Ah! But you would, though, if you lived in the house, and was obliged to go about it as I am,’ said Affery; ‘and you’d feel that they was so well worth speaking of, that you’d feel you was nigh bursting through not being allowed to speak of ‘em. Here’s Jeremiah! You’ll get me killed.’

‘My good Affery, I solemnly declare to you that I can see the light of the open door on the pavement of the hall, and so could you if you would uncover your face and look.’

‘I durstn’t do it,’ said Affery, ‘I durstn’t never, Arthur. I’m always blind-folded when Jeremiah an’t a looking, and sometimes even when he is.’

‘He cannot shut the door without my seeing him,’ said Arthur. ‘You are as safe with me as if he was fifty miles away.’

[‘I wish he was!’ cried Affery.)

‘Affery, I want to know what is amiss here; I want some light thrown on the secrets of this house.’

‘I tell you, Arthur,’ she interrupted, ‘noises is the secrets, rustlings and stealings about, tremblings, treads overhead and treads underneath.’

‘But those are not all the secrets.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Affery. ‘Don’t ask me no more. Your old sweetheart an’t far off, and she’s a blabber.’

His old sweetheart, being in fact so near at hand that she was then reclining against him in a flutter, a very substantial angle of forty-five degrees, here interposed to assure Mistress Affery with greater earnestness than directness of asseveration, that what she heard should go no further, but should be kept inviolate, ‘if on no other account on Arthur’s—sensible of intruding in being too familiar Doyce and Clennam’s.’

‘I make an imploring appeal to you, Affery, to you, one of the few agreeable early remembrances I have, for my mother’s sake, for your husband’s sake, for my own, for all our sakes. I am sure you can tell me something connected with the coming here of this man, if you will.’

‘Why, then I’ll tell you, Arthur,’ returned Affery—‘Jeremiah’s coming!’

‘No, indeed he is not. The door is open, and he is standing outside, talking.’

‘I’ll tell you then,’ said Affery, after listening, ‘that the first time he ever come he heard the noises his own self. “What’s that?” he said to me. “I don’t know what it is,” I says to him, catching hold of him, “but I have heard it over and over again.” While I says it, he stands a looking at me, all of a shake, he do.’

‘Has he been here often?’

‘Only that night, and the last night.’

‘What did you see of him on the last night, after I was gone?’

‘Them two clever ones had him all alone to themselves. Jeremiah come a dancing at me sideways, after I had let you out (he always comes a dancing at me sideways when he’s going to hurt me), and he said to me, “Now, Affery,” he said, “I am a coming behind you, my woman, and a going to run you up.” So he took and squeezed the back of my neck in his hand, till it made me open my mouth, and then he pushed me before him to bed, squeezing all the way. That’s what he calls running me up, he do. Oh, he’s a wicked one!’

‘And did you hear or see no more, Affery?’

‘Don’t I tell you I was sent to bed, Arthur! Here he is!’

‘I assure you he is still at the door. Those whisperings and counsellings, Affery, that you have spoken of. What are they?’

‘How should I know? Don’t ask me nothing about ‘em, Arthur. Get away!’

‘But my dear Affery; unless I can gain some insight into these hidden things, in spite of your husband and in spite of my mother, ruin will come of it.’

‘Don’t ask me nothing,’ repeated Affery. ‘I have been in a dream for ever so long. Go away, go away!’

‘You said that before,’ returned Arthur. ‘You used the same expression that night, at the door, when I asked you what was going on here. What do you mean by being in a dream?’

‘I an’t a going to tell you. Get away! I shouldn’t tell you, if you was by yourself; much less with your old sweetheart here.’

It was equally vain for Arthur to entreat, and for Flora to protest. Affery, who had been trembling and struggling the whole time, turned a deaf ear to all adjuration, and was bent on forcing herself out of the closet.

‘I’d sooner scream to Jeremiah than say another word! I’ll call out to him, Arthur, if you don’t give over speaking to me. Now here’s the very last word I’ll say afore I call to him—If ever you begin to get the better of them two clever ones your own self (you ought to it, as I told you when you first come home, for you haven’t been a living here long years, to be made afeared of your life as I have), then do you get the better of ‘em afore my face; and then do you say to me, Affery tell your dreams! Maybe, then I’ll tell ‘em!’

The shutting of the door stopped Arthur from replying. They glided into the places where Jeremiah had left them; and Clennam, stepping forward as that old gentleman returned, informed him that he had accidentally extinguished the candle. Mr Flintwinch looked on as he re-lighted it at the lamp in the hall, and preserved a profound taciturnity respecting the person who had been holding him in conversation. Perhaps his irascibility demanded compensation for some tediousness that the visitor had expended on him; however that was, he took such umbrage at seeing his wife with her apron over her head, that he charged at her, and taking her veiled nose between his thumb and finger, appeared to throw the whole screw-power of his person into the wring he gave it.

Flora, now permanently heavy, did not release Arthur from the survey of the house, until it had extended even to his old garret bedchamber. His thoughts were otherwise occupied than with the tour of inspection; yet he took particular notice at the time, as he afterwards had occasion to remember, of the airlessness and closeness of the house; that they left the track of their footsteps in the dust on the upper floors; and that there was a resistance to the opening of one room door, which occasioned Affery to cry out that somebody was hiding inside, and to continue to believe so, though somebody was sought and not discovered. When they at last returned to his mother’s room, they found her shading her face with her muffled hand, and talking in a low voice to the Patriarch as he stood before the fire, whose blue eyes, polished head, and silken locks, turning towards them as they came in, imparted an inestimable value and inexhaustible love of his species to his remark:

‘So you have been seeing the premises, seeing the premises—premises— seeing the premises!’

It was not in itself a jewel of benevolence or wisdom, yet he made it an exemplar of both that one would have liked to have a copy of.

CHAPTER 24. The Evening of a Long Day

That illustrious man and great national ornament, Mr Merdle, continued his shining course. It began to be widely understood that one who had done society the admirable service of making so much money out of it, could not be suffered to remain a commoner. A baronetcy was spoken of with confidence; a peerage was frequently mentioned. Rumour had it that Mr Merdle had set his golden face against a baronetcy; that he had plainly intimated to Lord Decimus that a baronetcy was not enough for him; that he had said, ‘No—a Peerage, or plain Merdle.’ This was reported to have plunged Lord Decimus as nigh to his noble chin in a slough of doubts as so lofty a person could be sunk. For the Barnacles, as a group of themselves in creation, had an idea that such distinctions belonged to them; and that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer became ennobled, they let him in, as it were, by an act of condescension, at the family door, and immediately shut it again. Not only (said Rumour) had the troubled Decimus his own hereditary part in this impression, but he also knew of several Barnacle claims already on the file, which came into collision with that of the master spirit. Right or wrong, Rumour was very busy; and Lord Decimus, while he was, or was supposed to be, in stately excogitation of the difficulty, lent her some countenance by taking, on several public occasions, one of those elephantine trots of his through a jungle of overgrown sentences, waving Mr Merdle about on his trunk as Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of England, Elasticity, Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and all manner of blessings.

So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe go on, that fully three months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid in one tomb in the strangers’ cemetery at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were established in their own house: a little mansion, rather of the Tite Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell in it of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses, but extremely dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this enviable abode (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler had intended to proceed at once to the demolition of the Bosom, when active hostilities had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with his tidings of death. Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours; after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle’s. A gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished family (according to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back again.

Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable cold in its head, was that evening particularly stifling. The bells of the churches had done their worst in the way of clanging among the unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of the churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out opaque black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two.

‘It’s like lying in a well,’ said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position fretfully. ‘Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don’t you say it?’

Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness, ‘My life, I have nothing to say.’ But, as the repartee did not occur to him, he contented himself with coming in from the balcony and standing at the side of his wife’s couch.

‘Good gracious, Edmund!’ said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, ‘you are absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don’t!’

Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind—perhaps in a more literal absence of mind than is usually understood by the phrase—had smelt so hard at a sprig in his hand as to be on the verge of the offence in question. He smiled, said, ‘I ask your pardon, my dear,’ and threw it out of window.

‘You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; ‘you look so aggravatingly large by this light. Do sit down.’

‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same spot.

‘If I didn’t know that the longest day was past,’ said Fanny, yawning in a dreary manner, ‘I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I never did experience such a day.’

‘Is that your fan, my love?’ asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and presenting it.

‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, more wearily yet, ‘don’t ask weak questions, I entreat you not. Whose can it be but mine?’

‘Yes, I thought it was yours,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘Then you shouldn’t ask,’ retorted Fanny. After a little while she turned on her sofa and exclaimed, ‘Dear me, dear me, there never was such a long day as this!’ After another little while, she got up slowly, walked about, and came back again.

‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, ‘I think you must have got the fidgets.’

‘Oh, Fidgets!’ repeated Mrs Sparkler. ‘Don’t.’

‘My adorable girl,’ urged Mr Sparkler, ‘try your aromatic vinegar. I have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her.

And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably fine woman, with no non—’

‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. ‘It’s beyond all patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the world, I am certain.’

Mr Sparkler looked meekly after her as she lounged about the room, and he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its pillows.

‘Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you do look so big!’

Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn’t help it, and said that ‘our fellows,’ without more particularly indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.

‘You ought to have told me so before,’ Fanny complained.

‘My dear,’ returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, ‘I didn’t know It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.’

‘There! For goodness sake, don’t talk,’ said Fanny; ‘I want to talk, myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of dreadful depression in which I am this evening.’

‘My dear,’ answered Mr Sparkler; ‘being as you are well known to be, a remarkably fine woman with no—’

‘Oh, good GRACIOUS!’ cried Fanny.

Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation, accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to saying in explanation:

‘I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in society.’

‘Calculated to shine in society,’ retorted Fanny with great irritability; ‘yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover, in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa’s death, and my poor uncle’s—though I do not disguise from myself that the last was a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better die—’

‘You are not referring to me, my love, I hope?’ Mr Sparkler humbly interrupted.

‘Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking of my poor uncle?’

‘You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.’

‘Now you have put me out,’ observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her fan, ‘and I had better go to bed.’

‘Don’t do that, my love,’ urged Mr Sparkler. ‘Take time.’

Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her eyebrows raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly given up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner:

‘What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for very momentous reasons to shine in society—I find myself in a situation which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It’s too bad, really!’

‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I don’t think it need keep you at home.’

‘Edmund, you ridiculous creature,’ returned Fanny, with great indignation; ‘do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not wholly devoid of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly is boundless.’

Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought ‘it might be got over.’

‘Got over!’ repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn.

‘For a time,’ Mr Sparkler submitted.

Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively it was enough to make one wish one was dead!

‘However,’ she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her sense of personal ill-usage; ‘provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems, I suppose it must be submitted to.’

‘Especially as it was to be expected,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, ‘if you have nothing more becoming to do than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand, when she finds herself in adversity, I think you had better go to bed!’

Mr Sparkler was much afflicted by the charge, and offered a most tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the window-curtain, to tone himself down.

‘Now, Edmund,’ she said, stretching out her fan, and touching him with it at arm’s length, ‘what I was going to say to you when you began as usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here; for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has been.’

Mr Sparkler’s sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no nonsense about it. He added, ‘And besides, you know it’s likely that you’ll soon have your sister—’

‘Dearest Amy, yes!’ cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection. ‘Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.’

Mr Sparkler was going to say ‘No?’ interrogatively, but he saw his danger and said it assentingly, ‘No, Oh dear no; she wouldn’t do here alone.’

‘No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues of the precious child of that still character that they require a contrast—require life and movement around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts than one.’

‘That’s it,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Roused.’

‘Pray don’t, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it. Speaking of Amy;—my poor little pet was devotedly attached to poor papa, and no doubt will have lamented his loss exceedingly, and grieved very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I unhappily was not.’

Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, ‘Dear, dear, beloved papa! How truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!’

‘From the effects of that trying time,’ she pursued, ‘my good little Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa’s affairs from being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in Sicily, sufficiently to come over, and administer, or execute, or whatever it may be that will have to be done.’

‘He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round,’ Mr Sparkler made bold to opine.

‘For a wonder, I can agree with you,’ returned his wife, languidly turning her eyelids a little in his direction (she held forth, in general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), ‘and can adopt your words. He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round. There are times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!’

Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had had, biggodd, a long bout of it, my dear girl.

‘If Bout, Edmund,’ returned Mrs Sparkler, ‘is the slang term for indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion on the barbarous language you address to Edward’s sister. That he contracted Malaria Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa before his death—or under some other unwholesome circumstances—is indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.’

Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows in the West Indies with Yellow Jack. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again, and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies, or of Yellow Jack.

‘So, Amy,’ she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, ‘will require to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don’t ask me what it is, Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.’

‘I am not going to, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,’ Mrs Sparkler continued, ‘and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable and dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa’s affairs, my interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy to Mrs General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.’

She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name soon stimulated her to dry her eyes and say:

‘It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward’s illness, I am thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense not being impaired, or his proper spirit weakened—down to the time of poor dear papa’s death at all events—that he paid off Mrs General instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly what I would have done myself!’

Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking were preoccupied in mind, and forgot to leave off.

‘Halloa!’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!’ said Mrs Sparkler. ‘Look out.’

The room was dark, but the street was lighter, because of its lamps. Mr Sparkler’s head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening the unknown below.

‘It’s one fellow,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I can’t see who—stop though!’

On this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had another look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he believed he had identified ‘his governor’s tile.’ He was not mistaken, for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately afterwards.

‘Candles!’ said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness.

‘It’s light enough for me,’ said Mr Merdle.

When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing behind the door, picking his lips. ‘I thought I’d give you a call,’ he said. ‘I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to be out for a stroll, I thought I’d give you a call.’

As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining?

‘Well,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I haven’t been dining anywhere, particularly.’

‘Of course you have dined?’ said Fanny.

‘Why—no, I haven’t exactly dined,’ said Mr Merdle.

He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I don’t feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn’t feel inclined for dinner, I let Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and thought I’d take a stroll instead.’

Would he have tea or coffee? ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I looked in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.’

At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some twenty feet deep, said again: ‘You see I thought I’d give you a call.’

‘Flattering to us,’ said Fanny, ‘for you are not a calling man.’

‘No—no,’ returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into custody under both coat-sleeves. ‘No, I am not a calling man.’

‘You have too much to do for that,’ said Fanny. ‘Having so much to do, Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must have it seen to. You must not be ill.’

‘Oh! I am very well,’ replied Mr Merdle, after deliberating about it. ‘I am as well as I usually am. I am well enough. I am as well as I want to be.’

The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder how long the master-mind meant to stay.

‘I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.’

‘Aye! Quite a coincidence,’ said Mr Merdle.

Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent on her to continue talking. ‘I was saying,’ she pursued, ‘that my brother’s illness has occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa’s property.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. There has been a delay.’

‘Not that it is of consequence,’ said Fanny.

‘Not,’ assented Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all that part of the room which was within his range: ‘not that it is of any consequence.’

‘My only anxiety is,’ said Fanny, ‘that Mrs General should not get anything.’

‘She won’t get anything,’ said Mr Merdle.

Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last remark the confirmatory words, ‘Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.’

As the topic seemed exhausted, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home?

‘No,’ he answered; ‘I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle to—’ here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were telling his own fortune—‘to take care of herself. I dare say she’ll manage to do it.’

‘Probably,’ said Fanny.

There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former retirement from mundane affairs.

‘But, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am equally detaining you and myself. I thought I’d give you a call, you know.’

‘Charmed, I am sure,’ said Fanny.

‘So I am off,’ added Mr Merdle, getting up. ‘Could you lend me a penknife?’

It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such vast business as Mr Merdle. ‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Merdle acquiesced; ‘but I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes about, with scissors and tweezers and such things in them. You shall have it back to-morrow.’

‘Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, ‘open (now, very carefully, I beg and beseech, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘but if you have got one with a darker handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.’

‘Tortoise-shell?’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. I think I should prefer tortoise-shell.’

Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box, and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife said to the master-spirit graciously:

‘I will forgive you, if you ink it.’

‘I’ll undertake not to ink it,’ said Mr Merdle.

The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment entombed Mrs Sparkler’s hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs Sparkler’s sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious Chelsea Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner.

Thoroughly convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by idiotic and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap, and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed of several Devils.

CHAPTER 25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office

The dinner-party was at the great Physician’s. Bar was there, and in full force. Ferdinand Barnacle was there, and in his most engaging state. Few ways of life were hidden from Physician, and he was oftener in its darkest places than even Bishop. There were brilliant ladies about London who perfectly doted on him, my dear, as the most charming creature and the most delightful person, who would have been shocked to find themselves so close to him if they could have known on what sights those thoughtful eyes of his had rested within an hour or two, and near to whose beds, and under what roofs, his composed figure had stood. But Physician was a composed man, who performed neither on his own trumpet, nor on the trumpets of other people. Many wonderful things did he see and hear, and much irreconcilable moral contradiction did he pass his life among; yet his equality of compassion was no more disturbed than the Divine Master’s of all healing was. He went, like the rain, among the just and unjust, doing all the good he could, and neither proclaiming it in the synagogues nor at the corner of streets.

As no man of large experience of humanity, however quietly carried it may be, can fail to be invested with an interest peculiar to the possession of such knowledge, Physician was an attractive man. Even the daintier gentlemen and ladies who had no idea of his secret, and who would have been startled out of more wits than they had, by the monstrous impropriety of his proposing to them ‘Come and see what I see!’ confessed his attraction. Where he was, something real was. And half a grain of reality, like the smallest portion of some other scarce natural productions, will flavour an enormous quantity of diluent.

It came to pass, therefore, that Physician’s little dinners always presented people in their least conventional lights. The guests said to themselves, whether they were conscious of it or no, ‘Here is a man who really has an acquaintance with us as we are, who is admitted to some of us every day with our wigs and paint off, who hears the wanderings of our minds, and sees the undisguised expression of our faces, when both are past our control; we may as well make an approach to reality with him, for the man has got the better of us and is too strong for us.’ Therefore, Physician’s guests came out so surprisingly at his round table that they were almost natural.

Bar’s knowledge of that agglomeration of jurymen which is called humanity was as sharp as a razor; yet a razor is not a generally convenient instrument, and Physician’s plain bright scalpel, though far less keen, was adaptable to far wider purposes. Bar knew all about the gullibility and knavery of people; but Physician could have given him a better insight into their tendernesses and affections, in one week of his rounds, than Westminster Hall and all the circuits put together, in threescore years and ten. Bar always had a suspicion of this, and perhaps was glad to encourage it (for, if the world were really a great Law Court, one would think that the last day of Term could not too soon arrive); and so he liked and respected Physician quite as much as any other kind of man did.

Mr Merdle’s default left a Banquo’s chair at the table; but, if he had been there, he would have merely made the difference of Banquo in it, and consequently he was no loss. Bar, who picked up all sorts of odds and ends about Westminster Hall, much as a raven would have done if he had passed as much of his time there, had been picking up a great many straws lately and tossing them about, to try which way the Merdle wind blew. He now had a little talk on the subject with Mrs Merdle herself; sidling up to that lady, of course, with his double eye-glass and his jury droop.

‘A certain bird,’ said Bar; and he looked as if it could have been no other bird than a magpie; ‘has been whispering among us lawyers lately, that there is to be an addition to the titled personages of this realm.’

‘Really?’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Yes,’ said Bar. ‘Has not the bird been whispering in very different ears from ours—in lovely ears?’ He looked expressively at Mrs Merdle’s nearest ear-ring.

‘Do you mean mine?’ asked Mrs Merdle.

‘When I say lovely,’ said Bar, ‘I always mean you.’

‘You never mean anything, I think,’ returned Mrs Merdle (not displeased).

‘Oh, cruelly unjust!’ said Bar. ‘But, the bird.’

‘I am the last person in the world to hear news,’ observed Mrs Merdle, carelessly arranging her stronghold. ‘Who is it?’

‘What an admirable witness you would make!’ said Bar. ‘No jury (unless we could empanel one of blind men) could resist you, if you were ever so bad a one; but you would be such a good one!’

‘Why, you ridiculous man?’ asked Mrs Merdle, laughing.

Bar waved his double eye-glass three or four times between himself and the Bosom, as a rallying answer, and inquired in his most insinuating accents:

‘What am I to call the most elegant, accomplished and charming of women, a few weeks, or it may be a few days, hence?’

‘Didn’t your bird tell you what to call her?’ answered Mrs Merdle. ‘Do ask it to-morrow, and tell me the next time you see me what it says.’

This led to further passages of similar pleasantry between the two; but Bar, with all his sharpness, got nothing out of them. Physician, on the other hand, taking Mrs Merdle down to her carriage and attending on her as she put on her cloak, inquired into the symptoms with his usual calm directness.

‘May I ask,’ he said, ‘is this true about Merdle?’

‘My dear doctor,’ she returned, ‘you ask me the very question that I was half disposed to ask you.’

‘To ask me! Why me?’

‘Upon my honour, I think Mr Merdle reposes greater confidence in you than in any one.’

‘On the contrary, he tells me absolutely nothing, even professionally. You have heard the talk, of course?’

‘Of course I have. But you know what Mr Merdle is; you know how taciturn and reserved he is. I assure you I have no idea what foundation for it there may be. I should like it to be true; why should I deny that to you? You would know better, if I did!’

‘Just so,’ said Physician.

‘But whether it is all true, or partly true, or entirely false, I am wholly unable to say. It is a most provoking situation, a most absurd situation; but you know Mr Merdle, and are not surprised.’

Physician was not surprised, handed her into her carriage, and bade her Good Night. He stood for a moment at his own hall door, looking sedately at the elegant equipage as it rattled away. On his return up-stairs, the rest of the guests soon dispersed, and he was left alone. Being a great reader of all kinds of literature (and never at all apologetic for that weakness), he sat down comfortably to read.

The clock upon his study table pointed to a few minutes short of twelve, when his attention was called to it by a ringing at the door bell. A man of plain habits, he had sent his servants to bed and must needs go down to open the door. He went down, and there found a man without hat or coat, whose shirt sleeves were rolled up tight to his shoulders. For a moment, he thought the man had been fighting: the rather, as he was much agitated and out of breath. A second look, however, showed him that the man was particularly clean, and not otherwise discomposed as to his dress than as it answered this description.

‘I come from the warm-baths, sir, round in the neighbouring street.’

‘And what is the matter at the warm-baths?’

‘Would you please to come directly, sir. We found that, lying on the table.’

He put into the physician’s hand a scrap of paper. Physician looked at it, and read his own name and address written in pencil; nothing more. He looked closer at the writing, looked at the man, took his hat from its peg, put the key of his door in his pocket, and they hurried away together.

When they came to the warm-baths, all the other people belonging to that establishment were looking out for them at the door, and running up and down the passages. ‘Request everybody else to keep back, if you please,’ said the physician aloud to the master; ‘and do you take me straight to the place, my friend,’ to the messenger.

The messenger hurried before him, along a grove of little rooms, and turning into one at the end of the grove, looked round the door. Physician was close upon him, and looked round the door too.

There was a bath in that corner, from which the water had been hastily drained off. Lying in it, as in a grave or sarcophagus, with a hurried drapery of sheet and blanket thrown across it, was the body of a heavily-made man, with an obtuse head, and coarse, mean, common features. A sky-light had been opened to release the steam with which the room had been filled; but it hung, condensed into water-drops, heavily upon the walls, and heavily upon the face and figure in the bath. The room was still hot, and the marble of the bath still warm; but the face and figure were clammy to the touch. The white marble at the bottom of the bath was veined with a dreadful red. On the ledge at the side, were an empty laudanum-bottle and a tortoise-shell handled penknife—soiled, but not with ink.

‘Separation of jugular vein—death rapid—been dead at least half an hour.’ This echo of the physician’s words ran through the passages and little rooms, and through the house while he was yet straightening himself from having bent down to reach to the bottom of the bath, and while he was yet dabbling his hands in water; redly veining it as the marble was veined, before it mingled into one tint.

He turned his eyes to the dress upon the sofa, and to the watch, money, and pocket-book on the table. A folded note half buckled up in the pocket-book, and half protruding from it, caught his observant glance. He looked at it, touched it, pulled it a little further out from among the leaves, said quietly, ‘This is addressed to me,’ and opened and read it.

There were no directions for him to give. The people of the house knew what to do; the proper authorities were soon brought; and they took an equable business-like possession of the deceased, and of what had been his property, with no greater disturbance of manner or countenance than usually attends the winding-up of a clock. Physician was glad to walk out into the night air—was even glad, in spite of his great experience, to sit down upon a door-step for a little while: feeling sick and faint.

Bar was a near neighbour of his, and, when he came to the house, he saw a light in the room where he knew his friend often sat late getting up his work. As the light was never there when Bar was not, it gave him assurance that Bar was not yet in bed. In fact, this busy bee had a verdict to get to-morrow, against evidence, and was improving the shining hours in setting snares for the gentlemen of the jury.

Physician’s knock astonished Bar; but, as he immediately suspected that somebody had come to tell him that somebody else was robbing him, or otherwise trying to get the better of him, he came down promptly and softly. He had been clearing his head with a lotion of cold water, as a good preparative to providing hot water for the heads of the jury, and had been reading with the neck of his shirt thrown wide open that he might the more freely choke the opposite witnesses. In consequence, he came down, looking rather wild. Seeing Physician, the least expected of men, he looked wilder and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You asked me once what Merdle’s complaint was.’

‘Extraordinary answer! I know I did.’

‘I told you I had not found out.’

‘Yes. I know you did.’

‘I have found it out.’

‘My God!’ said Bar, starting back, and clapping his hand upon the other’s breast. ‘And so have I! I see it in your face.’

They went into the nearest room, where Physician gave him the letter to read. He read it through half-a-dozen times. There was not much in it as to quantity; but it made a great demand on his close and continuous attention. He could not sufficiently give utterance to his regret that he had not himself found a clue to this. The smallest clue, he said, would have made him master of the case, and what a case it would have been to have got to the bottom of!

Physician had engaged to break the intelligence in Harley Street. Bar could not at once return to his inveiglements of the most enlightened and remarkable jury he had ever seen in that box, with whom, he could tell his learned friend, no shallow sophistry would go down, and no unhappily abused professional tact and skill prevail (this was the way he meant to begin with them); so he said he would go too, and would loiter to and fro near the house while his friend was inside. They walked there, the better to recover self-possession in the air; and the wings of day were fluttering the night when Physician knocked at the door.

A footman of rainbow hues, in the public eye, was sitting up for his master—that is to say, was fast asleep in the kitchen over a couple of candles and a newspaper, demonstrating the great accumulation of mathematical odds against the probabilities of a house being set on fire by accident When this serving man was roused, Physician had still to await the rousing of the Chief Butler. At last that noble creature came into the dining-room in a flannel gown and list shoes; but with his cravat on, and a Chief Butler all over. It was morning now. Physician had opened the shutters of one window while waiting, that he might see the light.

‘Mrs Merdle’s maid must be called, and told to get Mrs Merdle up, and prepare her as gently as she can to see me. I have dreadful news to break to her.’

Thus Physician to the Chief Butler. The latter, who had a candle in his hand, called his man to take it away. Then he approached the window with dignity; looking on at Physician’s news exactly as he had looked on at the dinners in that very room.

‘Mr Merdle is dead.’

‘I should wish,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘to give a month’s notice.’

‘Mr Merdle has destroyed himself.’

‘Sir,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘that is very unpleasant to the feelings of one in my position, as calculated to awaken prejudice; and I should wish to leave immediately.’

‘If you are not shocked, are you not surprised, man?’ demanded the Physician, warmly.

The Chief Butler, erect and calm, replied in these memorable words. ‘Sir, Mr Merdle never was the gentleman, and no ungentlemanly act on Mr Merdle’s part would surprise me. Is there anybody else I can send to you, or any other directions I can give before I leave, respecting what you would wish to be done?’

When Physician, after discharging himself of his trust up-stairs, rejoined Bar in the street, he said no more of his interview with Mrs Merdle than that he had not yet told her all, but that what he had told her she had borne pretty well. Bar had devoted his leisure in the street to the construction of a most ingenious man-trap for catching the whole of his jury at a blow; having got that matter settled in his mind, it was lucid on the late catastrophe, and they walked home slowly, discussing it in every bearing. Before parting at the Physician’s door, they both looked up at the sunny morning sky, into which the smoke of a few early fires and the breath and voices of a few early stirrers were peacefully rising, and then looked round upon the immense city, and said, if all those hundreds and thousands of beggared people who were yet asleep could only know, as they two spoke, the ruin that impended over them, what a fearful cry against one miserable soul would go up to Heaven!

The report that the great man was dead, got about with astonishing rapidity. At first, he was dead of all the diseases that ever were known, and of several bran-new maladies invented with the speed of Light to meet the demand of the occasion. He had concealed a dropsy from infancy, he had inherited a large estate of water on the chest from his grandfather, he had had an operation performed upon him every morning of his life for eighteen years, he had been subject to the explosion of important veins in his body after the manner of fireworks, he had had something the matter with his lungs, he had had something the matter with his heart, he had had something the matter with his brain. Five hundred people who sat down to breakfast entirely uninformed on the whole subject, believed before they had done breakfast, that they privately and personally knew Physician to have said to Mr Merdle, ‘You must expect to go out, some day, like the snuff of a candle;’ and that they knew Mr Merdle to have said to Physician, ‘A man can die but once.’ By about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, something the matter with the brain, became the favourite theory against the field; and by twelve the something had been distinctly ascertained to be ‘Pressure.’

Pressure was so entirely satisfactory to the public mind, and seemed to make everybody so comfortable, that it might have lasted all day but for Bar’s having taken the real state of the case into Court at half-past nine. This led to its beginning to be currently whispered all over London by about one, that Mr Merdle had killed himself. Pressure, however, so far from being overthrown by the discovery, became a greater favourite than ever. There was a general moralising upon Pressure, in every street. All the people who had tried to make money and had not been able to do it, said, There you were! You no sooner began to devote yourself to the pursuit of wealth than you got Pressure. The idle people improved the occasion in a similar manner. See, said they, what you brought yourself to by work, work, work! You persisted in working, you overdid it. Pressure came on, and you were done for! This consideration was very potent in many quarters, but nowhere more so than among the young clerks and partners who had never been in the slightest danger of overdoing it. These, one and all, declared, quite piously, that they hoped they would never forget the warning as long as they lived, and that their conduct might be so regulated as to keep off Pressure, and preserve them, a comfort to their friends, for many years.

But, at about the time of High ‘Change, Pressure began to wane, and appalling whispers to circulate, east, west, north, and south. At first they were faint, and went no further than a doubt whether Mr Merdle’s wealth would be found to be as vast as had been supposed; whether there might not be a temporary difficulty in ‘realising’ it; whether there might not even be a temporary suspension (say a month or so), on the part of the wonderful Bank. As the whispers became louder, which they did from that time every minute, they became more threatening. He had sprung from nothing, by no natural growth or process that any one could account for; he had been, after all, a low, ignorant fellow; he had been a down-looking man, and no one had ever been able to catch his eye; he had been taken up by all sorts of people in quite an unaccountable manner; he had never had any money of his own, his ventures had been utterly reckless, and his expenditure had been most enormous. In steady progression, as the day declined, the talk rose in sound and purpose. He had left a letter at the Baths addressed to his physician, and his physician had got the letter, and the letter would be produced at the Inquest on the morrow, and it would fall like a thunderbolt upon the multitude he had deluded. Numbers of men in every profession and trade would be blighted by his insolvency; old people who had been in easy circumstances all their lives would have no place of repentance for their trust in him but the workhouse; legions of women and children would have their whole future desolated by the hand of this mighty scoundrel. Every partaker of his magnificent feasts would be seen to have been a sharer in the plunder of innumerable homes; every servile worshipper of riches who had helped to set him on his pedestal, would have done better to worship the Devil point-blank. So, the talk, lashed louder and higher by confirmation on confirmation, and by edition after edition of the evening papers, swelled into such a roar when night came, as might have brought one to believe that a solitary watcher on the gallery above the Dome of St Paul’s would have perceived the night air to be laden with a heavy muttering of the name of Merdle, coupled with every form of execration.

For by that time it was known that the late Mr Merdle’s complaint had been simply Forgery and Robbery. He, the uncouth object of such wide-spread adulation, the sitter at great men’s feasts, the roc’s egg of great ladies’ assemblies, the subduer of exclusiveness, the leveller of pride, the patron of patrons, the bargain-driver with a Minister for Lordships of the Circumlocution Office, the recipient of more acknowledgment within some ten or fifteen years, at most, than had been bestowed in England upon all peaceful public benefactors, and upon all the leaders of all the Arts and Sciences, with all their works to testify for them, during two centuries at least—he, the shining wonder, the new constellation to be followed by the wise men bringing gifts, until it stopped over a certain carrion at the bottom of a bath and disappeared—was simply the greatest Forger and the greatest Thief that ever cheated the gallows.

CHAPTER 26. Reaping the Whirlwind

With a precursory sound of hurried breath and hurried feet, Mr Pancks rushed into Arthur Clennam’s Counting-house. The Inquest was over, the letter was public, the Bank was broken, the other model structures of straw had taken fire and were turned to smoke. The admired piratical ship had blown up, in the midst of a vast fleet of ships of all rates, and boats of all sizes; and on the deep was nothing but ruin; nothing but burning hulls, bursting magazines, great guns self-exploded tearing friends and neighbours to pieces, drowning men clinging to unseaworthy spars and going down every minute, spent swimmers, floating dead, and sharks.

The usual diligence and order of the Counting-house at the Works were overthrown. Unopened letters and unsorted papers lay strewn about the desk. In the midst of these tokens of prostrated energy and dismissed hope, the master of the Counting-house stood idle in his usual place, with his arms crossed on the desk, and his head bowed down upon them.

Mr Pancks rushed in and saw him, and stood still. In another minute, Mr Pancks’s arms were on the desk, and Mr Pancks’s head was bowed down upon them; and for some time they remained in these attitudes, idle and silent, with the width of the little room between them.

Mr Pancks was the first to lift up his head and speak.

‘I persuaded you to it, Mr Clennam. I know it. Say what you will. You can’t say more to me than I say to myself. You can’t say more than I deserve.’

‘O, Pancks, Pancks!’ returned Clennam, ‘don’t speak of deserving. What do I myself deserve!’

‘Better luck,’ said Pancks.

‘I,’ pursued Clennam, without attending to him, ‘who have ruined my partner! Pancks, Pancks, I have ruined Doyce! The honest, self-helpful, indefatigable old man who has worked his way all through his life; the man who has contended against so much disappointment, and who has brought out of it such a good and hopeful nature; the man I have felt so much for, and meant to be so true and useful to; I have ruined him—brought him to shame and disgrace—ruined him, ruined him!’

The agony into which the reflection wrought his mind was so distressing to see, that Mr Pancks took hold of himself by the hair of his head, and tore it in desperation at the spectacle.

‘Reproach me!’ cried Pancks. ‘Reproach me, sir, or I’ll do myself an injury. Say,—You fool, you villain. Say,—Ass, how could you do it; Beast, what did you mean by it! Catch hold of me somewhere. Say something abusive to me!’ All the time, Mr Pancks was tearing at his tough hair in a most pitiless and cruel manner.

‘If you had never yielded to this fatal mania, Pancks,’ said Clennam, more in commiseration than retaliation, ‘it would have been how much better for you, and how much better for me!’

‘At me again, sir!’ cried Pancks, grinding his teeth in remorse. ‘At me again!’

‘If you had never gone into those accursed calculations, and brought out your results with such abominable clearness,’ groaned Clennam, ‘it would have been how much better for you, Pancks, and how much better for me!’

‘At me again, sir!’ exclaimed Pancks, loosening his hold of his hair; ‘at me again, and again!’

Clennam, however, finding him already beginning to be pacified, had said all he wanted to say, and more. He wrung his hand, only adding, ‘Blind leaders of the blind, Pancks! Blind leaders of the blind! But Doyce, Doyce, Doyce; my injured partner!’ That brought his head down on the desk once more.

Their former attitudes and their former silence were once more first encroached upon by Pancks.

‘Not been to bed, sir, since it began to get about. Been high and low, on the chance of finding some hope of saving any cinders from the fire. All in vain. All gone. All vanished.’

‘I know it,’ returned Clennam, ‘too well.’

Mr Pancks filled up a pause with a groan that came out of the very depths of his soul.

‘Only yesterday, Pancks,’ said Arthur; ‘only yesterday, Monday, I had the fixed intention of selling, realising, and making an end of it.’

‘I can’t say as much for myself, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘Though it’s wonderful how many people I’ve heard of, who were going to realise yesterday, of all days in the three hundred and sixty-five, if it hadn’t been too late!’

His steam-like breathings, usually droll in their effect, were more tragic than so many groans: while from head to foot, he was in that begrimed, besmeared, neglected state, that he might have been an authentic portrait of Misfortune which could scarcely be discerned through its want of cleaning.

‘Mr Clennam, had you laid out—everything?’ He got over the break before the last word, and also brought out the last word itself with great difficulty.

‘Everything.’

Mr Pancks took hold of his tough hair again, and gave it such a wrench that he pulled out several prongs of it. After looking at these with an eye of wild hatred, he put them in his pocket.

‘My course,’ said Clennam, brushing away some tears that had been silently dropping down his face, ‘must be taken at once. What wretched amends I can make must be made. I must clear my unfortunate partner’s reputation. I must retain nothing for myself. I must resign to our creditors the power of management I have so much abused, and I must work out as much of my fault—or crime—as is susceptible of being worked out in the rest of my days.’

‘Is it impossible, sir, to tide over the present?’

‘Out of the question. Nothing can be tided over now, Pancks. The sooner the business can pass out of my hands, the better for it. There are engagements to be met, this week, which would bring the catastrophe before many days were over, even if I would postpone it for a single day by going on for that space, secretly knowing what I know. All last night I thought of what I would do; what remains is to do it.’

‘Not entirely of yourself?’ said Pancks, whose face was as damp as if his steam were turning into water as fast as he dismally blew it off. ‘Have some legal help.’

‘Perhaps I had better.’

‘Have Rugg.’

‘There is not much to do. He will do it as well as another.’

‘Shall I fetch Rugg, Mr Clennam?’

‘If you could spare the time, I should be much obliged to you.’

Mr Pancks put on his hat that moment, and steamed away to Pentonville. While he was gone Arthur never raised his head from the desk, but remained in that one position.

Mr Pancks brought his friend and professional adviser, Mr Rugg, back with him. Mr Rugg had had such ample experience, on the road, of Mr Pancks’s being at that present in an irrational state of mind, that he opened his professional mediation by requesting that gentleman to take himself out of the way. Mr Pancks, crushed and submissive, obeyed.

‘He is not unlike what my daughter was, sir, when we began the Breach of Promise action of Rugg and Bawkins, in which she was Plaintiff,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘He takes too strong and direct an interest in the case. His feelings are worked upon. There is no getting on, in our profession, with feelings worked upon, sir.’

As he pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat, he saw, in a side glance or two, that a great change had come over his client.

‘I am sorry to perceive, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘that you have been allowing your own feelings to be worked upon. Now, pray don’t, pray don’t. These losses are much to be deplored, sir, but we must look ‘em in the face.’

‘If the money I have sacrificed had been all my own, Mr Rugg,’ sighed Mr Clennam, ‘I should have cared far less.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ said Mr Rugg, rubbing his hands with a cheerful air. ‘You surprise me. That’s singular, sir. I have generally found, in my experience, that it’s their own money people are most particular about. I have seen people get rid of a good deal of other people’s money, and bear it very well: very well indeed.’

With these comforting remarks, Mr Rugg seated himself on an office-stool at the desk and proceeded to business.

‘Now, Mr Clennam, by your leave, let us go into the matter. Let us see the state of the case. The question is simple. The question is the usual plain, straightforward, common-sense question. What can we do for ourself? What can we do for ourself?’

‘This is not the question with me, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur. ‘You mistake it in the beginning. It is, what can I do for my partner, how can I best make reparation to him?’

‘I am afraid, sir, do you know,’ argued Mr Rugg persuasively, ‘that you are still allowing your feeling to be worked upon. I don’t like the term “reparation,” sir, except as a lever in the hands of counsel. Will you excuse my saying that I feel it my duty to offer you the caution, that you really must not allow your feelings to be worked upon?’

‘Mr Rugg,’ said Clennam, nerving himself to go through with what he had resolved upon, and surprising that gentleman by appearing, in his despondency, to have a settled determination of purpose; ‘you give me the impression that you will not be much disposed to adopt the course I have made up my mind to take. If your disapproval of it should render you unwilling to discharge such business as it necessitates, I am sorry for it, and must seek other aid. But I will represent to you at once, that to argue against it with me is useless.’

‘Good, sir,’ answered Mr Rugg, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Good, sir. Since the business is to be done by some hands, let it be done by mine. Such was my principle in the case of Rugg and Bawkins. Such is my principle in most cases.’

Clennam then proceeded to state to Mr Rugg his fixed resolution. He told Mr Rugg that his partner was a man of great simplicity and integrity, and that in all he meant to do, he was guided above all things by a knowledge of his partner’s character, and a respect for his feelings. He explained that his partner was then absent on an enterprise of importance, and that it particularly behoved himself publicly to accept the blame of what he had rashly done, and publicly to exonerate his partner from all participation in the responsibility of it, lest the successful conduct of that enterprise should be endangered by the slightest suspicion wrongly attaching to his partner’s honour and credit in another country. He told Mr Rugg that to clear his partner morally, to the fullest extent, and publicly and unreservedly to declare that he, Arthur Clennam, of that Firm, had of his own sole act, and even expressly against his partner’s caution, embarked its resources in the swindles that had lately perished, was the only real atonement within his power; was a better atonement to the particular man than it would be to many men; and was therefore the atonement he had first to make. With this view, his intention was to print a declaration to the foregoing effect, which he had already drawn up; and, besides circulating it among all who had dealings with the House, to advertise it in the public papers. Concurrently with this measure (the description of which cost Mr Rugg innumerable wry faces and great uneasiness in his limbs), he would address a letter to all the creditors, exonerating his partner in a solemn manner, informing them of the stoppage of the House until their pleasure could be known and his partner communicated with, and humbly submitting himself to their direction. If, through their consideration for his partner’s innocence, the affairs could ever be got into such train as that the business could be profitably resumed, and its present downfall overcome, then his own share in it should revert to his partner, as the only reparation he could make to him in money value for the distress and loss he had unhappily brought upon him, and he himself, at as small a salary as he could live upon, would ask to be allowed to serve the business as a faithful clerk.

Though Mr Rugg saw plainly there was no preventing this from being done, still the wryness of his face and the uneasiness of his limbs so sorely required the propitiation of a Protest, that he made one. ‘I offer no objection, sir,’ said he, ‘I argue no point with you. I will carry out your views, sir; but, under protest.’ Mr Rugg then stated, not without prolixity, the heads of his protest. These were, in effect, because the whole town, or he might say the whole country, was in the first madness of the late discovery, and the resentment against the victims would be very strong: those who had not been deluded being certain to wax exceedingly wroth with them for not having been as wise as they were: and those who had been deluded being certain to find excuses and reasons for themselves, of which they were equally certain to see that other sufferers were wholly devoid: not to mention the great probability of every individual sufferer persuading himself, to his violent indignation, that but for the example of all the other sufferers he never would have put himself in the way of suffering. Because such a declaration as Clennam’s, made at such a time, would certainly draw down upon him a storm of animosity, rendering it impossible to calculate on forbearance in the creditors, or on unanimity among them; and exposing him a solitary target to a straggling cross-fire, which might bring him down from half-a-dozen quarters at once.

To all this Clennam merely replied that, granting the whole protest, nothing in it lessened the force, or could lessen the force, of the voluntary and public exoneration of his partner. He therefore, once and for all, requested Mr Rugg’s immediate aid in getting the business despatched. Upon that, Mr Rugg fell to work; and Arthur, retaining no property to himself but his clothes and books, and a little loose money, placed his small private banker’s-account with the papers of the business.

The disclosure was made, and the storm raged fearfully. Thousands of people were wildly staring about for somebody alive to heap reproaches on; and this notable case, courting publicity, set the living somebody so much wanted, on a scaffold. When people who had nothing to do with the case were so sensible of its flagrancy, people who lost money by it could scarcely be expected to deal mildly with it. Letters of reproach and invective showered in from the creditors; and Mr Rugg, who sat upon the high stool every day and read them all, informed his client within a week that he feared there were writs out.

‘I must take the consequences of what I have done,’ said Clennam. ‘The writs will find me here.’

On the very next morning, as he was turning in Bleeding Heart Yard by Mrs Plornish’s corner, Mrs Plornish stood at the door waiting for him, and mysteriously besought him to step into Happy Cottage. There he found Mr Rugg.

‘I thought I’d wait for you here. I wouldn’t go on to the Counting-house this morning if I was you, sir.’

‘Why not, Mr Rugg?’

‘There are as many as five out, to my knowledge.’

‘It cannot be too soon over,’ said Clennam. ‘Let them take me at once.’

‘Yes, but,’ said Mr Rugg, getting between him and the door, ‘hear reason, hear reason. They’ll take you soon enough, Mr Clennam, I don’t doubt; but, hear reason. It almost always happens, in these cases, that some insignificant matter pushes itself in front and makes much of itself. Now, I find there’s a little one out—a mere Palace Court jurisdiction—and I have reason to believe that a caption may be made upon that. I wouldn’t be taken upon that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Clennam.

‘I’d be taken on a full-grown one, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘It’s as well to keep up appearances. As your professional adviser, I should prefer your being taken on a writ from one of the Superior Courts, if you have no objection to do me that favour. It looks better.’

‘Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, in his dejection, ‘my only wish is, that it should be over. I will go on, and take my chance.’

‘Another word of reason, sir!’ cried Mr Rugg. ‘Now, this is reason. The other may be taste; but this is reason. If you should be taken on a little one, sir, you would go to the Marshalsea. Now, you know what the Marshalsea is. Very close. Excessively confined. Whereas in the King’s Bench—’ Mr Rugg waved his right hand freely, as expressing abundance of space.

‘I would rather,’ said Clennam, ‘be taken to the Marshalsea than to any other prison.’

‘Do you say so indeed, sir?’ returned Mr Rugg. ‘Then this is taste, too, and we may be walking.’

He was a little offended at first, but he soon overlooked it. They walked through the Yard to the other end. The Bleeding Hearts were more interested in Arthur since his reverses than formerly; now regarding him as one who was true to the place and had taken up his freedom. Many of them came out to look after him, and to observe to one another, with great unctuousness, that he was ‘pulled down by it.’ Mrs Plornish and her father stood at the top of the steps at their own end, much depressed and shaking their heads.

There was nobody visibly in waiting when Arthur and Mr Rugg arrived at the Counting-house. But an elderly member of the Jewish persuasion, preserved in rum, followed them close, and looked in at the glass before Mr Rugg had opened one of the day’s letters. ‘Oh!’ said Mr Rugg, looking up. ‘How do you do? Step in—Mr Clennam, I think this is the gentleman I was mentioning.’

This gentleman explained the object of his visit to be ‘a tyfling madder ob bithznithz,’ and executed his legal function.

‘Shall I accompany you, Mr Clennam?’ asked Mr Rugg politely, rubbing his hands.

‘I would rather go alone, thank you. Be so good as send me my clothes.’ Mr Rugg in a light airy way replied in the affirmative, and shook hands with him. He and his attendant then went down-stairs, got into the first conveyance they found, and drove to the old gates.

‘Where I little thought, Heaven forgive me,’ said Clennam to himself, ‘that I should ever enter thus!’

Mr Chivery was on the Lock, and Young John was in the Lodge: either newly released from it, or waiting to take his own spell of duty. Both were more astonished on seeing who the prisoner was, than one might have thought turnkeys would have been. The elder Mr Chivery shook hands with him in a shame-faced kind of way, and said, ‘I don’t call to mind, sir, as I was ever less glad to see you.’ The younger Mr Chivery, more distant, did not shake hands with him at all; he stood looking at him in a state of indecision so observable that it even came within the observation of Clennam with his heavy eyes and heavy heart. Presently afterwards, Young John disappeared into the jail.

As Clennam knew enough of the place to know that he was required to remain in the Lodge a certain time, he took a seat in a corner, and feigned to be occupied with the perusal of letters from his pocket. They did not so engross his attention, but that he saw, with gratitude, how the elder Mr Chivery kept the Lodge clear of prisoners; how he signed to some, with his keys, not to come in, how he nudged others with his elbows to go out, and how he made his misery as easy to him as he could.

Arthur was sitting with his eyes fixed on the floor, recalling the past, brooding over the present, and not attending to either, when he felt himself touched upon the shoulder. It was by Young John; and he said, ‘You can come now.’

He got up and followed Young John. When they had gone a step or two within the inner iron-gate, Young John turned and said to him:

‘You want a room. I have got you one.’

‘I thank you heartily.’

Young John turned again, and took him in at the old doorway, up the old staircase, into the old room. Arthur stretched out his hand. Young John looked at it, looked at him—sternly—swelled, choked, and said:

‘I don’t know as I can. No, I find I can’t. But I thought you’d like the room, and here it is for you.’

Surprise at this inconsistent behaviour yielded when he was gone (he went away directly) to the feelings which the empty room awakened in Clennam’s wounded breast, and to the crowding associations with the one good and gentle creature who had sanctified it. Her absence in his altered fortunes made it, and him in it, so very desolate and so much in need of such a face of love and truth, that he turned against the wall to weep, sobbing out, as his heart relieved itself, ‘O my Little Dorrit!’

CHAPTER 27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea

The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon striking upon it, was unwontedly quiet. Arthur Clennam dropped into a solitary arm-chair, itself as faded as any debtor in the jail, and yielded himself to his thoughts.

In the unnatural peace of having gone through the dreaded arrest, and got there,—the first change of feeling which the prison most commonly induced, and from which dangerous resting-place so many men had slipped down to the depths of degradation and disgrace by so many ways,—he could think of some passages in his life, almost as if he were removed from them into another state of existence. Taking into account where he was, the interest that had first brought him there when he had been free to keep away, and the gentle presence that was equally inseparable from the walls and bars about him and from the impalpable remembrances of his later life which no walls or bars could imprison, it was not remarkable that everything his memory turned upon should bring him round again to Little Dorrit. Yet it was remarkable to him; not because of the fact itself, but because of the reminder it brought with it, how much the dear little creature had influenced his better resolutions.

None of us clearly know to whom or to what we are indebted in this wise, until some marked stop in the whirling wheel of life brings the right perception with it. It comes with sickness, it comes with sorrow, it comes with the loss of the dearly loved, it is one of the most frequent uses of adversity. It came to Clennam in his adversity, strongly and tenderly. ‘When I first gathered myself together,’ he thought, ‘and set something like purpose before my jaded eyes, whom had I before me, toiling on, for a good object’s sake, without encouragement, without notice, against ignoble obstacles that would have turned an army of received heroes and heroines? One weak girl! When I tried to conquer my misplaced love, and to be generous to the man who was more fortunate than I, though he should never know it or repay me with a gracious word, in whom had I watched patience, self-denial, self-subdual, charitable construction, the noblest generosity of the affections? In the same poor girl! If I, a man, with a man’s advantages and means and energies, had slighted the whisper in my heart, that if my father had erred, it was my first duty to conceal the fault and to repair it, what youthful figure with tender feet going almost bare on the damp ground, with spare hands ever working, with its slight shape but half protected from the sharp weather, would have stood before me to put me to shame? Little Dorrit’s.’ So always as he sat alone in the faded chair, thinking. Always, Little Dorrit. Until it seemed to him as if he met the reward of having wandered away from her, and suffered anything to pass between him and his remembrance of her virtues.

His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery was put in a very little way, without being turned towards him.

‘I am off the Lock, Mr Clennam, and going out. Can I do anything for you?’

‘Many thanks. Nothing.’

‘You’ll excuse me opening the door,’ said Mr Chivery; ‘but I couldn’t make you hear.’

‘Did you knock?’ ‘Half-a-dozen times.’

Rousing himself, Clennam observed that the prison had awakened from its noontide doze, that the inmates were loitering about the shady yard, and that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours.

‘Your things is come,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘and my son is going to carry ‘em up. I should have sent ‘em up but for his wishing to carry ‘em himself. Indeed he would have ‘em himself, and so I couldn’t send ‘em up. Mr Clennam, could I say a word to you?’

‘Pray come in,’ said Arthur; for Mr Chivery’s head was still put in at the door a very little way, and Mr Chivery had but one ear upon him, instead of both eyes. This was native delicacy in Mr Chivery—true politeness; though his exterior had very much of a turnkey about it, and not the least of a gentleman.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Chivery, without advancing; ‘it’s no odds me coming in. Mr Clennam, don’t you take no notice of my son (if you’ll be so good) in case you find him cut up anyways difficult. My son has a ‘art, and my son’s ‘art is in the right place. Me and his mother knows where to find it, and we find it sitiwated correct.’

With this mysterious speech, Mr Chivery took his ear away and shut the door. He might have been gone ten minutes, when his son succeeded him.

‘Here’s your portmanteau,’ he said to Arthur, putting it carefully down.

‘It’s very kind of you. I am ashamed that you should have the trouble.’

He was gone before it came to that; but soon returned, saying exactly as before, ‘Here’s your black box:’ which he also put down with care.

‘I am very sensible of this attention. I hope we may shake hands now, Mr John.’

Young John, however, drew back, turning his right wrist in a socket made of his left thumb and middle-finger and said as he had said at first, ‘I don’t know as I can. No; I find I can’t!’ He then stood regarding the prisoner sternly, though with a swelling humour in his eyes that looked like pity.

‘Why are you angry with me,’ said Clennam, ‘and yet so ready to do me these kind services? There must be some mistake between us. If I have done anything to occasion it I am sorry.’

‘No mistake, sir,’ returned John, turning the wrist backwards and forwards in the socket, for which it was rather tight. ‘No mistake, sir, in the feelings with which my eyes behold you at the present moment! If I was at all fairly equal to your weight, Mr Clennam—which I am not; and if you weren’t under a cloud—which you are; and if it wasn’t against all rules of the Marshalsea—which it is; those feelings are such, that they would stimulate me, more to having it out with you in a Round on the present spot than to anything else I could name.’

Arthur looked at him for a moment in some wonder, and some little anger. ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘A mistake, a mistake!’ Turning away, he sat down with a heavy sigh in the faded chair again.

Young John followed him with his eyes, and, after a short pause, cried out, ‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Freely granted,’ said Clennam, waving his hand without raising his sunken head. ‘Say no more. I am not worth it.’

‘This furniture, sir,’ said Young John in a voice of mild and soft explanation, ‘belongs to me. I am in the habit of letting it out to parties without furniture, that have the room. It an’t much, but it’s at your service. Free, I mean. I could not think of letting you have it on any other terms. You’re welcome to it for nothing.’

Arthur raised his head again to thank him, and to say he could not accept the favour. John was still turning his wrist, and still contending with himself in his former divided manner.

‘What is the matter between us?’ said Arthur.

‘I decline to name it, sir,’ returned Young John, suddenly turning loud and sharp. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

Arthur looked at him again, in vain, for an explanation of his behaviour. After a while, Arthur turned away his head again. Young John said, presently afterwards, with the utmost mildness:

‘The little round table, sir, that’s nigh your elbow, was—you know whose—I needn’t mention him—he died a great gentleman. I bought it of an individual that he gave it to, and that lived here after him. But the individual wasn’t any ways equal to him. Most individuals would find it hard to come up to his level.’

Arthur drew the little table nearer, rested his arm upon it, and kept it there.

‘Perhaps you may not be aware, sir,’ said Young John, ‘that I intruded upon him when he was over here in London. On the whole he was of opinion that it was an intrusion, though he was so good as to ask me to sit down and to inquire after father and all other old friends. Leastways humblest acquaintances. He looked, to me, a good deal changed, and I said so when I came back. I asked him if Miss Amy was well—’

‘And she was?’

‘I should have thought you would have known without putting the question to such as me,’ returned Young John, after appearing to take a large invisible pill. ‘Since you do put me the question, I am sorry I can’t answer it. But the truth is, he looked upon the inquiry as a liberty, and said, “What was that to me?” It was then I became quite aware I was intruding: of which I had been fearful before. However, he spoke very handsome afterwards; very handsome.’

They were both silent for several minutes: except that Young John remarked, at about the middle of the pause, ‘He both spoke and acted very handsome.’

It was again Young John who broke the silence by inquiring:

‘If it’s not a liberty, how long may it be your intentions, sir, to go without eating and drinking?’

‘I have not felt the want of anything yet,’ returned Clennam. ‘I have no appetite just now.’

‘The more reason why you should take some support, sir,’ urged Young John. ‘If you find yourself going on sitting here for hours and hours partaking of no refreshment because you have no appetite, why then you should and must partake of refreshment without an appetite. I’m going to have tea in my own apartment. If it’s not a liberty, please to come and take a cup. Or I can bring a tray here in two minutes.’

Feeling that Young John would impose that trouble on himself if he refused, and also feeling anxious to show that he bore in mind both the elder Mr Chivery’s entreaty, and the younger Mr Chivery’s apology, Arthur rose and expressed his willingness to take a cup of tea in Mr John’s apartment. Young John locked his door for him as they went out, slided the key into his pocket with great dexterity, and led the way to his own residence.

It was at the top of the house nearest to the gateway. It was the room to which Clennam had hurried on the day when the enriched family had left the prison for ever, and where he had lifted her insensible from the floor. He foresaw where they were going as soon as their feet touched the staircase. The room was so far changed that it was papered now, and had been repainted, and was far more comfortably furnished; but he could recall it just as he had seen it in that single glance, when he raised her from the ground and carried her down to the carriage.

Young John looked hard at him, biting his fingers.

‘I see you recollect the room, Mr Clennam?’

‘I recollect it well, Heaven bless her!’

Oblivious of the tea, Young John continued to bite his fingers and to look at his visitor, as long as his visitor continued to glance about the room. Finally, he made a start at the teapot, gustily rattled a quantity of tea into it from a canister, and set off for the common kitchen to fill it with hot water.

The room was so eloquent to Clennam in the changed circumstances of his return to the miserable Marshalsea; it spoke to him so mournfully of her, and of his loss of her; that it would have gone hard with him to resist it, even though he had not been alone. Alone, he did not try. He had his hand on the insensible wall as tenderly as if it had been herself that he touched, and pronounced her name in a low voice. He stood at the window, looking over the prison-parapet with its grim spiked border, and breathed a benediction through the summer haze towards the distant land where she was rich and prosperous.

Young John was some time absent, and, when he came back, showed that he had been outside by bringing with him fresh butter in a cabbage leaf, some thin slices of boiled ham in another cabbage leaf, and a little basket of water-cresses and salad herbs. When these were arranged upon the table to his satisfaction, they sat down to tea.

Clennam tried to do honour to the meal, but unavailingly. The ham sickened him, the bread seemed to turn to sand in his mouth. He could force nothing upon himself but a cup of tea.

‘Try a little something green,’ said Young John, handing him the basket.

He took a sprig or so of water-cress, and tried again; but the bread turned to a heavier sand than before, and the ham (though it was good enough of itself) seemed to blow a faint simoom of ham through the whole Marshalsea.

‘Try a little more something green, sir,’ said Young John; and again handed the basket.

It was so like handing green meat into the cage of a dull imprisoned bird, and John had so evidently brought the little basket as a handful of fresh relief from the stale hot paving-stones and bricks of the jail, that Clennam said, with a smile, ‘It was very kind of you to think of putting this between the wires; but I cannot even get this down to-day.’

As if the difficulty were contagious, Young John soon pushed away his own plate, and fell to folding the cabbage-leaf that had contained the ham. When he had folded it into a number of layers, one over another, so that it was small in the palm of his hand, he began to flatten it between both his hands, and to eye Clennam attentively.

‘I wonder,’ he at length said, compressing his green packet with some force, ‘that if it’s not worth your while to take care of yourself for your own sake, it’s not worth doing for some one else’s.’

‘Truly,’ returned Arthur, with a sigh and a smile, ‘I don’t know for whose.’

‘Mr Clennam,’ said John, warmly, ‘I am surprised that a gentleman who is capable of the straightforwardness that you are capable of, should be capable of the mean action of making me such an answer. Mr Clennam, I am surprised that a gentleman who is capable of having a heart of his own, should be capable of the heartlessness of treating mine in that way. I am astonished at it, sir. Really and truly I am astonished!’

Having got upon his feet to emphasise his concluding words, Young John sat down again, and fell to rolling his green packet on his right leg; never taking his eyes off Clennam, but surveying him with a fixed look of indignant reproach.

‘I had got over it, sir,’ said John. ‘I had conquered it, knowing that it must be conquered, and had come to the resolution to think no more about it. I shouldn’t have given my mind to it again, I hope, if to this prison you had not been brought, and in an hour unfortunate for me, this day!’ (In his agitation Young John adopted his mother’s powerful construction of sentences.) ‘When you first came upon me, sir, in the Lodge, this day, more as if a Upas tree had been made a capture of than a private defendant, such mingled streams of feelings broke loose again within me, that everything was for the first few minutes swept away before them, and I was going round and round in a vortex. I got out of it. I struggled, and got out of it. If it was the last word I had to speak, against that vortex with my utmost powers I strove, and out of it I came. I argued that if I had been rude, apologies was due, and those apologies without a question of demeaning, I did make. And now, when I’ve been so wishful to show that one thought is next to being a holy one with me and goes before all others—now, after all, you dodge me when I ever so gently hint at it, and throw me back upon myself. For, do not, sir,’ said Young John, ‘do not be so base as to deny that dodge you do, and thrown me back upon myself you have!’

All amazement, Arthur gazed at him like one lost, only saying, ‘What is it? What do you mean, John?’ But, John, being in that state of mind in which nothing would seem to be more impossible to a certain class of people than the giving of an answer, went ahead blindly.

‘I hadn’t,’ John declared, ‘no, I hadn’t, and I never had the audaciousness to think, I am sure, that all was anything but lost. I hadn’t, no, why should I say I hadn’t if I ever had, any hope that it was possible to be so blest, not after the words that passed, not even if barriers insurmountable had not been raised! But is that a reason why I am to have no memory, why I am to have no thoughts, why I am to have no sacred spots, nor anything?’

‘What can you mean?’ cried Arthur.

‘It’s all very well to trample on it, sir,’ John went on, scouring a very prairie of wild words, ‘if a person can make up his mind to be guilty of the action. It’s all very well to trample on it, but it’s there. It may be that it couldn’t be trampled upon if it wasn’t there. But that doesn’t make it gentlemanly, that doesn’t make it honourable, that doesn’t justify throwing a person back upon himself after he has struggled and strived out of himself like a butterfly. The world may sneer at a turnkey, but he’s a man—when he isn’t a woman, which among female criminals he’s expected to be.’

Ridiculous as the incoherence of his talk was, there was yet a truthfulness in Young John’s simple, sentimental character, and a sense of being wounded in some very tender respect, expressed in his burning face and in the agitation of his voice and manner, which Arthur must have been cruel to disregard. He turned his thoughts back to the starting-point of this unknown injury; and in the meantime Young John, having rolled his green packet pretty round, cut it carefully into three pieces, and laid it on a plate as if it were some particular delicacy.

‘It seems to me just possible,’ said Arthur, when he had retraced the conversation to the water-cresses and back again, ‘that you have made some reference to Miss Dorrit.’

‘It is just possible, sir,’ returned John Chivery.

‘I don’t understand it. I hope I may not be so unlucky as to make you think I mean to offend you again, for I never have meant to offend you yet, when I say I don’t understand it.’

‘Sir,’ said Young John, ‘will you have the perfidy to deny that you know and long have known that I felt towards Miss Dorrit, call it not the presumption of love, but adoration and sacrifice?’

‘Indeed, John, I will not have any perfidy if I know it; why you should suspect me of it I am at a loss to think. Did you ever hear from Mrs Chivery, your mother, that I went to see her once?’

‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘Never heard of such a thing.’

‘But I did. Can you imagine why?’

‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘I will tell you. I was solicitous to promote Miss Dorrit’s happiness; and if I could have supposed that Miss Dorrit returned your affection—’

Poor John Chivery turned crimson to the tips of his ears. ‘Miss Dorrit never did, sir. I wish to be honourable and true, so far as in my humble way I can, and I would scorn to pretend for a moment that she ever did, or that she ever led me to believe she did; no, nor even that it was ever to be expected in any cool reason that she would or could. She was far above me in all respects at all times. As likewise,’ added John, ‘similarly was her gen-teel family.’

His chivalrous feeling towards all that belonged to her made him so very respectable, in spite of his small stature and his rather weak legs, and his very weak hair, and his poetical temperament, that a Goliath might have sat in his place demanding less consideration at Arthur’s hands.

‘You speak, John,’ he said, with cordial admiration, ‘like a Man.’

‘Well, sir,’ returned John, brushing his hand across his eyes, ‘then I wish you’d do the same.’

He was quick with this unexpected retort, and it again made Arthur regard him with a wondering expression of face.

‘Leastways,’ said John, stretching his hand across the tea-tray, ‘if too strong a remark, withdrawn! But, why not, why not? When I say to you, Mr Clennam, take care of yourself for some one else’s sake, why not be open, though a turnkey? Why did I get you the room which I knew you’d like best? Why did I carry up your things? Not that I found ‘em heavy; I don’t mention ‘em on that accounts; far from it. Why have I cultivated you in the manner I have done since the morning? On the ground of your own merits? No. They’re very great, I’ve no doubt at all; but not on the ground of them. Another’s merits have had their weight, and have had far more weight with Me. Then why not speak free?’

‘Unaffectedly, John,’ said Clennam, ‘you are so good a fellow and I have so true a respect for your character, that if I have appeared to be less sensible than I really am of the fact that the kind services you have rendered me to-day are attributable to my having been trusted by Miss Dorrit as her friend—I confess it to be a fault, and I ask your forgiveness.’

‘Oh! why not,’ John repeated with returning scorn, ‘why not speak free!’

‘I declare to you,’ returned Arthur, ‘that I do not understand you. Look at me. Consider the trouble I have been in. Is it likely that I would wilfully add to my other self-reproaches, that of being ungrateful or treacherous to you. I do not understand you.’

John’s incredulous face slowly softened into a face of doubt. He rose, backed into the garret-window of the room, beckoned Arthur to come there, and stood looking at him thoughtfully.

‘Mr Clennam, do you mean to say that you don’t know?’

‘What, John?’

‘Lord,’ said Young John, appealing with a gasp to the spikes on the wall. ‘He says, What!’

Clennam looked at the spikes, and looked at John; and looked at the spikes, and looked at John.

‘He says What! And what is more,’ exclaimed Young John, surveying him in a doleful maze, ‘he appears to mean it! Do you see this window, sir?’

‘Of course I see this window.’

‘See this room?’

‘Why, of course I see this room.’

‘That wall opposite, and that yard down below? They have all been witnesses of it, from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from month to month. For how often have I seen Miss Dorrit here when she has not seen me!’

‘Witnesses of what?’ said Clennam.

‘Of Miss Dorrit’s love.’

‘For whom?’

‘You,’ said John. And touched him with the back of his hand upon the breast, and backed to his chair, and sat down on it with a pale face, holding the arms, and shaking his head at him.

If he had dealt Clennam a heavy blow, instead of laying that light touch upon him, its effect could not have been to shake him more. He stood amazed; his eyes looking at John; his lips parted, and seeming now and then to form the word ‘Me!’ without uttering it; his hands dropped at his sides; his whole appearance that of a man who has been awakened from sleep, and stupefied by intelligence beyond his full comprehension.

‘Me!’ he at length said aloud.

‘Ah!’ groaned Young John. ‘You!’

He did what he could to muster a smile, and returned, ‘Your fancy. You are completely mistaken.’

‘I mistaken, sir!’ said Young John. ‘I completely mistaken on that subject! No, Mr Clennam, don’t tell me so. On any other, if you like, for I don’t set up to be a penetrating character, and am well aware of my own deficiencies. But, I mistaken on a point that has caused me more smart in my breast than a flight of savages’ arrows could have done! I mistaken on a point that almost sent me into my grave, as I sometimes wished it would, if the grave could only have been made compatible with the tobacco-business and father and mother’s feelings! I mistaken on a point that, even at the present moment, makes me take out my pocket-handkerchief like a great girl, as people say: though I am sure I don’t know why a great girl should be a term of reproach, for every rightly constituted male mind loves ‘em great and small. Don’t tell me so, don’t tell me so!’

Still highly respectable at bottom, though absurd enough upon the surface, Young John took out his pocket-handkerchief with a genuine absence both of display and concealment, which is only to be seen in a man with a great deal of good in him, when he takes out his pocket-handkerchief for the purpose of wiping his eyes. Having dried them, and indulged in the harmless luxury of a sob and a sniff, he put it up again.

The touch was still in its influence so like a blow that Arthur could not get many words together to close the subject with. He assured John Chivery when he had returned his handkerchief to his pocket, that he did all honour to his disinterestedness and to the fidelity of his remembrance of Miss Dorrit. As to the impression on his mind, of which he had just relieved it—here John interposed, and said, ‘No impression! Certainty!’—as to that, they might perhaps speak of it at another time, but would say no more now. Feeling low-spirited and weary, he would go back to his room, with John’s leave, and come out no more that night. John assented, and he crept back in the shadow of the wall to his own lodging.

The feeling of the blow was still so strong upon him that, when the dirty old woman was gone whom he found sitting on the stairs outside his door, waiting to make his bed, and who gave him to understand while doing it, that she had received her instructions from Mr Chivery, ‘not the old ‘un but the young ‘un,’ he sat down in the faded arm-chair, pressing his head between his hands, as if he had been stunned. Little Dorrit love him! More bewildering to him than his misery, far.

Consider the improbability. He had been accustomed to call her his child, and his dear child, and to invite her confidence by dwelling upon the difference in their respective ages, and to speak of himself as one who was turning old. Yet she might not have thought him old. Something reminded him that he had not thought himself so, until the roses had floated away upon the river.

He had her two letters among other papers in his box, and he took them out and read them. There seemed to be a sound in them like the sound of her sweet voice. It fell upon his ear with many tones of tenderness, that were not insusceptible of the new meaning. Now it was that the quiet desolation of her answer, ‘No, No, No,’ made to him that night in that very room—that night when he had been shown the dawn of her altered fortune, and when other words had passed between them which he had been destined to remember in humiliation and a prisoner, rushed into his mind.

Consider the improbability.

But it had a preponderating tendency, when considered, to become fainter. There was another and a curious inquiry of his own heart’s that concurrently became stronger. In the reluctance he had felt to believe that she loved any one; in his desire to set that question at rest; in a half-formed consciousness he had had that there would be a kind of nobleness in his helping her love for any one, was there no suppressed something on his own side that he had hushed as it arose? Had he ever whispered to himself that he must not think of such a thing as her loving him, that he must not take advantage of her gratitude, that he must keep his experience in remembrance as a warning and reproof; that he must regard such youthful hopes as having passed away, as his friend’s dead daughter had passed away; that he must be steady in saying to himself that the time had gone by him, and he was too saddened and old?

He had kissed her when he raised her from the ground on the day when she had been so consistently and expressively forgotten. Quite as he might have kissed her, if she had been conscious? No difference?

The darkness found him occupied with these thoughts. The darkness also found Mr and Mrs Plornish knocking at his door. They brought with them a basket, filled with choice selections from that stock in trade which met with such a quick sale and produced such a slow return. Mrs Plornish was affected to tears. Mr Plornish amiably growled, in his philosophical but not lucid manner, that there was ups you see, and there was downs. It was in vain to ask why ups, why downs; there they was, you know. He had heerd it given for a truth that accordin’ as the world went round, which round it did rewolve undoubted, even the best of gentlemen must take his turn of standing with his ed upside down and all his air a flying the wrong way into what you might call Space. Wery well then. What Mr Plornish said was, wery well then. That gentleman’s ed would come up-ards when his turn come, that gentleman’s air would be a pleasure to look upon being all smooth again, and wery well then!

It has been already stated that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, wept. It further happened that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, was intelligible. It may have arisen out of her softened state of mind, out of her sex’s wit, out of a woman’s quick association of ideas, or out of a woman’s no association of ideas, but it further happened somehow that Mrs Plornish’s intelligibility displayed itself upon the very subject of Arthur’s meditations.

‘The way father has been talking about you, Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘you hardly would believe. It’s made him quite poorly. As to his voice, this misfortune has took it away. You know what a sweet singer father is; but he couldn’t get a note out for the children at tea, if you’ll credit what I tell you.’

While speaking, Mrs Plornish shook her head, and wiped her eyes, and looked retrospectively about the room.

‘As to Mr Baptist,’ pursued Mrs Plornish, ‘whatever he’ll do when he comes to know of it, I can’t conceive nor yet imagine. He’d have been here before now, you may be sure, but that he’s away on confidential business of your own. The persevering manner in which he follows up that business, and gives himself no rest from it—it really do,’ said Mrs Plornish, winding up in the Italian manner, ‘as I say to him, Mooshattonisha padrona.’

Though not conceited, Mrs Plornish felt that she had turned this Tuscan sentence with peculiar elegance. Mr Plornish could not conceal his exultation in her accomplishments as a linguist.

‘But what I say is, Mr Clennam,’ the good woman went on, ‘there’s always something to be thankful for, as I am sure you will yourself admit. Speaking in this room, it’s not hard to think what the present something is. It’s a thing to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is not here to know it.’

Arthur thought she looked at him with particular expression.

‘It’s a thing,’ reiterated Mrs Plornish, ‘to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is far away. It’s to be hoped she is not likely to hear of it. If she had been here to see it, sir, it’s not to be doubted that the sight of you,’ Mrs Plornish repeated those words—‘not to be doubted, that the sight of you—in misfortune and trouble, would have been almost too much for her affectionate heart. There’s nothing I can think of, that would have touched Miss Dorrit so bad as that.’

Of a certainty Mrs Plornish did look at him now, with a sort of quivering defiance in her friendly emotion.

‘Yes!’ said she. ‘And it shows what notice father takes, though at his time of life, that he says to me this afternoon, which Happy Cottage knows I neither make it up nor any ways enlarge, “Mary, it’s much to be rejoiced in that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” Those were father’s words. Father’s own words was, “Much to be rejoiced in, Mary, that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” I says to father then, I says to him, “Father, you are right!” That,’ Mrs Plornish concluded, with the air of a very precise legal witness, ‘is what passed betwixt father and me. And I tell you nothing but what did pass betwixt me and father.’

Mr Plornish, as being of a more laconic temperament, embraced this opportunity of interposing with the suggestion that she should now leave Mr Clennam to himself. ‘For, you see,’ said Mr Plornish, gravely, ‘I know what it is, old gal;’ repeating that valuable remark several times, as if it appeared to him to include some great moral secret. Finally, the worthy couple went away arm in arm.

Little Dorrit, Little Dorrit. Again, for hours. Always Little Dorrit!

Happily, if it ever had been so, it was over, and better over. Granted that she had loved him, and he had known it and had suffered himself to love her, what a road to have led her away upon—the road that would have brought her back to this miserable place! He ought to be much comforted by the reflection that she was quit of it forever; that she was, or would soon be, married (vague rumours of her father’s projects in that direction had reached Bleeding Heart Yard, with the news of her sister’s marriage); and that the Marshalsea gate had shut for ever on all those perplexed possibilities of a time that was gone.

Dear Little Dorrit.

Looking back upon his own poor story, she was its vanishing-point. Every thing in its perspective led to her innocent figure. He had travelled thousands of miles towards it; previous unquiet hopes and doubts had worked themselves out before it; it was the centre of the interest of his life; it was the termination of everything that was good and pleasant in it; beyond, there was nothing but mere waste and darkened sky.

As ill at ease as on the first night of his lying down to sleep within those dreary walls, he wore the night out with such thoughts. What time Young John lay wrapt in peaceful slumber, after composing and arranging the following monumental inscription on his pillow—

STRANGER! RESPECT THE TOMB OF JOHN CHIVERY, JUNIOR, WHO DIED AT AN ADVANCED AGE NOT NECESSARY TO MENTION. HE ENCOUNTERED HIS RIVAL IN A DISTRESSED STATE, AND FELT INCLINED TO HAVE A ROUND WITH HIM; BUT, FOR THE SAKE OF THE LOVED ONE, CONQUERED THOSE FEELINGS OF BITTERNESS, AND BECAME MAGNANIMOUS.

CHAPTER 28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea

The opinion of the community outside the prison gates bore hard on Clennam as time went on, and he made no friends among the community within. Too depressed to associate with the herd in the yard, who got together to forget their cares; too retiring and too unhappy to join in the poor socialities of the tavern; he kept his own room, and was held in distrust. Some said he was proud; some objected that he was sullen and reserved; some were contemptuous of him, for that he was a poor-spirited dog who pined under his debts. The whole population were shy of him on these various counts of indictment, but especially the last, which involved a species of domestic treason; and he soon became so confirmed in his seclusion, that his only time for walking up and down was when the evening Club were assembled at their songs and toasts and sentiments, and when the yard was nearly left to the women and children.

Imprisonment began to tell upon him. He knew that he idled and moped. After what he had known of the influences of imprisonment within the four small walls of the very room he occupied, this consciousness made him afraid of himself. Shrinking from the observation of other men, and shrinking from his own, he began to change very sensibly. Anybody might see that the shadow of the wall was dark upon him.

One day when he might have been some ten or twelve weeks in jail, and when he had been trying to read and had not been able to release even the imaginary people of the book from the Marshalsea, a footstep stopped at his door, and a hand tapped at it. He arose and opened it, and an agreeable voice accosted him with ‘How do you do, Mr Clennam? I hope I am not unwelcome in calling to see you.’

It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He looked very good-natured and prepossessing, though overpoweringly gay and free, in contrast with the squalid prison.

‘You are surprised to see me, Mr Clennam,’ he said, taking the seat which Clennam offered him.

‘I must confess to being much surprised.’

‘Not disagreeably, I hope?’

‘By no means.’

‘Thank you. Frankly,’ said the engaging young Barnacle, ‘I have been excessively sorry to hear that you were under the necessity of a temporary retirement here, and I hope (of course as between two private gentlemen) that our place has had nothing to do with it?’

‘Your office?’

‘Our Circumlocution place.’

‘I cannot charge any part of my reverses upon that remarkable establishment.’

‘Upon my life,’ said the vivacious young Barnacle, ‘I am heartily glad to know it. It is quite a relief to me to hear you say it. I should have so exceedingly regretted our place having had anything to do with your difficulties.’

Clennam again assured him that he absolved it of the responsibility.

‘That’s right,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I am very happy to hear it. I was rather afraid in my own mind that we might have helped to floor you, because there is no doubt that it is our misfortune to do that kind of thing now and then. We don’t want to do it; but if men will be gravelled, why—we can’t help it.’

‘Without giving an unqualified assent to what you say,’ returned Arthur, gloomily, ‘I am much obliged to you for your interest in me.’

‘No, but really! Our place is,’ said the easy young Barnacle, ‘the most inoffensive place possible. You’ll say we are a humbug. I won’t say we are not; but all that sort of thing is intended to be, and must be. Don’t you see?’

‘I do not,’ said Clennam.

‘You don’t regard it from the right point of view. It is the point of view that is the essential thing. Regard our place from the point of view that we only ask you to leave us alone, and we are as capital a Department as you’ll find anywhere.’

‘Is your place there to be left alone?’ asked Clennam.

‘You exactly hit it,’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It is there with the express intention that everything shall be left alone. That is what it means. That is what it’s for. No doubt there’s a certain form to be kept up that it’s for something else, but it’s only a form. Why, good Heaven, we are nothing but forms! Think what a lot of our forms you have gone through. And you have never got any nearer to an end?’

‘Never,’ said Clennam.

‘Look at it from the right point of view, and there you have us—official and effectual. It’s like a limited game of cricket. A field of outsiders are always going in to bowl at the Public Service, and we block the balls.’

Clennam asked what became of the bowlers? The airy young Barnacle replied that they grew tired, got dead beat, got lamed, got their backs broken, died off, gave it up, went in for other games.

‘And this occasions me to congratulate myself again,’ he pursued, ‘on the circumstance that our place has had nothing to do with your temporary retirement. It very easily might have had a hand in it; because it is undeniable that we are sometimes a most unlucky place, in our effects upon people who will not leave us alone. Mr Clennam, I am quite unreserved with you. As between yourself and myself, I know I may be. I was so, when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us alone; because I perceived that you were inexperienced and sanguine, and had—I hope you’ll not object to my saying—some simplicity?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Some simplicity. Therefore I felt what a pity it was, and I went out of my way to hint to you (which really was not official, but I never am official when I can help it) something to the effect that if I were you, I wouldn’t bother myself. However, you did bother yourself, and you have since bothered yourself. Now, don’t do it any more.’

‘I am not likely to have the opportunity,’ said Clennam.

‘Oh yes, you are! You’ll leave here. Everybody leaves here. There are no ends of ways of leaving here. Now, don’t come back to us. That entreaty is the second object of my call. Pray, don’t come back to us. Upon my honour,’ said Ferdinand in a very friendly and confiding way, ‘I shall be greatly vexed if you don’t take warning by the past and keep away from us.’

‘And the invention?’ said Clennam.

‘My good fellow,’ returned Ferdinand, ‘if you’ll excuse the freedom of that form of address, nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody cares twopence-halfpenny about it.’

‘Nobody in the Office, that is to say?’

‘Nor out of it. Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone. You have no idea how the Genius of the country (overlook the Parliamentary nature of the phrase, and don’t be bored by it) tends to being left alone. Believe me, Mr Clennam,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle in his pleasantest manner, ‘our place is not a wicked Giant to be charged at full tilt; but only a windmill showing you, as it grinds immense quantities of chaff, which way the country wind blows.’

‘If I could believe that,’ said Clennam, ‘it would be a dismal prospect for all of us.’

‘Oh! Don’t say so!’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It’s all right. We must have humbug, we all like humbug, we couldn’t get on without humbug. A little humbug, and a groove, and everything goes on admirably, if you leave it alone.’

With this hopeful confession of his faith as the head of the rising Barnacles who were born of woman, to be followed under a variety of watchwords which they utterly repudiated and disbelieved, Ferdinand rose. Nothing could be more agreeable than his frank and courteous bearing, or adapted with a more gentlemanly instinct to the circumstances of his visit.

‘Is it fair to ask,’ he said, as Clennam gave him his hand with a real feeling of thankfulness for his candour and good-humour, ‘whether it is true that our late lamented Merdle is the cause of this passing inconvenience?’

‘I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.’

‘He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,’ said Ferdinand Barnacle.

Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was silent.

‘A consummate rascal, of course,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but remarkably clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a master of humbug. Knew people so well—got over them so completely—did so much with them!’

In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration.

‘I hope,’ said Arthur, ‘that he and his dupes may be a warning to people not to have so much done with them again.’

‘My dear Mr Clennam,’ returned Ferdinand, laughing, ‘have you really such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,’ said Ferdinand politely, ‘exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to find such a case; but they don’t invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud will have given place to sunshine. Don’t come a step beyond the door. I know the way out perfectly. Good day!’

With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went down-stairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the front court-yard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about their statesmanship.

He must have passed Mr Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an elderly Phoebus.

‘How do you do to-day, sir?’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Is there any little thing I can do for you to-day, sir?’

‘No, I thank you.’

Mr Rugg’s enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper’s enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman’s enjoyment of a heavy wash, or a dustman’s enjoyment of an overflowing dust-bin, or any other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business.

‘I still look round, from time to time, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, cheerfully, ‘to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate. They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have expected.’

He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a little.

‘As thick,’ repeated Mr Rugg, ‘as we could reasonably have expected. Quite a shower-bath of ‘em. I don’t often intrude upon you now, when I look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,’ asked Mr Rugg, coaxingly, ‘for me to offer an observation?’

‘As seasonable a time as any other.’

‘Hum! Public opinion, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘has been busy with you.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Might it not be advisable, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, more coaxingly yet, ‘now to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion? We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.’

‘I cannot set myself right with it, Mr Rugg, and have no business to expect that I ever shall.’

‘Don’t say that, sir, don’t say that. The cost of being moved to the Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that you ought to be there, why—really—’

‘I thought you had settled, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, ‘that my determination to remain here was a matter of taste.’

‘Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That’s the Question.’ Mr Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic. ‘I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping. I can’t tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I heard comments made upon it last night in a Parlour frequented by what I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best legal company—I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear. They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My daughter (but a woman, you’ll say: yet still with a feeling for these things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn’t a trifling concession to that opinion be—Come, sir,’ said Rugg, ‘I will put it on the lowest ground of argument, and say, Amiable?’

Arthur’s thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the question remained unanswered.

‘As to myself, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced him to a state of indecision, ‘it is a principle of mine not to consider myself when a client’s inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on a better standing with my connection, if you went to the Bench. Don’t let that influence you, sir. I merely state the fact.’

So errant had the prisoner’s attention already grown in solitude and dejection, and so accustomed had it become to commune with only one silent figure within the ever-frowning walls, that Clennam had to shake off a kind of stupor before he could look at Mr Rugg, recall the thread of his talk, and hurriedly say, ‘I am unchanged, and unchangeable, in my decision. Pray, let it be; let it be!’ Mr Rugg, without concealing that he was nettled and mortified, replied:

‘Oh! Beyond a doubt, sir. I have travelled out of the record, sir, I am aware, in putting the point to you. But really, when I hear it remarked in several companies, and in very good company, that however worthy of a foreigner, it is not worthy of the spirit of an Englishman to remain in the Marshalsea when the glorious liberties of his island home admit of his removal to the Bench, I thought I would depart from the narrow professional line marked out to me, and mention it. Personally,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘I have no opinion on the topic.’

‘That’s well,’ returned Arthur.

‘Oh! None at all, sir!’ said Mr Rugg. ‘If I had, I should have been unwilling, some minutes ago, to see a client of mine visited in this place by a gentleman of a high family riding a saddle-horse. But it was not my business. If I had, I might have wished to be now empowered to mention to another gentleman, a gentleman of military exterior at present waiting in the Lodge, that my client had never intended to remain here, and was on the eve of removal to a superior abode. But my course as a professional machine is clear; I have nothing to do with it. Is it your good pleasure to see the gentleman, sir?’

‘Who is waiting to see me, did you say?’

‘I did take that unprofessional liberty, sir. Hearing that I was your professional adviser, he declined to interpose before my very limited function was performed. Happily,’ said Mr Rugg, with sarcasm, ‘I did not so far travel out of the record as to ask the gentleman for his name.’

‘I suppose I have no resource but to see him,’ sighed Clennam, wearily.

‘Then it is your good pleasure, sir?’ retorted Rugg. ‘Am I honoured by your instructions to mention as much to the gentleman, as I pass out? I am? Thank you, sir. I take my leave.’ His leave he took accordingly, in dudgeon.

The gentleman of military exterior had so imperfectly awakened Clennam’s curiosity, in the existing state of his mind, that a half-forgetfulness of such a visitor’s having been referred to, was already creeping over it as a part of the sombre veil which almost always dimmed it now, when a heavy footstep on the stairs aroused him. It appeared to ascend them, not very promptly or spontaneously, yet with a display of stride and clatter meant to be insulting. As it paused for a moment on the landing outside his door, he could not recall his association with the peculiarity of its sound, though he thought he had one. Only a moment was given him for consideration. His door was immediately swung open by a thump, and in the doorway stood the missing Blandois, the cause of many anxieties.

‘Salve, fellow jail-bird!’ said he. ‘You want me, it seems. Here I am!’

Before Arthur could speak to him in his indignant wonder, Cavalletto followed him into the room. Mr Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of the two had been there since its present occupant had had possession of it. Mr Pancks, breathing hard, sidled near the window, put his hat on the ground, stirred his hair up with both hands, and folded his arms, like a man who had come to a pause in a hard day’s work. Mr Baptist, never taking his eyes from his dreaded chum of old, softly sat down on the floor with his back against the door and one of his ankles in each hand: resuming the attitude (except that it was now expressive of unwinking watchfulness) in which he had sat before the same man in the deeper shade of another prison, one hot morning at Marseilles.

‘I have it on the witnessing of these two madmen,’ said Monsieur Blandois, otherwise Lagnier, otherwise Rigaud, ‘that you want me, brother-bird. Here I am!’

Glancing round contemptuously at the bedstead, which was turned up by day, he leaned his back against it as a resting-place, without removing his hat from his head, and stood defiantly lounging with his hands in his pockets.

‘You villain of ill-omen!’ said Arthur. ‘You have purposely cast a dreadful suspicion upon my mother’s house. Why have you done it? What prompted you to the devilish invention?’

Monsieur Rigaud, after frowning at him for a moment, laughed. ‘Hear this noble gentleman! Listen, all the world, to this creature of Virtue! But take care, take care. It is possible, my friend, that your ardour is a little compromising. Holy Blue! It is possible.’

‘Signore!’ interposed Cavalletto, also addressing Arthur: ‘for to commence, hear me! I received your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is it not?’

‘It is the truth.’

‘I go, consequentementally,’—it would have given Mrs Plornish great concern if she could have been persuaded that his occasional lengthening of an adverb in this way, was the chief fault of his English,—‘first among my countrymen. I ask them what news in Londra, of foreigners arrived. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They all tell me. The great part of us know well the other, and they all tell me. But!—no person can tell me nothing of him, Rigaud. Fifteen times,’ said Cavalletto, thrice throwing out his left hand with all its fingers spread, and doing it so rapidly that the sense of sight could hardly follow the action, ‘I ask of him in every place where go the foreigners; and fifteen times,’ repeating the same swift performance, ‘they know nothing. But!—’

At this significant Italian rest on the word ‘But,’ his backhanded shake of his right forefinger came into play; a very little, and very cautiously.

‘But!—After a long time when I have not been able to find that he is here in Londra, some one tells me of a soldier with white hair—hey?—not hair like this that he carries—white—who lives retired secrettementally, in a certain place. But!—’ with another rest upon the word, ‘who sometimes in the after-dinner, walks, and smokes. It is necessary, as they say in Italy (and as they know, poor people), to have patience. I have patience. I ask where is this certain place. One. believes it is here, one believes it is there. Eh well! It is not here, it is not there. I wait patientissamentally. At last I find it. Then I watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He is a soldier with grey hair—But!—’ a very decided rest indeed, and a very vigorous play from side to side of the back-handed forefinger—‘he is also this man that you see.’

It was noticeable, that, in his old habit of submission to one who had been at the trouble of asserting superiority over him, he even then bestowed upon Rigaud a confused bend of his head, after thus pointing him out.

‘Eh well, Signore!’ he cried in conclusion, addressing Arthur again. ‘I waited for a good opportunity. I writed some words to Signor Panco,’ an air of novelty came over Mr Pancks with this designation, ‘to come and help. I showed him, Rigaud, at his window, to Signor Panco, who was often the spy in the day. I slept at night near the door of the house. At last we entered, only this to-day, and now you see him! As he would not come up in presence of the illustrious Advocate,’ such was Mr Baptist’s honourable mention of Mr Rugg, ‘we waited down below there, together, and Signor Panco guarded the street.’

At the close of this recital, Arthur turned his eyes upon the impudent and wicked face. As it met his, the nose came down over the moustache and the moustache went up under the nose. When nose and moustache had settled into their places again, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his fingers half-a-dozen times; bending forward to jerk the snaps at Arthur, as if they were palpable missiles which he jerked into his face.

‘Now, Philosopher!’ said Rigaud. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘I want to know,’ returned Arthur, without disguising his abhorrence, ‘how you dare direct a suspicion of murder against my mother’s house?’

‘Dare!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Ho, ho! Hear him! Dare? Is it dare? By Heaven, my small boy, but you are a little imprudent!’

‘I want that suspicion to be cleared away,’ said Arthur. ‘You shall be taken there, and be publicly seen. I want to know, moreover, what business you had there when I had a burning desire to fling you down-stairs. Don’t frown at me, man! I have seen enough of you to know that you are a bully and coward. I need no revival of my spirits from the effects of this wretched place to tell you so plain a fact, and one that you know so well.’

White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his moustache, muttering, ‘By Heaven, my small boy, but you are a little compromising of my lady, your respectable mother’—and seemed for a minute undecided how to act. His indecision was soon gone. He sat himself down with a threatening swagger, and said:

‘Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your madmen to get me a bottle of wine. I won’t talk to you without wine. Come! Yes or no?’

‘Fetch him what he wants, Cavalletto,’ said Arthur, scornfully, producing the money.

‘Contraband beast,’ added Rigaud, ‘bring Port wine! I’ll drink nothing but Porto-Porto.’

The contraband beast, however, assuring all present, with his significant finger, that he peremptorily declined to leave his post at the door, Signor Panco offered his services. He soon returned with the bottle of wine: which, according to the custom of the place, originating in a scarcity of corkscrews among the Collegians (in common with a scarcity of much else), was already opened for use.

‘Madman! A large glass,’ said Rigaud.

Signor Panco put a tumbler before him; not without a visible conflict of feeling on the question of throwing it at his head.

‘Haha!’ boasted Rigaud. ‘Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman. A gentleman from the beginning, and a gentleman to the end. What the Devil! A gentleman must be waited on, I hope? It’s a part of my character to be waited on!’

He half filled the tumbler as he said it, and drank off the contents when he had done saying it.

‘Hah!’ smacking his lips. ‘Not a very old prisoner that! I judge by your looks, brave sir, that imprisonment will subdue your blood much sooner than it softens this hot wine. You are mellowing—losing body and colour already. I salute you!’

He tossed off another half glass: holding it up both before and afterwards, so as to display his small, white hand.

‘To business,’ he then continued. ‘To conversation. You have shown yourself more free of speech than body, sir.’

‘I have used the freedom of telling you what you know yourself to be. You know yourself, as we all know you, to be far worse than that.’

‘Add, always a gentleman, and it’s no matter. Except in that regard, we are all alike. For example: you couldn’t for your life be a gentleman; I couldn’t for my life be otherwise. How great the difference! Let us go on. Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course of the dice. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words are without power over it.’

Now that he was confronted with Cavalletto, and knew that his story was known—whatever thin disguise he had worn, he dropped; and faced it out, with a bare face, as the infamous wretch he was.

‘No, my son,’ he resumed, with a snap of his fingers. ‘I play my game to the end in spite of words; and Death of my Body and Death of my Soul! I’ll win it. You want to know why I played this little trick that you have interrupted? Know then that I had, and that I have—do you understand me? have—a commodity to sell to my lady your respectable mother. I described my precious commodity, and fixed my price. Touching the bargain, your admirable mother was a little too calm, too stolid, too immovable and statue-like. In fine, your admirable mother vexed me. To make variety in my position, and to amuse myself—what! a gentleman must be amused at somebody’s expense!—I conceived the happy idea of disappearing. An idea, see you, that your characteristic mother and my Flintwinch would have been well enough pleased to execute. Ah! Bah, bah, bah, don’t look as from high to low at me! I repeat it. Well enough pleased, excessively enchanted, and with all their hearts ravished. How strongly will you have it?’

He threw out the lees of his glass on the ground, so that they nearly spattered Cavalletto. This seemed to draw his attention to him anew. He set down his glass and said:

‘I’ll not fill it. What! I am born to be served. Come then, you Cavalletto, and fill!’

The little man looked at Clennam, whose eyes were occupied with Rigaud, and, seeing no prohibition, got up from the ground, and poured out from the bottle into the glass. The blending, as he did so, of his old submission with a sense of something humorous; the striving of that with a certain smouldering ferocity, which might have flashed fire in an instant (as the born gentleman seemed to think, for he had a wary eye upon him); and the easy yielding of all to a good-natured, careless, predominant propensity to sit down on the ground again: formed a very remarkable combination of character.

‘This happy idea, brave sir,’ Rigaud resumed after drinking, ‘was a happy idea for several reasons. It amused me, it worried your dear mama and my Flintwinch, it caused you agonies (my terms for a lesson in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the amiable persons interested that your entirely devoted is a man to fear. By Heaven, he is a man to fear! Beyond this; it might have restored her wit to my lady your mother—might, under the pressing little suspicion your wisdom has recognised, have persuaded her at last to announce, covertly, in the journals, that the difficulties of a certain contract would be removed by the appearance of a certain important party to it. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. But that, you have interrupted. Now, what is it you say? What is it you want?’

Never had Clennam felt more acutely that he was a prisoner in bonds, than when he saw this man before him, and could not accompany him to his mother’s house. All the undiscernible difficulties and dangers he had ever feared were closing in, when he could not stir hand or foot.

‘Perhaps, my friend, philosopher, man of virtue, Imbecile, what you will; perhaps,’ said Rigaud, pausing in his drink to look out of his glass with his horrible smile, ‘you would have done better to leave me alone?’

‘No! At least,’ said Clennam, ‘you are known to be alive and unharmed. At least you cannot escape from these two witnesses; and they can produce you before any public authorities, or before hundreds of people!’

‘But will not produce me before one,’ said Rigaud, snapping his fingers again with an air of triumphant menace. ‘To the Devil with your witnesses! To the Devil with your produced! To the Devil with yourself! What! Do I know what I know, for that? Have I my commodity on sale, for that? Bah, poor debtor! You have interrupted my little project. Let it pass. How then? What remains? To you, nothing; to me, all. Produce me! Is that what you want? I will produce myself, only too quickly. Contrabandist! Give me pen, ink, and paper.’

Cavalletto got up again as before, and laid them before him in his former manner. Rigaud, after some villainous thinking and smiling, wrote, and read aloud, as follows:

‘To MRS CLENNAM.

‘Wait answer.

‘Prison of the Marshalsea. ‘At the apartment of your son.

‘Dear Madam,

‘I am in despair to be informed to-day by our prisoner here (who has had the goodness to employ spies to seek me, living for politic reasons in retirement), that you have had fears for my safety.

‘Reassure yourself, dear madam. I am well, I am strong and constant.

‘With the greatest impatience I should fly to your house, but that I foresee it to be possible, under the circumstances, that you will not yet have quite definitively arranged the little proposition I have had the honour to submit to you. I name one week from this day, for a last final visit on my part; when you will unconditionally accept it or reject it, with its train of consequences.

‘I suppress my ardour to embrace you and achieve this interesting business, in order that you may have leisure to adjust its details to our perfect mutual satisfaction.

‘In the meanwhile, it is not too much to propose (our prisoner having deranged my housekeeping), that my expenses of lodging and nourishment at an hotel shall be paid by you.

‘Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished consideration,

‘RIGAUD BLANDOIS.

‘A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.

‘I kiss the hands of Madame F.’

When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with a flourish at Clennam’s feet. ‘Hola you! Apropos of producing, let somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.’

‘Cavalletto,’ said Arthur. ‘Will you take this fellow’s letter?’

But, Cavalletto’s significant finger again expressing that his post was at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,—Signor Panco once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself out, and immediately shut it on him.

‘Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,’ said Rigaud, ‘and I follow the letter and cancel my week’s grace. You wanted me? You have got me! How do you like me?’

‘You know,’ returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness, ‘that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.’

‘To the Devil with you and your prison,’ retorted Rigaud, leisurely, as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present use; ‘I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.’

Again Cavalletto got up, and gave him what he wanted. There had been something dreadful in the noiseless skill of his cold, white hands, with the fingers lithely twisting about and twining one over another like serpents. Clennam could not prevent himself from shuddering inwardly, as if he had been looking on at a nest of those creatures.

‘Hola, Pig!’ cried Rigaud, with a noisy stimulating cry, as if Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. ‘What! The infernal old jail was a respectable one to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Bah! A hospital for imbeciles!’

He smoked his cigarette out, with his ugly smile so fixed upon his face that he looked as though he were smoking with his drooping beak of a nose, rather than with his mouth; like a fancy in a weird picture. When he had lighted a second cigarette at the still burning end of the first, he said to Clennam:

‘One must pass the time in the madman’s absence. One must talk. One can’t drink strong wine all day long, or I would have another bottle. She’s handsome, sir. Though not exactly to my taste, still, by the Thunder and the Lightning! handsome. I felicitate you on your admiration.’

‘I neither know nor ask,’ said Clennam, ‘of whom you speak.’

‘Della bella Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the fair Gowan.’

‘Of whose husband you were the—follower, I think?’

‘Sir? Follower? You are insolent. The friend.’

‘Do you sell all your friends?’

Rigaud took his cigarette from his mouth, and eyed him with a momentary revelation of surprise. But he put it between his lips again, as he answered with coolness:

‘I sell anything that commands a price. How do your lawyers live, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange? How do you live? How do you come here? Have you sold no friend? Lady of mine! I rather think, yes!’

Clennam turned away from him towards the window, and sat looking out at the wall.

‘Effectively, sir,’ said Rigaud, ‘Society sells itself and sells me: and I sell Society. I perceive you have acquaintance with another lady. Also handsome. A strong spirit. Let us see. How do they call her? Wade.’

He received no answer, but could easily discern that he had hit the mark.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘that handsome lady and strong spirit addresses me in the street, and I am not insensible. I respond. That handsome lady and strong spirit does me the favour to remark, in full confidence, “I have my curiosity, and I have my chagrins. You are not more than ordinarily honourable, perhaps?” I announce myself, “Madame, a gentleman from the birth, and a gentleman to the death; but not more than ordinarily honourable. I despise such a weak fantasy.” Thereupon she is pleased to compliment. “The difference between you and the rest is,” she answers, “that you say so.” For she knows Society. I accept her congratulations with gallantry and politeness. Politeness and little gallantries are inseparable from my character. She then makes a proposition, which is, in effect, that she has seen us much together; that it appears to her that I am for the passing time the cat of the house, the friend of the family; that her curiosity and her chagrins awaken the fancy to be acquainted with their movements, to know the manner of their life, how the fair Gowana is beloved, how the fair Gowana is cherished, and so on. She is not rich, but offers such and such little recompenses for the little cares and derangements of such services; and I graciously—to do everything graciously is a part of my character—consent to accept them. O yes! So goes the world. It is the mode.’

Though Clennam’s back was turned while he spoke, and thenceforth to the end of the interview, he kept those glittering eyes of his that were too near together, upon him, and evidently saw in the very carriage of the head, as he passed with his braggart recklessness from clause to clause of what he said, that he was saying nothing which Clennam did not already know.

‘Whoof! The fair Gowana!’ he said, lighting a third cigarette with a sound as if his lightest breath could blow her away. ‘Charming, but imprudent! For it was not well of the fair Gowana to make mysteries of letters from old lovers, in her bedchamber on the mountain, that her husband might not see them. No, no. That was not well. Whoof! The Gowana was mistaken there.’

‘I earnestly hope,’ cried Arthur aloud, ‘that Pancks may not be long gone, for this man’s presence pollutes the room.’

‘Ah! But he’ll flourish here, and everywhere,’ said Rigaud, with an exulting look and snap of his fingers. ‘He always has; he always will!’ Stretching his body out on the only three chairs in the room besides that on which Clennam sat, he sang, smiting himself on the breast as the gallant personage of the song.

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine! Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!

‘Sing the Refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing it! Or, by every Saint who was stoned to death, I’ll be affronted and compromising; and then some people who are not dead yet, had better have been stoned along with them!’

‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Compagnon de la Majolaine! Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Always gay!’

Partly in his old habit of submission, partly because his not doing it might injure his benefactor, and partly because he would as soon do it as anything else, Cavalletto took up the Refrain this time. Rigaud laughed, and fell to smoking with his eyes shut.

Possibly another quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr Pancks’s step was heard upon the stairs, but the interval seemed to Clennam insupportably long. His step was attended by another step; and when Cavalletto opened the door, he admitted Mr Pancks and Mr Flintwinch. The latter was no sooner visible, than Rigaud rushed at him and embraced him boisterously.

‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony. ‘Thank you, no; I don’t want any more.’ This was in reference to another menace of attention from his recovered friend. ‘Well, Arthur. You remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It’s come true, you see.’

He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head in a moralising way as he looked round the room.

‘And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Hah! you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.’

If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch, with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried:

‘To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.’

‘If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘I’ll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for him.’

He did so. It was in his mother’s maimed writing, on a slip of paper, and contained only these words:

‘I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and representative. Your affectionate M. C.’

Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with his feet upon the seat.

‘Now, Beau Flintwinch,’ he said, when he had closely watched the note to its destruction, ‘the answer to my letter?’

‘Mrs Clennam did not write, Mr Blandois, her hands being cramped, and she thinking it as well to send it verbally by me.’ Mr Flintwinch screwed this out of himself, unwillingly and rustily. ‘She sends her compliments, and says she doesn’t on the whole wish to term you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But without prejudicing the appointment that stands for this day week.’

Monsieur Rigaud, after indulging in a fit of laughter, descended from his throne, saying, ‘Good! I go to seek an hotel!’ But, there his eyes encountered Cavalletto, who was still at his post.

‘Come, Pig,’ he added, ‘I have had you for a follower against my will; now, I’ll have you against yours. I tell you, my little reptiles, I am born to be served. I demand the service of this contrabandist as my domestic until this day week.’

In answer to Cavalletto’s look of inquiry, Clennam made him a sign to go; but he added aloud, ‘unless you are afraid of him.’ Cavalletto replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.’No, master, I am not afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once my comrade.’ Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking.

‘Afraid of him,’ he said then, looking round upon them all. ‘Whoof! My children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his character to triumph! Whoof!

‘Of all the king’s knights he’s the flower, And he’s always gay!’

With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand by it to the end. The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more despised, more scorned and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again.

CHAPTER 29. A Plea in the Marshalsea

Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad companions to be barred up with. Brooding all day, and resting very little indeed at night, will not arm a man against misery. Next morning, Clennam felt that his health was sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which he bent was bearing him down.

Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or one o’clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came, he could not even persuade himself to undress.

For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison, and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there, which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in it. The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him, that he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping. At the same time a longing for other air, and a yearning to be beyond the blind blank wall, made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the desire.

Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him, and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases, as they did in his. Two nights and a day exhausted it. It came back by fits, but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals. A desolate calm succeeded; and the middle of the week found him settled down in the despondency of low, slow fever.

With Cavalletto and Pancks away, he had no visitors to fear but Mr and Mrs Plornish. His anxiety, in reference to that worthy pair, was that they should not come near him; for, in the morbid state of his nerves, he sought to be left alone, and spared the being seen so subdued and weak. He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied with his affairs, and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to them, to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of a sight of her kind face. As to Young John, who looked in daily at a certain hour, when the turnkeys were relieved, to ask if he could do anything for him; he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing, and to answer cheerfully in the negative. The subject of their only long conversation had never been revived between them. Through all these changes of unhappiness, however, it had never lost its hold on Clennam’s mind.

The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist, hot, misty day. It seemed as though the prison’s poverty, and shabbiness, and dirt, were growing in the sultry atmosphere. With an aching head and a weary heart, Clennam had watched the miserable night out, listening to the fall of rain on the yard pavement, thinking of its softer fall upon the country earth. A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu of sun, and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall, like a bit of the prison’s raggedness. He had heard the gates open; and the badly shod feet that waited outside shuffle in; and the sweeping, and pumping, and moving about, begin, which commenced the prison morning. So ill and faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting himself washed, he had at length crept to his chair by the open window. In it he sat dozing, while the old woman who arranged his room went through her morning’s work.

Light of head with want of sleep and want of food (his appetite, and even his sense of taste, having forsaken him), he had been two or three times conscious, in the night, of going astray. He had heard fragments of tunes and songs in the warm wind, which he knew had no existence. Now that he began to doze in exhaustion, he heard them again; and voices seemed to address him, and he answered, and started.

Dozing and dreaming, without the power of reckoning time, so that a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute, some abiding impression of a garden stole over him—a garden of flowers, with a damp warm wind gently stirring their scents. It required such a painful effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this, or inquiring into anything, that the impression appeared to have become quite an old and importunate one when he looked round. Beside the tea-cup on his table he saw, then, a blooming nosegay: a wonderful handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers.

Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight. He took them up and inhaled their fragrance, and he lifted them to his hot head, and he put them down and opened his parched hands to them, as cold hands are opened to receive the cheering of a fire. It was not until he had delighted in them for some time, that he wondered who had sent them; and opened his door to ask the woman who must have put them there, how they had come into her hands. But she was gone, and seemed to have been long gone; for the tea she had left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink some, but could not bear the odour of it: so he crept back to his chair by the open window, and put the flowers on the little round table of old.

When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him, he subsided into his former state. One of the night-tunes was playing in the wind, when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch, and, after a moment’s pause, a quiet figure seemed to stand there, with a black mantle on it. It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on the ground, and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old, worn dress. It seemed to tremble, and to clasp its hands, and to smile, and to burst into tears.

He roused himself, and cried out. And then he saw, in the loving, pitying, sorrowing, dear face, as in a mirror, how changed he was; and she came towards him; and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a living presence, called him by his name.

‘O, my best friend! Dear Mr Clennam, don’t let me see you weep! Unless you weep with pleasure to see me. I hope you do. Your own poor child come back!’

So faithful, tender, and unspoiled by Fortune. In the sound of her voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so Angelically comforting and true!

As he embraced her, she said to him, ‘They never told me you were ill,’ and drawing an arm softly round his neck, laid his head upon her bosom, put a hand upon his head, and resting her cheek upon that hand, nursed him as lovingly, and GOD knows as innocently, as she had nursed her father in that room when she had been but a baby, needing all the care from others that she took of them.

When he could speak, he said, ‘Is it possible that you have come to me? And in this dress?’

‘I hoped you would like me better in this dress than any other. I have always kept it by me, to remind me: though I wanted no reminding. I am not alone, you see. I have brought an old friend with me.’

Looking round, he saw Maggy in her big cap which had been long abandoned, with a basket on her arm as in the bygone days, chuckling rapturously.

‘It was only yesterday evening that I came to London with my brother. I sent round to Mrs Plornish almost as soon as we arrived, that I might hear of you and let you know I had come. Then I heard that you were here. Did you happen to think of me in the night? I almost believe you must have thought of me a little. I thought of you so anxiously, and it appeared so long to morning.’

‘I have thought of you—’ he hesitated what to call her. She perceived it in an instant.

‘You have not spoken to me by my right name yet. You know what my right name always is with you.’

‘I have thought of you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every minute, since I have been here.’

‘Have you? Have you?’

He saw the bright delight of her face, and the flush that kindled in it, with a feeling of shame. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonoured prisoner.

‘I was here before the gates were opened, but I was afraid to come straight to you. I should have done you more harm than good, at first; for the prison was so familiar and yet so strange, and it brought back so many remembrances of my poor father, and of you too, that at first it overpowered me. But we went to Mr Chivery before we came to the gate, and he brought us in, and got John’s room for us—my poor old room, you know—and we waited there a little. I brought the flowers to the door, but you didn’t hear me.’

She looked something more womanly than when she had gone away, and the ripening touch of the Italian sun was visible upon her face. But, otherwise, she was quite unchanged. The same deep, timid earnestness that he had always seen in her, and never without emotion, he saw still. If it had a new meaning that smote him to the heart, the change was in his perception, not in her.

She took off her old bonnet, hung it in the old place, and noiselessly began, with Maggy’s help, to make his room as fresh and neat as it could be made, and to sprinkle it with a pleasant-smelling water. When that was done, the basket, which was filled with grapes and other fruit, was unpacked, and all its contents were quietly put away. When that was done, a moment’s whisper despatched Maggy to despatch somebody else to fill the basket again; which soon came back replenished with new stores, from which a present provision of cooling drink and jelly, and a prospective supply of roast chicken and wine and water, were the first extracts. These various arrangements completed, she took out her old needle-case to make him a curtain for his window; and thus, with a quiet reigning in the room, that seemed to diffuse itself through the else noisy prison, he found himself composed in his chair, with Little Dorrit working at his side.

To see the modest head again bent down over its task, and the nimble fingers busy at their old work—though she was not so absorbed in it, but that her compassionate eyes were often raised to his face, and, when they drooped again had tears in them—to be so consoled and comforted, and to believe that all the devotion of this great nature was turned to him in his adversity to pour out its inexhaustible wealth of goodness upon him, did not steady Clennam’s trembling voice or hand, or strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it inspired him with an inward fortitude, that rose with his love. And how dearly he loved her now, what words can tell!

As they sat side by side in the shadow of the wall, the shadow fell like light upon him. She would not let him speak much, and he lay back in his chair, looking at her. Now and again she would rise and give him the glass that he might drink, or would smooth the resting-place of his head; then she would gently resume her seat by him, and bend over her work again.

The shadow moved with the sun, but she never moved from his side, except to wait upon him. The sun went down and she was still there. She had done her work now, and her hand, faltering on the arm of his chair since its last tending of him, was hesitating there yet. He laid his hand upon it, and it clasped him with a trembling supplication.

‘Dear Mr Clennam, I must say something to you before I go. I have put it off from hour to hour, but I must say it.’

‘I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have put off what I must say.’

She nervously moved her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it dropped, trembling, into its former place.

‘I am not going abroad again. My brother is, but I am not. He was always attached to me, and he is so grateful to me now—so much too grateful, for it is only because I happened to be with him in his illness—that he says I shall be free to stay where I like best, and to do what I like best. He only wishes me to be happy, he says.’

There was one bright star shining in the sky. She looked up at it while she spoke, as if it were the fervent purpose of her own heart shining above her.

‘You will understand, I dare say, without my telling you, that my brother has come home to find my dear father’s will, and to take possession of his property. He says, if there is a will, he is sure I shall be left rich; and if there is none, that he will make me so.’

He would have spoken; but she put up her trembling hand again, and he stopped.

‘I have no use for money, I have no wish for it. It would be of no value at all to me but for your sake. I could not be rich, and you here. I must always be much worse than poor, with you distressed. Will you let me lend you all I have? Will you let me give it you? Will you let me show you that I have never forgotten, that I never can forget, your protection of me when this was my home? Dear Mr Clennam, make me of all the world the happiest, by saying Yes? Make me as happy as I can be in leaving you here, by saying nothing to-night, and letting me go away with the hope that you will think of it kindly; and that for my sake—not for yours, for mine, for nobody’s but mine!—you will give me the greatest joy I can experience on earth, the joy of knowing that I have been serviceable to you, and that I have paid some little of the great debt of my affection and gratitude. I can’t say what I wish to say. I can’t visit you here where I have lived so long, I can’t think of you here where I have seen so much, and be as calm and comforting as I ought. My tears will make their way. I cannot keep them back. But pray, pray, pray, do not turn from your Little Dorrit, now, in your affliction! Pray, pray, pray, I beg you and implore you with all my grieving heart, my friend—my dear!—take all I have, and make it a Blessing to me!’

The star had shone on her face until now, when her face sank upon his hand and her own.

It had grown darker when he raised her in his encircling arm, and softly answered her.

‘No, darling Little Dorrit. No, my child. I must not hear of such a sacrifice. Liberty and hope would be so dear, bought at such a price, that I could never support their weight, never bear the reproach of possessing them. But with what ardent thankfulness and love I say this, I may call Heaven to witness!’

‘And yet you will not let me be faithful to you in your affliction?’

‘Say, dearest Little Dorrit, and yet I will try to be faithful to you. If, in the bygone days when this was your home and when this was your dress, I had understood myself (I speak only of myself) better, and had read the secrets of my own breast more distinctly; if, through my reserve and self-mistrust, I had discerned a light that I see brightly now when it has passed far away, and my weak footsteps can never overtake it; if I had then known, and told you that I loved and honoured you, not as the poor child I used to call you, but as a woman whose true hand would raise me high above myself and make me a far happier and better man; if I had so used the opportunity there is no recalling—as I wish I had, O I wish I had!—and if something had kept us apart then, when I was moderately thriving, and when you were poor; I might have met your noble offer of your fortune, dearest girl, with other words than these, and still have blushed to touch it. But, as it is, I must never touch it, never!’

She besought him, more pathetically and earnestly, with her little supplicatory hand, than she could have done in any words.

‘I am disgraced enough, my Little Dorrit. I must not descend so low as that, and carry you—so dear, so generous, so good—down with me. GOD bless you, GOD reward you! It is past.’

He took her in his arms, as if she had been his daughter.

‘Always so much older, so much rougher, and so much less worthy, even what I was must be dismissed by both of us, and you must see me only as I am. I put this parting kiss upon your cheek, my child—who might have been more near to me, who never could have been more dear—a ruined man far removed from you, for ever separated from you, whose course is run while yours is but beginning. I have not the courage to ask to be forgotten by you in my humiliation; but I ask to be remembered only as I am.’

The bell began to ring, warning visitors to depart. He took her mantle from the wall, and tenderly wrapped it round her.

‘One other word, my Little Dorrit. A hard one to me, but it is a necessary one. The time when you and this prison had anything in common has long gone by. Do you understand?’

‘O! you will never say to me,’ she cried, weeping bitterly, and holding up her clasped hands in entreaty, ‘that I am not to come back any more! You will surely not desert me so!’

‘I would say it, if I could; but I have not the courage quite to shut out this dear face, and abandon all hope of its return. But do not come soon, do not come often! This is now a tainted place, and I well know the taint of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better scenes. You are not to look back here, my Little Dorrit; you are to look away to very different and much happier paths. Again, GOD bless you in them! GOD reward you!’

Maggy, who had fallen into very low spirits, here cried, ‘Oh get him into a hospital; do get him into a hospital, Mother! He’ll never look like hisself again, if he an’t got into a hospital. And then the little woman as was always a spinning at her wheel, she can go to the cupboard with the Princess, and say, what do you keep the Chicking there for? and then they can take it out and give it to him, and then all be happy!’

The interruption was seasonable, for the bell had nearly rung itself out. Again tenderly wrapping her mantle about her, and taking her on his arm (though, but for her visit, he was almost too weak to walk), Arthur led Little Dorrit down-stairs. She was the last visitor to pass out at the Lodge, and the gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her.

With the funeral clang that it sounded into Arthur’s heart, his sense of weakness returned. It was a toilsome journey up-stairs to his room, and he re-entered its dark solitary precincts in unutterable misery.

When it was almost midnight, and the prison had long been quiet, a cautious creak came up the stairs, and a cautious tap of a key was given at his door. It was Young John. He glided in, in his stockings, and held the door closed, while he spoke in a whisper.

‘It’s against all rules, but I don’t mind. I was determined to come through, and come to you.’

‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, sir. I was waiting in the court-yard for Miss Dorrit when she came out. I thought you’d like some one to see that she was safe.’

‘Thank you, thank you! You took her home, John?’

‘I saw her to her hotel. The same that Mr Dorrit was at. Miss Dorrit walked all the way, and talked to me so kind, it quite knocked me over. Why do you think she walked instead of riding?’

‘I don’t know, John.’

‘To talk about you. She said to me, “John, you was always honourable, and if you’ll promise me that you will take care of him, and never let him want for help and comfort when I am not there, my mind will be at rest so far.” I promised her. And I’ll stand by you,’ said John Chivery, ‘for ever!’

Clennam, much affected, stretched out his hand to this honest spirit.

‘Before I take it,’ said John, looking at it, without coming from the door, ‘guess what message Miss Dorrit gave me.’

Clennam shook his head.

‘“Tell him,”’ repeated John, in a distinct, though quavering voice, ‘“that his Little Dorrit sent him her undying love.” Now it’s delivered. Have I been honourable, sir?’

‘Very, very!’

‘Will you tell Miss Dorrit I’ve been honourable, sir?’

‘I will indeed.’

‘There’s my hand, sir,’ said John, ‘and I’ll stand by you forever!’

After a hearty squeeze, he disappeared with the same cautious creak upon the stair, crept shoeless over the pavement of the yard, and, locking the gates behind him, passed out into the front where he had left his shoes. If the same way had been paved with burning ploughshares, it is not at all improbable that John would have traversed it with the same devotion, for the same purpose.

CHAPTER 30. Closing in

The last day of the appointed week touched the bars of the Marshalsea gate. Black, all night, since the gate had clashed upon Little Dorrit, its iron stripes were turned by the early-glowing sun into stripes of gold. Far aslant across the city, over its jumbled roofs, and through the open tracery of its church towers, struck the long bright rays, bars of the prison of this lower world.

Throughout the day the old house within the gateway remained untroubled by any visitors. But, when the sun was low, three men turned in at the gateway and made for the dilapidated house.

Rigaud was the first, and walked by himself smoking. Mr Baptist was the second, and jogged close after him, looking at no other object. Mr Pancks was the third, and carried his hat under his arm for the liberation of his restive hair; the weather being extremely hot. They all came together at the door-steps.

‘You pair of madmen!’ said Rigaud, facing about. ‘Don’t go yet!’

‘We don’t mean to,’ said Mr Pancks.

Giving him a dark glance in acknowledgment of his answer, Rigaud knocked loudly. He had charged himself with drink, for the playing out of his game, and was impatient to begin. He had hardly finished one long resounding knock, when he turned to the knocker again and began another. That was not yet finished when Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud, thrusting Mr Flintwinch aside, proceeded straight up-stairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr Flintwinch followed them, and they all came trooping into Mrs Clennam’s quiet room. It was in its usual state; except that one of the windows was wide open, and Affery sat on its old-fashioned window-seat, mending a stocking. The usual articles were on the little table; the usual deadened fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual pall upon it; and the mistress of all sat on her black bier-like sofa, propped up by her black angular bolster that was like the headsman’s block.

Yet there was a nameless air of preparation in the room, as if it were strung up for an occasion. From what the room derived it—every one of its small variety of objects being in the fixed spot it had occupied for years—no one could have said without looking attentively at its mistress, and that, too, with a previous knowledge of her face. Although her unchanging black dress was in every plait precisely as of old, and her unchanging attitude was rigidly preserved, a very slight additional setting of her features and contraction of her gloomy forehead was so powerfully marked, that it marked everything about her.

‘Who are these?’ she said, wonderingly, as the two attendants entered. ‘What do these people want here?’

‘Who are these, dear madame, is it?’ returned Rigaud. ‘Faith, they are friends of your son the prisoner. And what do they want here, is it? Death, madame, I don’t know. You will do well to ask them.’

‘You know you told us at the door, not to go yet,’ said Pancks.

‘And you know you told me at the door, you didn’t mean to go,’ retorted Rigaud. ‘In a word, madame, permit me to present two spies of the prisoner’s—madmen, but spies. If you wish them to remain here during our little conversation, say the word. It is nothing to me.’

‘Why should I wish them to remain here?’ said Mrs Clennam. ‘What have I to do with them?’

‘Then, dearest madame,’ said Rigaud, throwing himself into an arm-chair so heavily that the old room trembled, ‘you will do well to dismiss them. It is your affair. They are not my spies, not my rascals.’

‘Hark! You Pancks,’ said Mrs Clennam, bending her brows upon him angrily, ‘you Casby’s clerk! Attend to your employer’s business and your own. Go. And take that other man with you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ returned Mr Pancks, ‘I am glad to say I see no objection to our both retiring. We have done all we undertook to do for Mr Clennam. His constant anxiety has been (and it grew worse upon him when he became a prisoner), that this agreeable gentleman should be brought back here to the place from which he slipped away. Here he is—brought back. And I will say,’ added Mr Pancks, ‘to his ill-looking face, that in my opinion the world would be no worse for his slipping out of it altogether.’

‘Your opinion is not asked,’ answered Mrs Clennam. ‘Go.’

‘I am sorry not to leave you in better company, ma’am,’ said Pancks; ‘and sorry, too, that Mr Clennam can’t be present. It’s my fault, that is.’

‘You mean his own,’ she returned.

‘No, I mean mine, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘for it was my misfortune to lead him into a ruinous investment.’ (Mr Pancks still clung to that word, and never said speculation.) ‘Though I can prove by figures,’ added Mr Pancks, with an anxious countenance, ‘that it ought to have been a good investment. I have gone over it since it failed, every day of my life, and it comes out—regarded as a question of figures—triumphant. The present is not a time or place,’ Mr Pancks pursued, with a longing glance into his hat, where he kept his calculations, ‘for entering upon the figures; but the figures are not to be disputed. Mr Clennam ought to have been at this moment in his carriage and pair, and I ought to have been worth from three to five thousand pound.’

Mr Pancks put his hair erect with a general aspect of confidence that could hardly have been surpassed, if he had had the amount in his pocket. These incontrovertible figures had been the occupation of every moment of his leisure since he had lost his money, and were destined to afford him consolation to the end of his days.

‘However,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘enough of that. Altro, old boy, you have seen the figures, and you know how they come out.’ Mr Baptist, who had not the slightest arithmetical power of compensating himself in this way, nodded, with a fine display of bright teeth.

At whom Mr Flintwinch had been looking, and to whom he then said:

‘Oh! it’s you, is it? I thought I remembered your face, but I wasn’t certain till I saw your teeth. Ah! yes, to be sure. It was this officious refugee,’ said Jeremiah to Mrs Clennam, ‘who came knocking at the door on the night when Arthur and Chatterbox were here, and who asked me a whole Catechism of questions about Mr Blandois.’

‘It is true,’ Mr Baptist cheerfully admitted. ‘And behold him, padrone! I have found him consequentementally.’

‘I shouldn’t have objected,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘to your having broken your neck consequentementally.’

‘And now,’ said Mr Pancks, whose eye had often stealthily wandered to the window-seat and the stocking that was being mended there, ‘I’ve only one other word to say before I go. If Mr Clennam was here—but unfortunately, though he has so far got the better of this fine gentleman as to return him to this place against his will, he is ill and in prison—ill and in prison, poor fellow—if he was here,’ said Mr Pancks, taking one step aside towards the window-seat, and laying his right hand upon the stocking; ‘he would say, “Affery, tell your dreams!”’

Mr Pancks held up his right forefinger between his nose and the stocking with a ghostly air of warning, turned, steamed out and towed Mr Baptist after him. The house-door was heard to close upon them, their steps were heard passing over the dull pavement of the echoing court-yard, and still nobody had added a word. Mrs Clennam and Jeremiah had exchanged a look; and had then looked, and looked still, at Affery, who sat mending the stocking with great assiduity.

‘Come!’ said Mr Flintwinch at length, screwing himself a curve or two in the direction of the window-seat, and rubbing the palms of his hands on his coat-tail as if he were preparing them to do something: ‘Whatever has to be said among us had better be begun to be said without more loss of time.—So, Affery, my woman, take yourself away!’

In a moment Affery had thrown the stocking down, started up, caught hold of the windowsill with her right hand, lodged herself upon the window-seat with her right knee, and was flourishing her left hand, beating expected assailants off.

‘No, I won’t, Jeremiah—no, I won’t—no, I won’t! I won’t go! I’ll stay here. I’ll hear all I don’t know, and say all I know. I will, at last, if I die for it. I will, I will, I will, I will!’

Mr Flintwinch, stiffening with indignation and amazement, moistened the fingers of one hand at his lips, softly described a circle with them in the palm of the other hand, and continued with a menacing grin to screw himself in the direction of his wife; gasping some remark as he advanced, of which, in his choking anger, only the words, ‘Such a dose!’ were audible.

‘Not a bit nearer, Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, never ceasing to beat the air. ‘Don’t come a bit nearer to me, or I’ll rouse the neighbourhood! I’ll throw myself out of window. I’ll scream Fire and Murder! I’ll wake the dead! Stop where you are, or I’ll make shrieks enough to wake the dead!’

The determined voice of Mrs Clennam echoed ‘Stop!’ Jeremiah had stopped already.

‘It is closing in, Flintwinch. Let her alone. Affery, do you turn against me after these many years?’

‘I do, if it’s turning against you to hear what I don’t know, and say what I know. I have broke out now, and I can’t go back. I am determined to do it. I will do it, I will, I will, I will! If that’s turning against you, yes, I turn against both of you two clever ones. I told Arthur when he first come home to stand up against you. I told him it was no reason, because I was afeard of my life of you, that he should be. All manner of things have been a-going on since then, and I won’t be run up by Jeremiah, nor yet I won’t be dazed and scared, nor made a party to I don’t know what, no more. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! I’ll up for Arthur when he has nothing left, and is ill, and in prison, and can’t up for himself. I will, I will, I will, I will!’

‘How do you know, you heap of confusion,’ asked Mrs Clennam sternly, ‘that in doing what you are doing now, you are even serving Arthur?’

‘I don’t know nothing rightly about anything,’ said Affery; ‘and if ever you said a true word in your life, it’s when you call me a heap of confusion, for you two clever ones have done your most to make me such. You married me whether I liked it or not, and you’ve led me, pretty well ever since, such a life of dreaming and frightening as never was known, and what do you expect me to be but a heap of confusion? You wanted to make me such, and I am such; but I won’t submit no longer; no, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!’ She was still beating the air against all comers.

After gazing at her in silence, Mrs Clennam turned to Rigaud. ‘You see and hear this foolish creature. Do you object to such a piece of distraction remaining where she is?’

‘I, madame,’ he replied, ‘do I? That’s a question for you.’

‘I do not,’ she said, gloomily. ‘There is little left to choose now. Flintwinch, it is closing in.’

Mr Flintwinch replied by directing a look of red vengeance at his wife, and then, as if to pinion himself from falling upon her, screwed his crossed arms into the breast of his waistcoat, and with his chin very near one of his elbows stood in a corner, watching Rigaud in the oddest attitude. Rigaud, for his part, arose from his chair, and seated himself on the table with his legs dangling. In this easy attitude, he met Mrs Clennam’s set face, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down.

‘Madame, I am a gentleman—’

‘Of whom,’ she interrupted in her steady tones, ‘I have heard disparagement, in connection with a French jail and an accusation of murder.’

He kissed his hand to her with his exaggerated gallantry.

‘Perfectly. Exactly. Of a lady too! What absurdity! How incredible! I had the honour of making a great success then; I hope to have the honour of making a great success now. I kiss your hands. Madame, I am a gentleman (I was going to observe), who when he says, “I will definitely finish this or that affair at the present sitting,” does definitely finish it. I announce to you that we are arrived at our last sitting on our little business. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’

She kept her eyes fixed upon him with a frown. ‘Yes.’

‘Further, I am a gentleman to whom mere mercenary trade-bargains are unknown, but to whom money is always acceptable as the means of pursuing his pleasures. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’

‘Scarcely necessary to ask, one would say. Yes.’

‘Further, I am a gentleman of the softest and sweetest disposition, but who, if trifled with, becomes enraged. Noble natures under such circumstances become enraged. I possess a noble nature. When the lion is awakened—that is to say, when I enrage—the satisfaction of my animosity is as acceptable to me as money. You always do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, somewhat louder than before.

‘Do not let me derange you; pray be tranquil. I have said we are now arrived at our last sitting. Allow me to recall the two sittings we have held.’

‘It is not necessary.’

‘Death, madame,’ he burst out, ‘it’s my fancy! Besides, it clears the way. The first sitting was limited. I had the honour of making your acquaintance—of presenting my letter; I am a Knight of Industry, at your service, madame, but my polished manners had won me so much of success, as a master of languages, among your compatriots who are as stiff as their own starch is to one another, but are ready to relax to a foreign gentleman of polished manners—and of observing one or two little things,’ he glanced around the room and smiled, ‘about this honourable house, to know which was necessary to assure me, and to convince me that I had the distinguished pleasure of making the acquaintance of the lady I sought. I achieved this. I gave my word of honour to our dear Flintwinch that I would return. I gracefully departed.’

Her face neither acquiesced nor demurred. The same when he paused, and when he spoke, it as yet showed him always the one attentive frown, and the dark revelation before mentioned of her being nerved for the occasion.

‘I say, gracefully departed, because it was graceful to retire without alarming a lady. To be morally graceful, not less than physically, is a part of the character of Rigaud Blandois. It was also politic, as leaving you with something overhanging you, to expect me again with a little anxiety on a day not named. But your slave is politic. By Heaven, madame, politic! Let us return. On the day not named, I have again the honour to render myself at your house. I intimate that I have something to sell, which, if not bought, will compromise madame whom I highly esteem. I explain myself generally. I demand—I think it was a thousand pounds. Will you correct me?’

Thus forced to speak, she replied with constraint, ‘You demanded as much as a thousand pounds.’

‘I demand at present, Two. Such are the evils of delay. But to return once more. We are not accordant; we differ on that occasion. I am playful; playfulness is a part of my amiable character. Playfully, I become as one slain and hidden. For, it may alone be worth half the sum to madame, to be freed from the suspicions that my droll idea awakens. Accident and spies intermix themselves against my playfulness, and spoil the fruit, perhaps—who knows? only you and Flintwinch—when it is just ripe. Thus, madame, I am here for the last time. Listen! Definitely the last.’

As he struck his straggling boot-heels against the flap of the table, meeting her frown with an insolent gaze, he began to change his tone for a fierce one.

‘Bah! Stop an instant! Let us advance by steps. Here is my Hotel-note to be paid, according to contract. Five minutes hence we may be at daggers’ points. I’ll not leave it till then, or you’ll cheat me. Pay it! Count me the money!’

‘Take it from his hand and pay it, Flintwinch,’ said Mrs Clennam.

He spirted it into Mr Flintwinch’s face when the old man advanced to take it, and held forth his hand, repeating noisily, ‘Pay it! Count it out! Good money!’ Jeremiah picked the bill up, looked at the total with a bloodshot eye, took a small canvas bag from his pocket, and told the amount into his hand.

Rigaud chinked the money, weighed it in his hand, threw it up a little way and caught it, chinked it again.

‘The sound of it, to the bold Rigaud Blandois, is like the taste of fresh meat to the tiger. Say, then, madame. How much?’

He turned upon her suddenly with a menacing gesture of the weighted hand that clenched the money, as if he were going to strike her with it.

‘I tell you again, as I told you before, that we are not rich here, as you suppose us to be, and that your demand is excessive. I have not the present means of complying with such a demand, if I had ever so great an inclination.’

‘If!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Hear this lady with her If! Will you say that you have not the inclination?’

‘I will say what presents itself to me, and not what presents itself to you.’

‘Say it then. As to the inclination. Quick! Come to the inclination, and I know what to do.’

She was no quicker, and no slower, in her reply. ‘It would seem that you have obtained possession of a paper—or of papers—which I assuredly have the inclination to recover.’

Rigaud, with a loud laugh, drummed his heels against the table, and chinked his money. ‘I think so! I believe you there!’

‘The paper might be worth, to me, a sum of money. I cannot say how much, or how little.’

‘What the Devil!’ he asked savagely. ‘Not after a week’s grace to consider?’

‘No! I will not out of my scanty means—for I tell you again, we are poor here, and not rich—I will not offer any price for a power that I do not know the worst and the fullest extent of. This is the third time of your hinting and threatening. You must speak explicitly, or you may go where you will, and do what you will. It is better to be torn to pieces at a spring, than to be a mouse at the caprice of such a cat.’

He looked at her so hard with those eyes too near together that the sinister sight of each, crossing that of the other, seemed to make the bridge of his hooked nose crooked. After a long survey, he said, with the further setting off of his internal smile:

‘You are a bold woman!’

‘I am a resolved woman.’

‘You always were. What? She always was; is it not so, my little Flintwinch?’

‘Flintwinch, say nothing to him. It is for him to say, here and now, all he can; or to go hence, and do all he can. You know this to be our determination. Leave him to his action on it.’

She did not shrink under his evil leer, or avoid it. He turned it upon her again, but she remained steady at the point to which she had fixed herself. He got off the table, placed a chair near the sofa, sat down in it, and leaned an arm upon the sofa close to her own, which he touched with his hand. Her face was ever frowning, attentive, and settled.

‘It is your pleasure then, madame, that I shall relate a morsel of family history in this little family society,’ said Rigaud, with a warning play of his lithe fingers on her arm. ‘I am something of a doctor. Let me touch your pulse.’

She suffered him to take her wrist in his hand. Holding it, he proceeded to say:

‘A history of a strange marriage, and a strange mother, and a revenge, and a suppression.—Aye, aye, aye? this pulse is beating curiously! It appears to me that it doubles while I touch it. Are these the usual changes of your malady, madame?’

There was a struggle in her maimed arm as she twisted it away, but there was none in her face. On his face there was his own smile.

‘I have lived an adventurous life. I am an adventurous character. I have known many adventurers; interesting spirits—amiable society! To one of them I owe my knowledge and my proofs—I repeat it, estimable lady—proofs—of the ravishing little family history I go to commence. You will be charmed with it. But, bah! I forget. One should name a history. Shall I name it the history of a house? But, bah, again. There are so many houses. Shall I name it the history of this house?’

Leaning over the sofa, poised on two legs of his chair and his left elbow; that hand often tapping her arm to beat his words home; his legs crossed; his right hand sometimes arranging his hair, sometimes smoothing his moustache, sometimes striking his nose, always threatening her whatever it did; coarse, insolent, rapacious, cruel, and powerful, he pursued his narrative at his ease.

‘In fine, then, I name it the history of this house. I commence it. There live here, let us suppose, an uncle and nephew. The uncle, a rigid old gentleman of strong force of character; the nephew, habitually timid, repressed, and under constraint.’

Mistress Affery, fixedly attentive in the window-seat, biting the rolled up end of her apron, and trembling from head to foot, here cried out, ‘Jeremiah, keep off from me! I’ve heerd, in my dreams, of Arthur’s father and his uncle. He’s a talking of them. It was before my time here; but I’ve heerd in my dreams that Arthur’s father was a poor, irresolute, frightened chap, who had had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young, and that he had no voice in the choice of his wife even, but his uncle chose her. There she sits! I heerd it in my dreams, and you said it to her own self.’

As Mr Flintwinch shook his fist at her, and as Mrs Clennam gazed upon her, Rigaud kissed his hand to her.

‘Perfectly right, dear Madame Flintwinch. You have a genius for dreaming.’

‘I don’t want none of your praises,’ returned Affery. ‘I don’t want to have nothing at all to say to you. But Jeremiah said they was dreams, and I’ll tell ‘em as such!’ Here she put her apron in her mouth again, as if she were stopping somebody else’s mouth—perhaps Jeremiah’s, which was chattering with threats as if he were grimly cold.

‘Our beloved Madame Flintwinch,’ said Rigaud, ‘developing all of a sudden a fine susceptibility and spirituality, is right to a marvel. Yes. So runs the history. Monsieur, the uncle, commands the nephew to marry. Monsieur says to him in effect, “My nephew, I introduce to you a lady of strong force of character, like myself—a resolved lady, a stern lady, a lady who has a will that can break the weak to powder: a lady without pity, without love, implacable, revengeful, cold as the stone, but raging as the fire.” Ah! what fortitude! Ah, what superiority of intellectual strength! Truly, a proud and noble character that I describe in the supposed words of Monsieur, the uncle. Ha, ha, ha! Death of my soul, I love the sweet lady!’

Mrs Clennam’s face had changed. There was a remarkable darkness of colour on it, and the brow was more contracted. ‘Madame, madame,’ said Rigaud, tapping her on the arm, as if his cruel hand were sounding a musical instrument, ‘I perceive I interest you. I perceive I awaken your sympathy. Let us go on.’

The drooping nose and the ascending moustache had, however, to be hidden for a moment with the white hand, before he could go on; he enjoyed the effect he made so much.

‘The nephew, being, as the lucid Madame Flintwinch has remarked, a poor devil who has had everything but his orphan life frightened and famished out of him—the nephew abases his head, and makes response: “My uncle, it is to you to command. Do as you will!” Monsieur, the uncle, does as he will. It is what he always does. The auspicious nuptials take place; the newly married come home to this charming mansion; the lady is received, let us suppose, by Flintwinch. Hey, old intriguer?’

Jeremiah, with his eyes upon his mistress, made no reply. Rigaud looked from one to the other, struck his ugly nose, and made a clucking with his tongue.

‘Soon the lady makes a singular and exciting discovery. Thereupon, full of anger, full of jealousy, full of vengeance, she forms—see you, madame!—a scheme of retribution, the weight of which she ingeniously forces her crushed husband to bear himself, as well as execute upon her enemy. What superior intelligence!’

‘Keep off, Jeremiah!’ cried the palpitating Affery, taking her apron from her mouth again. ‘But it was one of my dreams, that you told her, when you quarrelled with her one winter evening at dusk—there she sits and you looking at her—that she oughtn’t to have let Arthur when he come home, suspect his father only; that she had always had the strength and the power; and that she ought to have stood up more to Arthur, for his father. It was in the same dream where you said to her that she was not—not something, but I don’t know what, for she burst out tremendous and stopped you. You know the dream as well as I do. When you come down-stairs into the kitchen with the candle in your hand, and hitched my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you wouldn’t believe the noises.’ After this explosion Affery put her apron into her mouth again; always keeping her hand on the window-sill and her knee on the window-seat, ready to cry out or jump out if her lord and master approached.

Rigaud had not lost a word of this.

‘Haha!’ he cried, lifting his eyebrows, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair. ‘Assuredly, Madame Flintwinch is an oracle! How shall we interpret the oracle, you and I and the old intriguer? He said that you were not—? And you burst out and stopped him! What was it you were not? What is it you are not? Say then, madame!’

Under this ferocious banter, she sat breathing harder, and her mouth was disturbed. Her lips quivered and opened, in spite of her utmost efforts to keep them still.

‘Come then, madame! Speak, then! Our old intriguer said that you were not—and you stopped him. He was going to say that you were not—what? I know already, but I want a little confidence from you. How, then? You are not what?’

She tried again to repress herself, but broke out vehemently, ‘Not Arthur’s mother!’

‘Good,’ said Rigaud. ‘You are amenable.’

With the set expression of her face all torn away by the explosion of her passion, and with a bursting, from every rent feature, of the smouldering fire so long pent up, she cried out: ‘I will tell it myself! I will not hear it from your lips, and with the taint of your wickedness upon it. Since it must be seen, I will have it seen by the light I stood in. Not another word. Hear me!’

‘Unless you are a more obstinate and more persisting woman than even I know you to be,’ Mr Flintwinch interposed, ‘you had better leave Mr Rigaud, Mr Blandois, Mr Beelzebub, to tell it in his own way. What does it signify when he knows all about it?’

‘He does not know all about it.’

‘He knows all he cares about it,’ Mr Flintwinch testily urged.

‘He does not know me.’

‘What do you suppose he cares for you, you conceited woman?’ said Mr Flintwinch.

‘I tell you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I tell you when it has come to this, I will tell it with my own lips, and will express myself throughout it. What! Have I suffered nothing in this room, no deprivation, no imprisonment, that I should condescend at last to contemplate myself in such a glass as that. Can you see him? Can you hear him? If your wife were a hundred times the ingrate that she is, and if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am of inducing her to be silent if this man is silenced, I would tell it myself, before I would bear the torment of the hearing it from him.’

Rigaud pushed his chair a little back; pushed his legs out straight before him; and sat with his arms folded over against her.

‘You do not know what it is,’ she went on addressing him, ‘to be brought up strictly and straitly. I was so brought up. Mine was no light youth of sinful gaiety and pleasure. Mine were days of wholesome repression, punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the evil of our ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us—these were the themes of my childhood. They formed my character, and filled me with an abhorrence of evil-doers. When old Mr Gilbert Clennam proposed his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint. He told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. He told me that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged him as one; and that from his school-days to that hour, his uncle’s roof has been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious and dissolute. When, within a twelvemonth of our marriage, I found my husband, at that time when my father spoke of him, to have sinned against the Lord and outraged me by holding a guilty creature in my place, was I to doubt that it had been appointed to me to make the discovery, and that it was appointed to me to lay the hand of punishment upon that creature of perdition? Was I to dismiss in a moment—not my own wrongs—what was I! but all the rejection of sin, and all the war against it, in which I had been bred?’

She laid her wrathful hand upon the watch on the table.

‘No! “Do not forget.” The initials of those words are within here now, and were within here then. I was appointed to find the old letter that referred to them, and that told me what they meant, and whose work they were, and why they were worked, lying with this watch in his secret drawer. But for that appointment there would have been no discovery. “Do not forget.” It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Do not forget the deadly sin, do not forget the appointed discovery, do not forget the appointed suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrong I remembered? Mine! I was but a servant and a minister. What power could I have over them, but that they were bound in the bonds of their sin, and delivered to me!’

More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined woman, since the time she recalled. More than forty years of strife and struggle with the whisper that, by whatever name she called her vindictive pride and rage, nothing through all eternity could change their nature. Yet, gone those more than forty years, and come this Nemesis now looking her in the face, she still abided by her old impiety—still reversed the order of Creation, and breathed her own breath into a clay image of her Creator. Verily, verily, travellers have seen many monstrous idols in many countries; but no human eyes have ever seen more daring, gross, and shocking images of the Divine nature than we creatures of the dust make in our own likenesses, of our own bad passions.

‘When I forced him to give her up to me, by her name and place of abode,’ she went on in her torrent of indignation and defence; ‘when I accused her, and she fell hiding her face at my feet, was it my injury that I asserted, were they my reproaches that I poured upon her? Those who were appointed of old to go to wicked kings and accuse them—were they not ministers and servants? And had not I, unworthy and far-removed from them, sin to denounce? When she pleaded to me her youth, and his wretched and hard life (that was her phrase for the virtuous training he had belied), and the desecrated ceremony of marriage there had secretly been between them, and the terrors of want and shame that had overwhelmed them both when I was first appointed to be the instrument of their punishment, and the love (for she said the word to me, down at my feet) in which she had abandoned him and left him to me, was it my enemy that became my footstool, were they the words of my wrath that made her shrink and quiver! Not unto me the strength be ascribed; not unto me the wringing of the expiation!’

Many years had come and gone since she had had the free use even of her fingers; but it was noticeable that she had already more than once struck her clenched hand vigorously upon the table, and that when she said these words she raised her whole arm in the air, as though it had been a common action with her.

‘And what was the repentance that was extorted from the hardness of her heart and the blackness of her depravity? I, vindictive and implacable? It may be so, to such as you who know no righteousness, and no appointment except Satan’s. Laugh; but I will be known as I know myself, and as Flintwinch knows me, though it is only to you and this half-witted woman.’

‘Add, to yourself, madame,’ said Rigaud. ‘I have my little suspicions that madame is rather solicitous to be justified to herself.’

‘It is false. It is not so. I have no need to be,’ she said, with great energy and anger.

‘Truly?’ retorted Rigaud. ‘Hah!’

‘I ask, what was the penitence, in works, that was demanded of her? “You have a child; I have none. You love that child. Give him to me. He shall believe himself to be my son, and he shall be believed by every one to be my son. To save you from exposure, his father shall swear never to see or communicate with you more; equally to save him from being stripped by his uncle, and to save your child from being a beggar, you shall swear never to see or communicate with either of them more. That done, and your present means, derived from my husband, renounced, I charge myself with your support. You may, with your place of retreat unknown, then leave, if you please, uncontradicted by me, the lie that when you passed out of all knowledge but mine, you merited a good name.” That was all. She had to sacrifice her sinful and shameful affections; no more. She was then free to bear her load of guilt in secret, and to break her heart in secret; and through such present misery (light enough for her, I think!) to purchase her redemption from endless misery, if she could. If, in this, I punished her here, did I not open to her a way hereafter? If she knew herself to be surrounded by insatiable vengeance and unquenchable fires, were they mine? If I threatened her, then and afterwards, with the terrors that encompassed her, did I hold them in my right hand?’

She turned the watch upon the table, and opened it, and, with an unsoftening face, looked at the worked letters within.

‘They did not forget. It is appointed against such offences that the offenders shall not be able to forget. If the presence of Arthur was a daily reproach to his father, and if the absence of Arthur was a daily agony to his mother, that was the just dispensation of Jehovah. As well might it be charged upon me, that the stings of an awakened conscience drove her mad, and that it was the will of the Disposer of all things that she should live so, many years. I devoted myself to reclaim the otherwise predestined and lost boy; to give him the reputation of an honest origin; to bring him up in fear and trembling, and in a life of practical contrition for the sins that were heavy on his head before his entrance into this condemned world. Was that a cruelty? Was I, too, not visited with consequences of the original offence in which I had no complicity? Arthur’s father and I lived no further apart, with half the globe between us, than when we were together in this house. He died, and sent this watch back to me, with its Do not forget. I do NOT forget, though I do not read it as he did. I read in it, that I was appointed to do these things. I have so read these three letters since I have had them lying on this table, and I did so read them, with equal distinctness, when they were thousands of miles away.’

As she took the watch-case in her hand, with that new freedom in the use of her hand of which she showed no consciousness whatever, bending her eyes upon it as if she were defying it to move her, Rigaud cried with a loud and contemptuous snapping of his fingers. ‘Come, madame! Time runs out. Come, lady of piety, it must be! You can tell nothing I don’t know. Come to the money stolen, or I will! Death of my soul, I have had enough of your other jargon. Come straight to the stolen money!’

‘Wretch that you are,’ she answered, and now her hands clasped her head: ‘through what fatal error of Flintwinch’s, through what incompleteness on his part, who was the only other person helping in these things and trusted with them, through whose and what bringing together of the ashes of a burnt paper, you have become possessed of that codicil, I know no more than how you acquired the rest of your power here—’

‘And yet,’ interrupted Rigaud, ‘it is my odd fortune to have by me, in a convenient place that I know of, that same short little addition to the will of Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, written by a lady and witnessed by the same lady and our old intriguer! Ah, bah, old intriguer, crooked little puppet! Madame, let us go on. Time presses. You or I to finish?’

‘I!’ she answered, with increased determination, if it were possible. ‘I, because I will not endure to be shown myself, and have myself shown to any one, with your horrible distortion upon me. You, with your practices of infamous foreign prisons and galleys would make it the money that impelled me. It was not the money.’

‘Bah, bah, bah! I repudiate, for the moment, my politeness, and say, Lies, lies, lies. You know you suppressed the deed and kept the money.’

‘Not for the money’s sake, wretch!’ She made a struggle as if she were starting up; even as if, in her vehemence, she had almost risen on her disabled feet. ‘If Gilbert Clennam, reduced to imbecility, at the point of death, and labouring under the delusion of some imaginary relenting towards a girl of whom he had heard that his nephew had once had a fancy for her which he had crushed out of him, and that she afterwards drooped away into melancholy and withdrawal from all who knew her—if, in that state of weakness, he dictated to me, whose life she had darkened with her sin, and who had been appointed to know her wickedness from her own hand and her own lips, a bequest meant as a recompense to her for supposed unmerited suffering; was there no difference between my spurning that injustice, and coveting mere money—a thing which you, and your comrades in the prisons, may steal from anyone?’

‘Time presses, madame. Take care!’

‘If this house was blazing from the roof to the ground,’ she returned, ‘I would stay in it to justify myself against my righteous motives being classed with those of stabbers and thieves.’

Rigaud snapped his fingers tauntingly in her face. ‘One thousand guineas to the little beauty you slowly hunted to death. One thousand guineas to the youngest daughter her patron might have at fifty, or (if he had none) brother’s youngest daughter, on her coming of age, “as the remembrance his disinterestedness may like best, of his protection of a friendless young orphan girl.” Two thousand guineas. What! You will never come to the money?’

‘That patron,’ she was vehemently proceeding, when he checked her.

‘Names! Call him Mr Frederick Dorrit. No more evasions.’

‘That Frederick Dorrit was the beginning of it all. If he had not been a player of music, and had not kept, in those days of his youth and prosperity, an idle house where singers, and players, and such-like children of Evil turned their backs on the Light and their faces to the Darkness, she might have remained in her lowly station, and might not have been raised out of it to be cast down. But, no. Satan entered into that Frederick Dorrit, and counselled him that he was a man of innocent and laudable tastes who did kind actions, and that here was a poor girl with a voice for singing music with. Then he is to have her taught. Then Arthur’s father, who has all along been secretly pining in the ways of virtuous ruggedness for those accursed snares which are called the Arts, becomes acquainted with her. And so, a graceless orphan, training to be a singing girl, carries it, by that Frederick Dorrit’s agency, against me, and I am humbled and deceived!—Not I, that is to say,’ she added quickly, as colour flushed into her face; ‘a greater than I. What am I?’

Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had been gradually screwing himself towards her, and who was now very near her elbow without her knowing it, made a specially wry face of objection when she said these words, and moreover twitched his gaiters, as if such pretensions were equivalent to little barbs in his legs.

‘Lastly,’ she continued, ‘for I am at the end of these things, and I will say no more of them, and you shall say no more of them, and all that remains will be to determine whether the knowledge of them can be kept among us who are here present; lastly, when I suppressed that paper, with the knowledge of Arthur’s father—’

‘But not with his consent, you know,’ said Mr Flintwinch.

‘Who said with his consent?’ She started to find Jeremiah so near her, and drew back her head, looking at him with some rising distrust. ‘You were often enough between us when he would have had me produce it and I would not, to have contradicted me if I had said, with his consent. I say, when I suppressed that paper, I made no effort to destroy it, but kept it by me, here in this house, many years. The rest of the Gilbert property being left to Arthur’s father, I could at any time, without unsettling more than the two sums, have made a pretence of finding it. But, besides that I must have supported such pretence by a direct falsehood (a great responsibility), I have seen no new reason, in all the time I have been tried here, to bring it to light. It was a rewarding of sin; the wrong result of a delusion. I did what I was appointed to do, and I have undergone, within these four walls, what I was appointed to undergo. When the paper was at last destroyed—as I thought—in my presence, she had long been dead, and her patron, Frederick Dorrit, had long been deservedly ruined and imbecile. He had no daughter. I had found the niece before then; and what I did for her, was better for her far than the money of which she would have had no good.’ She added, after a moment, as though she addressed the watch: ‘She herself was innocent, and I might not have forgotten to relinquish it to her at my death:’ and sat looking at it.

‘Shall I recall something to you, worthy madame?’ said Rigaud. ‘The little paper was in this house on the night when our friend the prisoner—jail-comrade of my soul—came home from foreign countries. Shall I recall yet something more to you? The little singing-bird that never was fledged, was long kept in a cage by a guardian of your appointing, well enough known to our old intriguer here. Shall we coax our old intriguer to tell us when he saw him last?’

‘I’ll tell you!’ cried Affery, unstopping her mouth. ‘I dreamed it, first of all my dreams. Jeremiah, if you come a-nigh me now, I’ll scream to be heard at St Paul’s! The person as this man has spoken of, was Jeremiah’s own twin brother; and he was here in the dead of the night, on the night when Arthur come home, and Jeremiah with his own hands give him this paper, along with I don’t know what more, and he took it away in an iron box—Help! Murder! Save me from Jere-mi-ah!’

Mr Flintwinch had made a run at her, but Rigaud had caught him in his arms midway. After a moment’s wrestle with him, Flintwinch gave up, and put his hands in his pockets.

‘What!’ cried Rigaud, rallying him as he poked and jerked him back with his elbows, ‘assault a lady with such a genius for dreaming! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she’ll be a fortune to you as an exhibition. All that she dreams comes true. Ha, ha, ha! You’re so like him, Little Flintwinch. So like him, as I knew him (when I first spoke English for him to the host) in the Cabaret of the Three Billiard Tables, in the little street of the high roofs, by the wharf at Antwerp! Ah, but he was a brave boy to drink. Ah, but he was a brave boy to smoke! Ah, but he lived in a sweet bachelor-apartment—furnished, on the fifth floor, above the wood and charcoal merchant’s, and the dress-maker’s, and the chair-maker’s, and the maker of tubs—where I knew him too, and wherewith his cognac and tobacco, he had twelve sleeps a day and one fit, until he had a fit too much, and ascended to the skies. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter how I took possession of the papers in his iron box? Perhaps he confided it to my hands for you, perhaps it was locked and my curiosity was piqued, perhaps I suppressed it. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter, so that I have it safe? We are not particular here; hey, Flintwinch? We are not particular here; is it not so, madame?’

Retiring before him with vicious counter-jerks of his own elbows, Mr Flintwinch had got back into his corner, where he now stood with his hands in his pockets, taking breath, and returning Mrs Clennam’s stare. ‘Ha, ha, ha! But what’s this?’ cried Rigaud. ‘It appears as if you don’t know, one the other. Permit me, Madame Clennam who suppresses, to present Monsieur Flintwinch who intrigues.’

Mr Flintwinch, unpocketing one of his hands to scrape his jaw, advanced a step or so in that attitude, still returning Mrs Clennam’s look, and thus addressed her:

‘Now, I know what you mean by opening your eyes so wide at me, but you needn’t take the trouble, because I don’t care for it. I’ve been telling you for how many years that you’re one of the most opinionated and obstinate of women. That’s what you are. You call yourself humble and sinful, but you are the most Bumptious of your sex. That’s what you are. I have told you, over and over again when we have had a tiff, that you wanted to make everything go down before you, but I wouldn’t go down before you—that you wanted to swallow up everybody alive, but I wouldn’t be swallowed up alive. Why didn’t you destroy the paper when you first laid hands upon it? I advised you to; but no, it’s not your way to take advice. You must keep it forsooth. Perhaps you may carry it out at some other time, forsooth. As if I didn’t know better than that! I think I see your pride carrying it out, with a chance of being suspected of having kept it by you. But that’s the way you cheat yourself. Just as you cheat yourself into making out that you didn’t do all this business because you were a rigorous woman, all slight, and spite, and power, and unforgiveness, but because you were a servant and a minister, and were appointed to do it. Who are you, that you should be appointed to do it? That may be your religion, but it’s my gammon. And to tell you all the truth while I am about it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, crossing his arms, and becoming the express image of irascible doggedness, ‘I have been rasped—rasped these forty years—by your taking such high ground even with me, who knows better; the effect of it being coolly to put me on low ground. I admire you very much; you are a woman of strong head and great talent; but the strongest head, and the greatest talent, can’t rasp a man for forty years without making him sore. So I don’t care for your present eyes. Now, I am coming to the paper, and mark what I say. You put it away somewhere, and you kept your own counsel where. You’re an active woman at that time, and if you want to get that paper, you can get it. But, mark. There comes a time when you are struck into what you are now, and then if you want to get that paper, you can’t get it. So it lies, long years, in its hiding-place. At last, when we are expecting Arthur home every day, and when any day may bring him home, and it’s impossible to say what rummaging he may make about the house, I recommend you five thousand times, if you can’t get at it, to let me get at it, that it may be put in the fire. But no—no one but you knows where it is, and that’s power; and, call yourself whatever humble names you will, I call you a female Lucifer in appetite for power! On a Sunday night, Arthur comes home. He has not been in this room ten minutes, when he speaks of his father’s watch. You know very well that the Do Not Forget, at the time when his father sent that watch to you, could only mean, the rest of the story being then all dead and over, Do Not Forget the suppression. Make restitution! Arthur’s ways have frightened you a bit, and the paper shall be burnt after all. So, before that jumping jade and Jezebel,’ Mr Flintwinch grinned at his wife, ‘has got you into bed, you at last tell me where you have put the paper, among the old ledgers in the cellars, where Arthur himself went prowling the very next morning. But it’s not to be burnt on a Sunday night. No; you are strict, you are; we must wait over twelve o’clock, and get into Monday. Now, all this is a swallowing of me up alive that rasps me; so, feeling a little out of temper, and not being as strict as yourself, I take a look at the document before twelve o’clock to refresh my memory as to its appearance—fold up one of the many yellow old papers in the cellars like it—and afterwards, when we have got into Monday morning, and I have, by the light of your lamp, to walk from you, lying on that bed, to this grate, make a little exchange like the conjuror, and burn accordingly. My brother Ephraim, the lunatic-keeper (I wish he had had himself to keep in a strait-waistcoat), had had many jobs since the close of the long job he got from you, but had not done well. His wife died (not that that was much; mine might have died instead, and welcome), he speculated unsuccessfully in lunatics, he got into difficulty about over-roasting a patient to bring him to reason, and he got into debt. He was going out of the way, on what he had been able to scrape up, and a trifle from me. He was here that early Monday morning, waiting for the tide; in short, he was going to Antwerp, where (I am afraid you’ll be shocked at my saying, And be damned to him!) he made the acquaintance of this gentleman. He had come a long way, and, I thought then, was only sleepy; but, I suppose now, was drunk. When Arthur’s mother had been under the care of him and his wife, she had been always writing, incessantly writing,—mostly letters of confession to you, and Prayers for forgiveness. My brother had handed, from time to time, lots of these sheets to me. I thought I might as well keep them to myself as have them swallowed up alive too; so I kept them in a box, looking over them when I felt in the humour. Convinced that it was advisable to get the paper out of the place, with Arthur coming about it, I put it into this same box, and I locked the whole up with two locks, and I trusted it to my brother to take away and keep, till I should write about it. I did write about it, and never got an answer. I didn’t know what to make of it, till this gentleman favoured us with his first visit. Of course, I began to suspect how it was, then; and I don’t want his word for it now to understand how he gets his knowledge from my papers, and your paper, and my brother’s cognac and tobacco talk (I wish he’d had to gag himself). Now, I have only one thing more to say, you hammer-headed woman, and that is, that I haven’t altogether made up my mind whether I might, or might not, have ever given you any trouble about the codicil. I think not; and that I should have been quite satisfied with knowing I had got the better of you, and that I held the power over you. In the present state of circumstances, I have no more explanation to give you till this time to-morrow night. So you may as well,’ said Mr Flintwinch, terminating his oration with a screw, ‘keep your eyes open at somebody else, for it’s no use keeping ‘em open at me.’

She slowly withdrew them when he had ceased, and dropped her forehead on her hand. Her other hand pressed hard upon the table, and again the curious stir was observable in her, as if she were going to rise.

‘This box can never bring, elsewhere, the price it will bring here. This knowledge can never be of the same profit to you, sold to any other person, as sold to me. But I have not the present means of raising the sum you have demanded. I have not prospered. What will you take now, and what at another time, and how am I to be assured of your silence?’

‘My angel,’ said Rigaud, ‘I have said what I will take, and time presses. Before coming here, I placed copies of the most important of these papers in another hand. Put off the time till the Marshalsea gate shall be shut for the night, and it will be too late to treat. The prisoner will have read them.’

She put her two hands to her head again, uttered a loud exclamation, and started to her feet. She staggered for a moment, as if she would have fallen; then stood firm.

‘Say what you mean. Say what you mean, man!’

Before her ghostly figure, so long unused to its erect attitude, and so stiffened in it, Rigaud fell back and dropped his voice. It was, to all the three, almost as if a dead woman had risen.

‘Miss Dorrit,’ answered Rigaud, ‘the little niece of Monsieur Frederick, whom I have known across the water, is attached to the prisoner. Miss Dorrit, little niece of Monsieur Frederick, watches at this moment over the prisoner, who is ill. For her I with my own hands left a packet at the prison, on my way here, with a letter of instructions, “for his sake”—she will do anything for his sake—to keep it without breaking the seal, in case of its being reclaimed before the hour of shutting up to-night—if it should not be reclaimed before the ringing of the prison bell, to give it to him; and it encloses a second copy for herself, which he must give to her. What! I don’t trust myself among you, now we have got so far, without giving my secret a second life. And as to its not bringing me, elsewhere, the price it will bring here, say then, madame, have you limited and settled the price the little niece will give—for his sake—to hush it up? Once more I say, time presses. The packet not reclaimed before the ringing of the bell to-night, you cannot buy. I sell, then, to the little girl!’

Once more the stir and struggle in her, and she ran to a closet, tore the door open, took down a hood or shawl, and wrapped it over her head. Affery, who had watched her in terror, darted to her in the middle of the room, caught hold of her dress, and went on her knees to her.

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t! What are you doing? Where are you going? You’re a fearful woman, but I don’t bear you no ill-will. I can do poor Arthur no good now, that I see; and you needn’t be afraid of me. I’ll keep your secret. Don’t go out, you’ll fall dead in the street. Only promise me, that, if it’s the poor thing that’s kept here secretly, you’ll let me take charge of her and be her nurse. Only promise me that, and never be afraid of me.’

Mrs Clennam stood still for an instant, at the height of her rapid haste, saying in stern amazement:

‘Kept here? She has been dead a score of years or more. Ask Flintwinch—ask him. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur went abroad.’

‘So much the worse,’ said Affery, with a shiver, ‘for she haunts the house, then. Who else rustles about it, making signals by dropping dust so softly? Who else comes and goes, and marks the walls with long crooked touches when we are all a-bed? Who else holds the door sometimes? But don’t go out—don’t go out! Mistress, you’ll die in the street!’

Her mistress only disengaged her dress from the beseeching hands, said to Rigaud, ‘Wait here till I come back!’ and ran out of the room. They saw her, from the window, run wildly through the court-yard and out at the gateway.

For a few moments they stood motionless. Affery was the first to move, and she, wringing her hands, pursued her mistress. Next, Jeremiah Flintwinch, slowly backing to the door, with one hand in a pocket, and the other rubbing his chin, twisted himself out in his reticent way, speechlessly. Rigaud, left alone, composed himself upon the window-seat of the open window, in the old Marseilles-jail attitude. He laid his cigarettes and fire-box ready to his hand, and fell to smoking.

‘Whoof! Almost as dull as the infernal old jail. Warmer, but almost as dismal. Wait till she comes back? Yes, certainly; but where is she gone, and how long will she be gone? No matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my amiable subject, you will get your money. You will enrich yourself. You have lived a gentleman; you will die a gentleman. You triumph, my little boy; but it is your character to triumph. Whoof!’

In the hour of his triumph, his moustache went up and his nose came down, as he ogled a great beam over his head with particular satisfaction.

CHAPTER 31. Closed

The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment.

Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain, conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward, taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes. Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people, crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious after it.

Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air, and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces.

‘Why are you encircling me?’ she asked, trembling.

None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there arose a shrill cry of ‘’Cause you’re mad!’

‘I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea prison.’

The shrill outer circle again retorted, ‘Then that ‘ud show you was mad if nothing else did, ‘cause it’s right opposite!’

A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: ‘Was it the Marshalsea you wanted? I’m going on duty there. Come across with me.’

She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd, rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam. After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened, and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already striving with the prison shadows.

‘Why, John!’ said the turnkey who admitted them. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered by the boys. Who did you want, ma’am?’

‘Miss Dorrit. Is she here?’

The young man became more interested. ‘Yes, she is here. What might your name be?’

‘Mrs Clennam.’

‘Mr Clennam’s mother?’ asked the young man.

She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. ‘Yes. She had better be told it is his mother.’

‘You see,’ said the young man, ‘the Marshal’s family living in the country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms in his house to use when she likes. Don’t you think you had better come up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?’

She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her.

‘Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as—’

Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the face that turned to her.

‘This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don’t know what it is.’ With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all that aside. ‘You have a packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not reclaimed before this place closed to-night.’

‘Yes.’

‘I reclaim it.’

Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which remained stretched out after receiving it.

‘Have you any idea of its contents?’

Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her, which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little Dorrit answered ‘No.’

‘Read them.’

Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window. In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself before her.

‘You know, now, what I have done.’

‘I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry, and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have read,’ said Little Dorrit tremulously.

‘I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can you forgive me?’

‘I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.’

‘I have more yet to ask.’

‘Not in that posture,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘It is unnatural to see your grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.’ With that she raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her earnestly.

‘The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare me until I am dead?’

‘I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘that I can scarcely give you a steady answer. If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr Clennam no good—’

‘I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?’

‘I will.’

‘GOD bless you!’

She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three grateful words, was at once fervent and broken—broken by emotion as unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs.

‘You will wonder, perhaps,’ she said in a stronger tone, ‘that I can better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son of my enemy who wronged me.—For she did wrong me! She not only sinned grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur’s father was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her. You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?’

‘No thought,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘can be quite a stranger to my heart, that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied upon for being kind and generous and good.’

‘I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person from whom I would conceal this, while I am in it. I kept over him as a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father, seeing the weakness of his father yearning to unbend to him; and forcing it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage and hardship. I have seen him, with his mother’s face, looking up at me in awe from his little books, and trying to soften me with his mother’s ways that hardened me.’

The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice.

‘For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother’s influence lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he might—so frail we are, and so do the corrupt affections of the flesh war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done considerately and with deference. These have been his relations towards me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the motives with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter to endure than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his face, and utterly perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning and swallowed by an earthquake.’

Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so, when she added:

‘Even now, I see you shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.’

Little Dorrit could not gainsay it. She tried not to show it, but she recoiled with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry upon it, in its own plain nature.

‘I have done,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘what it was given to me to do. I have set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument of severity against sin. Have not mere sinners like myself been commissioned to lay it low in all time?’

‘In all time?’ repeated Little Dorrit.

‘Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance had moved me, could I have found no justification? None in the old days when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the wrath of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked even in blood, and yet found favour?’

‘O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective; but let me implore you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in His life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain.’

In the softened light of the window, looking from the scene of her early trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition to the black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine on which she rested were to that figure’s history. It bent its head low again, and said not a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring.

‘Hark!’ cried Mrs Clennam starting, ‘I said I had another petition. It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having time. He refuses to make any abatement, because his threat is, that if he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask in Arthur’s name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur’s sake!’

Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided away into the prison for a few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front court-yard, now all quiet and deserted, gained the street.

It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness than a long twilight. The vista of street and bridge was plain to see, and the sky was serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that rose into the sky had lost its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it. The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over the whole length and breadth of the tranquil firmament, great shoots of light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later covenant of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a glory.

Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit’s side, unmolested. They left the great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were at the gateway, when there was a sudden noise like thunder.

‘What was that! Let us make haste in,’ cried Mrs Clennam.

They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her back.

In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged outward, opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them and the placid sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys, which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch deeper.

So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable, they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking. There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word. For upwards of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking attentively at those about her and appearing to understand what they said; but the rigid silence she had so long held was evermore enforced upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue.

Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house, and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now; Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and always wrong in the theories she deduced from them.

When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been two. Rumour finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr Flintwinch.

The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring pipes of gas, and on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose into its zenith, and aslant of it as it declined, and on a level with it again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling, and carrying away, in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay upon him, crushing him.

Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow, subterranean, suffocated notes, ‘Here I am!’ At the opposite extremity of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable fortitude that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade.

It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty hours’ time, determined for her part that his taking himself off within that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the depths of the earth.

This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to be an Englishman, consorted with the Dutchmen on the quaint banks of the canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge.

CHAPTER 32. Going

Arthur continuing to lie very ill in the Marshalsea, and Mr Rugg descrying no break in the legal sky affording a hope of his enlargement, Mr Pancks suffered desperately from self-reproaches. If it had not been for those infallible figures which proved that Arthur, instead of pining in imprisonment, ought to be promenading in a carriage and pair, and that Mr Pancks, instead of being restricted to his clerkly wages, ought to have from three to five thousand pounds of his own at his immediate disposal, that unhappy arithmetician would probably have taken to his bed, and there have made one of the many obscure persons who turned their faces to the wall and died, as a last sacrifice to the late Mr Merdle’s greatness. Solely supported by his unimpugnable calculations, Mr Pancks led an unhappy and restless life; constantly carrying his figures about with him in his hat, and not only going over them himself on every possible occasion, but entreating every human being he could lay hold of to go over them with him, and observe what a clear case it was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard there was scarcely an inhabitant of note to whom Mr Pancks had not imparted his demonstration, and, as figures are catching, a kind of cyphering measles broke out in that locality, under the influence of which the whole Yard was light-headed.

The more restless Mr Pancks grew in his mind, the more impatient he became of the Patriarch. In their later conferences his snorting assumed an irritable sound which boded the Patriarch no good; likewise, Mr Pancks had on several occasions looked harder at the Patriarchal bumps than was quite reconcilable with the fact of his not being a painter, or a peruke-maker in search of the living model.

However, he steamed in and out of his little back Dock according as he was wanted or not wanted in the Patriarchal presence, and business had gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed by Mr Pancks, and cropped by Mr Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr Pancks had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as his share; Mr Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week’s balance, ‘everything had been satisfactory to all parties—all parties—satisfactory, sir, to all parties.’

The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a highly heated condition.

‘Mr Pancks,’ was the Patriarchal remark, ‘you have been remiss, you have been remiss, sir.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ was the short rejoinder.

The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair, and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human kindness.

Wherefore, Mr Pancks said, ‘What do you mean by that?’ and put his hair up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner.

‘I mean, Mr Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don’t squeeze them. You don’t squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.’

‘Don’t I squeeze ‘em?’ retorted Mr Pancks. ‘What else am I made for?’

‘You are made for nothing else, Mr Pancks. You are made to do your duty, but you don’t do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you must squeeze to pay.’ The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this brilliant turn, after Dr Johnson, which he had not in the least expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful portrait, ‘Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.’

‘Oh,’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’

‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr Pancks, to squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.’

‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Ain’t that too soon? I squeezed it dry to-day.’

‘Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.’

‘Oh!’ said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good draught of his mixture. ‘Anything more?’

‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr Pancks, with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often to inquire for Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam, who is not just now in circumstances that are by any means calculated to—to be satisfactory to all parties, she goes, Mr Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire for Mr Clennam in jail. In jail.’

‘He’s laid up, you know,’ said Pancks. ‘Perhaps it’s kind.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Mr Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do with that. I can’t allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come out; pay his debts, and come out.’

Although Mr Pancks’s hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled at his proprietor in a most hideous manner.

‘You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr Pancks, that I can’t allow it, can’t allow it,’ said the Patriarch blandly.

‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘You couldn’t mention it yourself?’

‘No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,’ the blundering old booby could not resist the temptation of trying it again, ‘and you must mention it to pay, mention it to pay.’

‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’

‘Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr Pancks, that you yourself are too often and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other people’s losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.’

Mr Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable ‘Oh!’ that even the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to look at him. Mr Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then added, ‘Anything more?’

‘Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,’ said the Patriarch, finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, ‘to take a little stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back. If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze on Monday!’

Mr Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr Casby to go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at him over the little green window-blinds. ‘I thought so,’ he observed. ‘I knew where you were bound to. Good!’ He then steamed back to his Dock, put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock, said ‘Good-bye!’ and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight for Mrs Plornish’s end of Bleeding Heart Yard, and arrived there, at the top of the steps, hotter than ever.

At the top of the steps, resisting Mrs Plornish’s invitations to come and sit along with father in Happy Cottage—which to his relief were not so numerous as they would have been on any other night than Saturday, when the connection who so gallantly supported the business with everything but money gave their orders freely—at the top of the steps Mr Pancks remained until he beheld the Patriarch, who always entered the Yard at the other end, slowly advancing, beaming, and surrounded by suitors. Then Mr Pancks descended and bore down upon him, with his utmost pressure of steam on.

The Patriarch, approaching with his usual benignity, was surprised to see Mr Pancks, but supposed him to have been stimulated to an immediate squeeze instead of postponing that operation until Monday. The population of the Yard were astonished at the meeting, for the two powers had never been seen there together, within the memory of the oldest Bleeding Heart. But they were overcome by unutterable amazement when Mr Pancks, going close up to the most venerable of men and halting in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger of his right thumb and forefinger, applied the same to the brim of the broad-brimmed hat, and, with singular smartness and precision, shot it off the polished head as if it had been a large marble.

Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal person, Mr Pancks further astounded and attracted the Bleeding Hearts by saying in an audible voice, ‘Now, you sugary swindler, I mean to have it out with you!’

Mr Pancks and the Patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and door-steps were thronged.

‘What do you pretend to be?’ said Mr Pancks. ‘What’s your moral game? What do you go in for? Benevolence, an’t it? You benevolent!’ Here Mr Pancks, apparently without the intention of hitting him, but merely to relieve his mind and expend his superfluous power in wholesome exercise, aimed a blow at the bumpy head, which the bumpy head ducked to avoid. This singular performance was repeated, to the ever-increasing admiration of the spectators, at the end of every succeeding article of Mr Pancks’s oration.

‘I have discharged myself from your service,’ said Pancks, ‘that I may tell you what you are. You’re one of a lot of impostors that are the worst lot of all the lots to be met with. Speaking as a sufferer by both, I don’t know that I wouldn’t as soon have the Merdle lot as your lot. You’re a driver in disguise, a screwer by deputy, a wringer, and squeezer, and shaver by substitute. You’re a philanthropic sneak. You’re a shabby deceiver!’

(The repetition of the performance at this point was received with a burst of laughter.)

‘Ask these good people who’s the hard man here. They’ll tell you Pancks, I believe.’

This was confirmed with cries of ‘Certainly,’ and ‘Hear!’

‘But I tell you, good people—Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!’ said Pancks. ‘If you want to see the man who would flay you alive—here he is! Don’t look for him in me, at thirty shillings a week, but look for him in Casby, at I don’t know how much a year!’

‘Good!’ cried several voices. ‘Hear Mr Pancks!’

‘Hear Mr Pancks?’ cried that gentleman (after repeating the popular performance). ‘Yes, I should think so! It’s almost time to hear Mr Pancks. Mr Pancks has come down into the Yard to-night on purpose that you should hear him. Pancks is only the Works; but here’s the Winder!’

The audience would have gone over to Mr Pancks, as one man, woman, and child, but for the long, grey, silken locks, and the broad-brimmed hat.

‘Here’s the Stop,’ said Pancks, ‘that sets the tune to be ground. And there is but one tune, and its name is Grind, Grind, Grind! Here’s the Proprietor, and here’s his Grubber. Why, good people, when he comes smoothly spinning through the Yard to-night, like a slow-going benevolent Humming-Top, and when you come about him with your complaints of the Grubber, you don’t know what a cheat the Proprietor is! What do you think of his showing himself to-night, that I may have all the blame on Monday? What do you think of his having had me over the coals this very evening, because I don’t squeeze you enough? What do you think of my being, at the present moment, under special orders to squeeze you dry on Monday?’

The reply was given in a murmur of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Shabby!’

‘Shabby?’ snorted Pancks. ‘Yes, I should think so! The lot that your Casby belongs to, is the shabbiest of all the lots. Setting their Grubbers on, at a wretched pittance, to do what they’re ashamed and afraid to do and pretend not to do, but what they will have done, or give a man no rest! Imposing on you to give their Grubbers nothing but blame, and to give them nothing but credit! Why, the worst-looking cheat in all this town who gets the value of eighteenpence under false pretences, an’t half such a cheat as this sign-post of The Casby’s Head here!’

Cries of ‘That’s true!’ and ‘No more he an’t!’

‘And see what you get of these fellows, besides,’ said Pancks. ‘See what more you get of these precious Humming-Tops, revolving among you with such smoothness that you’ve no idea of the pattern painted on ‘em, or the little window in ‘em. I wish to call your attention to myself for a moment. I an’t an agreeable style of chap, I know that very well.’

The auditory were divided on this point; its more uncompromising members crying, ‘No, you are not,’ and its politer materials, ‘Yes, you are.’

‘I am, in general,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘a dry, uncomfortable, dreary Plodder and Grubber. That’s your humble servant. There’s his full-length portrait, painted by himself and presented to you, warranted a likeness! But what’s a man to be, with such a man as this for his Proprietor? What can be expected of him? Did anybody ever find boiled mutton and caper-sauce growing in a cocoa-nut?’

None of the Bleeding Hearts ever had, it was clear from the alacrity of their response.

‘Well,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘and neither will you find in Grubbers like myself, under Proprietors like this, pleasant qualities. I’ve been a Grubber from a boy. What has my life been? Fag and grind, fag and grind, turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven’t been agreeable to myself, and I haven’t been likely to be agreeable to anybody else. If I was a shilling a week less useful in ten years’ time, this impostor would give me a shilling a week less; if as useful a man could be got at sixpence cheaper, he would be taken in my place at sixpence cheaper. Bargain and sale, bless you! Fixed principles! It’s a mighty fine sign-post, is The Casby’s Head,’ said Mr Pancks, surveying it with anything rather than admiration; ‘but the real name of the House is the Sham’s Arms. Its motto is, Keep the Grubber always at it. Is any gentleman present,’ said Mr Pancks, breaking off and looking round, ‘acquainted with the English Grammar?’

Bleeding Heart Yard was shy of claiming that acquaintance.

‘It’s no matter,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘I merely wish to remark that the task this Proprietor has set me, has been never to leave off conjugating the Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb To keep always at it. Keep thou always at it. Let him keep always at it. Keep we or do we keep always at it. Keep ye or do ye or you keep always at it. Let them keep always at it. Here is your benevolent Patriarch of a Casby, and there is his golden rule. He is uncommonly improving to look at, and I am not at all so. He is as sweet as honey, and I am as dull as ditch-water. He provides the pitch, and I handle it, and it sticks to me. Now,’ said Mr Pancks, closing upon his late Proprietor again, from whom he had withdrawn a little for the better display of him to the Yard; ‘as I am not accustomed to speak in public, and as I have made a rather lengthy speech, all circumstances considered, I shall bring my observations to a close by requesting you to get out of this.’

The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in, that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself.

Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch’s hand, cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch’s head.

Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive, not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring again.

CHAPTER 33. Going!

The changes of a fevered room are slow and fluctuating; but the changes of the fevered world are rapid and irrevocable.

It was Little Dorrit’s lot to wait upon both kinds of change. The Marshalsea walls, during a portion of every day, again embraced her in their shadows as their child, while she thought for Clennam, worked for him, watched him, and only left him, still to devote her utmost love and care to him. Her part in the life outside the gate urged its pressing claims upon her too, and her patience untiringly responded to them. Here was Fanny, proud, fitful, whimsical, further advanced in that disqualified state for going into society which had so much fretted her on the evening of the tortoise-shell knife, resolved always to want comfort, resolved not to be comforted, resolved to be deeply wronged, and resolved that nobody should have the audacity to think her so. Here was her brother, a weak, proud, tipsy, young old man, shaking from head to foot, talking as indistinctly as if some of the money he plumed himself upon had got into his mouth and couldn’t be got out, unable to walk alone in any act of his life, and patronising the sister whom he selfishly loved (he always had that negative merit, ill-starred and ill-launched Tip!) because he suffered her to lead him. Here was Mrs Merdle in gauzy mourning—the original cap whereof had possibly been rent to pieces in a fit of grief, but had certainly yielded to a highly becoming article from the Parisian market—warring with Fanny foot to foot, and breasting her with her desolate bosom every hour in the day. Here was poor Mr Sparkler, not knowing how to keep the peace between them, but humbly inclining to the opinion that they could do no better than agree that they were both remarkably fine women, and that there was no nonsense about either of them—for which gentle recommendation they united in falling upon him frightfully. Then, too, here was Mrs General, got home from foreign parts, sending a Prune and a Prism by post every other day, demanding a new Testimonial by way of recommendation to some vacant appointment or other. Of which remarkable gentlewoman it may be finally observed, that there surely never was a gentlewoman of whose transcendent fitness for any vacant appointment on the face of this earth, so many people were (as the warmth of her Testimonials evinced) so perfectly satisfied—or who was so very unfortunate in having a large circle of ardent and distinguished admirers, who never themselves happened to want her in any capacity.

On the first crash of the eminent Mr Merdle’s decease, many important persons had been unable to determine whether they should cut Mrs Merdle, or comfort her. As it seemed, however, essential to the strength of their own case that they should admit her to have been cruelly deceived, they graciously made the admission, and continued to know her. It followed that Mrs Merdle, as a woman of fashion and good breeding who had been sacrificed to the wiles of a vulgar barbarian (for Mr Merdle was found out from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, the moment he was found out in his pocket), must be actively championed by her order for her order’s sake. She returned this fealty by causing it to be understood that she was even more incensed against the felonious shade of the deceased than anybody else was; thus, on the whole, she came out of her furnace like a wise woman, and did exceedingly well.

Mr Sparkler’s lordship was fortunately one of those shelves on which a gentleman is considered to be put away for life, unless there should be reasons for hoisting him up with the Barnacle crane to a more lucrative height. That patriotic servant accordingly stuck to his colours (the Standard of four Quarterings), and was a perfect Nelson in respect of nailing them to the mast. On the profits of his intrepidity, Mrs Sparkler and Mrs Merdle, inhabiting different floors of the genteel little temple of inconvenience to which the smell of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses was as constant as Death to man, arrayed themselves to fight it out in the lists of Society, sworn rivals. And Little Dorrit, seeing all these things as they developed themselves, could not but wonder, anxiously, into what back corner of the genteel establishment Fanny’s children would be poked by-and-by, and who would take care of those unborn little victims.

Arthur being far too ill to be spoken with on subjects of emotion or anxiety, and his recovery greatly depending on the repose into which his weakness could be hushed, Little Dorrit’s sole reliance during this heavy period was on Mr Meagles. He was still abroad; but she had written to him through his daughter, immediately after first seeing Arthur in the Marshalsea and since, confiding her uneasiness to him on the points on which she was most anxious, but especially on one. To that one, the continued absence of Mr Meagles abroad, instead of his comforting presence in the Marshalsea, was referable.

Without disclosing the precise nature of the documents that had fallen into Rigaud’s hands, Little Dorrit had confided the general outline of that story to Mr Meagles, to whom she had also recounted his fate. The old cautious habits of the scales and scoop at once showed Mr Meagles the importance of recovering the original papers; wherefore he wrote back to Little Dorrit, strongly confirming her in the solicitude she expressed on that head, and adding that he would not come over to England ‘without making some attempt to trace them out.’

By this time Mr Henry Gowan had made up his mind that it would be agreeable to him not to know the Meagleses. He was so considerate as to lay no injunctions on his wife in that particular; but he mentioned to Mr Meagles that personally they did not appear to him to get on together, and that he thought it would be a good thing if—politely, and without any scene, or anything of that sort—they agreed that they were the best fellows in the world, but were best apart. Poor Mr Meagles, who was already sensible that he did not advance his daughter’s happiness by being constantly slighted in her presence, said ‘Good, Henry! You are my Pet’s husband; you have displaced me, in the course of nature; if you wish it, good!’ This arrangement involved the contingent advantage, which perhaps Henry Gowan had not foreseen, that both Mr and Mrs Meagles were more liberal than before to their daughter, when their communication was only with her and her young child: and that his high spirit found itself better provided with money, without being under the degrading necessity of knowing whence it came.

Mr Meagles, at such a period, naturally seized an occupation with great ardour. He knew from his daughter the various towns which Rigaud had been haunting, and the various hotels at which he had been living for some time back. The occupation he set himself was to visit these with all discretion and speed, and, in the event of finding anywhere that he had left a bill unpaid, and a box or parcel behind, to pay such bill, and bring away such box or parcel.

With no other attendant than Mother, Mr Meagles went upon his pilgrimage, and encountered a number of adventures. Not the least of his difficulties was, that he never knew what was said to him, and that he pursued his inquiries among people who never knew what he said to them. Still, with an unshaken confidence that the English tongue was somehow the mother tongue of the whole world, only the people were too stupid to know it, Mr Meagles harangued innkeepers in the most voluble manner, entered into loud explanations of the most complicated sort, and utterly renounced replies in the native language of the respondents, on the ground that they were ‘all bosh.’ Sometimes interpreters were called in; whom Mr Meagles addressed in such idiomatic terms of speech, as instantly to extinguish and shut up—which made the matter worse. On a balance of the account, however, it may be doubted whether he lost much; for, although he found no property, he found so many debts and various associations of discredit with the proper name, which was the only word he made intelligible, that he was almost everywhere overwhelmed with injurious accusations. On no fewer than four occasions the police were called in to receive denunciations of Mr Meagles as a Knight of Industry, a good-for-nothing, and a thief, all of which opprobrious language he bore with the best temper (having no idea what it meant), and was in the most ignominious manner escorted to steam-boats and public carriages, to be got rid of, talking all the while, like a cheerful and fluent Briton as he was, with Mother under his arm.

But, in his own tongue, and in his own head, Mr Meagles was a clear, shrewd, persevering man. When he had ‘worked round,’ as he called it, to Paris in his pilgrimage, and had wholly failed in it so far, he was not disheartened. ‘The nearer to England I follow him, you see, Mother,’ argued Mr Meagles, ‘the nearer I am likely to come to the papers, whether they turn up or no. Because it is only reasonable to conclude that he would deposit them somewhere where they would be safe from people over in England, and where they would yet be accessible to himself, don’t you see?’

At Paris Mr Meagles found a letter from Little Dorrit, lying waiting for him; in which she mentioned that she had been able to talk for a minute or two with Mr Clennam about this man who was no more; and that when she told Mr Clennam that his friend Mr Meagles, who was on his way to see him, had an interest in ascertaining something about the man if he could, he had asked her to tell Mr Meagles that he had been known to Miss Wade, then living in such a street at Calais. ‘Oho!’ said Mr Meagles.

As soon afterwards as might be in those Diligence days, Mr Meagles rang the cracked bell at the cracked gate, and it jarred open, and the peasant-woman stood in the dark doorway, saying, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’ In acknowledgment of whose address, Mr Meagles murmured to himself that there was some sense about these Calais people, who really did know something of what you and themselves were up to; and returned, ‘Miss Wade, my dear.’ He was then shown into the presence of Miss Wade.

‘It’s some time since we met,’ said Mr Meagles, clearing his throat; ‘I hope you have been pretty well, Miss Wade?’

Without hoping that he or anybody else had been pretty well, Miss Wade asked him to what she was indebted for the honour of seeing him again? Mr Meagles, in the meanwhile, glanced all round the room without observing anything in the shape of a box.

‘Why, the truth is, Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, in a comfortable, managing, not to say coaxing voice, ‘it is possible that you may be able to throw a light upon a little something that is at present dark. Any unpleasant bygones between us are bygones, I hope. Can’t be helped now. You recollect my daughter? Time changes so! A mother!’

In his innocence, Mr Meagles could not have struck a worse key-note. He paused for any expression of interest, but paused in vain.

‘That is not the subject you wished to enter on?’ she said, after a cold silence.

‘No, no,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘No. I thought your good nature might—’

‘I thought you knew,’ she interrupted, with a smile, ‘that my good nature is not to be calculated upon?’

‘Don’t say so,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘you do yourself an injustice. However, to come to the point.’ For he was sensible of having gained nothing by approaching it in a roundabout way. ‘I have heard from my friend Clennam, who, you will be sorry to hear, has been and still is very ill—’

He paused again, and again she was silent.

‘—that you had some knowledge of one Blandois, lately killed in London by a violent accident. Now, don’t mistake me! I know it was a slight knowledge,’ said Mr Meagles, dexterously forestalling an angry interruption which he saw about to break. ‘I am fully aware of that. It was a slight knowledge, I know. But the question is,’ Mr Meagles’s voice here became comfortable again, ‘did he, on his way to England last time, leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers or other in some receptacle or other—any papers—with you: begging you to allow him to leave them here for a short time, until he wanted them?’

‘The question is?’ she repeated. ‘Whose question is?’

‘Mine,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And not only mine but Clennam’s question, and other people’s question. Now, I am sure,’ continued Mr Meagles, whose heart was overflowing with Pet, ‘that you can’t have any unkind feeling towards my daughter; it’s impossible. Well! It’s her question, too; being one in which a particular friend of hers is nearly interested. So here I am, frankly to say that is the question, and to ask, Now, did he?’

‘Upon my word,’ she returned, ‘I seem to be a mark for everybody who knew anything of a man I once in my life hired, and paid, and dismissed, to aim their questions at!’

‘Now, don’t,’ remonstrated Mr Meagles, ‘don’t! Don’t take offence, because it’s the plainest question in the world, and might be asked of any one. The documents I refer to were not his own, were wrongfully obtained, might at some time or other be troublesome to an innocent person to have in keeping, and are sought by the people to whom they really belong. He passed through Calais going to London, and there were reasons why he should not take them with him then, why he should wish to be able to put his hand upon them readily, and why he should distrust leaving them with people of his own sort. Did he leave them here? I declare if I knew how to avoid giving you offence, I would take any pains to do it. I put the question personally, but there’s nothing personal in it. I might put it to any one; I have put it already to many people. Did he leave them here? Did he leave anything here?’

‘No.’

‘Then unfortunately, Miss Wade, you know nothing about them?’

‘I know nothing about them. I have now answered your unaccountable question. He did not leave them here, and I know nothing about them.’

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles rising. ‘I am sorry for it; that’s over; and I hope there is not much harm done.—Tattycoram well, Miss Wade?’

‘Harriet well? O yes!’

‘I have put my foot in it again,’ said Mr Meagles, thus corrected. ‘I can’t keep my foot out of it here, it seems. Perhaps, if I had thought twice about it, I might never have given her the jingling name. But, when one means to be good-natured and sportive with young people, one doesn’t think twice. Her old friend leaves a kind word for her, Miss Wade, if you should think proper to deliver it.’

She said nothing as to that; and Mr Meagles, taking his honest face out of the dull room, where it shone like a sun, took it to the Hotel where he had left Mrs Meagles, and where he made the Report: ‘Beaten, Mother; no effects!’ He took it next to the London Steam Packet, which sailed in the night; and next to the Marshalsea.

The faithful John was on duty when Father and Mother Meagles presented themselves at the wicket towards nightfall. Miss Dorrit was not there then, he said; but she had been there in the morning, and invariably came in the evening. Mr Clennam was slowly mending; and Maggy and Mrs Plornish and Mr Baptist took care of him by turns. Miss Dorrit was sure to come back that evening before the bell rang. There was the room the Marshal had lent her, up-stairs, in which they could wait for her, if they pleased. Mistrustful that it might be hazardous to Arthur to see him without preparation, Mr Meagles accepted the offer; and they were left shut up in the room, looking down through its barred window into the jail.

The cramped area of the prison had such an effect on Mrs Meagles that she began to weep, and such an effect on Mr Meagles that he began to gasp for air. He was walking up and down the room, panting, and making himself worse by laboriously fanning himself with her handkerchief, when he turned towards the opening door.

‘Eh? Good gracious!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘this is not Miss Dorrit! Why, Mother, look! Tattycoram!’

No other. And in Tattycoram’s arms was an iron box some two feet square. Such a box had Affery Flintwinch seen, in the first of her dreams, going out of the old house in the dead of the night under Double’s arm. This, Tattycoram put on the ground at her old master’s feet: this, Tattycoram fell on her knees by, and beat her hands upon, crying half in exultation and half in despair, half in laughter and half in tears, ‘Pardon, dear Master; take me back, dear Mistress; here it is!’

‘Tatty!’ exclaimed Mr Meagles.

‘What you wanted!’ said Tattycoram. ‘Here it is! I was put in the next room not to see you. I heard you ask her about it, I heard her say she hadn’t got it, I was there when he left it, and I took it at bedtime and brought it away. Here it is!’

‘Why, my girl,’ cried Mr Meagles, more breathless than before, ‘how did you come over?’

‘I came in the boat with you. I was sitting wrapped up at the other end. When you took a coach at the wharf, I took another coach and followed you here. She never would have given it up after what you had said to her about its being wanted; she would sooner have sunk it in the sea, or burnt it. But, here it is!’

The glow and rapture that the girl was in, with her ‘Here it is!’

‘She never wanted it to be left, I must say that for her; but he left it, and I knew well that after what you said, and after her denying it, she never would have given it up. But here it is! Dear Master, dear Mistress, take me back again, and give me back the dear old name! Let this intercede for me. Here it is!’

Father and Mother Meagles never deserved their names better than when they took the headstrong foundling-girl into their protection again.

‘Oh! I have been so wretched,’ cried Tattycoram, weeping much more, ‘always so unhappy, and so repentant! I was afraid of her from the first time I saw her. I knew she had got a power over me through understanding what was bad in me so well. It was a madness in me, and she could raise it whenever she liked. I used to think, when I got into that state, that people were all against me because of my first beginning; and the kinder they were to me, the worse fault I found in them. I made it out that they triumphed above me, and that they wanted to make me envy them, when I know—when I even knew then—that they never thought of such a thing. And my beautiful young mistress not so happy as she ought to have been, and I gone away from her! Such a brute and a wretch as she must think me! But you’ll say a word to her for me, and ask her to be as forgiving as you two are? For I am not so bad as I was,’ pleaded Tattycoram; ‘I am bad enough, but not so bad as I was, indeed. I have had Miss Wade before me all this time, as if it was my own self grown ripe—turning everything the wrong way, and twisting all good into evil. I have had her before me all this time, finding no pleasure in anything but keeping me as miserable, suspicious, and tormenting as herself. Not that she had much to do, to do that,’ cried Tattycoram, in a closing great burst of distress, ‘for I was as bad as bad could be. I only mean to say, that, after what I have gone through, I hope I shall never be quite so bad again, and that I shall get better by very slow degrees. I’ll try very hard. I won’t stop at five-and-twenty, sir, I’ll count five-and-twenty hundred, five-and-twenty thousand!’

Another opening of the door, and Tattycoram subsided, and Little Dorrit came in, and Mr Meagles with pride and joy produced the box, and her gentle face was lighted up with grateful happiness and joy. The secret was safe now! She could keep her own part of it from him; he should never know of her loss; in time to come he should know all that was of import to himself; but he should never know what concerned her only. That was all passed, all forgiven, all forgotten.

‘Now, my dear Miss Dorrit,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘I am a man of business—or at least was—and I am going to take my measures promptly, in that character. Had I better see Arthur to-night?’

‘I think not to-night. I will go to his room and ascertain how he is. But I think it will be better not to see him to-night.’

‘I am much of your opinion, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and therefore I have not been any nearer to him than this dismal room. Then I shall probably not see him for some little time to come. But I’ll explain what I mean when you come back.’

She left the room. Mr Meagles, looking through the bars of the window, saw her pass out of the Lodge below him into the prison-yard. He said gently, ‘Tattycoram, come to me a moment, my good girl.’

She went up to the window.

‘You see that young lady who was here just now—that little, quiet, fragile figure passing along there, Tatty? Look. The people stand out of the way to let her go by. The men—see the poor, shabby fellows—pull off their hats to her quite politely, and now she glides in at that doorway. See her, Tattycoram?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I have heard tell, Tatty, that she was once regularly called the child of this place. She was born here, and lived here many years. I can’t breathe here. A doleful place to be born and bred in, Tattycoram?’

‘Yes indeed, sir!’

‘If she had constantly thought of herself, and settled with herself that everybody visited this place upon her, turned it against her, and cast it at her, she would have led an irritable and probably an useless existence. Yet I have heard tell, Tattycoram, that her young life has been one of active resignation, goodness, and noble service. Shall I tell you what I consider those eyes of hers, that were here just now, to have always looked at, to get that expression?’

‘Yes, if you please, sir.’

‘Duty, Tattycoram. Begin it early, and do it well; and there is no antecedent to it, in any origin or station, that will tell against us with the Almighty, or with ourselves.’

They remained at the window, Mother joining them and pitying the prisoners, until she was seen coming back. She was soon in the room, and recommended that Arthur, whom she had left calm and composed, should not be visited that night.

‘Good!’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily. ‘I have not a doubt that’s best. I shall trust my remembrances then, my sweet nurse, in your hands, and I well know they couldn’t be in better. I am off again to-morrow morning.’

Little Dorrit, surprised, asked him where?

‘My dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I can’t live without breathing. This place has taken my breath away, and I shall never get it back again until Arthur is out of this place.’

‘How is that a reason for going off again to-morrow morning?’

‘You shall understand,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘To-night we three will put up at a City Hotel. To-morrow morning, Mother and Tattycoram will go down to Twickenham, where Mrs Tickit, sitting attended by Dr Buchan in the parlour-window, will think them a couple of ghosts; and I shall go abroad again for Doyce. We must have Dan here. Now, I tell you, my love, it’s of no use writing and planning and conditionally speculating upon this and that and the other, at uncertain intervals and distances; we must have Doyce here. I devote myself at daybreak to-morrow morning, to bringing Doyce here. It’s nothing to me to go and find him. I’m an old traveller, and all foreign languages and customs are alike to me—I never understand anything about any of ‘em. Therefore I can’t be put to any inconvenience. Go at once I must, it stands to reason; because I can’t live without breathing freely; and I can’t breathe freely until Arthur is out of this Marshalsea. I am stifled at the present moment, and have scarcely breath enough to say this much, and to carry this precious box down-stairs for you.’

They got into the street as the bell began to ring, Mr Meagles carrying the box. Little Dorrit had no conveyance there: which rather surprised him. He called a coach for her and she got into it, and he placed the box beside her when she was seated. In her joy and gratitude she kissed his hand.

‘I don’t like that, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘It goes against my feeling of what’s right, that you should do homage to me—at the Marshalsea Gate.’

She bent forward, and kissed his cheek.

‘You remind me of the days,’ said Mr Meagles, suddenly drooping—‘but she’s very fond of him, and hides his faults, and thinks that no one sees them—and he certainly is well connected and of a very good family!’

It was the only comfort he had in the loss of his daughter, and if he made the most of it, who could blame him?

CHAPTER 34. Gone

On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees.

Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother’s knee but hers had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies, on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.

When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that the light was strong upon them.

Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.

‘This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce’s letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it will soon be over now.’

‘Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!’

‘You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to—and to see,’ said Little Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, ‘how deeply you mean it, that I cannot say Don’t.’

He lifted her hand to his lips.

‘You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little Dorrit?’

‘Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.’

‘Very often?’

‘Rather often,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly.

‘Every day?’

‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, ‘that I have been here at least twice every day.’

He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his breast.

‘Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again, and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten what we said together, when you came back?’

‘O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been—You feel quite strong to-day, don’t you?’

‘Quite strong.’

The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.

‘Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have got?’

‘I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good for Little Dorrit.’

‘I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?’

‘Never!’

‘You are quite sure you will not take half of it?’

‘Never, dear Little Dorrit!’

As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.

‘You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband’s income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.’

Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. ‘I had hoped it might not be so bad,’ he said: ‘but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing the connection between her husband and the defaulter.’

‘Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!’

‘Had he property in the same hands?’

‘Yes! And it’s all gone.—How much do you think my own great fortune is?’

As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him, she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had rested.

‘I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite sure you will not share my fortune with me now?’

Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its fellow-hand.

‘Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last! I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!’

Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that, after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.’s Aunt opportunely coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours afterwards, she went out?

Flora’s eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits. Mr F.’s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon’s head, and had got it at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.’s Aunt, publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal’s official residence, had been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to time.

‘Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,’ said Flora, ‘that to propose an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur—cannot overcome it more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam—one last remark I might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the humble place of conversation.’

Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned that she was quite at Flora’s disposition. Flora accordingly led the way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.’s Aunt stalking across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over, with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.

When the ‘three kidney ones,’ which were to be a blind to the conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps, Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.

‘If Fancy’s fair dreams,’ she began, ‘have ever pictured that when Arthur—cannot overcome it pray excuse me—was restored to freedom even a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I heartily wish well to both.’

Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.

‘Call it not kindness,’ returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, ‘for you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people’s yet I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity that Arthur will know that I didn’t desert him in his misfortunes but that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing it.’

Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great advantage.

‘Over and above which,’ said Flora, ‘I earnestly beg you as the dearest thing that ever was if you’ll still excuse the familiarity from one who moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don’t know after all whether it wasn’t all nonsense between us though pleasant at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not my character nor ill-will though many faults.’

Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted the trust.

‘The withered chaplet my dear,’ said Flora, with great enjoyment, ‘is then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside down upon its what’s-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for ever say Adieu!’

Mr F.’s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her first assumption of that public position on the Marshal’s steps, took the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe to the relict of her late nephew.

‘Bring him for’ard, and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’

Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that they were going home to dinner. Mr F.’s Aunt persisted in replying, ‘Bring him for’ard and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’ Having reiterated this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.’s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until such time as ‘he’ should have been ‘brought for’ard,’ and the chucking portion of his destiny accomplished.

In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she had not seen Mr F.’s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that she would find it necessary to remain there ‘hours perhaps,’ until the inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with the kindest feeling on both sides.

Mr F.’s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour, declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very pressing in his proposals that Mr F.’s Aunt should be removed. A conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of the window, and demanding to have him ‘brought for’ard’ for the purpose originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably consistent female intended by ‘him,’ Arthur Clennam. This, however, is mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr F.’s Aunt’s mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was brought forward, will never be positively known.

The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.

One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.

‘Dear Arthur,’ said her delighted voice outside the door, ‘I have some one here. May I bring some one in?’

He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered ‘Yes,’ and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a sun-browned and jolly father.

‘Now I am all right,’ said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. ‘Now it’s over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me before.’

‘I did,’ said Arthur; ‘but Amy told me—’

‘Little Dorrit. Never any other name.’ (It was she who whispered it.)

‘—But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.’

‘And now you see me, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand stoutly; ‘and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation. The fact is, I was here—came straight to you from the Allongers and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this day,—but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start off again to catch Doyce.’

‘Poor Doyce!’ sighed Arthur.

‘Don’t call him names that he don’t deserve,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘He’s not poor; he’s doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don’t want things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s off his legs; but where they do want things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s on his legs. You won’t have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell you, Dan has done without ‘em!’

‘What a load you take from my mind!’ cried Arthur. ‘What happiness you give me!’

‘Happiness?’ retorted Mr Meagles. ‘Don’t talk about happiness till you see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He’s no public offender, bless you, now! He’s medalled and ribboned, and starred and crossed, and I don’t-know-what all’d, like a born nobleman. But we mustn’t talk about that over here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, egad!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, ‘he must hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They won’t do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the Manger—won’t give her children such distinctions herself, and won’t allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no, Dan!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. ‘That won’t do here!’

‘If you had brought me (except for Doyce’s sake) twice what I have lost,’ cried Arthur, ‘you would not have given me the pleasure that you give me in this news.’

‘Why, of course, of course,’ assented Mr Meagles. ‘Of course I know that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women’s nightcaps a great deal too big for ‘em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of incoherent races. You know ‘em! Well! He was coming straight to me, and I was going to him, and so we came back together.’

‘Doyce in England!’ exclaimed Arthur.

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. ‘I am the worst man in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don’t know what I should have done if I had been in the diplomatic line—right, perhaps! The long and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight. And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my plain answer is—here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!’

Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and said the rest for himself.

‘There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,’ said Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on the palm of his hand, ‘and they’re soon disposed of. First, not a word more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations. I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly. Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that, after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did, and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as partners. That’s thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam, I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you; your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to detain you here one half-hour longer.’

There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.

‘I made a remark a little while ago,’ said Daniel Doyce then, ‘which I am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning? Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct from these walls and from this room?’

‘You do,’ returned Arthur. ‘It has been our cherished purpose.’

‘Very well!’ said Doyce. ‘Then, if this young lady will do me the honour of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul’s Churchyard, I dare say I know what we want to get there.’

Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles lingered behind to say a word to his friend.

‘I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she’s a soft-hearted woman. She’s best at the Cottage, and I’ll stay there and keep her company.’

With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the world was there a room so full of quiet joy!

‘My dear love,’ said Arthur. ‘Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be gone directly.’

‘I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to burn something for me.’

‘What?’

‘Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.’

‘Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?’

‘It is anything you like best, my own,’ she answered, laughing with glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, ‘if you will only humour me when the fire burns up.’

So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone, in Little Dorrit’s eyes. ‘Is it bright enough now?’ said Arthur. ‘Quite bright enough now,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Does the charm want any words to be said?’ asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. ‘You can say (if you don’t mind) “I love you!”’ answered Little Dorrit. So he said it, and the paper burned away.

They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face, familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her hand stretched out, saying, ‘Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live very happy, dear!’

Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George’s Church, and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal character. And there was Little Dorrit’s old friend who had given her the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should come back to them to be married, after all.

And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way.

Little Dorrit’s old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman’s surplice, and all the witnesses looked on with special interest. ‘For, you see,’ said Little Dorrit’s old friend, ‘this young lady is one of our curiosities, and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor, with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she’s now a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.’

They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in the autumn morning sun’s bright rays, and then went down.

Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down to give a mother’s care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny’s neglected children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.

BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY

1. Sun and Shadow
2. Fellow Travellers
3. Home
4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream
5. Family Affairs
6. The Father of the Marshalsea
7. The Child of the Marshalsea
8. The Lock
9. little Mother
10. Containing the whole Science of Government
11. Let Loose
12. Bleeding Heart Yard
13. Patriarchal
14. Little Dorrit’s Party
15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream
16. Nobody’s Weakness
17. Nobody’s Rival
18. Little Dorrit’s Lover
19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations
20. Moving in Society
21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint
22. A Puzzle
23. Machinery in Motion
24. Fortune-Telling
25. Conspirators and Others
26. Nobody’s State of Mind
27. Five-and-Twenty
28. Nobody’s Disappearance
29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming
30. The Word of a Gentleman
31. Spirit
32. More Fortune-Telling
33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint
34. A Shoal of Barnacles
35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand
36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

**LIBRO PRIMO: ** POVERTÀ

1. Il sole e l’Ombra
2. Compagni di viaggio
3. >Casa
4. La signora Flintwinch ha un sogno
   5 Questioni familiari
   6 Il padre della Marshalsea
   7 Il >Bambino della Marshalsea
   8 Il cancello
   9 La piccola madre
   10 Contenente tutta la scienza del Governo
   11 Lasciare andare
   12 Bleeding Heart Yard
   13 Patriarcale
   14 Il gruppo di Little Dorrit
   15 La signora Flintwinch ha un altro sogno
   16 Nessuna debolezza umana
   17 Nessun rivale
   18 L’Amante di Little Dorrit
   19 Il padre della Marshalsea in due o tre prospettive
   20 Entrare nella società
   21 La lamentela del signor Merdle
   22 Un enigma
   23 Macchinari in movimento
   24 Divinazione
   25 Conspiratori e altri
   26 Lo stato d’animo di nessuno
   27 Venticinque anni
   28 Scomparsa improvvisa
   29 La signora Flintwinch continua a sognare
   30 La parola di un gentiluomo
   31 Lo spirito
   32 Altra divinazione
   33 Di nuovo la lamentela del signor Merdle
   34 Un banco di cirripedi
   35 Cosa c’era dietro la mano del signor Pancks su quella di Little Dorrit
   36 La Marshalsea diventa un orfano

BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES

1. Fellow Travellers
2. Mrs General
3. On the Road
4. A Letter from Little Dorrit
5. Something Wrong Somewhere
6. Something Right Somewhere
7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism
8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’
9. Appearance and Disappearance
10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken
11. A Letter from Little Dorrit
12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden
13. The Progress of an Epidemic
14. Taking Advice
15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons should not be joined together
16. Getting on
17. Missing
18. A Castle in the Air
19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air
20. Introduces the next
21. The History of a Self-Tormentor
22. Who Passes by this Road so late?
23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise, respecting her Dreams
24. The Evening of a Long Day
25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office
26. Reaping the Whirlwind
27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea
28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea
29. A Plea in the Marshalsea
30. Closing in
31. Closed
32. Going
33. Going!
34. Gone

PREFACE TO THE 1857 EDITION

I have been occupied with this story, during many working hours of two years. I must have been very ill employed, if I could not leave its merits and demerits as a whole, to express themselves on its being read as a whole. But, as it is not unreasonable to suppose that I may have held its threads with a more continuous attention than anyone else can have given them during its desultory publication, it is not unreasonable to ask that the weaving may be looked at in its completed state, and with the pattern finished.

If I might offer any apology for so exaggerated a fiction as the Barnacles and the Circumlocution Office, I would seek it in the common experience of an Englishman, without presuming to mention the unimportant fact of my having done that violence to good manners, in the days of a Russian war, and of a Court of Inquiry at Chelsea. If I might make so bold as to defend that extravagant conception, Mr Merdle, I would hint that it originated after the Railroad-share epoch, in the times of a certain Irish bank, and of one or two other equally laudable enterprises. If I were to plead anything in mitigation of the preposterous fancy that a bad design will sometimes claim to be a good and an expressly religious design, it would be the curious coincidence that it has been brought to its climax in these pages, in the days of the public examination of late Directors of a Royal British Bank. But, I submit myself to suffer judgment to go by default on all these counts, if need be, and to accept the assurance (on good authority) that nothing like them was ever known in this land.

Some of my readers may have an interest in being informed whether or no any portions of the Marshalsea Prison are yet standing. I did not know, myself, until the sixth of this present month, when I went to look. I found the outer front courtyard, often mentioned here, metamorphosed into a butter shop; and I then almost gave up every brick of the jail for lost. Wandering, however, down a certain adjacent ‘Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey’, I came to ‘Marshalsea Place:’ the houses in which I recognised, not only as the great block of the former prison, but as preserving the rooms that arose in my mind’s-eye when I became Little Dorrit’s biographer. The smallest boy I ever conversed with, carrying the largest baby I ever saw, offered a supernaturally intelligent explanation of the locality in its old uses, and was very nearly correct. How this young Newton (for such I judge him to be) came by his information, I don’t know; he was a quarter of a century too young to know anything about it of himself. I pointed to the window of the room where Little Dorrit was born, and where her father lived so long, and asked him what was the name of the lodger who tenanted that apartment at present? He said, ‘Tom Pythick.’ I asked him who was Tom Pythick? and he said, ‘Joe Pythick’s uncle.’

A little further on, I found the older and smaller wall, which used to enclose the pent-up inner prison where nobody was put, except for ceremony. But, whosoever goes into Marshalsea Place, turning out of Angel Court, leading to Bermondsey, will find his feet on the very paving-stones of the extinct Marshalsea jail; will see its narrow yard to the right and to the left, very little altered if at all, except that the walls were lowered when the place got free; will look upon rooms in which the debtors lived; and will stand among the crowding ghosts of many miserable years.

In the Preface to Bleak House I remarked that I had never had so many readers. In the Preface to its next successor, Little Dorrit, I have still to repeat the same words. Deeply sensible of the affection and confidence that have grown up between us, I add to this Preface, as I added to that, May we meet again!

London May 1857

Libro secondo: Ricchezze

1. Compagni di viaggio
2. La signora generale
3. In viaggio
4. Una lettera da Little Dorrit
5. C’è qualcosa che non va da qualche parte.
6. C’è qualcosa che va bene da qualche parte.
7. Per lo più, prugne e prismi. 8 Alla vedova signora Gowan viene ricordato che “non succede mai, ”
   9’apparenza e scomparsa
   10 I sogni della signora Flintwinch diventano sempre più intensi. 11 Una lettera da Little Dorrit. 12 In cui si tiene una grande conferenza patriottica. 13 L’evoluzione di un’epidemia. 14 Chiedere consigli. 15 Non esiste alcuna ragione valida per cui queste due persone non dovrebbero unirsi. 16 Andare avanti. 17 Perdersi. 18 Un “castello” nell’aria. 19 L’assalto al “castello” nell’aria. 20 Presentazione del prossimo capitolo. 21 La storia di un tormentatore di sé stesso. 22 Chi passa per questa strada così tardi?. 23 La signorina Affery fa una promessa condizionale, rispettando i suoi sogni. 24 La sera di una lunga giornata. 25 Il maggiordomo si dimette dalle sue funzioni. 26 Raccogliere le conseguenze delle proprie azioni. 27 Lo studente del Marshalsea. 28 Un’apparizione nel Marshalsea. 29 Una supplica nel Marshalsea. 30 Avvicinarsi sempre di più. 31 Chiuso. 32 Andarsene. 33 Andare!
   34 Scomparso.

Prefazione all’edizione del 1857

Sono stato impegnato con questa storia per molte ore di lavoro, nel corso di due anni. Devo essere stato davvero mal utilizzato, se non sono riuscito a lasciare che i suoi pregi e i suoi difetti si manifestassero pienamente nella loro interezza, quando veniva letta nel suo insieme. Ma poiché non è irragionevole supporre che io abbia dedicato all’analisi di questa storia un’attenzione più continua di quanto chiunque altro possa averlo fatto durante la sua pubblicazione discontinua, non è nemmeno irragionevole chiedere che l’intero lavoro venga esaminato nella sua forma completa, con il disegno complessivo finalmente realizzato.

Se dovessi chiedere scusa per una finzione così esagerata come “I Barnacles e l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni”, cercherei di giustificarla nell’esperienza comune di un inglese, senza osare menzionare il fatto insignificante che, in tempi di guerra russa e durante un’inchiesta presso la Corte di Chelsea, io abbia trasgredito le regole della buona educazione. Se osassi difendere così audacemente questa concezione stravagante, signor Merdle, suggerirei che sia nata dopo l’epoca delle azioni ferroviarie, nei tempi di una certa banca irlandese e di un paio di altre imprese altrettanto lodevoli. Se dovessi cercare qualche scusa per questa assurda idea secondo cui un cattivo progetto possa a volte presentarsi come buono, o addirittura come un progetto religioso, sarebbe la curiosa coincidenza che essa abbia raggiunto il suo apice proprio in queste pagine, nei giorni delle indagini pubbliche sui recenti direttori della Royal British Bank. Tuttavia, mi sottometto al giudizio di chiunque, e accetto l’affermazione (fatta da fonti autorevoli) che nulla del genere sia mai stato conosciuto in questo paese.

Alcuni dei miei lettori potrebbero essere interessati a sapere se alcune parti della prigione di Marshalsea siano ancora esistenti. Io stesso non lo sapevo fino al sesto giorno di questo mese, quando sono andato a verificare. Ho trovato il cortile anteriore esterno, spesso menzionato in queste pagine, trasformato in un negozio di burro; allora ho quasi pensato che ogni singola pietra della prigione fosse andata persa per sempre. Tuttavia, vagando lungo un vicino cortile chiamato “Angel Court”, che conduce a Bermondsey, sono arrivato in Marshalsea Place: le case lì presenti mi sono sembrate non solo il grande complesso dell’ex prigione, ma anche quelle in cui avevo immaginato fossero situate le stanze descritte quando ho iniziato a scrivere la biografia di Little Dorrit. Il bambino più piccolo con cui abbia mai parlato, che portava in braccio il bambino più grande che avessi mai visto, mi ha fornito una spiegazione straordinariamente intelligente riguardo all’uso passato di quegli edifici, e si è quasi sempre dimostrato corretto. Non so come questo giovane “Newton” abbia ottenuto queste informazioni; era troppo giovane per saperne qualcosa di persona. Gli ho indicato la finestra della stanza in cui Little Dorrit è nata, e dove suo padre aveva vissuto a lungo, e gli ho chiesto come si chiamasse l’inquilino attuale di quell’appartamento. Lui ha risposto: “Tom Pythick”. Gli ho chiesto chi fosse Tom Pythick, e lui ha detto: “Lo zio di Joe Pythick”.

Un po’ più avanti, trovai il muro più vecchio e più basso che un tempo circondava quella prigione interna in cui nessuno veniva rinchiuso, se non per scopi cerimoniali. Ma chiunque entri in Marshalsea Place, uscendo da Angel Court e proseguendo verso Bermondsey, si troverà sui medesimi ciottoli della defunta prigione di Marshalsea; vedrà il suo cortile stretto, a destra e a sinistra, quasi del tutto intatto, se non per il fatto che i muri sono stati abbassati quando quel luogo è stato liberato; vedrà le stanze in cui vivevano i debitori. E si troverà circondato dai “fantasmi” di molti anni tragici.

Nella prefazione a Bleak House, ho osservato di non aver mai avuto così tanti lettori. Nella prefazione al suo successore, Little Dorrit, devo ancora ripetere le stesse parole. Consapevole profondamente dell’affetto e della fiducia che si sono sviluppati tra noi, aggiungo a questa prefazione, come ho fatto all’altra: Possiamo incontrarci di nuovo!

Londra, maggio 1857

BOOK THE FIRST: POVERTY CHAPTER 1. Sun and Shadow

Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.

A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France then, than at any other time, before or since. Everything in Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.

There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbour, or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demarcation between the two colours, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not pass; but it lay as quiet as the abominable pool, with which it never mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or day, for months. Hindoos, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade at Marseilles, sought the shade alike—taking refuge in any hiding-place from a sea too intensely blue to be looked at, and a sky of purple, set with one great flaming jewel of fire.

The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hill-side, stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted labourers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew, was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.

Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to keep out the stare. Grant it but a chink or keyhole, and it shot in like a white-hot arrow. The churches were the freest from it. To come out of the twilight of pillars and arches—dreamily dotted with winking lamps, dreamily peopled with ugly old shadows piously dozing, spitting, and begging—was to plunge into a fiery river, and swim for life to the nearest strip of shade. So, with people lounging and lying wherever shade was, with but little hum of tongues or barking of dogs, with occasional jangling of discordant church bells and rattling of vicious drums, Marseilles, a fact to be strongly smelt and tasted, lay broiling in the sun one day.

In Marseilles that day there was a villainous prison. In one of its chambers, so repulsive a place that even the obtrusive stare blinked at it, and left it to such refuse of reflected light as it could find for itself, were two men. Besides the two men, a notched and disfigured bench, immovable from the wall, with a draught-board rudely hacked upon it with a knife, a set of draughts, made of old buttons and soup bones, a set of dominoes, two mats, and two or three wine bottles. That was all the chamber held, exclusive of rats and other unseen vermin, in addition to the seen vermin, the two men.

It received such light as it got through a grating of iron bars fashioned like a pretty large window, by means of which it could be always inspected from the gloomy staircase on which the grating gave. There was a broad strong ledge of stone to this grating where the bottom of it was let into the masonry, three or four feet above the ground. Upon it, one of the two men lolled, half sitting and half lying, with his knees drawn up, and his feet and shoulders planted against the opposite sides of the aperture. The bars were wide enough apart to admit of his thrusting his arm through to the elbow; and so he held on negligently, for his greater ease.

A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement. As the captive men were faded and haggard, so the iron was rusty, the stone was slimy, the wood was rotten, the air was faint, the light was dim. Like a well, like a vault, like a tomb, the prison had no knowledge of the brightness outside, and would have kept its polluted atmosphere intact in one of the spice islands of the Indian ocean.

The man who lay on the ledge of the grating was even chilled. He jerked his great cloak more heavily upon him by an impatient movement of one shoulder, and growled, ‘To the devil with this Brigand of a Sun that never shines in here!’

He was waiting to be fed, looking sideways through the bars that he might see the further down the stairs, with much of the expression of a wild beast in similar expectation. But his eyes, too close together, were not so nobly set in his head as those of the king of beasts are in his, and they were sharp rather than bright—pointed weapons with little surface to betray them. They had no depth or change; they glittered, and they opened and shut. So far, and waiving their use to himself, a clockmaker could have made a better pair. He had a hook nose, handsome after its kind, but too high between the eyes by probably just as much as his eyes were too near to one another. For the rest, he was large and tall in frame, had thin lips, where his thick moustache showed them at all, and a quantity of dry hair, of no definable colour, in its shaggy state, but shot with red. The hand with which he held the grating (seamed all over the back with ugly scratches newly healed), was unusually small and plump; would have been unusually white but for the prison grime.

LIBRO PRIMO: Povertà CAPITOLO 1. Sole e >Ombra

Trent’anni fa, un giorno, Marsiglia bruciava sotto il sole.

Un sole ardente in una torrida giornata di agosto non era affatto una rarità nel sud della Francia, né prima né dopo. Tutto a Marsiglia, e nei dintorni di Marsiglia, fissava quel cielo infuocato; anche il cielo, a sua volta, sembrava fissare tutto quanto. Gli sconosciuti venivano osservati con insistenza da case bianche, muri bianchi, strade bianche, distese aride di strada, colline dalle quali ogni traccia di verde era scomparsa. Le uniche cose che non fissavano nulla erano le viti, piegate sotto il peso dei grappoli. Di tanto in tanto, quelle viti sembravano “socchiudere” leggermente i loro deboli fogli quando l’aria calda li muoveva appena.

Non c’era alcun >vento che potesse creare increspature sull’orribile acqua del porto, né sul bellissimo mare al di fuori di esso. Il confine tra i due colori, il nero e il blu, indicava il punto oltre cui l’acqua pura non avrebbe mai potuto spingersi; tuttavia, rimaneva immobile, proprio come quell’orribile stagno con cui mai si mescolava. Le barche senza tetto erano troppo calde da toccare; le navi si scottavano dove erano ancorate; le pietre dei moli non si erano raffreddate, né di notte né di giorno, da mesi. Indù, russi, cinesi, spagnoli, portoghesi, inglesi, francesi, genovesi, napoletani, veneziani, greci, turchi, discendenti di tutti coloro che avevano costruito Babilonia, venivano a Marsiglia per fare affari e cercavano tutti lo stesso riparo: un luogo nascosto dove sfuggire a quel mare troppo intensamente blu da poter essere guardato, e a quel cielo viola, adornato da un enorme >jewello di fuoco.

Quel bagliore uniforme faceva male agli occhi. Verso la lontana linea della costa italiana, infatti, il cielo era un po’ alleviato da leggere nuvole di nebbia che si alzavano lentamente a causa dell’evaporazione del mare, ma altrove quel bagliore non si attenuava affatto. Lontano, le strade polverose, immerse nella polvere, sembravano fissare il paesaggio da ogni lato: dalle pendici delle colline, dalle valli, dalle sterminate pianure. Anche i viticci polverosi che si estendevano lungo le case ai bordi della strada, e le monotone alberate prive di ombra, sembravano sottomessi a quel bagliore incessante. Lo stesso valeva per i cavalli con i loro sonnolenti campanelli, per le lunghe file di carri che avanzavano lentamente verso l’interno del paese; lo stesso valeva per i conducenti, quando erano svegli, il che accadeva raramente; e anche per gli stanchi lavoratori nei campi. Tutto ciò che viveva o cresceva era oppresso da quel bagliore accecante, tranne la lucertola che si muoveva rapidamente sopra le pareti di pietra ruvida, e il cuculo che emetteva il suo canto secco e caldo, simile al suono di un sonaglio. Anche la stessa polvere era diventata di colore marrone scuro; qualcosa tremolava nell’atmosfera, come se l’aria stessa fosse in affanno.

Persiane, scuri, tende e tettoie erano tutte chiuse per tenere fuori quegli sguardi invadenti. Bastava una fessura o un buco della serratura, e quegli sguardi si riversavano dentro come frecce incandescenti. Le chiese, invece, erano le uniche a esserne al riparo. Uscire dall’oscurità creata da colonne e archi – illuminati solo da lampade che lampeggiavano dolcemente, popolati da ombre vecchie e brutte che dormivano, sputavano e chiedevano l’elemosina – significava tuffarsi in un fiume di fuoco e nuotare disperatamente verso la prima ombra disponibile. Così, mentre le persone si sdraiavano ovunque ci fosse ombra, con pochissimo rumore di voci o abbai di cani, e solo di tanto in tanto il suono discordante delle campane delle chiese o il rimbombo dei tamburi minacciosi. Marsiglia, una realtà da percepire con tutti i sensi, ardeva sotto il sole quel giorno.

Quel giorno a Marsiglia c’era una malvagia prigione. In una delle sue stanze, un luogo così ripugnante che persino lo sguardo più insistente faticava a sostenerlo, e che riceveva soltanto quella luce riflessa che riusciva a captare da solo, c’erano due uomini. Oltre a loro, c’era una panca incavata e deformata, fissata al muro; su di essa era stato rudemente costruito un tavolo da dama con dei bottoni vecchi e delle ossa di zuppa; inoltre, c’erano delle carte da domino, due tappeti e due o tre bottiglie di vino. Quello era tutto ciò che conteneva la stanza, a parte i ratti e altri insetti invisibili, e, naturalmente, i due uomini stessi.

Riceveva quella luce perché passava attraverso una grata di sbarre di ferro, disposta a forma di una piuttosto grande finestra, grazie alla quale era possibile controllarla in qualsiasi momento dal buio corridoio su cui si trovava la grata stessa. C’era un largo e solido bordo in pietra sotto quella grata; la sua parte inferiore era infatti inserita nella muratura, a tre o quattro piedi di altezza dal suolo. Su quel bordo, uno dei due uomini si appoggiava, seduto a metà e sdraiato a metà, con le ginocchia raccolte e i piedi e le spalle premuti contro i lati opposti dell’apertura. Le sbarre erano abbastanza distanziate tra loro da permettergli di infilare il braccio fino al gomito; così si teneva appoggiato, con noncuranza, per maggiore comodità.

In quella prigione tutto era contaminato. L’aria imprigionata, la luce imprigionata, l’umidità imprigionata, gli uomini imprigionati, tutto era deteriorato a causa della reclusione. Proprio come gli uomini erano pallidi e smunti, così anche il ferro si arrugginiva, la pietra diventava viscosa, il legno marciva, l’aria diventava rarefatta, la luce fioca. Come una prigione sotterranea, come un sepolcro, quella prigione non conosceva affatto la luce esterna e avrebbe mantenuto la sua atmosfera inquinata intatta, proprio come una delle isole profumate dell’Oceano Indiano.

L’uomo sdraiato sul bordo della grata era persino intirritato dal freddo. Con un movimento impaziente di una spalla, si avvolse più strettamente nel suo grande mantello e borbottò: “Al diavolo questo ‘brigante di sole’ che mai splende qui dentro!”

Aspettava di essere nutrito, guardando di sottecchi attraverso le sbarre, nella speranza di vedere qualcosa più in basso sulle scale. Con un’espressione simile a quella di una bestia selvatica in attesa della sua preda. Ma i suoi occhi, troppo vicini tra loro, non erano così “nobilmente” posizionati nel suo viso come quelli del re delle bestie; erano acuti, ma non luminosi. Sembravano armi affilate, prive di qualsiasi traccia di espressività. Non avevano profondità né variazioni nell’aspetto; brillavano semplicemente, aprendosi e chiudendosi continuamente. Un orologiaio avrebbe potuto costruire una coppia di occhi migliori. Aveva il naso adunco, attraente per la sua forma, ma troppo alto tra gli occhi. E questi ultimi erano troppo vicini tra loro. Per il resto, era di statura alta e robusta; aveva labbra sottili, e solo il suo folto mustacchio le rendeva visibili; i suoi capelli erano secchi, di colore indefinito e arruffati. E qua e là spuntavano ciocche rosse. La mano con cui teneva la grata – coperta di brutte cicatrici appena guarite – era insolitamente piccola e rotonda; sarebbe stata bianca, se non fosse stata imbrattata dalla sporcizia della prigione.

The other man was lying on the stone floor, covered with a coarse brown coat.

‘Get up, pig!’ growled the first. ‘Don’t sleep when I am hungry.’

‘It’s all one, master,’ said the pig, in a submissive manner, and not without cheerfulness; ‘I can wake when I will, I can sleep when I will. It’s all the same.’

As he said it, he rose, shook himself, scratched himself, tied his brown coat loosely round his neck by the sleeves (he had previously used it as a coverlet), and sat down upon the pavement yawning, with his back against the wall opposite to the grating.

‘Say what the hour is,’ grumbled the first man.

‘The mid-day bells will ring—in forty minutes.’ When he made the little pause, he had looked round the prison-room, as if for certain information.

‘You are a clock. How is it that you always know?’

‘How can I say? I always know what the hour is, and where I am. I was brought in here at night, and out of a boat, but I know where I am. See here! Marseilles harbour;’ on his knees on the pavement, mapping it all out with a swarthy forefinger; ‘Toulon (where the galleys are), Spain over there, Algiers over there. Creeping away to the left here, Nice. Round by the Cornice to Genoa. Genoa Mole and Harbour. Quarantine Ground. City there; terrace gardens blushing with the bella donna. Here, Porto Fino. Stand out for Leghorn. Out again for Civita Vecchia, so away to—hey! there’s no room for Naples;’ he had got to the wall by this time; ‘but it’s all one; it’s in there!’

He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and a knife in it.

‘Judge if I come back from Naples as I went! See here, my master! Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Porto Fino, Genoa, Cornice, Off Nice (which is in there), Marseilles, you and me. The apartment of the jailer and his keys is where I put this thumb; and here at my wrist they keep the national razor in its case—the guillotine locked up.’

The other man spat suddenly on the pavement, and gurgled in his throat.

Some lock below gurgled in its throat immediately afterwards, and then a door crashed. Slow steps began ascending the stairs; the prattle of a sweet little voice mingled with the noise they made; and the prison-keeper appeared carrying his daughter, three or four years old, and a basket.

‘How goes the world this forenoon, gentlemen? My little one, you see, going round with me to have a peep at her father’s birds. Fie, then! Look at the birds, my pretty, look at the birds.’

He looked sharply at the birds himself, as he held the child up at the grate, especially at the little bird, whose activity he seemed to mistrust. ‘I have brought your bread, Signor John Baptist,’ said he (they all spoke in French, but the little man was an Italian); ‘and if I might recommend you not to game—’

‘You don’t recommend the master!’ said John Baptist, showing his teeth as he smiled.

‘Oh! but the master wins,’ returned the jailer, with a passing look of no particular liking at the other man, ‘and you lose. It’s quite another thing. You get husky bread and sour drink by it; and he gets sausage of Lyons, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good wine by it. Look at the birds, my pretty!’

‘Poor birds!’ said the child.

The fair little face, touched with divine compassion, as it peeped shrinkingly through the grate, was like an angel’s in the prison. John Baptist rose and moved towards it, as if it had a good attraction for him. The other bird remained as before, except for an impatient glance at the basket.

‘Stay!’ said the jailer, putting his little daughter on the outer ledge of the grate, ‘she shall feed the birds. This big loaf is for Signor John Baptist. We must break it to get it through into the cage. So, there’s a tame bird to kiss the little hand! This sausage in a vine leaf is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—this veal in savoury jelly is for Monsieur Rigaud. Again—these three white little loaves are for Monsieur Rigaud. Again, this cheese—again, this wine—again, this tobacco—all for Monsieur Rigaud. Lucky bird!’

The child put all these things between the bars into the soft, Smooth, well-shaped hand, with evident dread—more than once drawing back her own and looking at the man with her fair brow roughened into an expression half of fright and half of anger. Whereas she had put the lump of coarse bread into the swart, scaled, knotted hands of John Baptist (who had scarcely as much nail on his eight fingers and two thumbs as would have made out one for Monsieur Rigaud), with ready confidence; and, when he kissed her hand, had herself passed it caressingly over his face. Monsieur Rigaud, indifferent to this distinction, propitiated the father by laughing and nodding at the daughter as often as she gave him anything; and, so soon as he had all his viands about him in convenient nooks of the ledge on which he rested, began to eat with an appetite.

When Monsieur Rigaud laughed, a change took place in his face, that was more remarkable than prepossessing. His moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache, in a very sinister and cruel manner.

‘There!’ said the jailer, turning his basket upside down to beat the crumbs out, ‘I have expended all the money I received; here is the note of it, and that’s a thing accomplished. Monsieur Rigaud, as I expected yesterday, the President will look for the pleasure of your society at an hour after mid-day, to-day.’

L’altro uomo giaceva sul pavimento di pietra, coperto da un粗布 marrone.

“Alzati, maiale!” ringhiò il primo. “Non )dormire quando ho fame.”

“È tutto lo stesso, padrone,” disse il maiale in tono sottomesso, e non senza allegria; “Posso svegliarmi quando voglio, posso )dormire quando voglio. È davvero la stessa cosa.”

Non appena lo ebbe detto, si alzò in piedi, si scosse, si grattò, legò strettamente il suo cappotto marrone intorno al collo passandolo attraverso le maniche (prima lo aveva usato come coperta) e si sedette sul marciapiede sbadigliando, appoggiato al muro di fronte alla grata.

“Dimmi che ora è,” borbottò il primo uomo.

“I campanelli di mezzogiorno suoneranno tra quaranta minuti.” Mentre faceva quella breve pausa, aveva guardato intorno nella stanza della prigione, come se cercasse informazioni precise.

“Sei un’orologio. Come fai sempre a saperlo?”

“Come posso dirlo? So sempre che ora è e dove mi trovo. Sono stato portato qui di notte, da una barca, ma so esattamente dove sono. Guardate! Il porto di Marsiglia, ” Si mise in ginocchio sul marciapiede e indicò con il dito indice tutte le località: “Tolone, la Spagna laggiù. Algeri ancora più lontano. A sinistra c’è Nizza. Lungo la Costa Azzurra fino a Genova. Il Molo di Genova e il suo porto. Qui, Porto Fino. Più avanti c’è Livorno. E poi Civita Vecchia, ” Arrivato al muro, aggiunse: “Ma in fondo è tutto parte dello stesso insieme. È tutto lì dentro!”

Rimase in ginocchio, alzando lo sguardo verso il suo compagno di prigione con un’espressione vivace, all’interno di una prigione. Un ometto abbronzato, agile e snello, sebbene piuttosto robusto. Orecchini alle orecchie marroni; denti bianchi che risaltavano sul suo viso marrone, un po’ “grottesco”; capelli neri folti intorno al collo marrone; una camicia rossa stracciata aperta sul petto marrone. Pantaloni larghi, da marinaio; scarpe decenti; un lungo berretto rosso; una cintura rossa intorno alla vita. E dentro di essa, un coltello.

‘Giudicate se tornerò da Napoli come sono partito! Ecco qui, mio padrone: Civita Vecchia, Livorno, Porto Fino, Genova, la Costa Azzurra, Off Nice (che si trova lì), Marsiglia. L’appartamento del carceriere e le sue chiavi. È lì che ho nascosto il pollice; e qui al mio polso tengono la rasoietta nazionale nella sua custodia. La ghigliottina è chiusa a chiave.’

L’altro uomo sputò improvvisamente sul marciapiede e cominciò a gracchiare.

Subito dopo, qualche chiave sotto di lui iniziò a gorgogliare nel suo “gorlo”, e poi una porta si aprì con violenza. Passi lenti iniziarono ad salire le scale; il chiacchiericcio di una dolce vocina infantile si mescolò al rumore che facevano; e il custode della prigione apparve, portando con sé sua figlia, di tre o quattro anni, e un cestino.

“Come va il mondo questa mattina, signori? Mia piccola, vedete, sta venendo con me a dare un’occhiata agli uccelli di suo padre. Che meraviglia! Guardate gli uccellini, mia cara, guardateli bene.”

Guardò attentamente gli uccelli stesso, tenendo il bambino vicino alla grata, soprattutto quel piccolo uccellino, la cui attività sembrava non fidarsi del tutto. “Ho portato il vostro pane, Signor Giovanni Battista,” disse (tutti parlavano francese, ma quell’uomo era italiano); “e se potessi consigliarvi di non cacciare, ”

“Non raccomandi quel maestro!” disse Giovanni Battista, mostrando i denti mentre sorrideva.

“Oh! Ma il padrone vince,” rispose il carceriere, lanciando un’occhiata al altro uomo che non sembrava particolarmente gradire; “e tu perdi. È tutta un’altra cosa: tu ottieni solo pane secco e bevande acide; mentre lui riceve salsiccia di Lione, vitello in gelatina saporita, pane bianco, formaggio strachino e buon vino. Guarda quelle uccelline, mia bella, ”

“Poveri uccelli!” disse il bambino.

Quel bel visino, toccato da una divina compassione, mentre spuntava timidamente attraverso la grata, sembrava quello di un angelo in quella prigione. Giovanni Battista si alzò e si avvicinò a esso, come se fosse attratto da qualcosa di positivo. L’altro uccello rimase fermo al suo posto, tranne per uno sguardo impaziente verso il cestino.

“Resta qui!” disse il carceriere, mettendo sua figlia sulla ringhiera esterna della gabbia. “Lei potrà dare da mangiare agli uccelli. Questo grande pane è per il Signor Giovanni Battista; dobbiamo spezzarlo per farlo passare dentro la gabbia. Ecco, c’è anche un uccello addomesticato che può baciare la manina della bambina! Questa salsiccia avvolta in una foglia di vite è per il Signor Rigaud; quest’altra carne di vitella in gelatina è sempre per lui. E questi tre piccoli pani bianchi, e anche questo formaggio, questo vino, questo tabacco, tutto per il Signor Rigaud. Che fortuna per quell’uccello, ”

La bambina, con evidente timore, mise tutte queste cose tra le sbarre e le portò nella sua mano morbida, liscia e ben formata; più di una volta ritrasse la propria mano e guardò l’uomo, con la fronte pallida corrugata in un’espressione a metà paura e a metà rabbia. Mentre invece aveva messo il pezzo di pane ruvido nelle mani nere, squamose e nodose di John Baptist (che aveva appena abbastanza unghie sui suoi otto dita e due pollici per farne una sola per Monsieur Rigaud), con grande fiducia; e quando lui le baciò la mano, lei stessa la passò dolcemente sul suo viso. Monsieur Rigaud, indifferente a questa differenza, compiacque il padre ridendo e annuendo ogni volta che la figlia gli dava qualcosa; e non appena ebbe tutti i suoi cibi disposti in posti comodi sulla roccia su cui si riposava, iniziò a mangiare con grande appetito.

Quando Monsieur Rigaud rideva, il suo viso subiva un cambiamento che era più notevole che attraente. I suoi mustacchi si sollevavano sotto il naso, e il naso si abbassava sopra i mustacchi, in modo molto sinistro e crudele.

“Eccola!” disse il carceriere, capovolgendo il cesto per far cadere le briciole, “Ho speso tutto il denaro che ho ricevuto; ecco la ricevuta, e questa è davvero una cosa fatta. Monsieur Rigaud, come mi aspettavo ieri, il Presidente desidera godere della vostra compagnia tra un’ora dopo mezzogiorno di oggi.”

‘To try me, eh?’ said Rigaud, pausing, knife in hand and morsel in mouth.

‘You have said it. To try you.’

‘There is no news for me?’ asked John Baptist, who had begun, contentedly, to munch his bread.

The jailer shrugged his shoulders.

‘Lady of mine! Am I to lie here all my life, my father?’

‘What do I know!’ cried the jailer, turning upon him with southern quickness, and gesticulating with both his hands and all his fingers, as if he were threatening to tear him to pieces. ‘My friend, how is it possible for me to tell how long you are to lie here? What do I know, John Baptist Cavalletto? Death of my life! There are prisoners here sometimes, who are not in such a devil of a hurry to be tried.’

He seemed to glance obliquely at Monsieur Rigaud in this remark; but Monsieur Rigaud had already resumed his meal, though not with quite so quick an appetite as before.

‘Adieu, my birds!’ said the keeper of the prison, taking his pretty child in his arms, and dictating the words with a kiss.

‘Adieu, my birds!’ the pretty child repeated.

Her innocent face looked back so brightly over his shoulder, as he walked away with her, singing her the song of the child’s game:

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine! Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!’

that John Baptist felt it a point of honour to reply at the grate, and in good time and tune, though a little hoarsely:

‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Compagnon de la Majolaine! Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Always gay!’

Which accompanied them so far down the few steep stairs, that the prison-keeper had to stop at last for his little daughter to hear the song out, and repeat the Refrain while they were yet in sight. Then the child’s head disappeared, and the prison-keeper’s head disappeared, but the little voice prolonged the strain until the door clashed.

Monsieur Rigaud, finding the listening John Baptist in his way before the echoes had ceased (even the echoes were the weaker for imprisonment, and seemed to lag), reminded him with a push of his foot that he had better resume his own darker place. The little man sat down again upon the pavement with the negligent ease of one who was thoroughly accustomed to pavements; and placing three hunks of coarse bread before himself, and falling to upon a fourth, began contentedly to work his way through them as if to clear them off were a sort of game.

Perhaps he glanced at the Lyons sausage, and perhaps he glanced at the veal in savoury jelly, but they were not there long, to make his mouth water; Monsieur Rigaud soon dispatched them, in spite of the president and tribunal, and proceeded to suck his fingers as clean as he could, and to wipe them on his vine leaves. Then, as he paused in his drink to contemplate his fellow-prisoner, his moustache went up, and his nose came down.

‘How do you find the bread?’

‘A little dry, but I have my old sauce here,’ returned John Baptist, holding up his knife.

‘How sauce?’

‘I can cut my bread so—like a melon. Or so—like an omelette. Or so—like a fried fish. Or so—like Lyons sausage,’ said John Baptist, demonstrating the various cuts on the bread he held, and soberly chewing what he had in his mouth.

‘Here!’ cried Monsieur Rigaud. ‘You may drink. You may finish this.’

It was no great gift, for there was mighty little wine left; but Signor Cavalletto, jumping to his feet, received the bottle gratefully, turned it upside down at his mouth, and smacked his lips.

‘Put the bottle by with the rest,’ said Rigaud.

The little man obeyed his orders, and stood ready to give him a lighted match; for he was now rolling his tobacco into cigarettes by the aid of little squares of paper which had been brought in with it.

‘Here! You may have one.’

‘A thousand thanks, my master!’ John Baptist said in his own language, and with the quick conciliatory manner of his own countrymen.

Monsieur Rigaud arose, lighted a cigarette, put the rest of his stock into a breast-pocket, and stretched himself out at full length upon the bench. Cavalletto sat down on the pavement, holding one of his ankles in each hand, and smoking peacefully. There seemed to be some uncomfortable attraction of Monsieur Rigaud’s eyes to the immediate neighbourhood of that part of the pavement where the thumb had been in the plan. They were so drawn in that direction, that the Italian more than once followed them to and back from the pavement in some surprise.

‘What an infernal hole this is!’ said Monsieur Rigaud, breaking a long pause. ‘Look at the light of day. Day? the light of yesterday week, the light of six months ago, the light of six years ago. So slack and dead!’

It came languishing down a square funnel that blinded a window in the staircase wall, through which the sky was never seen—nor anything else.

‘Cavalletto,’ said Monsieur Rigaud, suddenly withdrawing his gaze from this funnel to which they had both involuntarily turned their eyes, ‘you know me for a gentleman?’

‘Surely, surely!’

‘How long have we been here?’

‘I, eleven weeks, to-morrow night at midnight. You, nine weeks and three days, at five this afternoon.’

‘Have I ever done anything here? Ever touched the broom, or spread the mats, or rolled them up, or found the draughts, or collected the dominoes, or put my hand to any kind of work?’

‘Never!’

‘Have you ever thought of looking to me to do any kind of work?’

John Baptist answered with that peculiar back-handed shake of the right forefinger which is the most expressive negative in the Italian language.

‘No! You knew from the first moment when you saw me here, that I was a gentleman?’

“Per mettermi alla prova, eh?”, disse Rigaud, fermandosi per un attimo, con il coltello in mano e un boccone in bocca.

“L’hai detto tu stesso. Per metterti alla prova.”

“Non ci sono nuove per me?”, chiese Giovanni Battista, che aveva iniziato a masticare felicemente il suo pane.

Il carceriere alzò le spalle.

“Mia signora. Devo rimanere sdraiato qui per tutta la vita, padre mio?”

“Cosa ne so io!” gridò il carceriere, girandosi verso di lui con la rapidità tipica del Sud e gesticolando con entrambe le mani e tutti i dita, come se volesse strapparlo in pezzi. “Amico mio, come potrei mai sapere per quanto tempo dovrai rimanere qui? Cosa ne so io, John Baptist Cavalletto. Mio Dio! A volte ci sono prigionieri qui che non hanno affatto fretta di essere processati.”

Sembrava che, con quel commento, gettasse uno sguardo obliquo verso Monsieur Rigaud; ma Monsieur Rigaud aveva già ripreso a mangiare, sebbene non con lo stesso appetito di prima.

“Addio, miei uccelli!” disse il custode della prigione, prendendo in braccio la sua bella bambina e pronunciando quelle parole mentre le baciava.

“Addio, miei uccellini!” ripeté la bella >bambina.

Il suo viso innocente lo guardava ancora con tanta dolcezza mentre lui si allontanava cantandole la canzone del gioco dei bambini.

“Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?
Compagno di Majolaine!
Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?
Sempre allegro!”

Che Giovanni Battista ritenesse un dovere di onore rispondere attraverso la grata, e farlo nel giusto tempo e con la giusta melodia, anche se con una voce un po’ roca.

“Di tutti i cavalieri del re, è proprio lui il fiore, Compagno di Majolaine! Di tutti i cavalieri del re, è proprio lui il fiore, Sempre gioioso!”

Che li accompagnò per tutta la lunghezza di quei pochi gradini ripidi, fino a quando il custode della prigione dovette fermarsi, affinché sua figlia potesse sentire fino in fondo quella cantata e ripetere il ritornello mentre erano ancora visibili. Poi la testa del piccolo scomparve, e anche la testa del custode della prigione scomparve; ma quella vocina continuò a cantare fino a quando la porta non si chiuse.

Monsieur Rigaud, trovando John Baptist ad ascoltare proprio davanti a sé prima che gli echi si fossero spenti (anche gli echi, a causa dell’prigionia, erano più deboli e sembravano ritardare nel propagarsi), lo spinse con il piede per ricordargli di tornare al proprio “oscuro posto”. Il piccolo uomo si sedette di nuovo sul marciapiede con quella noncurante disinvoltura tipica di chi è completamente abituato a vivere in mezzo ai marciapiedi; posizionò davanti a sé tre pezzi di pane grezzo e, prendendo un quarto, iniziò felicemente a mangiarli, come se pulirli fosse una sorta di gioco.

Forse gettò un’occhiata alla salsiccia Lyons, e forse anche alla vitella in gelatina aromatica, ma non rimasero a lungo lì, tanto da fargli venire l’acquolina in bocca. Monsieur Rigaud le eliminò rapidamente, nonostante la presenza del presidente e del tribunale, poi si pulì le dita il più accuratamente possibile e se le asciugò sulle foglie di vite. Poi, mentre si fermava a bere per osservare il suo compagno di prigione, i suoi mustacchi si sollevarono e il suo naso si abbassò.

Come si trova il pane?

“Un po’ secco, ma ho qui il mio vecchio condimento,” rispose Giovanni Battista, alzando il suo coltello.

“Che tipo di salsa?”

“Posso tagliare il mio pane in modo che assomigli a una melona. O a un omelette. O a un pesce fritto. O anche a una salsiccia di Lyons,” disse Giovanni Battista, mostrando i vari modi in cui poteva tagliare il pane che teneva in mano e masticando con calma ciò che aveva in bocca.

“Ecco!” gridò il signor Rigaud. “Puoi bere. Puoi finirlo tutto.”

Non era certo un regalo eccezionale, poiché era rimasto molto poco vino; ma il signor Cavalletto, alzandosi in piedi di scatto, accettò la bottiglia con gratitudine, la capovolse davanti alla bocca e si leccò le labbra.

“Metti la bottiglia insieme alle altre,” disse Rigaud.

Quel piccolo uomo obbedì ai suoi ordini e si preparò ad offrirgli un fiammifero acceso; infatti, in quel momento stava arrotolando il tabacco per farne delle sigarette, utilizzando dei piccoli quadratini di carta che aveva portato con sé.

“Ecco! Puoi prenderne uno.”

“Mille grazie, mio padrone!” disse Giovanni Battista nella sua lingua nativa, con quel modo rapido e accomodante tipico dei suoi connazionali.

Monsieur Rigaud si alzò, accese una sigaretta, mise il resto del suo tabacco in una tasca del petto e si sdraiò completamente sul banco. Cavalletto si sedette sul marciapiede, tenendo ciascun polso attorno a uno dei propri talloni e fumando tranquillamente. Sembrava che lo sguardo di Monsieur Rigaud fosse attratto in modo particolare dalla zona del marciapiede dove il pollice si trovava nel disegno. Lo sguardo era così fisso in quella direzione che l’italiano, più volte, lo seguì con sorpresa mentre si spostava avanti e indietro lungo il marciapiede.

“Che inferno è questo posto!” disse il signor Rigaud dopo una lunga pausa. “Guardate questa luce. La luce del giorno? Ma è la luce di settimane fa, di sei mesi fa, di sei anni fa. Debole e spenta, ”

Scendeva lentamente lungo un tubo quadrato che oscurava una finestra nel muro della scala; da quella finestra non si vedeva mai il cielo, né nulla altro.

“Cavalletto,” disse Monsieur Rigaud, distogliendo improvvisamente lo sguardo da quel imbuto verso cui entrambi avevano involontariamente rivolto gli occhi, “mi conosci come un gentiluomo, vero?”

“Certamente, certamente!”

“Da quanto tempo siamo qui?”

“Io, undici settimane, domani notte a mezzanotte. Tu, nove settimane e tre giorni, alle cinque di questo pomeriggio.”

“Ho mai fatto qualcosa qui? Ho mai usato la scopa, ho mai steso o arrotolato i tappeti, ho mai cercato le fessure d’aria, ho mai raccolto i dadi da domino, o ho mai svolto qualsiasi tipo di lavoro?”

“Mai!”

“Hai mai pensato di chiedermi di aiutarti con qualche lavoro?”

Giovanni Battista rispose con quel particolare gesto negativo fatto scuotendo il dito indice destro, che rappresenta l’espressione di rifiuto più efficace nella lingua italiana.

“No! Dal primo momento in cui mi hai visto qui, sapevi già che ero un gentiluomo, ”

‘ALTRO!’ returned John Baptist, closing his eyes and giving his head a most vehement toss. The word being, according to its Genoese emphasis, a confirmation, a contradiction, an assertion, a denial, a taunt, a compliment, a joke, and fifty other things, became in the present instance, with a significance beyond all power of written expression, our familiar English ‘I believe you!’

‘Haha! You are right! A gentleman I am! And a gentleman I’ll live, and a gentleman I’ll die! It’s my intent to be a gentleman. It’s my game. Death of my soul, I play it out wherever I go!’

He changed his posture to a sitting one, crying with a triumphant air:

‘Here I am! See me! Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box into the company of a mere smuggler;—shut up with a poor little contraband trader, whose papers are wrong, and whom the police lay hold of besides, for placing his boat (as a means of getting beyond the frontier) at the disposition of other little people whose papers are wrong; and he instinctively recognises my position, even by this light and in this place. It’s well done! By Heaven! I win, however the game goes.’

Again his moustache went up, and his nose came down.

‘What’s the hour now?’ he asked, with a dry hot pallor upon him, rather difficult of association with merriment.

‘A little half-hour after mid-day.’

‘Good! The President will have a gentleman before him soon. Come! Shall I tell you on what accusation? It must be now, or never, for I shall not return here. Either I shall go free, or I shall go to be made ready for shaving. You know where they keep the razor.’

Signor Cavalletto took his cigarette from between his parted lips, and showed more momentary discomfiture than might have been expected.

‘I am a’—Monsieur Rigaud stood up to say it—‘I am a cosmopolitan gentleman. I own no particular country. My father was Swiss—Canton de Vaud. My mother was French by blood, English by birth. I myself was born in Belgium. I am a citizen of the world.’

His theatrical air, as he stood with one arm on his hip within the folds of his cloak, together with his manner of disregarding his companion and addressing the opposite wall instead, seemed to intimate that he was rehearsing for the President, whose examination he was shortly to undergo, rather than troubling himself merely to enlighten so small a person as John Baptist Cavalletto.

‘Call me five-and-thirty years of age. I have seen the world. I have lived here, and lived there, and lived like a gentleman everywhere. I have been treated and respected as a gentleman universally. If you try to prejudice me by making out that I have lived by my wits—how do your lawyers live—your politicians—your intriguers—your men of the Exchange?’

He kept his small smooth hand in constant requisition, as if it were a witness to his gentility that had often done him good service before.

‘Two years ago I came to Marseilles. I admit that I was poor; I had been ill. When your lawyers, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange fall ill, and have not scraped money together, they become poor. I put up at the Cross of Gold,—kept then by Monsieur Henri Barronneau—sixty-five at least, and in a failing state of health. I had lived in the house some four months when Monsieur Henri Barronneau had the misfortune to die;—at any rate, not a rare misfortune, that. It happens without any aid of mine, pretty often.’

John Baptist having smoked his cigarette down to his fingers’ ends, Monsieur Rigaud had the magnanimity to throw him another. He lighted the second at the ashes of the first, and smoked on, looking sideways at his companion, who, preoccupied with his own case, hardly looked at him.

‘Monsieur Barronneau left a widow. She was two-and-twenty. She had gained a reputation for beauty, and (which is often another thing) was beautiful. I continued to live at the Cross of Gold. I married Madame Barronneau. It is not for me to say whether there was any great disparity in such a match. Here I stand, with the contamination of a jail upon me; but it is possible that you may think me better suited to her than her former husband was.’

He had a certain air of being a handsome man—which he was not; and a certain air of being a well-bred man—which he was not. It was mere swagger and challenge; but in this particular, as in many others, blustering assertion goes for proof, half over the world.

‘Be it as it may, Madame Barronneau approved of me. That is not to prejudice me, I hope?’

His eye happening to light upon John Baptist with this inquiry, that little man briskly shook his head in the negative, and repeated in an argumentative tone under his breath, altro, altro, altro, altro—an infinite number of times.

‘Now came the difficulties of our position. I am proud. I say nothing in defence of pride, but I am proud. It is also my character to govern. I can’t submit; I must govern. Unfortunately, the property of Madame Rigaud was settled upon herself. Such was the insane act of her late husband. More unfortunately still, she had relations. When a wife’s relations interpose against a husband who is a gentleman, who is proud, and who must govern, the consequences are inimical to peace. There was yet another source of difference between us. Madame Rigaud was unfortunately a little vulgar. I sought to improve her manners and ameliorate her general tone; she (supported in this likewise by her relations) resented my endeavours. Quarrels began to arise between us; and, propagated and exaggerated by the slanders of the relations of Madame Rigaud, to become notorious to the neighbours. It has been said that I treated Madame Rigaud with cruelty. I may have been seen to slap her face—nothing more. I have a light hand; and if I have been seen apparently to correct Madame Rigaud in that manner, I have done it almost playfully.’

If the playfulness of Monsieur Rigaud were at all expressed by his smile at this point, the relations of Madame Rigaud might have said that they would have much preferred his correcting that unfortunate woman seriously.

“Altro!”, rispose Giovanni Battista, chiudendo gli occhi e scuotendo violentemente la testa. Quella parola, secondo l’accento genovese con cui veniva pronunciata, poteva significare conferma, contraddizione, affermazione, negazione, scherno, complimento, battuta, o qualunque altra cosa. In quel momento, però, assunse un significato che andava oltre qualsiasi espressione scritta; era l’equivalente del nostro familiare “Credo a te!”.

‘Ahah! Hai ragione! Sono un gentiluomo. E lo sarò per tutta la vita, e lo sarò anche quando morirò. È il mio obiettivo essere un gentiluomo. È il mio “gioco”. Anche di fronte alla Morte della mia ‘anima, continuerò a comportarmi da gentiluomo, ovunque io vada!’

Si sistemò in posizione seduta, piangendo con un’espressione trionfale.

‘Eccomi qui! Guardatemi. Sono stato strappato dalla “scatola dei dadi del destino” per finire nella compagnia di un semplice contrabbandiere; costretto a collaborare con un povero commerciante di merci illegali, il cui passaporto è falso, e che inoltre viene arrestato dalla polizia perché permette ad altre persone, anch’esse con documenti falsi, di utilizzare la sua barca per attraversare il confine. Lui intuisce immediatamente la mia situazione, anche in queste condizioni e in questo luogo. Bene fatto! Per Dio. Vinco, qualunque sia l’esito della partita.’

Di nuovo, la sua barba si sollevò e il suo naso si abbassò.

“Che ore sono adesso?”, chiese, con un pallore giallastro e secco sul viso; un aspetto che difficilmente poteva essere associato alla gioia.

“Un quarto d’ora dopo mezzogiorno.”

‘Bene! Presto il Presidente avrà davanti a sé un gentiluomo. Vieni! Devo dirti con quale accusa? Deve essere ora, o mai più, perché non tornerò qui. O uscirò libero, oppure andrò a farmi preparare per la rasatura. Sai dove tengono il rasoio.’

Il signor Cavalletto prese la sigaretta tra le labbra divaricate e mostrò un certo imbarazzo momentaneo, più di quanto ci si sarebbe aspettati.

“Sono un, ” – Monsieur Rigaud si alzò per dirlo – “sono un gentiluomo cosmopolita. Non appartengo a nessun paese in particolare. Mio padre era svizzero, del Cantone di Vaud; mia madre era di origine francese, ma inglese di nascita. Io stesso sono nato in Belgio. Sono un cittadino del mondo.”

Il suo atteggiamento teatrale, mentre stava lì con un braccio appoggiato alla vita all’interno delle pieghe del suo mantello, unito al modo in cui ignorava il suo compagno e si rivolgeva invece al muro di fronte, sembravano indicare che stesse provando per l’interrogatorio che avrebbe presto dovuto affrontare con il Presidente, piuttosto che preoccuparsi semplicemente di illuminare una persona così insignificante come John Baptist Cavalletto.

“Chiamatemi un uomo di cinquantatré anni: ho visto il mondo, ho vissuto qui e lì, e ovunque mi sono comportato da gentiluomo. Sono stato trattato e rispettato come tale in ogni luogo. Se cercate di danneggiarmi sostenendo che mi sia guadagnato da vivere con l’inganno, come fanno a vivere i vostri avvocati, i vostri politici, i vostri intrighisti, gli uomini del mercato finanziario?”

Teneva sempre la sua piccola mano liscia a disposizione, come se fosse una testimonianza della sua gentilezza, che in passato gli aveva spesso reso dei grandi servizi.

“Due anni fa sono arrivato a Marsiglia. Ammetto di essere stato povero; ero malato. Quando i vostri avvocati, i vostri politici, i vostri intrighanti, gli uomini del mercato finanziario si ammalano e non riescono a raccogliere abbastanza denaro, loro diventano poveri. Io soggiornavo all’Crocce d’Oro – gestito all’epoca da Monsieur Henri Barronneau – da almeno sessantacinque giorni, e in uno stato di salute precario. Ero già vissuto in quella casa per circa quattro mesi quando Monsieur Henri Barronneau ebbe la sfortuna di morire. Comunque, non si trattava certo di una sfortuna rara. Queste cose accadono spesso, senza alcun mio intervento.”

Dopo aver fumato la sigaretta fino a che le punte delle dita non erano diventate rosse, Monsieur Rigaud ebbe la magnanimità di offrirgliene un’altra. Accese la seconda con le ceneri della prima e continuò a fumare, guardando di sottecchi il suo compagno, che, assorto nei propri pensieri, quasi non gli prestava attenzione.

‘Monsieur Barronneau lasciò una vedova. Aveva ventidue anni. Era conosciuta per la sua bellezza, e, beh, era davvero bella. Continuai a vivere alla >Croce d’Oro. Sposai Madame Barronneau. Non spetta a me giudicare se ci fosse una grande disparità in un matrimonio del genere. Ora mi trovo qui, con il “peso” di aver trascorso del tempo in prigione; ma forse voi penserete che io sia più adatto a lei di quanto lo fosse suo ex marito.’

Aveva quell’aspetto tipico di un uomo attraente, ma non lo era affatto; e anche quell’aria di essere un uomo ben educato, ma non lo era nemmeno. Era solo una questione di atteggiamento e sfida; ma in questo, come in molti altri casi, le affermazioni prepotenti vengono spesso scambiate per prove, in molte parti del mondo.

“Comunque sia, Madame Barronneau mi ha approvato. Questo non dovrebbe danneggiarmi, spero, ”

Il suo sguardo si posò su Giovanni Battista con questa domanda; quell’uomo piccolo scosse rapidamente la testa in segno di negazione e ripeté, con tono argomentativo e a bassa voce, “altro, altro, altro, altro, ” – un numero infinito di volte.

‘Ora arrivarono le difficoltà legate alla nostra situazione. Sono orgoglioso. Non dico nulla a difesa dell’orgoglio, ma sono orgoglioso. È anche nel mio carattere governare: non posso sottomettermi, devo governare. Purtroppo, i beni di Madame Rigaud le furono lasciati in eredità. Fu un atto folle da parte del suo defunto marito. Ancora più sfortunatamente, lei aveva delle relazioni. Quando le relazioni di una moglie si oppongono a un marito che è un gentiluomo, orgoglioso e deciso a governare, le conseguenze sono dannose per la pace. C’era anche un altro motivo di dissidio tra noi: Madame Rigaud era, purtroppo, piuttosto volgare. Cercai di migliorare i suoi modi e il suo comportamento generale; lei, appoggiata anch’essa dalle sue relazioni, osteggiò i miei sforzi. Iniziarono a sorgere litigi tra noi. E questi litigi, amplificati e esagerati dalle calunnie delle relazioni di Madame Rigaud, divennero noti in tutto il quartiere. Si è detto che trattassi Madame Rigaud con crudeltà. Forse qualcuno mi ha visto schiaffiarla. Nient’altro. Ho una mano leggera; e se qualcuno mi ha visto correggerla in quel modo, l’ho fatto quasi per scherzo.’

Se la spensieratezza di Monsieur Rigaud fosse stata in qualche modo evidente dal suo sorriso in quel momento, le relazioni tra Madame Rigaud e lui avrebbero potuto indicare che lei avrebbe preferito molto se lui avesse corretto seriamente quella sfortunata donna.

‘I am sensitive and brave. I do not advance it as a merit to be sensitive and brave, but it is my character. If the male relations of Madame Rigaud had put themselves forward openly, I should have known how to deal with them. They knew that, and their machinations were conducted in secret; consequently, Madame Rigaud and I were brought into frequent and unfortunate collision. Even when I wanted any little sum of money for my personal expenses, I could not obtain it without collision—and I, too, a man whose character it is to govern! One night, Madame Rigaud and myself were walking amicably—I may say like lovers—on a height overhanging the sea. An evil star occasioned Madame Rigaud to advert to her relations; I reasoned with her on that subject, and remonstrated on the want of duty and devotion manifested in her allowing herself to be influenced by their jealous animosity towards her husband. Madame Rigaud retorted; I retorted; Madame Rigaud grew warm; I grew warm, and provoked her. I admit it. Frankness is a part of my character. At length, Madame Rigaud, in an access of fury that I must ever deplore, threw herself upon me with screams of passion (no doubt those that were overheard at some distance), tore my clothes, tore my hair, lacerated my hands, trampled and trod the dust, and finally leaped over, dashing herself to death upon the rocks below. Such is the train of incidents which malice has perverted into my endeavouring to force from Madame Rigaud a relinquishment of her rights; and, on her persistence in a refusal to make the concession I required, struggling with her—assassinating her!’

He stepped aside to the ledge where the vine leaves yet lay strewn about, collected two or three, and stood wiping his hands upon them, with his back to the light.

‘Well,’ he demanded after a silence, ‘have you nothing to say to all that?’

‘It’s ugly,’ returned the little man, who had risen, and was brightening his knife upon his shoe, as he leaned an arm against the wall.

‘What do you mean?’

John Baptist polished his knife in silence.

‘Do you mean that I have not represented the case correctly?’

‘Al-tro!’ returned John Baptist. The word was an apology now, and stood for ‘Oh, by no means!’

‘What then?’

‘Presidents and tribunals are so prejudiced.’

‘Well,’ cried the other, uneasily flinging the end of his cloak over his shoulder with an oath, ‘let them do their worst!’

‘Truly I think they will,’ murmured John Baptist to himself, as he bent his head to put his knife in his sash.

Nothing more was said on either side, though they both began walking to and fro, and necessarily crossed at every turn. Monsieur Rigaud sometimes stopped, as if he were going to put his case in a new light, or make some irate remonstrance; but Signor Cavalletto continuing to go slowly to and fro at a grotesque kind of jog-trot pace with his eyes turned downward, nothing came of these inclinings.

By-and-by the noise of the key in the lock arrested them both. The sound of voices succeeded, and the tread of feet. The door clashed, the voices and the feet came on, and the prison-keeper slowly ascended the stairs, followed by a guard of soldiers.

‘Now, Monsieur Rigaud,’ said he, pausing for a moment at the grate, with his keys in his hands, ‘have the goodness to come out.’

‘I am to depart in state, I see?’

‘Why, unless you did,’ returned the jailer, ‘you might depart in so many pieces that it would be difficult to get you together again. There’s a crowd, Monsieur Rigaud, and it doesn’t love you.’

He passed on out of sight, and unlocked and unbarred a low door in the corner of the chamber. ‘Now,’ said he, as he opened it and appeared within, ‘come out.’

There is no sort of whiteness in all the hues under the sun at all like the whiteness of Monsieur Rigaud’s face as it was then. Neither is there any expression of the human countenance at all like that expression in every little line of which the frightened heart is seen to beat. Both are conventionally compared with death; but the difference is the whole deep gulf between the struggle done, and the fight at its most desperate extremity.

He lighted another of his paper cigars at his companion’s; put it tightly between his teeth; covered his head with a soft slouched hat; threw the end of his cloak over his shoulder again; and walked out into the side gallery on which the door opened, without taking any further notice of Signor Cavalletto. As to that little man himself, his whole attention had become absorbed in getting near the door and looking out at it. Precisely as a beast might approach the opened gate of his den and eye the freedom beyond, he passed those few moments in watching and peering, until the door was closed upon him.

There was an officer in command of the soldiers; a stout, serviceable, profoundly calm man, with his drawn sword in his hand, smoking a cigar. He very briefly directed the placing of Monsieur Rigaud in the midst of the party, put himself with consummate indifference at their head, gave the word ‘march!’ and so they all went jingling down the staircase. The door clashed—the key turned—and a ray of unusual light, and a breath of unusual air, seemed to have passed through the jail, vanishing in a tiny wreath of smoke from the cigar.

Still, in his captivity, like a lower animal—like some impatient ape, or roused bear of the smaller species—the prisoner, now left solitary, had jumped upon the ledge, to lose no glimpse of this departure. As he yet stood clasping the grate with both hands, an uproar broke upon his hearing; yells, shrieks, oaths, threats, execrations, all comprehended in it, though (as in a storm) nothing but a raging swell of sound distinctly heard.

Excited into a still greater resemblance to a caged wild animal by his anxiety to know more, the prisoner leaped nimbly down, ran round the chamber, leaped nimbly up again, clasped the grate and tried to shake it, leaped down and ran, leaped up and listened, and never rested until the noise, becoming more and more distant, had died away. How many better prisoners have worn their noble hearts out so; no man thinking of it; not even the beloved of their souls realising it; great kings and governors, who had made them captive, careering in the sunlight jauntily, and men cheering them on. Even the said great personages dying in bed, making exemplary ends and sounding speeches; and polite history, more servile than their instruments, embalming them!

At last, John Baptist, now able to choose his own spot within the compass of those walls for the exercise of his faculty of going to sleep when he would, lay down upon the bench, with his face turned over on his crossed arms, and slumbered. In his submission, in his lightness, in his good humour, in his short-lived passion, in his easy contentment with hard bread and hard stones, in his ready sleep, in his fits and starts, altogether a true son of the land that gave him birth.

The wide stare stared itself out for one while; the Sun went down in a red, green, golden glory; the stars came out in the heavens, and the fire-flies mimicked them in the lower air, as men may feebly imitate the goodness of a better order of beings; the long dusty roads and the interminable plains were in repose—and so deep a hush was on the sea, that it scarcely whispered of the time when it shall give up its dead.

“Sono sensibile e coraggioso. Non lo presento come un merito, ma è semplicemente il mio carattere. Se le relazioni maschili di Madame Rigaud si fossero fatte avanti apertamente, avrei saputo come affrontarle. Loro lo sapevano, e le loro macchinazioni venivano condotte in segreto; di conseguenza, Madame Rigaud ed io ci scontravamo spesso e in modo spiacevole. Anche quando volevo chiedere una piccola somma di denaro per le mie spese personali, non riuscivo a ottenerla senza conflitti. E io, che sono un uomo il cui carattere consiste nel governare con equità! Una notte, Madame Rigaud ed io camminavamo amichevolmente – potrei dire come innamorati su una collina che si affacciava sul mare. Per un motivo crudele, Madame Rigaud iniziò a parlare delle sue relazioni; ne discutemmo, e le feci notare quanto fosse mancante di dovere e devozione nel lasciarsi influenzare dall’invidia e dall’ostilità di quelle persone verso suo marito. Madame Rigaud ribatté; io risposi; lei si arrabbiò ancora di più; anch’io mi infervorii, provocandola. Lo ammetto: la franchezza fa parte del mio carattere. Alla fine, Madame Rigaud, presa da un attacco di furia che deploro profondamente, si gettò su di me urlando di passione (non c’è dubbio che qualcuno abbia sentito quelle grida da lontano), strappò i miei vestiti, i miei capelli, mi ferì le mani, calpestò il terreno, e infine si gettò giù dalle rocce, morendo. Ecco come la malvagità ha distorto gli eventi, trasformando il mio tentativo di farle rinunciare ai suoi diritti in un atto di violenza. E poiché lei continuava a rifiutarsi di cedere, ho lottato con lei, e l’ho assassinata.”

Si spostò di lato verso il bordo dove le foglie della vite erano ancora sparse intorno; ne raccolse due o tre e si mise a pulirsi le mani con esse, con la schiena rivolta verso la luce.

“Beh,” chiese dopo un po’ di silenzio, “non hai nulla da dire su tutto questo?”

“È brutto,” rispose il piccolo uomo, che si era alzato e stava affilando il suo coltello sulla scarpa, appoggiandosi con un braccio al muro.

“Cosa intendi dire?”

John Baptist lucidò il suo coltello in silenzio.

“Vuoi dire che non ho rappresentato correttamente questa causa?”

“Un altro!” rispose Giovanni Battista. Ora quella parola aveva il significato di un’scusa, e voleva dire “Oh, assolutamente no!”

“E allora?”

“I presidenti e i tribunali sono così prevenuti.”

“Beh, ”, esclamò l’altro, gettando a malincuore un lembo del suo mantello sulla spalla e imprecando, “che facciano pure del loro peggio!”

“Credo davvero che lo faranno,” mormorò Giovanni Battista tra sé, mentre chinava la testa per infilare il coltello nella cintura.

Nessun altro commento fu fatto da entrambe le parti, anche se iniziarono a camminare avanti e indietro, incrociandosi inevitabilmente ad ogni svolta. Il signor Rigaud a volte si fermava, come se volesse riprendere in considerazione la situazione o fare qualche rimprovero arrabbiato; ma il signor Cavalletto continuava a camminare lentamente avanti e indietro, con un passo strano e irregolare, gli occhi fissi a terra, e quindi nessuna conseguenza derivò da queste intenzioni.

Dopo un po’, il rumore della chiave che girava nella serratura li fermò entrambi. Poi si udirono voci e passi. La porta si aprì, e il custode della prigione salì lentamente le scale, seguito da una guardia di soldati.

“Ora, signor Rigaud,” disse, fermandosi per un momento davanti alla grata con le chiavi in mano, “abbia la gentilezza di uscire.”

“Devo partire in modo solenne, giusto?”

“Perché, altrimenti,” rispose il carceriere, “potreste finire in mille pezzi, e sarebbe difficile rimetterli insieme. C’è una folla, Monsieur Rigaud, e a lei non piacete affatto.”

Scomparve dalla vista, poi aprì e scostò una porta bassa situata nell’angolo della stanza. “Ora,” disse entrando, “uscite.”

Non esiste alcun tipo di bianchezza, tra tutte le tonalità esistenti sotto il sole, che possa paragonarsi alla bianchezza del viso di Monsieur Rigaud in quel momento. Nemmeno esiste alcuna espressione sul volto umano che possa eguagliare quella che si legge in ogni singola linea di quel viso, dove si può vedere il battito terrorizzato del cuore. Entrambe queste cose vengono comunemente paragonate alla morte; ma la differenza è rappresentata dall’abisso profondo che esiste tra una lotta già combattuta e quella che raggiunge il suo estremo più disperato.

Accese un altro dei suoi sigari di carta davanti al suo compagno; se lo mise saldamente tra i denti; si coprì la testa con un cappello morbido e abbassato sul viso; gettò di nuovo l’estremità del suo mantello sulla spalla e uscì nella galleria laterale da cui si apriva la porta, senza prestare ulteriore attenzione al signor Cavalletto. Quanto a quell’ometto, tutta la sua attenzione era concentrata nel cercare di avvicinarsi alla porta per guardarci attraverso. Proprio come una bestia potrebbe avvicinarsi alla porta aperta della propria tana per osservare la libertà al di là, egli trascorse quei momenti a guardare e spiare, fino a quando la porta non si chiuse alle sue spalle.

C’era un ufficiale che comandava i soldati; un uomo robusto, affidabile e profondamente calmo, con la sua spada sguainata in mano e fumando un sigaro. Con poche parole ordinò di posizionare Monsieur Rigaud al centro del gruppo, si mise lui stesso alla loro testa con assoluta indifferenza, diede l’ordine di “marciare!” e così tutti scesero le scale. La porta si chiuse con un tonfo – la chiave girò nella serratura – e un raggio di luce insolita, insieme a una boccata d’aria diversa dal solito, sembrarono penetrare nella prigione per poi scomparire in una piccola nuvola di fumo proveniente dal sigaro.

Tuttavia, nella sua prigionia, come un animale inferiore – come una scimmia impaziente o un orso di piccola taglia – il prigioniero, ora lasciato solo, si era arrampicato sulla ringhiera per non perdere nemmeno un istante di questa partenza. Mentre ancora stringeva la grata con entrambe le mani, un clamore assordante giunse alle sue orecchie: urla, strilli, imprecazioni, minacce, tutto ciò che ne risultava era un’unica ondata furiosa di suoni, indistinti e confusi come in una tempesta.

Excitato al punto di assomigliare ancora di più a un animale selvaggio in gabbia dalla sua ansia di sapere di più, il prigioniero saltò giù agilmente, corse intorno alla stanza, risalì velocemente, afferrò le sbarre e cercò di scuoterle; poi saltò di nuovo giù e corse ancora, ascoltando attentamente. Non si fermò finché il rumore, diventando sempre più lontano, non svanì del tutto. Quanti altri prigionieri hanno consumato così i loro nobili sentimenti. Nessuno se ne è accorto; nemmeno coloro che li amavano veramente lo sapevano. Grandi re e governatori che li avevano fatti prigionieri, che si muovevano spensieratamente alla luce del sole, mentre la gente li acclamava. Anche quegli stessi grandi personaggi, morendo nel loro letto, pronunciavano discorsi esemplari. E la cosiddetta “storia”, ancora più servile dei suoi strumenti di narrazione, li onorava postumamente.

Finalmente, Giovanni Battista, ora in grado di scegliere da solo il luogo all’interno di quei muri per riposare quando voleva, si sdraiò sul banco, con il viso rivolto verso le braccia incrociate, e si addormentò. Nella sua sottomissione, nella sua leggerezza, nel suo buon umore, nelle sue passioni effimere, nella sua facile soddisfazione con pane duro e pietre dure, nel suo sonno immediato, nei suoi momenti di inquietudine, insomma, era davvero un vero figlio della terra che lo aveva generato.

Quel lungo sguardo rimase fermo per un po’; il Sole tramontò in una gloria rossa, verde, dorata; le stelle apparvero nel cielo, e le lucciole imitarono il loro bagliore nell’aria bassa, proprio come gli esseri umani possono debolmente cercare di emulare la bontà di creature più nobili; i lunghi sentieri polverosi e le infinite pianure erano immobili nel silenzio. E sul mare regnava un tale silenzio che a malapena si udiva il suono del tempo che, un giorno, porterà via i suoi morti.

CHAPTER 2 Fellow Travellers

‘No more of yesterday’s howling over yonder to-day, Sir; is there?’

‘I have heard none.’

‘Then you may be sure there is none. When these people howl, they howl to be heard.’

‘Most people do, I suppose.’

‘Ah! but these people are always howling. Never happy otherwise.’

‘Do you mean the Marseilles people?’

‘I mean the French people. They’re always at it. As to Marseilles, we know what Marseilles is. It sent the most insurrectionary tune into the world that was ever composed. It couldn’t exist without allonging and marshonging to something or other—victory or death, or blazes, or something.’

The speaker, with a whimsical good humour upon him all the time, looked over the parapet-wall with the greatest disparagement of Marseilles; and taking up a determined position by putting his hands in his pockets and rattling his money at it, apostrophised it with a short laugh.

‘Allong and marshong, indeed. It would be more creditable to you, I think, to let other people allong and marshong about their lawful business, instead of shutting ‘em up in quarantine!’

‘Tiresome enough,’ said the other. ‘But we shall be out to-day.’

‘Out to-day!’ repeated the first. ‘It’s almost an aggravation of the enormity, that we shall be out to-day. Out! What have we ever been in for?’

‘For no very strong reason, I must say. But as we come from the East, and as the East is the country of the plague—’

‘The plague!’ repeated the other. ‘That’s my grievance. I have had the plague continually, ever since I have been here. I am like a sane man shut up in a madhouse; I can’t stand the suspicion of the thing. I came here as well as ever I was in my life; but to suspect me of the plague is to give me the plague. And I have had it—and I have got it.’

‘You bear it very well, Mr Meagles,’ said the second speaker, smiling.

‘No. If you knew the real state of the case, that’s the last observation you would think of making. I have been waking up night after night, and saying, now I have got it, now it has developed itself, now I am in for it, now these fellows are making out their case for their precautions. Why, I’d as soon have a spit put through me, and be stuck upon a card in a collection of beetles, as lead the life I have been leading here.’

‘Well, Mr Meagles, say no more about it now it’s over,’ urged a cheerful feminine voice.

‘Over!’ repeated Mr Meagles, who appeared (though without any ill-nature) to be in that peculiar state of mind in which the last word spoken by anybody else is a new injury. ‘Over! and why should I say no more about it because it’s over?’

It was Mrs Meagles who had spoken to Mr Meagles; and Mrs Meagles was, like Mr Meagles, comely and healthy, with a pleasant English face which had been looking at homely things for five-and-fifty years or more, and shone with a bright reflection of them.

‘There! Never mind, Father, never mind!’ said Mrs Meagles. ‘For goodness sake content yourself with Pet.’

‘With Pet?’ repeated Mr Meagles in his injured vein. Pet, however, being close behind him, touched him on the shoulder, and Mr Meagles immediately forgave Marseilles from the bottom of his heart.

Pet was about twenty. A fair girl with rich brown hair hanging free in natural ringlets. A lovely girl, with a frank face, and wonderful eyes; so large, so soft, so bright, set to such perfection in her kind good head. She was round and fresh and dimpled and spoilt, and there was in Pet an air of timidity and dependence which was the best weakness in the world, and gave her the only crowning charm a girl so pretty and pleasant could have been without.

‘Now, I ask you,’ said Mr Meagles in the blandest confidence, falling back a step himself, and handing his daughter a step forward to illustrate his question: ‘I ask you simply, as between man and man, you know, DID you ever hear of such damned nonsense as putting Pet in quarantine?’

‘It has had the result of making even quarantine enjoyable.’

‘Come!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘that’s something to be sure. I am obliged to you for that remark. Now, Pet, my darling, you had better go along with Mother and get ready for the boat. The officer of health, and a variety of humbugs in cocked hats, are coming off to let us out of this at last: and all we jail-birds are to breakfast together in something approaching to a Christian style again, before we take wing for our different destinations. Tattycoram, stick you close to your young mistress.’

He spoke to a handsome girl with lustrous dark hair and eyes, and very neatly dressed, who replied with a half curtsey as she passed off in the train of Mrs Meagles and Pet. They crossed the bare scorched terrace all three together, and disappeared through a staring white archway. Mr Meagles’s companion, a grave dark man of forty, still stood looking towards this archway after they were gone; until Mr Meagles tapped him on the arm.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said he, starting.

‘Not at all,’ said Mr Meagles.

They took one silent turn backward and forward in the shade of the wall, getting, at the height on which the quarantine barracks are placed, what cool refreshment of sea breeze there was at seven in the morning. Mr Meagles’s companion resumed the conversation.

‘May I ask you,’ he said, ‘what is the name of—’

‘Tattycoram?’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I have not the least idea.’

‘I thought,’ said the other, ‘that—’

‘Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles again.

‘Thank you—that Tattycoram was a name; and I have several times wondered at the oddity of it.’

‘Why, the fact is,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘Mrs Meagles and myself are, you see, practical people.’

‘That you have frequently mentioned in the course of the agreeable and interesting conversations we have had together, walking up and down on these stones,’ said the other, with a half smile breaking through the gravity of his dark face.

Capitolo 2: Compagni di viaggio

“Basta più con questi lamenti del passato che continuano fino al presente, signore. Non è vero?”

“Non ne ho sentito parlare.”

“Allora puoi essere certo che non ce n’è nessuna. Quando queste persone urlano, lo fanno per essere sentite.”

“Credo che la maggior parte delle persone lo faccia.”

“Ah! Ma queste persone urlano sempre. Non sono mai felici in altro modo.”

“Intendi dire la gente di Marsiglia?”

‘Intendo dire il popolo francese. Loro sono sempre impegnati in queste cose. Per quanto riguarda Marsiglia, sappiamo bene cosa sia: è stata la città che ha inviato al mondo la melodia più rivoluzionaria mai composta. Non potrebbe esistere senza cercare continuamente di raggiungere qualcosa, vittoria o morte, fiamme, o chissà cosa ancora.’

Il parlante, sempre caratterizzato da un buon umorismo capriccioso, guardava oltre la muraglia di difesa con grande disprezzo per Marsiglia; poi, mettendosi le mani in tasca e facendo tintinnare il denaro che aveva con sé, pronunciò il nome della città con una breve risata.

“Davvero, lasciarli fare ciò che è loro dovere. Penso che sarebbe più lodevole da parte vostra permettere alle persone di svolgere le proprie attività legittime, invece di chiuderle in quarantena!”

“Abbastanza noioso,” disse l’altro. “Ma oggi usciremo.”

“Fuori oggi!” ripeté il primo. “È quasi una sorta di aggravamento di questa enormità il fatto che dovremo uscire proprio oggi. Fuori! Perché mai ci siamo messi in tutto questo?”

“Per nessuna ragione particolarmente valida, devo dire. Ma poiché veniamo dall’Oriente, e l’Oriente è il paese della peste, ”

“La peste!”, ripeté l’altro. “Ecco il mio problema: ho continuato ad avere la peste da quando sono arrivato qui. Sono come un uomo sano rinchiuso in un manicomio; non riesco a sopportare queste accuse. Sono venuto qui nella migliore forma della mia vita. Ma accusarmi di avere la peste significa letteralmente uccidermi. E io l’ho avuta, e ce l’ho ancora.”

“La gestite molto bene, signor Meagles,” disse il secondo interlocutore sorridendo.

“No. Se conoscessi la vera situazione delle cose, quella sarebbe l’ultima osservazione che ti verrebbe in mente di fare. Mi sveglio ogni notte e penso: ‘Ora ho capito, ora la situazione si è evoluta, ora sono nei guai, ora questi individui stanno giustificando le loro precauzioni, ’ Preferirei essere trafitto da uno spillo e messo in una vetrina con altri coleotteri, piuttosto che continuare a vivere questa vita.’”

“Beh, signor Meagles, non parliamone più ora che è finito tutto,” disse una voce femminile allegra e decisa.

“Fine!” ripeté il signor Meagles, che sembrava (sebbene senza alcuna malattia mentale) trovarsi in quello strano stato d’animo in cui l’ultima parola pronunciata da qualcun altro viene considerata un nuovo torto. “Fine! E perché dovrei continuare a parlarne, se ormai è finita?”

Era stata la signora Meagles a parlare con il signor Meagles; e la signora Meagles, proprio come il signor Meagles, era bella e sana, con un viso inglese piacevole che, per cinquantacinque anni o più, aveva osservato cose semplici e familiari, riflettendone così una luce luminosa.

“Ecco! Lascia perdere, Padre, lascia perdere!” disse la signora Meagles. “Per l’amor del cielo, accontentati di Pet.”

“Con Pet?” ripeté il signor Meagles con quel suo tono irritato. Tuttavia, poiché Pet era proprio dietro di lui, gli toccò la spalla e il signor Meagles perdonò immediatamente Marseilles dal profondo del suo cuore.

Pet aveva circa vent’anni. Era una ragazza carina, con capelli castani folti che le ricadevano liberi in morbide onde naturali. Una ragazza deliziosa, dal viso sincero e dagli occhi meravigliosi: così grandi, così dolci, così luminosi, posizionati in modo perfetto nel suo bel viso gentile. Era rotonda, fresca, con delle fossette, e aveva un’aria di timidezza e dipendenza che rappresentava la più bella debolezza al mondo, e le conferiva l’unico fascino aggiuntivo che una ragazza così bella e piacevole potesse desiderare.

“Ora, vi chiedo,” disse il signor Meagles con la massima naturalezza, facendo un passo indietro e spingendo sua figlia avanti di un passo per chiarire meglio la domanda: “Vi chiedo semplicemente, come tra uomini. Avete mai sentito parlare di una sciocchezza del genere, come mettere Pet in quarantena?”

“Ha reso anche la quarantena piacevole.”

“Come!” disse il signor Meagles, “questo sì che è una cosa certa. Devo ringraziarti per quell’osservazione. Ora, Pet, mia cara, faresti meglio ad andare con tua madre e prepararti per la barca. L’ufficiale sanitario, insieme a una serie di individui strani con cappelli a cilindro, sta arrivando per farci uscire finalmente da qui. E tutti noi, questi ‘uccellini in gabbia’, mangeremo insieme a colazione, in modo più o meno cristiano, prima di prendere il volo verso le nostre rispettive destinazioni. Tattycoram, tieni d’occhio la tua giovane padrona.”

Parlò con una ragazza bellissima, dai capelli e dagli occhi scuri e lucidi, vestita in modo molto elegante; lei rispose con un mezzo inchino mentre si allontanava insieme a Mrs Meagles e Pet. I tre attraversarono insieme la desolata terrazza bruciata e scomparvero dietro un arco bianco e imponente. Il compagno di Mr Meagles, un uomo scuro e serio di quarant’anni, rimase ancora fermo a guardare in quella direzione dopo che loro se n’erano andati; fino a quando Mr Meagles non gli diede una pacca sul braccio.

“Perdonatemi,” disse, iniziando a parlare.

“Assolutamente no,” disse il signor Meagles.

Fecero un lento giro avanti e indietro nell’ombra del muro; a quell’altezza in cui si trovavano le baracche della quarantena, alle sette di mattina, c’era una piacevole brezza marina che rinfrescava l’aria. Il compagno di Mr Meagles riprese la conversazione.

“Posso chiederle,” disse, “qual è il nome di, ”

“Tattycoram?”, intervenne il signor Meagles. “Non ne ho la minima idea.”

“Pensavo,” disse l’altro, “che, ”

“Tattycoram?”, suggerì di nuovo il signor Meagles.

“Grazie, ‘Tattycoram’ era davvero un nome strano; più volte mi sono chiesta perché fosse stato scelto.”

“Beh, il fatto è,” disse il signor Meagles, “che io e la signora Meagles siamo, insomma, persone pratiche.”

“Di ciò che hai spesso menzionato durante le piacevoli e interessanti conversazioni che abbiamo avuto insieme, camminando su e giù per queste pietre,” disse l’altro, con un mezzo sorriso che si fece strada attraverso la serietà del suo volto scuro.

‘Practical people. So one day, five or six years ago now, when we took Pet to church at the Foundling—you have heard of the Foundling Hospital in London? Similar to the Institution for the Found Children in Paris?’

‘I have seen it.’

‘Well! One day when we took Pet to church there to hear the music—because, as practical people, it is the business of our lives to show her everything that we think can please her—Mother (my usual name for Mrs Meagles) began to cry so, that it was necessary to take her out. “What’s the matter, Mother?” said I, when we had brought her a little round: “you are frightening Pet, my dear.” “Yes, I know that, Father,” says Mother, “but I think it’s through my loving her so much, that it ever came into my head.” “That ever what came into your head, Mother?” “O dear, dear!” cried Mother, breaking out again, “when I saw all those children ranged tier above tier, and appealing from the father none of them has ever known on earth, to the great Father of us all in Heaven, I thought, does any wretched mother ever come here, and look among those young faces, wondering which is the poor child she brought into this forlorn world, never through all its life to know her love, her kiss, her face, her voice, even her name!” Now that was practical in Mother, and I told her so. I said, “Mother, that’s what I call practical in you, my dear.”’

The other, not unmoved, assented.

‘So I said next day: Now, Mother, I have a proposition to make that I think you’ll approve of. Let us take one of those same little children to be a little maid to Pet. We are practical people. So if we should find her temper a little defective, or any of her ways a little wide of ours, we shall know what we have to take into account. We shall know what an immense deduction must be made from all the influences and experiences that have formed us—no parents, no child-brother or sister, no individuality of home, no Glass Slipper, or Fairy Godmother. And that’s the way we came by Tattycoram.’

‘And the name itself—’

‘By George!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I was forgetting the name itself. Why, she was called in the Institution, Harriet Beadle—an arbitrary name, of course. Now, Harriet we changed into Hattey, and then into Tatty, because, as practical people, we thought even a playful name might be a new thing to her, and might have a softening and affectionate kind of effect, don’t you see? As to Beadle, that I needn’t say was wholly out of the question. If there is anything that is not to be tolerated on any terms, anything that is a type of Jack-in-office insolence and absurdity, anything that represents in coats, waistcoats, and big sticks our English holding on by nonsense after every one has found it out, it is a beadle. You haven’t seen a beadle lately?’

‘As an Englishman who has been more than twenty years in China, no.’

‘Then,’ said Mr Meagles, laying his forefinger on his companion’s breast with great animation, ‘don’t you see a beadle, now, if you can help it. Whenever I see a beadle in full fig, coming down a street on a Sunday at the head of a charity school, I am obliged to turn and run away, or I should hit him. The name of Beadle being out of the question, and the originator of the Institution for these poor foundlings having been a blessed creature of the name of Coram, we gave that name to Pet’s little maid. At one time she was Tatty, and at one time she was Coram, until we got into a way of mixing the two names together, and now she is always Tattycoram.’

‘Your daughter,’ said the other, when they had taken another silent turn to and fro, and, after standing for a moment at the wall glancing down at the sea, had resumed their walk, ‘is your only child, I know, Mr Meagles. May I ask you—in no impertinent curiosity, but because I have had so much pleasure in your society, may never in this labyrinth of a world exchange a quiet word with you again, and wish to preserve an accurate remembrance of you and yours—may I ask you, if I have not gathered from your good wife that you have had other children?’

‘No. No,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not exactly other children. One other child.’

‘I am afraid I have inadvertently touched upon a tender theme.’

‘Never mind,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘If I am grave about it, I am not at all sorrowful. It quiets me for a moment, but does not make me unhappy. Pet had a twin sister who died when we could just see her eyes—exactly like Pet’s—above the table, as she stood on tiptoe holding by it.’

‘Ah! indeed, indeed!’

‘Yes, and being practical people, a result has gradually sprung up in the minds of Mrs Meagles and myself which perhaps you may—or perhaps you may not—understand. Pet and her baby sister were so exactly alike, and so completely one, that in our thoughts we have never been able to separate them since. It would be of no use to tell us that our dead child was a mere infant. We have changed that child according to the changes in the child spared to us and always with us. As Pet has grown, that child has grown; as Pet has become more sensible and womanly, her sister has become more sensible and womanly by just the same degrees. It would be as hard to convince me that if I was to pass into the other world to-morrow, I should not, through the mercy of God, be received there by a daughter, just like Pet, as to persuade me that Pet herself is not a reality at my side.’

‘I understand you,’ said the other, gently.

‘As to her,’ pursued her father, ‘the sudden loss of her little picture and playfellow, and her early association with that mystery in which we all have our equal share, but which is not often so forcibly presented to a child, has necessarily had some influence on her character. Then, her mother and I were not young when we married, and Pet has always had a sort of grown-up life with us, though we have tried to adapt ourselves to her. We have been advised more than once when she has been a little ailing, to change climate and air for her as often as we could—especially at about this time of her life—and to keep her amused. So, as I have no need to stick at a bank-desk now (though I have been poor enough in my time I assure you, or I should have married Mrs Meagles long before), we go trotting about the world. This is how you found us staring at the Nile, and the Pyramids, and the Sphinxes, and the Desert, and all the rest of it; and this is how Tattycoram will be a greater traveller in course of time than Captain Cook.’

“Persone pratiche. Un giorno, quindi, cinque o sei anni fa, quando portammo Pet in chiesa presso l’Ospedale degli Orfani – avete mai sentito parlare dell’Ospedale degli Orfani di Londra? Simile all’Istituto per i Bambini Abbandonati di Parigi, ”

“L’ho visto.”

‘Beh! Un giorno, quando portammo Pet in chiesa ad ascoltare la musica – perché, essendo persone pratiche, il nostro compito nella vita è mostrarle tutto ciò che pensiamo possa farla felice – mia madre (il nome che di solito uso per indicare la signora Meagles) iniziò a piangere così tanto che fu necessario portarla fuori. “Che c’è, mamma?” le dissi quando ci fummo un po’ allontanati: “Stai spaventando Pet, cara.” “Sì, lo so, papà,” rispose mia madre, “ma penso che sia proprio perché la amo così tanto che mi è venuta in mente questa idea.” “Che idea ti è venuta in mente, mamma?” “Oh mio Dio!” esclamò mia madre, ricominciando a piangere, “quando ho visto tutti quei bambini allineati uno sopra l’altro, e che chiedevano al grande Padre di tutti noi in cielo. Ho pensato: ‘Chissà se qualche povera madre viene qui e guarda tra quei giovani volti, chiedendosi quale sia quel povero bambino che ha portato in questo mondo desolato, senza mai, per tutta la sua vita, conoscere il suo amore, il suo bacio, il suo viso, la sua voce, persino il suo nome!’” Questa sì che era una cosa pratica da parte di mia madre. E glielo dissi anche. Le dissi: “Mamma, questa è davvero la cosa pratica in te, cara.”

L’altro, sebbene non del tutto indifferente, acconsentì.

‘Il giorno dopo dissi: “Ora, mamma, ho una proposta che penso ti piacerà. Prendiamo uno di quei bambini per farlo da cameriera personale per Pet. Siamo persone pratiche; quindi, se dovessimo notare qualche difetto nel suo carattere o qualche comportamento che non corrisponda ai nostri standard, sapremo cosa prendere in considerazione. Capiremo che dobbiamo sottrarre tutte quelle influenze e esperienze che ci hanno formati. Nessun genitore, nessun fratello o sorella minore, nessuna caratteristica particolare della nostra famiglia, nessun “Sapone di Venere” né una fata madrina. Ed è così che abbiamo conosciuto Tattycoram.”’

“E il nome stesso, ”

“Per Giove!”, disse il signor Meagles, “Stavo dimenticando persino il nome stesso. In quell’istituto la chiamavano Harriet Beadle: un nome scelto a caso, naturalmente. Poi abbiamo cambiato il suo nome in Hattey, e infine in Tatty. Perché, essendo persone pratiche, pensavamo che anche un nome scherzoso potesse rappresentare qualcosa di nuovo per lei, e forse avrebbe avuto un effetto più dolce e affettuoso, non credi? Quanto a Beadle, beh, non c’era nemmeno da pensarci: se esiste qualcosa che non deve essere tollerato in alcun modo, qualcosa che rappresenti l’arroganza e l’assurdità tipiche di certe persone, qualcosa che simboleggi il nostro attaccamento ossessivo alle tradizioni inglesise anche dopo che tutti le hanno riconosciute come stupide, allora è proprio Beadle. Non hai visto un beadle ultimamente?”

“Come inglese che ha trascorso più di vent’anni in Cina, no.”

“Allora,” disse il signor Meagles, posando il dito indice sul petto del suo compagno con grande enfasi, “non vedete forse un sagrestano, ora che ci pensate bene? Ogni volta che vedo un sagrestano in tutto il suo splendore, scendere per strada di domenica alla testa di una scuola di beneficenza, sono costretto a girarmi e scappare. Altrimenti lo colpirei. Poiché il nome ‘sagrestano’ è fuori discussione, e l’ideatore di quell’istituto per questi poveri orfani si chiamava Coram, abbiamo dato quel nome alla piccola serva di Pet. A un certo momento si chiamava Tatty, a un altro momento Coram. Fino a quando non abbiamo iniziato a mescolare i due nomi insieme; ora si chiama sempre Tattycoram.”

“Tua figlia,” disse l’altro, dopo aver fatto un altro silenzioso giro avanti e indietro, e dopo essersi fermati per un momento davanti al muro a guardare il mare, riprendendo poi a camminare, “è la tua unica figlia, lo so, signor Meagles. Posso chiederti, non per curiosità impertinente, ma perché ho tratto grande piacere dalla tua compagnia, posso chiederti se, da tua moglie, hai saputo che avete avuto altri figli?”

“No, no,” disse il signor Meagles. “Non esattamente altri bambini. Un altro >bambino.”

“Temo di aver toccato involontariamente un argomento delicato.”

“Non importa,” disse il signor Meagles. “Anche se ne parlo con serietà, in realtà non sono affatto triste. Questo mi calma per un momento, ma non mi rende infelice. Pet aveva una sorella gemella che morì quando riuscimmo appena a vedere i suoi occhi, esattamente come quelli di Pet, sopra il tavolo, mentre lei stava in punta di piedi e si teneva aggrappata al bordo.”

“Ah! davvero, davvero!”

“Sì, e essendo persone pratiche, nella mente di Mrs Meagles e mia è gradualmente emerso un pensiero che forse voi potreste capire, o forse no. Pet e sua sorellina minore erano così identiche, così completamente una cosa sola, che da allora non siamo mai riuscite a separarle nella nostra mente. Non servirebbe a nulla dirci che il nostro figlio morto era solo un bambino piccolo: abbiamo immaginato quel figlio in base ai cambiamenti subiti dalla bambina che ci è stata risparmiata e che è sempre con noi. Man mano che Pet è cresciuta, anche quella bambina è cresciuta; man mano che Pet è diventata più sensata e femminile, sua sorella ha fatto lo stesso. Sarebbe altrettanto difficile convincermi che, se domani dovessi passare nell’altro mondo, non verrei accolta lì da una figlia proprio come Pet, quanto convincermi che Pet stessa non sia davvero una realtà al mio fianco.”

“Capisco ciò che provi,” disse l’altro con dolcezza.

“Per quanto riguarda lei,” proseguì suo padre, “la improvvisa perdita della sua piccola compagna di giochi e il fatto che abbia fin da piccola avuto a che fare con quel mistero nel quale tutti noi abbiamo la nostra parte, ma che spesso non viene presentato in modo così evidente a un bambino, hanno inevitabilmente influenzato il suo carattere. Inoltre, io e sua madre non eravamo più giovani quando ci siamo sposati, e Pet ha sempre vissuto con noi come una persona adulta, anche se abbiamo cercato di adattarci a lei. Più volte ci è stato consigliato, quando era un po’ malata, di cambiare spesso ambiente e aria per lei, soprattutto in questa fase della sua vita, e di farle trascorrere il tempo in modo divertente. Ora che non ho più bisogno di stare seduto dietro a una scrivania in banca (anche se, vi assicuro, nei miei tempi sono stato abbastanza povero, altrimenti avrei sposato la signora Meagles molto tempo fa), viaggiamo dappertutto. È così che ci avete trovati a guardare il Nilo, le Piramidi, le Sfingi, il Deserto e tutto il resto. E è anche così che, col passare del tempo, Tattycoram diventerà una viaggiatrice ancora più esperta di Captain Cook.”

‘I thank you,’ said the other, ‘very heartily for your confidence.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘I am sure you are quite welcome. And now, Mr Clennam, perhaps I may ask you whether you have yet come to a decision where to go next?’

‘Indeed, no. I am such a waif and stray everywhere, that I am liable to be drifted where any current may set.’

‘It’s extraordinary to me—if you’ll excuse my freedom in saying so—that you don’t go straight to London,’ said Mr Meagles, in the tone of a confidential adviser.

‘Perhaps I shall.’

‘Ay! But I mean with a will.’

‘I have no will. That is to say,’—he coloured a little,—‘next to none that I can put in action now. Trained by main force; broken, not bent; heavily ironed with an object on which I was never consulted and which was never mine; shipped away to the other end of the world before I was of age, and exiled there until my father’s death there, a year ago; always grinding in a mill I always hated; what is to be expected from me in middle life? Will, purpose, hope? All those lights were extinguished before I could sound the words.’

‘Light ‘em up again!’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Ah! Easily said. I am the son, Mr Meagles, of a hard father and mother. I am the only child of parents who weighed, measured, and priced everything; for whom what could not be weighed, measured, and priced, had no existence. Strict people as the phrase is, professors of a stern religion, their very religion was a gloomy sacrifice of tastes and sympathies that were never their own, offered up as a part of a bargain for the security of their possessions. Austere faces, inexorable discipline, penance in this world and terror in the next—nothing graceful or gentle anywhere, and the void in my cowed heart everywhere—this was my childhood, if I may so misuse the word as to apply it to such a beginning of life.’

‘Really though?’ said Mr Meagles, made very uncomfortable by the picture offered to his imagination. ‘That was a tough commencement. But come! You must now study, and profit by, all that lies beyond it, like a practical man.’

‘If the people who are usually called practical, were practical in your direction—’

‘Why, so they are!’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Are they indeed?’

‘Well, I suppose so,’ returned Mr Meagles, thinking about it. ‘Eh? One can but be practical, and Mrs Meagles and myself are nothing else.’

‘My unknown course is easier and more helpful than I had expected to find it, then,’ said Clennam, shaking his head with his grave smile. ‘Enough of me. Here is the boat.’

The boat was filled with the cocked hats to which Mr Meagles entertained a national objection; and the wearers of those cocked hats landed and came up the steps, and all the impounded travellers congregated together. There was then a mighty production of papers on the part of the cocked hats, and a calling over of names, and great work of signing, sealing, stamping, inking, and sanding, with exceedingly blurred, gritty, and undecipherable results. Finally, everything was done according to rule, and the travellers were at liberty to depart whithersoever they would.

They made little account of stare and glare, in the new pleasure of recovering their freedom, but flitted across the harbour in gay boats, and reassembled at a great hotel, whence the sun was excluded by closed lattices, and where bare paved floors, lofty ceilings, and resounding corridors tempered the intense heat. There, a great table in a great room was soon profusely covered with a superb repast; and the quarantine quarters became bare indeed, remembered among dainty dishes, southern fruits, cooled wines, flowers from Genoa, snow from the mountain tops, and all the colours of the rainbow flashing in the mirrors.

‘But I bear those monotonous walls no ill-will now,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind; I dare say a prisoner begins to relent towards his prison, after he is let out.’

They were about thirty in company, and all talking; but necessarily in groups. Father and Mother Meagles sat with their daughter between them, the last three on one side of the table: on the opposite side sat Mr Clennam; a tall French gentleman with raven hair and beard, of a swart and terrible, not to say genteelly diabolical aspect, but who had shown himself the mildest of men; and a handsome young Englishwoman, travelling quite alone, who had a proud observant face, and had either withdrawn herself from the rest or been avoided by the rest—nobody, herself excepted perhaps, could have quite decided which. The rest of the party were of the usual materials: travellers on business, and travellers for pleasure; officers from India on leave; merchants in the Greek and Turkey trades; a clerical English husband in a meek strait-waistcoat, on a wedding trip with his young wife; a majestic English mama and papa, of the patrician order, with a family of three growing-up daughters, who were keeping a journal for the confusion of their fellow-creatures; and a deaf old English mother, tough in travel, with a very decidedly grown-up daughter indeed, which daughter went sketching about the universe in the expectation of ultimately toning herself off into the married state.

The reserved Englishwoman took up Mr Meagles in his last remark.

‘Do you mean that a prisoner forgives his prison?’ said she, slowly and with emphasis.

‘That was my speculation, Miss Wade. I don’t pretend to know positively how a prisoner might feel. I never was one before.’

‘Mademoiselle doubts,’ said the French gentleman in his own language, ‘it’s being so easy to forgive?’

‘I do.’

Pet had to translate this passage to Mr Meagles, who never by any accident acquired any knowledge whatever of the language of any country into which he travelled. ‘Oh!’ said he. ‘Dear me! But that’s a pity, isn’t it?’

“Grazie mille,” disse l’altro, “di cuore per la tua fiducia in me.”

“Non c’è di che,” rispose il signor Meagles, “sono sicuro che siate più che benvenuti. Ora, signor Clennam, forse posso chiedervi se avete già deciso dove andare in seguito?”

“Infatti, no. Sono così un vagabondo, che potrei essere portato ovunque da qualsiasi corrente.”

“Per me è davvero straordinario – se volete scusarmi per la mia franchezza nel dirlo che non andiate direttamente a )Londra”, disse il signor Meagles, con tono di consigliere confidenziale.

“Forse lo farò.”

“Ah! Intendo dire, con volontà.”

“Non ho volontà. Cioè,” – arrossì leggermente, – “quasi nessuna volontà che possa mettere in atto al momento. Sono stato plasmato con la forza; spezzato, ma non piegato; schiacciato da un peso su cui non sono mai stato consultato e che non è mai stato mio. Portato lontano, all’altro capo del mondo prima ancora di raggiungere l’età adulta, esiliato laggiù fino alla morte di mio padre, un anno fa. Costantemente costretto a lavorare in un ambiente che ho sempre odiato. Cosa si può aspettare da me nella vita adulta? Volontà, scopo, speranza? Tutte queste cose sono state spente prima ancora che potessi pronunciare quelle parole.”

“Riacceseteli di nuovo!” disse il signor Meagles.

‘Ah! Facile da dire. Sono il figlio, signor Meagles, di un padre e una madre severi. Sono l’unico figlio di genitori che pesavano, misuravano e valutavano ogni cosa; per loro ciò che non poteva essere pesato, misurato o valutato semplicemente non esisteva. Persone rigide, profeti di una religione severa. La loro stessa religione era in realtà un sacrificio cupo dei propri gusti e delle proprie emozioni, offerti come parte di uno scambio per garantire la sicurezza delle loro proprietà. Volti austeri, disciplina inflessibile, penitenze in questo mondo e terrore nell’altro. Niente di grazioso o gentile. E nel mio cuore, schiacciato da tutto ciò, solo vuoto. Questa è stata la mia infanzia. Se posso permettermi di usare questa parola per descrivere un simile inizio di vita.’

“Davvero?” disse il signor Meagles, molto a disagio per l’immagine che gli era apparsa nella immaginazione. “È stato un inizio davvero difficile. Ma andiamo! Ora devi studiare e trarre profitto da tutto ciò che viene dopo, come farebbe una persona pratica.”

“Se le persone che di solito vengono definite pratiche fossero davvero pratiche nel tuo senso, ”

“Ah, eccoli dunque!” disse il signor Meagles.

“Davvero lo sono?”

“Beh, suppongo di sì,” rispose il signor Meagles, dopo averci pensato un po’. “Eh. Si deve pur essere pratici, e io e la signora Meagles non siamo altro che persone pratiche.”

“Quel percorso sconosciuto si rivela più semplice e utile di quanto mi aspettassi,” disse Clennam scuotendo la testa con il suo serio sorriso. “Basta parlare di me. Ecco la barca.”

La barca era piena di quei cappelli a cilindro che il signor Meagles suscitava l’ostilità generale; coloro che li indossavano sbarcarono e salirono i gradini, e tutti i viaggiatori sequestrati si radunarono insieme. A quel punto, i portatori di quei cappelli iniziarono a produrre una quantità enorme di documenti: vennero fatti degli elenchi dei nomi, si procedette alla firma, al sigillamento e all’apposizione di timbri; tuttavia, i risultati ottenuti furono estremamente confusi, illeggibili e incomprensibili. Alla fine, tutto fu fatto secondo le regole stabilite, e i viaggiatori poterono partire liberamente verso dove desideravano.

Non davano alcuna importanza a quegli sguardi fissi e minacciosi, felici com’erano di aver riacquistato la loro libertà; si muovevano invece su barche allegre attraverso il porto, per poi riunirsi in un grande hotel. Lì, le finestre erano chiuse da grate per tenere fuori il sole; pavimenti di pietra nuda, soffitti alti e corridoi sonori mitigavano il calore intenso. In una stanza enorme, un grande tavolo fu presto coperto abbondantemente da cibi deliziosi; mentre le aree destinate alla quarantena rimasero deserte, ricordate soltanto tra piatti raffinati, frutti del sud, vini rinfrescati, fiori di Genova, neve delle cime montane, e tutti i colori dell’arcobaleno che brillavano nei riflettori.

“Ma ora non provo alcun rancore verso quelle mura monotone,” disse il signor Meagles. “Si inizia sempre a perdonare un luogo non appena lo si lascia alle spalle; oserei dire che anche un prigioniero inizia ad avere sentimenti più positivi nei confronti della sua prigione dopo essere stato rilasciato.”

C’erano circa trenta persone nel gruppo, e tutte parlavano; ma inevitabilmente si raggruppavano in squadre. Il signor e la signora Meagles sedevano con loro figlia in mezzo a loro; gli ultimi tre erano seduti da un lato del tavolo; dall’altro lato c’era il signor Clennam: un alto gentiluomo francese con capelli e barba neri, dall’aspetto cupo e terribile, per non dire addirittura diabolico, ma che si era rivelato essere la persona più mite del mondo; e una bella giovane inglese che viaggiava da sola, dal viso orgoglioso e attento. Nessuno, forse tranne lei stessa, avrebbe potuto capire con certezza se si fosse tenuta in disparte dagli altri o se gli altri l’avessero evitata. Gli altri componenti del gruppo erano tipici viaggiatori: alcuni per lavoro, altri per piacere; ufficiali indiani in congedo; mercanti impegnati nel commercio greco e turco; un impiegato inglese dall’aspetto modesto, in viaggio di nozze con sua moglie giovane; una coppia inglese aristocratica, con tre figlie in età da marito che tenevano un diario. E infine una vecchia madre inglese sorda, abituata ai viaggi, e una figlia decisamente adulta, che si dedicava a disegnare il “universo” nella speranza di potersi presto sposare.

La riservata donna inglese si soffermò sulle ultime parole del signor Meagles.

“Vuoi dire che un prigioniero perdoni la sua carcere?”, chiese lei, lentamente e con enfasi.

“Quella era solo la mia ipotesi, signorina Wade. Non pretendo di sapere con certezza come si possa sentire un prigioniero. Io stesso non sono mai stato uno.”

“Mademoiselle dubita,” disse il gentiluomo francese nella sua lingua madre, “che sia davvero così facile perdonare?”

‘I do.’

Pet dovette tradurre questo passaggio per il signor Meagles, il quale, per nessuna ragione al mondo, acquisì mai la minima conoscenza della lingua di qualsiasi paese visitasse. “Oh!” esclamò. “Mio Dio! Che peccato, non è vero?”

‘That I am not credulous?’ said Miss Wade.

‘Not exactly that. Put it another way. That you can’t believe it easy to forgive.’

‘My experience,’ she quietly returned, ‘has been correcting my belief in many respects, for some years. It is our natural progress, I have heard.’

‘Well, well! But it’s not natural to bear malice, I hope?’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily.

‘If I had been shut up in any place to pine and suffer, I should always hate that place and wish to burn it down, or raze it to the ground. I know no more.’

‘Strong, sir?’ said Mr Meagles to the Frenchman; it being another of his habits to address individuals of all nations in idiomatic English, with a perfect conviction that they were bound to understand it somehow. ‘Rather forcible in our fair friend, you’ll agree with me, I think?’

The French gentleman courteously replied, ‘Plait-il?’ To which Mr Meagles returned with much satisfaction, ‘You are right. My opinion.’

The breakfast beginning by-and-by to languish, Mr Meagles made the company a speech. It was short enough and sensible enough, considering that it was a speech at all, and hearty. It merely went to the effect that as they had all been thrown together by chance, and had all preserved a good understanding together, and were now about to disperse, and were not likely ever to find themselves all together again, what could they do better than bid farewell to one another, and give one another good-speed in a simultaneous glass of cool champagne all round the table? It was done, and with a general shaking of hands the assembly broke up for ever.

The solitary young lady all this time had said no more. She rose with the rest, and silently withdrew to a remote corner of the great room, where she sat herself on a couch in a window, seeming to watch the reflection of the water as it made a silver quivering on the bars of the lattice. She sat, turned away from the whole length of the apartment, as if she were lonely of her own haughty choice. And yet it would have been as difficult as ever to say, positively, whether she avoided the rest, or was avoided.

The shadow in which she sat, falling like a gloomy veil across her forehead, accorded very well with the character of her beauty. One could hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the arched dark eyebrows, and the folds of dark hair, without wondering what its expression would be if a change came over it. That it could soften or relent, appeared next to impossible. That it could deepen into anger or any extreme of defiance, and that it must change in that direction when it changed at all, would have been its peculiar impression upon most observers. It was dressed and trimmed into no ceremony of expression. Although not an open face, there was no pretence in it. ‘I am self-contained and self-reliant; your opinion is nothing to me; I have no interest in you, care nothing for you, and see and hear you with indifference’—this it said plainly. It said so in the proud eyes, in the lifted nostril, in the handsome but compressed and even cruel mouth. Cover either two of those channels of expression, and the third would have said so still. Mask them all, and the mere turn of the head would have shown an unsubduable nature.

Pet had moved up to her (she had been the subject of remark among her family and Mr Clennam, who were now the only other occupants of the room), and was standing at her side.

‘Are you’—she turned her eyes, and Pet faltered—‘expecting any one to meet you here, Miss Wade?’

‘I? No.’

‘Father is sending to the Poste Restante. Shall he have the pleasure of directing the messenger to ask if there are any letters for you?’

‘I thank him, but I know there can be none.’

‘We are afraid,’ said Pet, sitting down beside her, shyly and half tenderly, ‘that you will feel quite deserted when we are all gone.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Not,’ said Pet, apologetically and embarrassed by her eyes, ‘not, of course, that we are any company to you, or that we have been able to be so, or that we thought you wished it.’

‘I have not intended to make it understood that I did wish it.’

‘No. Of course. But—in short,’ said Pet, timidly touching her hand as it lay impassive on the sofa between them, ‘will you not allow Father to tender you any slight assistance or service? He will be very glad.’

‘Very glad,’ said Mr Meagles, coming forward with his wife and Clennam. ‘Anything short of speaking the language, I shall be delighted to undertake, I am sure.’

‘I am obliged to you,’ she returned, ‘but my arrangements are made, and I prefer to go my own way in my own manner.’

‘Do you?’ said Mr Meagles to himself, as he surveyed her with a puzzled look. ‘Well! There’s character in that, too.’

‘I am not much used to the society of young ladies, and I am afraid I may not show my appreciation of it as others might. A pleasant journey to you. Good-bye!’

She would not have put out her hand, it seemed, but that Mr Meagles put out his so straight before her that she could not pass it. She put hers in it, and it lay there just as it had lain upon the couch.

‘Good-bye!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘This is the last good-bye upon the list, for Mother and I have just said it to Mr Clennam here, and he only waits to say it to Pet. Good-bye! We may never meet again.’

‘In our course through life we shall meet the people who are coming to meet us, from many strange places and by many strange roads,’ was the composed reply; ‘and what it is set to us to do to them, and what it is set to them to do to us, will all be done.’

There was something in the manner of these words that jarred upon Pet’s ear. It implied that what was to be done was necessarily evil, and it caused her to say in a whisper, ‘O Father!’ and to shrink childishly, in her spoilt way, a little closer to him. This was not lost on the speaker.

‘Your pretty daughter,’ she said, ‘starts to think of such things. Yet,’ looking full upon her, ‘you may be sure that there are men and women already on their road, who have their business to do with you, and who will do it. Of a certainty they will do it. They may be coming hundreds, thousands, of miles over the sea there; they may be close at hand now; they may be coming, for anything you know or anything you can do to prevent it, from the vilest sweepings of this very town.’

“Che non sono credulona?”, disse la signorina Wade.

“Non proprio. Per dirla in un altro modo, è difficile credere quanto sia facile perdonare.”

“La mia esperienza,” rispose lei in silenzio, “negli ultimi anni ha modificato in molti aspetti le mie convinzioni. È il nostro naturale processo di crescita, ho sentito dire.”

“Beh, beh! Ma non è naturale provare rancore, spero, ”, disse il signor Meagles, in tono allegro.

“Se fossi stato chiuso in qualche posto a soffrire e languire, avrei sempre odiato quel luogo e desiderato distruggerlo completamente. Non so dire di più.”

“Robusto, signore?” disse il signor Meagles al francese; era un’altra delle sue abitudini quella di rivolgersi alle persone di tutte le nazioni usando l’inglese idiomatico, con la piena convinzione che loro fossero in grado di comprenderlo comunque. “Abbastanza robusto, direi, concorderete con me, vero?”

Il gentiluomo francese rispose cortesemente: “Pleasure to help you”. A cui il signor Meagles replicò con grande soddisfazione: “Ha ragione. È proprio quello che penso anch’io”.

La colazione, man mano che procedeva, iniziava ad appassire; il signor Meagles tenne quindi un discorso al gruppo. Era abbastanza breve e sensato, considerando che si trattasse comunque di un discorso. E soprattutto caloroso. Il messaggio principale era questo: poiché erano tutti stati uniti per caso, avevano mantenuto un buon rapporto tra loro e ora stavano per separarsi, probabilmente senza mai riunirsi di nuovo, cosa c’era di meglio che salutarsi a vicenda e brindare insieme con un bicchiere di fresco champagne? Così fu fatto. E dopo aver scambiato strette di mano, il gruppo si sciolse per sempre.

La giovane donna solitaria, in tutto questo tempo, non aveva più detto nulla. Si alzò insieme agli altri e si ritirò silenziosamente in un angolo remoto della grande sala, dove si sedette su un divano vicino alla finestra, osservando il riflesso dell’acqua che tremolava argenteo sulle sbarre della griglia. Sedeva voltandosi lontano da tutta la lunghezza dell’appartamento, come se fosse sola a causa della sua stessa orgogliosa scelta. Eppure sarebbe stato ancora difficile dire, con certezza, se lei evitasse gli altri o se fosse lei ad essere evitata.

L’ombra nella quale sedeva, che le cadeva come un velo cupo sulla fronte, si armonizzava perfettamente con il carattere della sua >bellezza. Era difficile distinguere il suo volto: così immobile e sprezzante, con quelle sopracciglia scure arcuate e i riccioli neri. Si poteva solo chiedersi quale espressione avrebbe assunto se qualcosa fosse cambiato in lei. Che potesse addolcirsi o mitigarsi sembrava quasi impossibile; che potesse invece intensificarsi in rabbia o in qualsiasi forma estrema di sfida. E che dovesse necessariamente cambiare in quella direzione ogni volta che cambiava qualcosa in lei. Questo era l’impressione che lasciava nella maggior parte degli osservatori. Il suo volto non mostrava alcuna espressione particolare; sebbene non fosse apertamente espansivo, non c’era nemmeno alcun tentativo di fingere qualcosa. “Sono autosufficiente e affidabile su me stessa; il tuo parere non conta nulla per me; non ho interesse per te, non mi importa nulla di te. Ti vedo e ti ascolto con indifferenza”. Questo era ciò che diceva chiaramente. Lo dicevano i suoi occhi orgogliosi, il suo naso sollevato, la sua bocca attraente ma stretta, quasi crudele. Nascondi anche solo due di questi segni espressivi, e il terzo continuerà comunque a “parlare”; maschiali tutti quanti, e semplicemente girando la testa si potrà intuire una natura indomabile.

Pet si era avvicinata a lei (era stata oggetto di commenti da parte della sua famiglia e del signor Clennam, che ormai erano gli unici altri occupanti della stanza) e stava in piedi al suo fianco.

“Sta forse aspettando che qualcuno la incontri qui, signorina Wade?” Lei girò lo sguardo, e Pet esitò.

‘I? No.’

“Mio padre sta inviando il pacco al Poste Restante. Dovrebbe chiedere al messaggero se ci siano lettere per te, per suo piacere?”

“Gli sono grata, ma so che non può esserci nulla di più.”

“Abbiamo paura,” disse Pet, sedendosi accanto a lei, in modo timido e quasi tenero, “che ti possa sentire completamente abbandonata quando noi tutti saremo partiti.”

‘Davvero!’

“No,” disse Pet, con scuse e imbarazzata dallo sguardo di lei, “certamente non perché siamo una compagnia adatta per te, né perché siamo riusciti a esserlo, né perché pensassimo che tu lo desiderassi.”

“Non ho mai inteso far capire che lo desiderassi davvero.”

“No. Certo che no. Ma, in breve,” disse Pet, toccando timidamente la sua mano mentre giaceva immobile sul divano tra loro, “non permetteresti a papà di offrirti un po’ di aiuto o di servirti? Gli farebbe molto piacere.”

“Molto felice,” disse il signor Meagles, avvicinandosi insieme a sua moglie e a Clennam.
“Qualsiasi cosa, tranne parlare quella lingua, sarò sicuramente lieto di farla.”

“Sono in debito con te,” rispose lei, “ma ho già fatto i miei piani e preferisco seguire la mia strada a modo mio.”

“Davvero?” si chiese il signor Meagles, osservandola con un’espressione perplessa. “Beh. Anche questo ha il suo carattere.”

“Non sono molto abituato alla compagnia delle giovani signore, e temo di non saper apprezzarla come fanno gli altri. Buon viaggio a voi. Addio!”

Sembra che lei non avrebbe mai teso la sua mano, ma il signor Meagles l’aveva già tesa così dritta davanti a lei che lei non poteva fare altrimenti se non prenderla. Lei vi mise la propria mano, e rimase lì esattamente come era stata posata sul divano.

“Addio!” disse il signor Meagles. “Questo è l’ultimo addio della lista, perché io e mia madre abbiamo appena detto addio al signor Clennam qui presente, e lui aspetta solo di dire addio a Pet. Addio. Forse non ci rivedremo mai più.”

“Nel corso della nostra vita incontreremo persone che verranno a incontrare noi da molti luoghi strani e per molte vie insolite,” fu la risposta calma e serena; “e ciò che è destinato a noi di fare verso di loro, e ciò che è destinato a loro di fare verso di noi, verrà sicuramente compiuto.”

C’era qualcosa nel modo in cui queste parole venivano pronunciate che colpì Pet all’orecchio. Implicavano che ciò che andava fatto fosse necessariamente malvagio, e questo la fece sussurrare: “Oh Padre!”, e avvicinarsi a lui in modo un po’ infantile, nel suo modo viziato. L’oratore non si lasciò sfuggire nulla di tutto ciò.

“Tua figlia così carina,” disse lei, “inizia già a pensare a queste cose. Eppure,” aggiunse guardandola dritto negli occhi, “puoi essere certa che ci sono uomini e donne che già sono sul loro percorso e che hanno un compito da svolgere con te. E lo faranno. Ne sono sicura. Potrebbero arrivare da centinaia, migliaia di chilometri di distanza; potrebbero essere già vicini a noi in questo momento. Oppure potrebbero venire proprio da quelle zone più infime di questa città, per qualsiasi motivo tu conosca o possa tentare di impedirlo.”

With the coldest of farewells, and with a certain worn expression on her beauty that gave it, though scarcely yet in its prime, a wasted look, she left the room.

Now, there were many stairs and passages that she had to traverse in passing from that part of the spacious house to the chamber she had secured for her own occupation. When she had almost completed the journey, and was passing along the gallery in which her room was, she heard an angry sound of muttering and sobbing. A door stood open, and within she saw the attendant upon the girl she had just left; the maid with the curious name.

She stood still, to look at this maid. A sullen, passionate girl! Her rich black hair was all about her face, her face was flushed and hot, and as she sobbed and raged, she plucked at her lips with an unsparing hand.

‘Selfish brutes!’ said the girl, sobbing and heaving between whiles. ‘Not caring what becomes of me! Leaving me here hungry and thirsty and tired, to starve, for anything they care! Beasts! Devils! Wretches!’

‘My poor girl, what is the matter?’

She looked up suddenly, with reddened eyes, and with her hands suspended, in the act of pinching her neck, freshly disfigured with great scarlet blots. ‘It’s nothing to you what’s the matter. It don’t signify to any one.’

‘O yes it does; I am sorry to see you so.’

‘You are not sorry,’ said the girl. ‘You are glad. You know you are glad. I never was like this but twice over in the quarantine yonder; and both times you found me. I am afraid of you.’

‘Afraid of me?’

‘Yes. You seem to come like my own anger, my own malice, my own—whatever it is—I don’t know what it is. But I am ill-used, I am ill-used, I am ill-used!’ Here the sobs and the tears, and the tearing hand, which had all been suspended together since the first surprise, went on together anew.

The visitor stood looking at her with a strange attentive smile. It was wonderful to see the fury of the contest in the girl, and the bodily struggle she made as if she were rent by the Demons of old.

‘I am younger than she is by two or three years, and yet it’s me that looks after her, as if I was old, and it’s she that’s always petted and called Baby! I detest the name. I hate her! They make a fool of her, they spoil her. She thinks of nothing but herself, she thinks no more of me than if I was a stock and a stone!’ So the girl went on.

‘You must have patience.’

‘I won’t have patience!’

‘If they take much care of themselves, and little or none of you, you must not mind it.’

I will mind it.’

‘Hush! Be more prudent. You forget your dependent position.’

‘I don’t care for that. I’ll run away. I’ll do some mischief. I won’t bear it; I can’t bear it; I shall die if I try to bear it!’

The observer stood with her hand upon her own bosom, looking at the girl, as one afflicted with a diseased part might curiously watch the dissection and exposition of an analogous case.

The girl raged and battled with all the force of her youth and fulness of life, until by little and little her passionate exclamations trailed off into broken murmurs as if she were in pain. By corresponding degrees she sank into a chair, then upon her knees, then upon the ground beside the bed, drawing the coverlet with her, half to hide her shamed head and wet hair in it, and half, as it seemed, to embrace it, rather than have nothing to take to her repentant breast.

‘Go away from me, go away from me! When my temper comes upon me, I am mad. I know I might keep it off if I only tried hard enough, and sometimes I do try hard enough, and at other times I don’t and won’t. What have I said! I knew when I said it, it was all lies. They think I am being taken care of somewhere, and have all I want. They are nothing but good to me. I love them dearly; no people could ever be kinder to a thankless creature than they always are to me. Do, do go away, for I am afraid of you. I am afraid of myself when I feel my temper coming, and I am as much afraid of you. Go away from me, and let me pray and cry myself better!’

The day passed on; and again the wide stare stared itself out; and the hot night was on Marseilles; and through it the caravan of the morning, all dispersed, went their appointed ways. And thus ever by day and night, under the sun and under the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another, move all we restless travellers through the pilgrimage of life.

Con un addio freddo e distaccato, e con un’espressione stanca sul suo bel viso, che le dava, sebbene ancora non nel pieno della sua bellezza, un aspetto spento, lasciò la stanza.

C’erano molte scale e corridoi che lei doveva attraversare per passare da quella parte della vasta casa alla stanza che si era riservata per i suoi scopi personali. Quando stava quasi completando il viaggio, mentre camminava lungo il corridoio in cui si trovava la sua stanza, sentì dei suoni di rimproveri e singhiozzi. Una porta era aperta; all’interno vide la cameriera della ragazza che aveva appena lasciato, quella cameriera dal nome così strano.

Rimase immobile a guardare questa ragazza. Una giovane cupa e appassionata! I suoi folti capelli neri le ricadevano intorno al viso; il suo volto era arrossato e caldo. Mentre singhiozzava e si infuriava, si strappava le labbra con una mano spietata.

“Brutti egoisti!” disse la ragazza, singhiozzando e ansimando di tanto in tanto.
“Non gli importa nulla di quello che mi succede. Mi lasciano qui affamata, assetata e stanca, a morire di fame. Bestie! Diavoli! Miserabili!”

“Povera ragazza mia, cosa c’è che non va?”

Alzò lo sguardo all’improvviso, con gli occhi arrossati, le mani sospese a mezz’aria, nel gesto di stringersi il collo, appena deturpato da grandi macchie scarlatte. “Non ti riguarda affatto ciò che è successo. Non significa nulla per nessuno.”

“Ah sì, proprio così. Mi dispiace vederti in questo stato.”

“Non ti dispiace,” disse la ragazza. “Sei felice. Lo sai che sei felice. Io non sono mai stata così, ma due volte durante quella quarantena laggiù. E in entrambe le occasioni mi hai trovata. Ho paura di te.”

“Spaventato di me?”

“Sì. Sembri essere la mia stessa rabbia, la mia stessa malvagità, qualunque cosa sia. Non so esattamente cos’è. Ma vengo trattata male, molto male!” Qui i singhiozzi e le lacrime, insieme alla mano che tremava per l’emozione, ripresero di nuovo dopo quella prima sorpresa.

La visitatrice stava lì a guardarla con un sorriso strano e attento. Era meraviglioso vedere la furia che si manifestava nella ragazza durante quella competizione, nonché lo sforzo fisico che faceva, come se fosse dilaniata dai demoni dell’antichità.

“Sono più giovane di lei di due o tre anni, eppure sono io a prendermi cura di lei, come se fossi io la più anziana; invece è lei che viene sempre coccolata e chiamata ‘Bambina’. Odio quel nome. La odio! La stanno rendendo una stupida, la stanno viziando. Non pensa ad altro che a se stessa. Non mi considera nemmeno un essere umano!” Così continuava a dire la ragazza.

“Dovete avere pazienza.”

“Non avrò mai pazienza!”

“Se si prendono molta cura di loro stessi e poca o nessuna cura di voi, non dovete preoccuparvene.”

“Me ne occuperò io.”

“Zitta! Sii più cauta. Dimentichi la tua posizione di dipendenza.”

“Non mi piace affatto. Me ne andrò via, farò qualche disastro. Non lo sopporterò; non riesco proprio a sopportarlo. Morirò se provo a farlo!”

L’osservatrice, con la mano appoggiata al proprio petto, guardava la ragazza, come qualcuno affetto da una malattia particolare potrebbe osservare con curiosità l’analisi e la descrizione di un caso simile.

La ragazza urlava e lottava con tutta la forza della sua giovinezza e della vitalità che le era propria, fino a quando, poco a poco, i suoi gridi appassionati si trasformarono in sussurri spezzati, come se stesse soffrendo. Gradualmente, si lasciò cadere su una sedia, poi sulle ginocchia, infine a terra accanto al letto; tirò a sé la coperta, metà per nascondere il proprio viso imbarazzato e i capelli bagnati, e metà, forse, per abbracciarla, come se avesse bisogno di qualcosa da stringere al petto nel suo pentimento.

“Vattene via da me, vattene via! Quando mi prende la rabbia, divento pazza. So che potrei controllarmi se ci provassi abbastanza, e a volte ci provo davvero, ma altre volte no, e non lo farò mai più. Cosa ho detto! Sapevo che erano tutte bugie. Pensano che io venga curata da qualche parte e che abbia tutto ciò che desidero. Sono davvero molto buoni con me. Li amo profondamente; nessuno potrebbe essere più gentile con una creatura ingrata di quanto lo siano sempre stati loro con me. Vattene via, per favore, ho paura di te. Ho paura anche di me stessa quando sento che la rabbia sta per prendere il sopravvento. Vattene e lasciami pregare e piangere fino a quando non mi sentirò meglio!”

Il giorno passò; e di nuovo lo sguardo vuoto si diffuse ovunque; la calda notte calò su Marsiglia; e attraverso di essa, il caravansero del mattino, ormai disperso in ogni direzione, proseguì lungo i suoi percorsi predestinati. E così, giorno e notte, sotto il sole e sotto le stelle, salendo sulle colline polverose e attraversando le pianure faticose, viaggiando per terra e per mare, andando e venendo in modo così misterioso, questi viaggiatori incessanti continuavano la loro “pellegrinazione” nella vita.

CHAPTER 3. Home

It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous. Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling, as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round. Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient world—all taboo with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind, or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think what a weary life he led, and make the best of it—or the worst, according to the probabilities.

At such a happy time, so propitious to the interests of religion and morality, Mr Arthur Clennam, newly arrived from Marseilles by way of Dover, and by Dover coach the Blue-eyed Maid, sat in the window of a coffee-house on Ludgate Hill. Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded him, frowning as heavily on the streets they composed, as if they were every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender’s story, who blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night. Fifty thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night, would be corrupt on Sunday morning; albeit my lord, their county member, was amazed that they failed to sleep in company with their butcher’s meat. Miles of close wells and pits of houses, where the inhabitants gasped for air, stretched far away towards every point of the compass. Through the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed, in the place of a fine fresh river. What secular want could the million or so of human beings whose daily labour, six days in the week, lay among these Arcadian objects, from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape between the cradle and the grave—what secular want could they possibly have upon their seventh day? Clearly they could want nothing but a stringent policeman.

Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee-house on Ludgate Hill, counting one of the neighbouring bells, making sentences and burdens of songs out of it in spite of himself, and wondering how many sick people it might be the death of in the course of the year. As the hour approached, its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating. At the quarter, it went off into a condition of deadly-lively importunity, urging the populace in a voluble manner to Come to church, Come to church, Come to church! At the ten minutes, it became aware that the congregation would be scanty, and slowly hammered out in low spirits, They won’t come, they won’t come, they won’t come! At the five minutes, it abandoned hope, and shook every house in the neighbourhood for three hundred seconds, with one dismal swing per second, as a groan of despair.

‘Thank Heaven!’ said Clennam, when the hour struck, and the bell stopped.

But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays, and the procession would not stop with the bell, but continued to march on. ‘Heaven forgive me,’ said he, ‘and those who trained me. How I have hated this day!’

There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood, when he sat with his hands before him, scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which commenced business with the poor child by asking him in its title, why he was going to Perdition?—a piece of curiosity that he really, in a frock and drawers, was not in a condition to satisfy—and which, for the further attraction of his infant mind, had a parenthesis in every other line with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 & 7. There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood, when, like a military deserter, he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times a day, morally handcuffed to another boy; and when he would willingly have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh. There was the interminable Sunday of his nonage; when his mother, stern of face and unrelenting of heart, would sit all day behind a Bible—bound, like her own construction of it, in the hardest, barest, and straitest boards, with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain, and a wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves—as if it, of all books! were a fortification against sweetness of temper, natural affection, and gentle intercourse. There was the resentful Sunday of a little later, when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy length of the day, with a sullen sense of injury in his heart, and no more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than if he had been bred among idolaters. There was a legion of Sundays, all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification, slowly passing before him.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said a brisk waiter, rubbing the table. ‘Wish see bed-room?’

‘Yes. I have just made up my mind to do it.’

‘Chaymaid!’ cried the waiter. ‘Gelen box num seven wish see room!’

CAPITOLO 3. Casa

Era una sera di )domenica a Londra, cupa, soffocante e stagnante. I campanelli delle chiese, di ogni tonalità e dissonanza – acuti o flat, rotti o chiari, veloci o lenti – rendevano gli echi tra i muri di mattoni orribili da ascoltare. Le strade, avvolte in un manto di fuliggine, immergevano nell’angoscia le anime delle persone costrette a guardarle dalle finestre. In ogni via, in ogni vicolo, in ogni angolo, risuonava il suono lugubre dei campanelli, come se la Peste fosse nella città e i carri funebri vi circolassero incessantemente. Tutto ciò che avrebbe potuto offrire un po’ di sollievo a una gente sottoposta a eccessive fatiche era stato chiuso a chiave: nessuna immagine, nessun animale sconosciuto, nessuna pianta o fiore raro, nessuna meraviglia naturale o artificiale del mondo antico. Tutto era considerato “tabù”, con quella rigidezza illuminata che avrebbe potuto far sentire i brutti dèi del Mar Mediterraneo al British Museum di essere tornati a casa loro. Non c’era nulla da vedere se non strade, strade, strade. Niente da respirare se non aria piena di strade. Niente che potesse alleviare la malinconia o sollevare lo spirito. Per chi lavorava sodo, non restava altro che confrontare la monotonia del settimo giorno con quella dei sei giorni precedenti, pensare a quanto fosse noiosa la propria vita e cercare di farne il meglio, o il peggio, a seconda delle probabilità.

In un momento così felice, così propizio agli interessi della religione e della morale, il signor Arthur Clennam, appena arrivato da Marsiglia passando per Dover, sedeva alla finestra di una caffetteria situata su Ludgate Hill. Diecimila case rispettabili lo circondavano; tuttavia, le strade che queste case formavano sembravano piene di giovani simili a quelli descritti nella storia del Calendario: uomini che si imbrattavano il viso e si lamentavano delle loro miserie ogni notte. Cinquantamila abitazioni malsane lo circondavano; l’acqua pulita, versata nelle loro stanze affollate nel sabato sera, diventava putrida la domenica mattina. Nonostante il signor Clennam fosse un membro del parlamento della contea in cui vivevano, quei cittadini non riuscivano nemmeno a dormire in tranquillità. Migliaia di case stipate l’una accanto all’altra, dove gli abitanti faticavano a respirare. Che bisogno materiale potevano avere quelle centinaia di migliaia di persone il cui lavoro quotidiano si svolgeva in mezzo a tali condizioni disumane? Chiaramente, tutto ciò di cui avevano bisogno era un poliziotto più severo.

Il signor Arthur Clennam sedeva alla finestra del caffè situato su Ludgate Hill, contando i rintocchi delle campane vicine, creando mentalmente frasi e versi basati su quei suoni, nonostante se ne rendesse conto. Si chiedeva anche quante persone malate quella campana potesse causare di morte nel corso dell’anno. Man mano che l’ora si avvicinava, i suoi rintocchi diventavano sempre più insopportabili: al quarto d’ora, assumevano un tono insistente e pressante, esortando la gente ad andare in chiesa; ai dieci minuti, sembrava rendersi conto che l’affluenza sarebbe stata scarsa, e allora suonava lentamente e tristemente: “Non verranno. Non verranno, ” Alle cinque minuti, abbandonava ogni speranza e faceva tremare tutte le case del quartiere per trecento secondi, con un suono cupo e disperato a ogni battito.

“Grazie al cielo!” disse Clennam quando l’ora suonò e la campana smise di battere.

Ma quel suono aveva rievocato una lunga serie di domeniche miserevoli. La processione non si fermava con il suono della campana, ma continuava ad avanzare. “Che il cielo mi perdoni,” disse, “e coloro che mi hanno educato. Quanto ho odiato questo giorno!”

C’era quella triste Domenica della sua infanzia, quando sedeva con le mani davanti a sé, terrorizzato da un terribile testo che iniziava chiedendo a quel povero bambino perché stesse andando all’Inferno. Una domanda alla quale, in realtà, con i suoi vestiti semplici, non era affatto in grado di rispondere; inoltre, per rendere il testo ancora più interessante ai suoi occhi infantili, ogni due righe c’era una parentesi contenente riferimenti biblici come 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 e 7. C’era anche quella noiosa Domenica della sua fanciullezza, quando, come un disertore militare, veniva portato in chiesa tre volte al giorno da un gruppo di insegnanti; era moralmente “incatenato” a un altro ragazzo e avrebbe volentieri scambiato due pasti pieni di sermoni insopportabili per un po’ di carne di montone di scarsa qualità. C’era poi quell’interminabile Domenica della sua adolescenza: sua madre, con il viso severo e il cuore implacabile, passava tutto il giorno davanti a una Bibbia rilegata con i materiali più duri e spartani; la copertina era decorata solo da un segno simile a un collare di catene, mentre i margini delle pagine erano tinti di rosso. Come se quella Bibbia fosse davvero un mezzo per contrastare la dolcezza del carattere, l’affetto naturale e le relazioni gentili tra le persone. C’era ancora quella domenica piena di risentimento, quando sedeva cupo e malinconico per tutta la giornata, con un senso di offesa nel cuore. E non conosceva affatto la storia benefica del Nuovo Testamento, come se fosse cresciuto tra idolatri. C’era una legione di domeniche, tutte giorni pieni di amarezza e sofferenza. Che passavano lentamente davanti ai suoi occhi.

“Scusi, signore,” disse un cameriere sollecito, strofinando il tavolo. “Desidera vedere la camera da letto?”

“Sì. Ho appena deciso di farlo.”

“Chaymaid!”, gridò il cameriere. “La signora numero sette desidera vedere la sua stanza!”

‘Stay!’ said Clennam, rousing himself. ‘I was not thinking of what I said; I answered mechanically. I am not going to sleep here. I am going home.’

‘Deed, sir? Chaymaid! Gelen box num seven, not go sleep here, gome.’

He sat in the same place as the day died, looking at the dull houses opposite, and thinking, if the disembodied spirits of former inhabitants were ever conscious of them, how they must pity themselves for their old places of imprisonment. Sometimes a face would appear behind the dingy glass of a window, and would fade away into the gloom as if it had seen enough of life and had vanished out of it. Presently the rain began to fall in slanting lines between him and those houses, and people began to collect under cover of the public passage opposite, and to look out hopelessly at the sky as the rain dropped thicker and faster. Then wet umbrellas began to appear, draggled skirts, and mud. What the mud had been doing with itself, or where it came from, who could say? But it seemed to collect in a moment, as a crowd will, and in five minutes to have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam. The lamplighter was going his rounds now; and as the fiery jets sprang up under his touch, one might have fancied them astonished at being suffered to introduce any show of brightness into such a dismal scene.

Mr Arthur Clennam took up his hat and buttoned his coat, and walked out. In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to the gutters.

He crossed by St Paul’s and went down, at a long angle, almost to the water’s edge, through some of the crooked and descending streets which lie (and lay more crookedly and closely then) between the river and Cheapside. Passing, now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful Company, now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church that seemed to be waiting for some adventurous Belzoni to dig it out and discover its history; passing silent warehouses and wharves, and here and there a narrow alley leading to the river, where a wretched little bill, FOUND DROWNED, was weeping on the wet wall; he came at last to the house he sought. An old brick house, so dingy as to be all but black, standing by itself within a gateway. Before it, a square court-yard where a shrub or two and a patch of grass were as rank (which is saying much) as the iron railings enclosing them were rusty; behind it, a jumble of roots. It was a double house, with long, narrow, heavily-framed windows. Many years ago, it had had it in its mind to slide down sideways; it had been propped up, however, and was leaning on some half-dozen gigantic crutches: which gymnasium for the neighbouring cats, weather-stained, smoke-blackened, and overgrown with weeds, appeared in these latter days to be no very sure reliance.

‘Nothing changed,’ said the traveller, stopping to look round. ‘Dark and miserable as ever. A light in my mother’s window, which seems never to have been extinguished since I came home twice a year from school, and dragged my box over this pavement. Well, well, well!’

He went up to the door, which had a projecting canopy in carved work of festooned jack-towels and children’s heads with water on the brain, designed after a once-popular monumental pattern, and knocked. A shuffling step was soon heard on the stone floor of the hall, and the door was opened by an old man, bent and dried, but with keen eyes.

He had a candle in his hand, and he held it up for a moment to assist his keen eyes. ‘Ah, Mr Arthur?’ he said, without any emotion, ‘you are come at last? Step in.’

Mr Arthur stepped in and shut the door.

‘Your figure is filled out, and set,’ said the old man, turning to look at him with the light raised again, and shaking his head; ‘but you don’t come up to your father in my opinion. Nor yet your mother.’

‘How is my mother?’

‘She is as she always is now. Keeps her room when not actually bedridden, and hasn’t been out of it fifteen times in as many years, Arthur.’ They had walked into a spare, meagre dining-room. The old man had put the candlestick upon the table, and, supporting his right elbow with his left hand, was smoothing his leathern jaws while he looked at the visitor. The visitor offered his hand. The old man took it coldly enough, and seemed to prefer his jaws, to which he returned as soon as he could.

‘I doubt if your mother will approve of your coming home on the Sabbath, Arthur,’ he said, shaking his head warily.

‘You wouldn’t have me go away again?’

‘Oh! I? I? I am not the master. It’s not what I would have. I have stood between your father and mother for a number of years. I don’t pretend to stand between your mother and you.’

‘Will you tell her that I have come home?’

‘Yes, Arthur, yes. Oh, to be sure! I’ll tell her that you have come home. Please to wait here. You won’t find the room changed.’ He took another candle from a cupboard, lighted it, left the first on the table, and went upon his errand. He was a short, bald old man, in a high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches, and long drab gaiters. He might, from his dress, have been either clerk or servant, and in fact had long been both. There was nothing about him in the way of decoration but a watch, which was lowered into the depths of its proper pocket by an old black ribbon, and had a tarnished copper key moored above it, to show where it was sunk. His head was awry, and he had a one-sided, crab-like way with him, as if his foundations had yielded at about the same time as those of the house, and he ought to have been propped up in a similar manner.

“Resta!” disse Clennam, riprendendosi. “Non stavo pensando a ciò che ho detto; ho risposto meccanicamente. Non intendo )dormire qui. Tornerò a casa”.

“Davvero, signore? Chaymaid! Il baule numero sette. Non devi dormire qui, vai via.”

Sedeva nello stesso posto in cui il giorno era finito, guardando le case tristi di fronte a lui e pensando che, se gli spiriti degli ex abitanti di quelle case avessero mai consapevolezza di esse, sicuramente si sarebbero pianti per i loro vecchi luoghi di prigionia. A volte un volto appariva dietro il vetro sporco di una finestra, per poi scomparire nell’oscurità, come se avesse visto abbastanza della vita e ne fosse fuggito. Poi iniziò a piovere, gocce oblique che cadevano tra lui e quelle case; la gente si rifugiò sotto il portico di fronte e guardava disperatamente verso il cielo mentre la pioggia diventava sempre più intensa. Allora apparvero ombrelli bagnati, gonne strascicate. E la fanghiglia? Che cosa ne facesse, da dove provenisse. Chi poteva saperlo? Ma sembrava accumularsi rapidamente, come avviene nelle folle; in cinque minuti aveva già inzuppato tutti quanti. Il lampionaio stava facendo il suo giro: mentre i getti di luce si accendevano al suo tocco, si poteva quasi pensare che fossero sorpresi di essere costretti ad aggiungere un po’ di luminosità in una scena così tetra.

Il signor Arthur Clennam prese il cappello, si abbottonò il cappotto e uscì.
In campagna, la pioggia avrebbe sprigionato mille profumi freschi; ogni goccia sarebbe stata associata a qualche bella forma di crescita o vita. Nella città, invece, generava solo odori nauseabondi e stantii, aggiungendo un tocco disgustoso e squallido ai canali di scolo.

Attraversò St Paul’s e proseguì, seguendo un angolo lungo e ripido, quasi fino al bordo dell’acqua, passando per strade tortuose e in discesa che si trovavano (e allora erano ancora più contorte e strette) tra l’fiume e Cheapside. Ora superava il vecchio ingresso di qualche associazione ormai obsoleta, ora i vetri illuminati di una chiesa senza fedeli che sembrava aspettare soltanto un avventuroso esploratore come Belzoni per farla scavare e scoprire la sua storia; oltrepassava silenziosi magazzini e moli, e qua e là un vicolo stretto che conduceva al fiume, dove un misero cartello, su cui era scritto “Trovato annegato”, giaceva umido contro il muro. Alla fine arrivò alla casa che cercava: un vecchio edificio in mattoni, così sporco da sembrare quasi nero, situato isolatamente all’interno di un cancello. Davanti ad esso si estendeva un cortile quadrato dove pochi cespugli e un pezzo d’erba crescevano in condizioni altrettanto deplorevoli delle ringhiere di ferro che li circondavano; dietro, un groviglio di radici. Si trattava di una doppiacasa, con finestre lunghe, strette e dai telai pesanti. Molti anni prima, quell’edificio aveva tentato di “scivolare” lateralmente; tuttavia era stato sorretto da alcune “grucce” gigantesche e ora si appoggiava su di esse. Quel cosiddetto “ginnasio” per i gatti del quartiere, intaccato dal tempo, annerito dal fumo e invaso dalle erbacce, sembrava ormai non rappresentare una vera e propria sicurezza.

“Niente è cambiato,” disse il viaggiatore, fermandosi per guardarsi intorno. “Tutto è ancora buio e triste come sempre. Una luce nella finestra di mia madre, sembra non essersi mai spenta da quando torno a casa due volte all’anno, dopo la scuola. E ho trascinato il mio baule su questo marciapiede, ” “Beh, beh, beh!”

Si avvicinò alla porta, la cui cornice era decorata con intagli raffiguranti asciugamani a fiocchi e teste di bambini con l’acqua nel cervello; il design seguiva uno stile monumentale un tempo molto popolare. Bussò, e presto si udirono passi incerti sul pavimento in pietra del corridoio; la porta fu aperta da un vecchio uomo, curvo e magro, ma con occhi acuti.

Aveva una candela in mano e la sollevò per un momento per aiutare la vista acuta che aveva. “Ah, signor Arthur?” disse, senza alcuna emozione, “finalmente siete arrivato? Entrate pure.”

Il signor Arthur intervenne e chiuse la porta.

“La tua figura è ben formata e armoniosa,” disse l’uomo anziano, voltandosi di nuovo a guardarlo con la lampada accesa, scuotendo la testa; “ma, secondo me, non raggiungi né tuo padre né tua madre.”

“Come sta mia madre?”

‘È esattamente come è sempre stata. Quando non è effettivamente costretta a letto, rimane nella sua stanza; in questi anni non è mai uscita di lì più di quindici volte, Arthur.’ Erano entrati in una sala da pranzo spartana e modesta. L’uomo anziano aveva posato il candelabro sul tavolo e, appoggiandosi al gomito destro con la mano sinistra, si accarezzava le mascelle di cuoio mentre fissava l’ospite. L’ospite gli tese la mano; l’uomo anziano la prese con freddo distacco e sembrò preferire continuare ad accarezzarsi le mascelle, tornandoci non appena ne ebbe l’opportunità.

“Dubito che tua madre approvi il tuo ritorno a casa nel giorno del Sabato, Arthur”, disse, scuotendo la testa con cautela.

“Non vorresti che me ne andassi di nuovo, vero?”

“Oh! Io, io non sono il padrone. Non è quello che io avrei scelto. Sono stato tra tuo padre e tua madre per molti anni. Ma non pretendo di essere anche tra tua madre e te.”

“Le dirai che sono tornato a casa?”

“Sì, Arthur, sì. Oh, certamente! Le dirò che sei tornato a casa. Per favore aspetta qui: la stanza non sarà cambiata.” Prese un’altra candela da un armadio, la accese, lasciò l’altra sul tavolo e andò ad svolgere il suo compito. Era un uomo anziano, basso e calvo, vestito con un cappotto nero e una giacca a maniche lunghe, pantaloni scuri e stivali alti dello stesso colore. A giudicare dal suo abbigliamento, poteva essere sia un impiegato che un servitore; in realtà, per molto tempo lo era stato entrambi. Non portava alcun ornamento addosso, tranne un orologio fissato nella tasca con un vecchio nastro nero, e una chiave di rame ossidata sopra di esso, a indicare dove fosse stato messo. Teneva la testa piegata da un lato e si muoveva in modo strano, come se le sue “fondamenta” avessero ceduto più o meno nello stesso momento in cui quelle della casa. E forse avrebbe dovuto essere sostenuto allo stesso modo.

‘How weak am I,’ said Arthur Clennam, when he was gone, ‘that I could shed tears at this reception! I, who have never experienced anything else; who have never expected anything else.’

He not only could, but did. It was the momentary yielding of a nature that had been disappointed from the dawn of its perceptions, but had not quite given up all its hopeful yearnings yet. He subdued it, took up the candle, and examined the room. The old articles of furniture were in their old places; the Plagues of Egypt, much the dimmer for the fly and smoke plagues of London, were framed and glazed upon the walls. There was the old cellaret with nothing in it, lined with lead, like a sort of coffin in compartments; there was the old dark closet, also with nothing in it, of which he had been many a time the sole contents, in days of punishment, when he had regarded it as the veritable entrance to that bourne to which the tract had found him galloping. There was the large, hard-featured clock on the sideboard, which he used to see bending its figured brows upon him with a savage joy when he was behind-hand with his lessons, and which, when it was wound up once a week with an iron handle, used to sound as if it were growling in ferocious anticipation of the miseries into which it would bring him. But here was the old man come back, saying, ‘Arthur, I’ll go before and light you.’

Arthur followed him up the staircase, which was panelled off into spaces like so many mourning tablets, into a dim bed-chamber, the floor of which had gradually so sunk and settled, that the fire-place was in a dell. On a black bier-like sofa in this hollow, propped up behind with one great angular black bolster like the block at a state execution in the good old times, sat his mother in a widow’s dress.

She and his father had been at variance from his earliest remembrance. To sit speechless himself in the midst of rigid silence, glancing in dread from the one averted face to the other, had been the peacefullest occupation of his childhood. She gave him one glassy kiss, and four stiff fingers muffled in worsted. This embrace concluded, he sat down on the opposite side of her little table. There was a fire in the grate, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a kettle on the hob, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a little mound of damped ashes on the top of the fire, and another little mound swept together under the grate, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a smell of black dye in the airless room, which the fire had been drawing out of the crape and stuff of the widow’s dress for fifteen months, and out of the bier-like sofa for fifteen years.

‘Mother, this is a change from your old active habits.’

‘The world has narrowed to these dimensions, Arthur,’ she replied, glancing round the room. ‘It is well for me that I never set my heart upon its hollow vanities.’

The old influence of her presence and her stern strong voice, so gathered about her son, that he felt conscious of a renewal of the timid chill and reserve of his childhood.

‘Do you never leave your room, mother?’

‘What with my rheumatic affection, and what with its attendant debility or nervous weakness—names are of no matter now—I have lost the use of my limbs. I never leave my room. I have not been outside this door for—tell him for how long,’ she said, speaking over her shoulder.

‘A dozen year next Christmas,’ returned a cracked voice out of the dimness behind.

‘Is that Affery?’ said Arthur, looking towards it.

The cracked voice replied that it was Affery: and an old woman came forward into what doubtful light there was, and kissed her hand once; then subsided again into the dimness.

‘I am able,’ said Mrs Clennam, with a slight motion of her worsted-muffled right hand toward a chair on wheels, standing before a tall writing cabinet close shut up, ‘I am able to attend to my business duties, and I am thankful for the privilege. It is a great privilege. But no more of business on this day. It is a bad night, is it not?’

‘Yes, mother.’

‘Does it snow?’

‘Snow, mother? And we only yet in September?’

‘All seasons are alike to me,’ she returned, with a grim kind of luxuriousness. ‘I know nothing of summer and winter, shut up here. The Lord has been pleased to put me beyond all that.’ With her cold grey eyes and her cold grey hair, and her immovable face, as stiff as the folds of her stony head-dress,—her being beyond the reach of the seasons seemed but a fit sequence to her being beyond the reach of all changing emotions.

On her little table lay two or three books, her handkerchief, a pair of steel spectacles newly taken off, and an old-fashioned gold watch in a heavy double case. Upon this last object her son’s eyes and her own now rested together.

‘I see that you received the packet I sent you on my father’s death, safely, mother.’

‘You see.’

‘I never knew my father to show so much anxiety on any subject, as that his watch should be sent straight to you.’

‘I keep it here as a remembrance of your father.’

‘It was not until the last, that he expressed the wish; when he could only put his hand upon it, and very indistinctly say to me “your mother.” A moment before, I thought him wandering in his mind, as he had been for many hours—I think he had no consciousness of pain in his short illness—when I saw him turn himself in his bed and try to open it.’

‘Was your father, then, not wandering in his mind when he tried to open it?’

‘No. He was quite sensible at that time.’

Mrs Clennam shook her head; whether in dismissal of the deceased or opposing herself to her son’s opinion, was not clearly expressed.

“Quanto sono debole,” disse Arthur Clennam quando se ne andò, “da versare lacrime per questa accoglienza. Io, che non ho mai sperimentato nulla di diverso; che non mi aspettavo mai nulla di diverso.”

Non solo poteva farlo, ma lo fece davvero. Fu un momento di temporanea resa da parte di quella natura che, fin dall’‘alba delle sue percezioni, era stata delusa, ma che ancora non aveva completamente abbandonato tutte le sue speranze. La domò, prese la candela e esaminò la stanza: gli vecchi mobili erano al loro posto; i dipinti raffiguranti le Piaghe d’Egitto, molto più sbiaditi a causa delle tenebre e del fumo delle piaghe di )Londra, erano incorniciati e appesi alle pareti. C’era anche l’antico armadio, vuoto, rivestito di piombo, simile a una sorta di bara divisa in scompartimenti; c’era poi l’antico armadio scuro, anch’esso vuoto. In quei giorni di punizione, spesso lui stesso era l’unico “contenuto” di quell’armadio, considerandolo l’ingresso vero e proprio verso quel luogo verso cui sembrava essere stato trascinato. C’era infine l’enorme orologio sul comò: quando faceva tardi con i compiti, gli sembrava che quell’orologio lo fissasse con occhi minacciosi, pieni di una gioia selvaggia. E ogni settimana, quando veniva caricato con un manico di ferro, emetteva suoni simili a ringhi, come se anticipasse con furia le sofferenze che avrebbe causato. Ma ora l’uomo anziano era tornato, dicendo: “Arthur, vado ad accenderti la luce.”

Arthur lo seguì su per le scale, le quali erano divise in compartimenti simili a molte tavole funebri, fino a raggiungere una camera da letto buia; il pavimento si era gradualmente abbassato, tanto che il caminetto si trovava ora in una cavità. Su un divano nero, simile a un catafalco, sostenuto da un grande cuscino nero angoloso – proprio come i blocchi utilizzati nelle esecuzioni di un tempo – sedeva sua madre, vestita da vedova.

Fin da quando ne aveva memoria, lei e suo padre erano in disaccordo. Sedersi in silenzio, immobile nel gelido silenzio, guardando con terrore da un volto all’altro, era stata l’unica attività “pacifica” della sua infanzia. Lei gli diede un bacio freddo e distaccato; poi quattro dita rigide, avvolte in panno ruvido, lo accarezzarono appena. Dopo quel breve abbraccio, si sedette dall’altra parte del suo piccolo tavolo. C’era un fuoco nel camino, proprio come c’erano stati giorno e notte per quindici anni. C’era una pentola sul fornello, sempre lì da quindici anni. C’era un mucchietto di cenere umida sopra il fuoco, e un altro mucchietto spazzato via sotto il camino. Sempre lo stesso scenario, per quindici anni. Nella stanza senza aria aleggiava l’odore del colore nero: il fuoco lo aveva estratto dal panno nero dell’abito della vedova, per quindici mesi. E dal divano simile a un feretro, per quindici anni.

“Mamma, questa è davvero una novità rispetto alle tue abitudini precedenti, ”

“Il mondo si è ridotto a queste dimensioni, Arthur,” rispose lei, guardandosi intorno nella stanza. “È stato meglio per me non aver mai riposto le mie speranze nelle sue vane illusioni.”

L’antico ascendente della sua presenza e della sua voce severa e potente si concentrava intorno a suo figlio, al punto che egli provava di nuovo quella timida freddezza e riservatezza tipiche della sua infanzia.

“Non esci mai dalla tua stanza, mamma?”

“Con la mia malattia reumatica e la debolezza che ne consegue, o meglio quella fragilità nervosa, ormai i nomi non hanno più importanza, ho perso l’uso delle mie membra. Non esco mai dalla mia stanza. Non sono uscita da questa porta da, ditegli per quanto tempo,” disse, parlando dietro le spalle.

“Un dozzina d’anni, il prossimo Natale,” rispose una voce roca proveniente dall’oscurità alle loro spalle.

“È quello Affery?”, disse Arthur, guardandolo.

La voce roca rispose che era Affery; poi una vecchia donna si avvicinò nella scarsa luce presente e le baciò la mano una volta; dopodiché scomparve di nuovo nell’oscurità.

“Sono in grado di farlo,” disse Signora Clennam, muovendo leggermente la sua mano destra, avvolta nella stoffa ruvida, verso una sedia a rotelle posta davanti a un alto armadio da scrivere completamente chiuso. “Sono in grado di adempiere ai miei doveri professionali e ne sono grata. È un grande privilegio. Ma per oggi basta con gli affari. È una brutta notte, non è vero?”

“Sì, mamma.”

“Sta nevicando?”

“Neve, mamma? E siamo solo a settembre, ”

“Tutte le stagioni sono uguali per me,” rispose lei con una sorta di cupa, ma elegante indifferenza. “Non so nulla dell’estate né dell’Inverno, rimango chiusa qui dentro. Il Signore ha voluto che fossi al di là di tutto ciò.” Con i suoi occhi grigi freddi, i capelli grigi freddi e il viso immobile, rigido come le pieghe del suo copricapo di pietra. Il fatto che fosse al di là delle stagioni sembrava semplicemente una conseguenza naturale del fatto che fosse al di là di tutte le emozioni umane.

Sul suo piccolo tavolo c’erano due o tre libri, un fazzoletto, un paio di occhiali da vista di acciaio appena tolti e un orologio d’oro all’antica, racchiuso in una pesante cassa doppia. Su quest’ultimo oggetto ora si posavano gli occhi sia di suo figlio che dei suoi.

“Vedo che hai ricevuto il pacco che ti ho inviato in occasione della morte di mio padre, mamma.”

“Vedi, ”

“Non ricordo mai che mio padre abbia mostrato tanta ansia per qualcosa, quanto per il fatto che il suo orologio dovesse essere inviato subito a te.”

“Lo tengo qui come ricordo di tuo padre.”

Fu solo all’ultimo momento che esprimette questo desiderio; quando ormai poteva soltanto posare la mano su di esso e dire, in modo molto indistinto, “tua madre”. Un attimo prima pensavo che fosse ancora perso nei suoi pensieri, come era stato per molte ore. Credo che non avesse provato alcun dolore durante quella breve malattia. Quando lo vidi girarsi nel letto e cercare di aprirlo.

“Quindi tuo padre non era confuso o distratto quando ha provato ad aprirlo?”

“No. A quel tempo, era piuttosto sensato.”

Signora Clennam scosse la testa; non era chiaro se lo facesse per respingere l’idea del defunto o per opporsi al parere di suo figlio.

‘After my father’s death I opened it myself, thinking there might be, for anything I knew, some memorandum there. However, as I need not tell you, mother, there was nothing but the old silk watch-paper worked in beads, which you found (no doubt) in its place between the cases, where I found and left it.’

Mrs Clennam signified assent; then added, ‘No more of business on this day,’ and then added, ‘Affery, it is nine o’clock.’

Upon this, the old woman cleared the little table, went out of the room, and quickly returned with a tray on which was a dish of little rusks and a small precise pat of butter, cool, symmetrical, white, and plump. The old man who had been standing by the door in one attitude during the whole interview, looking at the mother up-stairs as he had looked at the son down-stairs, went out at the same time, and, after a longer absence, returned with another tray on which was the greater part of a bottle of port wine (which, to judge by his panting, he had brought from the cellar), a lemon, a sugar-basin, and a spice box. With these materials and the aid of the kettle, he filled a tumbler with a hot and odorous mixture, measured out and compounded with as much nicety as a physician’s prescription. Into this mixture Mrs Clennam dipped certain of the rusks, and ate them; while the old woman buttered certain other of the rusks, which were to be eaten alone. When the invalid had eaten all the rusks and drunk all the mixture, the two trays were removed; and the books and the candle, watch, handkerchief, and spectacles were replaced upon the table. She then put on the spectacles and read certain passages aloud from a book—sternly, fiercely, wrathfully—praying that her enemies (she made them by her tone and manner expressly hers) might be put to the edge of the sword, consumed by fire, smitten by plagues and leprosy, that their bones might be ground to dust, and that they might be utterly exterminated. As she read on, years seemed to fall away from her son like the imaginings of a dream, and all the old dark horrors of his usual preparation for the sleep of an innocent child to overshadow him.

She shut the book and remained for a little time with her face shaded by her hand. So did the old man, otherwise still unchanged in attitude; so, probably, did the old woman in her dimmer part of the room. Then the sick woman was ready for bed.

‘Good night, Arthur. Affery will see to your accommodation. Only touch me, for my hand is tender.’ He touched the worsted muffling of her hand—that was nothing; if his mother had been sheathed in brass there would have been no new barrier between them—and followed the old man and woman down-stairs.

The latter asked him, when they were alone together among the heavy shadows of the dining-room, would he have some supper?

‘No, Affery, no supper.’

‘You shall if you like,’ said Affery. ‘There’s her tomorrow’s partridge in the larder—her first this year; say the word and I’ll cook it.’

No, he had not long dined, and could eat nothing.

‘Have something to drink, then,’ said Affery; ‘you shall have some of her bottle of port, if you like. I’ll tell Jeremiah that you ordered me to bring it you.’

No; nor would he have that, either.

‘It’s no reason, Arthur,’ said the old woman, bending over him to whisper, ‘that because I am afeared of my life of ‘em, you should be. You’ve got half the property, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Well then, don’t you be cowed. You’re clever, Arthur, an’t you?’

He nodded, as she seemed to expect an answer in the affirmative.

‘Then stand up against them! She’s awful clever, and none but a clever one durst say a word to her. He’s a clever one—oh, he’s a clever one!—and he gives it her when he has a mind to’t, he does!’

‘Your husband does?’

‘Does? It makes me shake from head to foot, to hear him give it her. My husband, Jeremiah Flintwinch, can conquer even your mother. What can he be but a clever one to do that!’

His shuffling footstep coming towards them caused her to retreat to the other end of the room. Though a tall, hard-favoured, sinewy old woman, who in her youth might have enlisted in the Foot Guards without much fear of discovery, she collapsed before the little keen-eyed crab-like old man.

‘Now, Affery,’ said he, ‘now, woman, what are you doing? Can’t you find Master Arthur something or another to pick at?’

Master Arthur repeated his recent refusal to pick at anything.

‘Very well, then,’ said the old man; ‘make his bed. Stir yourself.’ His neck was so twisted that the knotted ends of his white cravat usually dangled under one ear; his natural acerbity and energy, always contending with a second nature of habitual repression, gave his features a swollen and suffused look; and altogether, he had a weird appearance of having hanged himself at one time or other, and of having gone about ever since, halter and all, exactly as some timely hand had cut him down.

‘You’ll have bitter words together to-morrow, Arthur; you and your mother,’ said Jeremiah. ‘Your having given up the business on your father’s death—which she suspects, though we have left it to you to tell her—won’t go off smoothly.’

‘I have given up everything in life for the business, and the time came for me to give up that.’

‘Good!’ cried Jeremiah, evidently meaning Bad. ‘Very good! only don’t expect me to stand between your mother and you, Arthur. I stood between your mother and your father, fending off this, and fending off that, and getting crushed and pounded betwixt em; and I’ve done with such work.’

‘You will never be asked to begin it again for me, Jeremiah.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it; because I should have had to decline it, if I had been. That’s enough—as your mother says—and more than enough of such matters on a Sabbath night. Affery, woman, have you found what you want yet?’

‘Dopo la morte di mio padre, l’aprii io stesso, pensando che forse ci fosse, chissà, qualche memorandum al suo interno. Tuttavia, come non c’è bisogno che vi dica, madre, non c’era nulla se non quel vecchio foglio di seta decorato con perline, che voi avete trovato (senza alcun >dubbio) nel posto in cui l’avevo lasciato.’

Signora Clennam fece segno di assenso; poi aggiunse: “Nient’altro da fare oggi”, e infine disse: “Affery, sono le nove in orario”.

Allora, la vecchia donna pulì il piccolo tavolo, uscì dalla stanza e tornò rapidamente con un vassoio su cui c’erano dei piccoli biscotti e una piccola quantità di burro, fresco, simmetrico, bianco e morbido. L’uomo anziano, che era rimasto fermo accanto alla porta per tutta la durata della conversazione, osservando la madre al piano di sopra proprio come aveva osservato il figlio al piano di sotto, uscì nello stesso momento e, dopo una lunga assenza, tornò con un altro vassoio su cui c’era quasi l’intera bottiglia di vino porto (che, a giudicare dal suo respiro affannoso, doveva aver preso dalla cantina), un limone, una zuccheriera e una scatola di spezie. Con questi ingredienti e con l’aiuto della teiera, preparò una miscela calda e profumata, misurandone le quantità con la stessa precisione di una prescrizione medica. Signora Clennam immerse alcuni biscotti in quella miscela e li mangiò; mentre la vecchia donna spalmò burro su altri biscotti, che dovevano essere consumati da soli. Quando l’inferma ebbe finito tutti i biscotti e bevuto tutta la miscela, i due vassoi furono rimossi; i libri, la candela, l’orologio, il fazzoletto e gli occhiali vennero riposti sul tavolo. Poi lei indossò gli occhiali e lesse ad alta voce alcuni passaggi di un libro: con tono severo, furioso, pieno di rabbia, pregando che i suoi nemici (che, dal suo modo di parlare, sembrava considerasse proprio suoi) venissero gettati ai margini della morte, distrutti dal fuoco, colpiti da pestilenze e lebbra; che le loro ossa venissero ridotte in polvere, e che fossero completamente annientati. Mentre continuava a leggere, gli anni sembravano svanire dalla vita di suo figlio, come se fossero solo illusioni. E tutti quegli antichi orrori legati alle sue abitudini notturne, tipiche di un “bambino innocente”, sembravano oscurare completamente la sua esistenza.

Chiuse il libro e rimase per un po’ di tempo con il viso nascosto dalla mano. Lo stesso fece l’uomo anziano, che altrimenti non aveva cambiato atteggiamento; probabilmente lo fece anche la donna anziana, nella parte più buia della stanza. Poi la donna malata fu pronta per andare a letto.

“Buona notte, Arthur. Affery si occuperà del tuo alloggio. Non toccarmi, per favore, la mia mano è ancora dolorante.” Le accarezzò il guanto di lana grezza che le copriva la mano. Niente di grave; se sua madre fosse stata avvolta in metallo, non ci sarebbe stata alcuna barriera tra loro. Poi seguì l’uomo e la donna giù per le scale.

Quando erano soli, tra le fitte ombre del salone da pranzo, l’ultimo gli chiese se volesse mangiare qualcosa per cena.

“No, Affery, nessun pasto stasera.”

“Puoi farlo se vuoi,” disse Affery. “C’è la pernice di domani in dispensa, è la prima dell’anno; basta che tu dica una parola e io la cucinerò.”

No, non aveva appena finito di mangiare e non poteva assolutamente mangiare nulla.

“Allora bevi qualcosa,” disse Affery; “puoi prendere un po’ del suo vino di Porto, se vuoi. Dirò a Jeremiah che mi hai ordinato di portartelo.”

No; nemmeno lui l’avrebbe avuto.

“Non c’è alcun motivo, Arthur”, disse la vecchia donna, chinandosi su di lui per sussurrargli, “perché solo perché ho paura per la mia vita tu debba averla anch’tu. Tu possiedi metà del patrimonio, non è vero?”

“Sì, sì, davvero.”

“Allora, non lasciarti intimidire. Sei intelligente, Arthur, vero?”

Annuì, poiché sembrava aspettarsi una risposta affermativa.

“Allora alzati in loro opposizione! È terribilmente intelligente, e solo qualcuno molto astuto oserebbe dirle una parola. Lui è davvero intelligente, oh, sì, molto intelligente! E le dà ciò che vuole, quando ne ha voglia.”

“Tuo marito sì?”

“Davvero? Mi fa tremare dalla testa ai piedi sentire che gliel’ha data. Mio marito, Jeremiah Flintwinch, è in grado di conquistare persino tua madre. Che altro potrebbe essere se non un uomo molto astuto?”

I suoi passi incerti che si avvicinavano a loro la costrinsero a ritirarsi nell’altra estremità della stanza. Nonostante fosse una donna anziana alta, robusta e piena di energia, che da giovane avrebbe potuto arruolarsi nelle Guardie a piedi senza molta paura di essere scoperta, si arrese davanti a quell’uomo anziano dall’aspetto sinistro e dagli occhi acuti.

“Ora, Affery,” disse lui, “ora, donna, cosa stai facendo? Non riesci a trovare qualcosa per il padrone Arthur da criticare o rimproverare?”

Il maestro Arthur ribadì ancora una volta il suo rifiuto di occuparsi di qualsiasi cosa.

“Molto bene, allora,” disse l’uomo anziano; “fai il suo letto. Sbrigati.” Il suo collo era così torto che le estremità nodose della sua cravatta bianca di solito pendevano sotto un orecchio; la sua naturale asprezza ed energia, sempre in conflitto con una seconda natura basata sulla repressione abituale, davano alle sue fattezze un aspetto gonfio e tumefatto; nel complesso, aveva un aspetto strano, come se si fosse impiccato in passato e da allora camminasse ancora con quella corda attorno al collo, proprio come se qualcuno lo avesse appena salvato.

“Domani avrete parole amare da scambiare, Arthur; tu e tua madre,” disse Jeremiah. “Il fatto che abbiate abbandonato l’attività dopo la morte di vostro padre, di cui lei sospetta, anche se abbiamo lasciato a te il compito di dirglielo, non passerà certo liscio.”

Ho sacrificato tutto nella mia vita per questa attività, ed è arrivato il momento di rinunciarvi anch’io.

“Bene!”, esclamò Jeremiah, intendendo chiaramente “Male”. “Molto bene, solo non aspettarti che io mi metta tra tua madre e te, Arthur. Mi sono messo tra tua madre e tuo padre, affrontando questo problema e quello, finendo schiacciato e distrutto in mezzo a loro. E ne ho abbastanza di tutto questo.”

“Non ti verrà mai chiesto di ricominciare per me, Jeremiah.”

“Bene. Sono contento di saperlo; perché altrimenti avrei dovuto rifiutare. È abbastanza – come dice tua madre – e più che abbastanza di queste cose in una sera di Sabato. Affery, donna, hai trovato ciò che cercavi?”

She had been collecting sheets and blankets from a press, and hastened to gather them up, and to reply, ‘Yes, Jeremiah.’ Arthur Clennam helped her by carrying the load himself, wished the old man good night, and went up-stairs with her to the top of the house.

They mounted up and up, through the musty smell of an old close house, little used, to a large garret bed-room. Meagre and spare, like all the other rooms, it was even uglier and grimmer than the rest, by being the place of banishment for the worn-out furniture. Its movables were ugly old chairs with worn-out seats, and ugly old chairs without any seats; a threadbare patternless carpet, a maimed table, a crippled wardrobe, a lean set of fire-irons like the skeleton of a set deceased, a washing-stand that looked as if it had stood for ages in a hail of dirty soapsuds, and a bedstead with four bare atomies of posts, each terminating in a spike, as if for the dismal accommodation of lodgers who might prefer to impale themselves. Arthur opened the long low window, and looked out upon the old blasted and blackened forest of chimneys, and the old red glare in the sky, which had seemed to him once upon a time but a nightly reflection of the fiery environment that was presented to his childish fancy in all directions, let it look where it would.

He drew in his head again, sat down at the bedside, and looked on at Affery Flintwinch making the bed.

‘Affery, you were not married when I went away.’

She screwed her mouth into the form of saying ‘No,’ shook her head, and proceeded to get a pillow into its case.

‘How did it happen?’

‘Why, Jeremiah, o’ course,’ said Affery, with an end of the pillow-case between her teeth.

‘Of course he proposed it, but how did it all come about? I should have thought that neither of you would have married; least of all should I have thought of your marrying each other.’

‘No more should I,’ said Mrs Flintwinch, tying the pillow tightly in its case.

‘That’s what I mean. When did you begin to think otherwise?’

‘Never begun to think otherwise at all,’ said Mrs Flintwinch.

Seeing, as she patted the pillow into its place on the bolster, that he was still looking at her as if waiting for the rest of her reply, she gave it a great poke in the middle, and asked, ‘How could I help myself?’

‘How could you help yourself from being married!’

‘O’ course,’ said Mrs Flintwinch. ‘It was no doing o’ mine. I’d never thought of it. I’d got something to do, without thinking, indeed! She kept me to it (as well as he) when she could go about, and she could go about then.’

‘Well?’

‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch. ‘That’s what I said myself. Well! What’s the use of considering? If them two clever ones have made up their minds to it, what’s left for me to do? Nothing.’

‘Was it my mother’s project, then?’

‘The Lord bless you, Arthur, and forgive me the wish!’ cried Affery, speaking always in a low tone. ‘If they hadn’t been both of a mind in it, how could it ever have been? Jeremiah never courted me; t’ant likely that he would, after living in the house with me and ordering me about for as many years as he’d done. He said to me one day, he said, “Affery,” he said, “now I am going to tell you something. What do you think of the name of Flintwinch?” “What do I think of it?” I says. “Yes,” he said, “because you’re going to take it,” he said. “Take it?” I says. “Jere-mi-ah?” Oh! he’s a clever one!’

Mrs Flintwinch went on to spread the upper sheet over the bed, and the blanket over that, and the counterpane over that, as if she had quite concluded her story.

‘Well?’ said Arthur again.

‘Well?’ echoed Mrs Flintwinch again. ‘How could I help myself? He said to me, “Affery, you and me must be married, and I’ll tell you why. She’s failing in health, and she’ll want pretty constant attendance up in her room, and we shall have to be much with her, and there’ll be nobody about now but ourselves when we’re away from her, and altogether it will be more convenient. She’s of my opinion,” he said, “so if you’ll put your bonnet on next Monday morning at eight, we’ll get it over.”’ Mrs Flintwinch tucked up the bed.

‘Well?’

‘Well?’ repeated Mrs Flintwinch, ‘I think so! I sits me down and says it. Well!—Jeremiah then says to me, “As to banns, next Sunday being the third time of asking (for I’ve put ‘em up a fortnight), is my reason for naming Monday. She’ll speak to you about it herself, and now she’ll find you prepared, Affery.” That same day she spoke to me, and she said, “So, Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man.” What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been—a smothering instead of a wedding,’ Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind with great pains for this form of expression, ‘I couldn’t have said a word upon it, against them two clever ones.’

‘In good faith, I believe so.’

‘And so you may, Arthur.’

‘Affery, what girl was that in my mother’s room just now?’

‘Girl?’ said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key.

‘It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you—almost hidden in the dark corner?’

‘Oh! She? Little Dorrit? She‘s nothing; she’s a whim of—hers.’ It was a peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam by name. ‘But there’s another sort of girls than that about. Have you forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I’ll be bound.’

‘I suffered enough from my mother’s separating us, to remember her. I recollect her very well.’

‘Have you got another?’

‘No.’

‘Here’s news for you, then. She’s well to do now, and a widow. And if you like to have her, why you can.’

‘And how do you know that, Affery?’

‘Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.—There’s Jeremiah on the stairs!’ She was gone in a moment.

Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy’s love had found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined, to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window, and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man’s life—so much was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better directed and happier to speculate upon—to make him a dreamer, after all.

Stava raccogliendo lenzuola e coperte da una pressa; si affrettò a radunarle tutte e rispose: “Sì, Jeremiah.” Arthur Clennam la aiutò portando personalmente il carico, le augurò buona notte e salì insieme a lei al piano di sopra, fino in cima alla casa.

Salirono sempre più in alto, attraverso l’odore stantio di una vecchia casa poco usata, fino a raggiungere una grande soffitta adibita a camera da letto. Poveramente arredata come tutte le altre stanze, era ancora più brutta e squallida del resto: vi erano sedie vecchie e logore, altre senza sedili; un tappeto liso e senza disegni, un tavolo malandato, un armadio rovinato, una stufa scheletrica. Un lavandino che sembrava essere rimasto per anni immerso in schiuma di sapone sporco, e un letto con quattro sottili colonne, ognuna terminante in una punta affilata, come se fosse stato creato apposta per ospitare inquilini disperati pronti a ferirsi da soli. Arthur aprì la lunga e bassa finestra e guardò fuori: il vecchio bosco di camini anneriti, quel bagliore rosso nel cielo. Un tempo tutto ciò gli era sembrato il riflesso di un ambiente incandescente che la sua immaginazione infantile vedeva ovunque. Ma ora.

Lo rivide mentalmente ancora una volta, si sedette accanto al letto e osservò Affery Flintwinch mentre sistemava il letto.

“Affery, quando me ne sono andato, tu non eri ancora sposata.”

Lei serrò le labbra in segno di rifiuto, scosse la testa e poi continuò a mettere il cuscino nella sua custodia.

“Come è successo?”

“Perché, Jeremiah, ovviamente,” disse Affery, tenendo un angolo della federa tra i denti.

“Certo che l’ha proposto, ma com’è successo tutto questo? Avrei dovuto pensare che nessuno di voi due si sarebbe sposato. Meno ancora avrei potuto immaginare che vi sareste sposati a vicenda.”

“Non dovrei più farlo,” disse la signora Flintwinch, legando saldamente il cuscino nella sua federa.

“È proprio questo che intendo. Quando hai iniziato a pensare altrimenti?”

“Non ho mai nemmeno pensato al contrario,” disse la signora Flintwinch.

Vedendo che lui continuava a guardarla come se aspettasse il resto della sua risposta, mentre sistemava il cuscino sul letto, lo pungolò vigorosamente al centro e chiese: “Come potrei aiutarmi da sola?”

“Come avresti potuto resistere al matrimonio, ”

“Certo,” disse la signora Flintwinch. “Non è stata colpa mia. Non ci avevo mai pensato. Avevo qualcos’altro da fare, e basta. Lei mi ha costretta a continuare (proprio come lui), anche quando lei stessa poteva muoversi liberamente.”

“‘Beh?’”

“‘Beh?’” ripeté la signora Flintwinch. “È proprio quello che ho detto anch’io. Beh! A cosa serve pensarci troppo? Se quei due intelligenti hanno già deciso, cosa posso fare io? Niente.”

“Quindi era il progetto di mia madre?”

“Che il Signore ti benedica, Arthur, e perdonami questo desiderio!” gridò Affery, parlando sempre a bassa voce. “Se non fossero stati d’accordo entrambi, come avrebbe mai potuto accadere? Jeremiah non mi ha mai corteggiata; è improbabile che l’abbia fatto, dopo aver vissuto nella >casa con me e avermi dato ordini per tutti quegli anni. Un giorno mi disse: ‘Affery, ora ti dirò qualcosa. Che ne pensi del nome Flintwinch?’ ‘Che ne penso?’ risposi io. ‘Sì,’ disse lui, ‘perché lo prenderai tu.’ ‘Lo prenderò io?’ dissi. ‘Jeremiah, ’ Oh! È davvero astuto, ”

La signora Flintwinch continuò ad stendere il lenzuolo superiore sul letto, poi la coperta sopra di esso, e infine il piumone, come se avesse appena concluso la sua storia.

“‘Bene’?” chiese di nuovo Arthur.

“‘Beh?’” ripeté di nuovo la signora Flintwinch. “Come avrei potuto rifiutare? Lui mi disse: ‘Affery, dobbiamo sposarci, e ti spiegherò il perché. Lei non sta bene in salute, avrà bisogno di molte cure costanti nella sua stanza, e dovremo trascorrere molto tempo con lei. Quando non ci saremo, intorno a lei non ci sarà nessuno, quindi sarà più conveniente per tutti. Anche lei la pensa così,’ disse. Quindi, se il prossimo lunedì mattina alle otto vieni a prenderti il cappello, sistemeremo tutto.’” La signora Flintwinch sistemò le coperte sul letto.

“‘Beh?’”

“‘Beh?’” ripeté la signora Flintwinch. “Credo di sì! Mi ha fatto sedere e me l’ha detto proprio così: ‘Beh’. Poi Jeremiah mi ha detto: ‘Per quanto riguarda gli annunci di nozze, poiché domenica prossima sarà la terza volta che li ho affissi (li ho messi su due settimane fa), è per questo che ho scelto lunedì. Lei parlerà lei stessa con te al riguardo. E ora scoprirà che sei già preparata, Affery.’ Quello stesso giorno mi ha parlato e mi ha detto: ‘Allora, Affery, so che tu e Jeremiah vi sposerete. Ne sono felice, e lo sei anche tu, per buone ragioni. È una cosa molto positiva per te. E, date le circostanze, molto gradita anche per me. Lui è un uomo sensato, affidabile, perseverante, e pio.’ Cosa avrei potuto dire in quel momento? Beh, se si fosse trattato di qualcos’altro invece di un matrimonio, ” La signora Flintwinch cercò con grande impegno una forma appropriata per esprimersi, “Non avrei potuto dire una parola contro quei due intelligenti.”

‘Con vera e propria >fede, lo credo davvero.’

“E così puoi farlo, Arthur.”

“Affery, chi era quella ragazza nella stanza di mia madre poco fa?”

“Ragazza?”, disse la signora Flintwinch con un tono piuttosto acuto.

“Era sicuramente una ragazza quella che vidi vicino a te, quasi nascosta nell’angolo buio, ”

“Oh! Lei? La piccola Dorrit? Lei non è niente; è solo un capriccio, suo.” Era una particolarità di Affery Flintwinch il fatto che non nominasse mai Mrs Clennam per nome. “Ma ci sono anche altre ragazze, sai. Hai dimenticato la tua vecchia fidanzata? Molto tempo fa, sicuramente, ”

“Ho sofferto abbastanza a causa del fatto che mia madre ci ha separati. Per questo ricordo molto bene di lei.”

Ne hai un altro?

‘No.’

“Allora, ecco le novità: ora è in buone condizioni fisiche e inoltre è vedova. Se la vuoi, puoi prenderla.”

“E come fai a saperlo, Affery?”

“Quei due intelligenti ne hanno parlato. C’è Jeremiah sulle scale!” Se ne andò in un attimo.

La signora Flintwinch aveva fatto sì che la sua mente continuasse instancabilmente a “tessere”, in quel vecchio laboratorio dove un tempo si trovava il telaio della sua giovinezza, cercando di completare quell’ultimo filo necessario per completare il disegno. L’infantile follia dell’amore di un ragazzo aveva trovato il modo di entrare anche in quella casa. E lui ne era stato tormentato dalla sua speranza vana, come se quella casa fosse stata un vero e proprio “castello” di romanticismo. Solo poco più di una settimana prima, a Marsiglia, il viso di quella bella ragazza da cui si era separato con rimpianto aveva suscitato in lui un interesse insolito. E un legame tenero, a causa di qualche somiglianza, reale o immaginaria, con quel primo volto che era emerso dalla sua vita cupa e si era innalzato verso le splendide meraviglie della fantasia. Appoggiatosi al davanzale di quella lunga finestra bassa, guardando di nuovo quel bosco di comignoli anneriti, iniziò a sognare. Perché questa era stata, dopotutto, la tendenza costante della sua vita: mancava così tanto su cui riflettere. C’erano così tante cose che avrebbero potuto essere indirizzate meglio e rendere la sua esistenza più felice. Alla fine, tutto ciò lo aveva reso un sognatore.

CHAPTER 4. Mrs Flintwinch has a Dream

When Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, she usually dreamed, unlike the son of her old mistress, with her eyes shut. She had a curiously vivid dream that night, and before she had left the son of her old mistress many hours. In fact it was not at all like a dream; it was so very real in every respect. It happened in this wise.

The bed-chamber occupied by Mr and Mrs Flintwinch was within a few paces of that to which Mrs Clennam had been so long confined. It was not on the same floor, for it was a room at the side of the house, which was approached by a steep descent of a few odd steps, diverging from the main staircase nearly opposite to Mrs Clennam’s door. It could scarcely be said to be within call, the walls, doors, and panelling of the old place were so cumbrous; but it was within easy reach, in any undress, at any hour of the night, in any temperature. At the head of the bed and within a foot of Mrs Flintwinch’s ear, was a bell, the line of which hung ready to Mrs Clennam’s hand. Whenever this bell rang, up started Affery, and was in the sick room before she was awake.

Having got her mistress into bed, lighted her lamp, and given her good night, Mrs Flintwinch went to roost as usual, saving that her lord had not yet appeared. It was her lord himself who became—unlike the last theme in the mind, according to the observation of most philosophers—the subject of Mrs Flintwinch’s dream.

It seemed to her that she awoke after sleeping some hours, and found Jeremiah not yet abed. That she looked at the candle she had left burning, and, measuring the time like King Alfred the Great, was confirmed by its wasted state in her belief that she had been asleep for some considerable period. That she arose thereupon, muffled herself up in a wrapper, put on her shoes, and went out on the staircase, much surprised, to look for Jeremiah.

The staircase was as wooden and solid as need be, and Affery went straight down it without any of those deviations peculiar to dreams. She did not skim over it, but walked down it, and guided herself by the banisters on account of her candle having died out. In one corner of the hall, behind the house-door, there was a little waiting-room, like a well-shaft, with a long narrow window in it as if it had been ripped up. In this room, which was never used, a light was burning.

Mrs Flintwinch crossed the hall, feeling its pavement cold to her stockingless feet, and peeped in between the rusty hinges on the door, which stood a little open. She expected to see Jeremiah fast asleep or in a fit, but he was calmly seated in a chair, awake, and in his usual health. But what—hey?—Lord forgive us!—Mrs Flintwinch muttered some ejaculation to this effect, and turned giddy.

For, Mr Flintwinch awake, was watching Mr Flintwinch asleep. He sat on one side of the small table, looking keenly at himself on the other side with his chin sunk on his breast, snoring. The waking Flintwinch had his full front face presented to his wife; the sleeping Flintwinch was in profile. The waking Flintwinch was the old original; the sleeping Flintwinch was the double, just as she might have distinguished between a tangible object and its reflection in a glass, Affery made out this difference with her head going round and round.

If she had had any doubt which was her own Jeremiah, it would have been resolved by his impatience. He looked about him for an offensive weapon, caught up the snuffers, and, before applying them to the cabbage-headed candle, lunged at the sleeper as though he would have run him through the body.

‘Who’s that? What’s the matter?’ cried the sleeper, starting.

Mr Flintwinch made a movement with the snuffers, as if he would have enforced silence on his companion by putting them down his throat; the companion, coming to himself, said, rubbing his eyes, ‘I forgot where I was.’

‘You have been asleep,’ snarled Jeremiah, referring to his watch, ‘two hours. You said you would be rested enough if you had a short nap.’

‘I have had a short nap,’ said Double.

‘Half-past two o’clock in the morning,’ muttered Jeremiah. ‘Where’s your hat? Where’s your coat? Where’s the box?’

‘All here,’ said Double, tying up his throat with sleepy carefulness in a shawl. ‘Stop a minute. Now give me the sleeve—not that sleeve, the other one. Ha! I’m not as young as I was.’ Mr Flintwinch had pulled him into his coat with vehement energy. ‘You promised me a second glass after I was rested.’

‘Drink it!’ returned Jeremiah, ‘and—choke yourself, I was going to say—but go, I mean.’ At the same time he produced the identical port-wine bottle, and filled a wine-glass.

‘Her port-wine, I believe?’ said Double, tasting it as if he were in the Docks, with hours to spare. ‘Her health.’

He took a sip.

‘Your health!’

He took another sip.

‘His health!’

He took another sip.

‘And all friends round St Paul’s.’ He emptied and put down the wine-glass half-way through this ancient civic toast, and took up the box. It was an iron box some two feet square, which he carried under his arms pretty easily. Jeremiah watched his manner of adjusting it, with jealous eyes; tried it with his hands, to be sure that he had a firm hold of it; bade him for his life be careful what he was about; and then stole out on tiptoe to open the door for him. Affery, anticipating the last movement, was on the staircase. The sequence of things was so ordinary and natural, that, standing there, she could hear the door open, feel the night air, and see the stars outside.

But now came the most remarkable part of the dream. She felt so afraid of her husband, that being on the staircase, she had not the power to retreat to her room (which she might easily have done before he had fastened the door), but stood there staring. Consequently when he came up the staircase to bed, candle in hand, he came full upon her. He looked astonished, but said not a word. He kept his eyes upon her, and kept advancing; and she, completely under his influence, kept retiring before him. Thus, she walking backward and he walking forward, they came into their own room. They were no sooner shut in there, than Mr Flintwinch took her by the throat, and shook her until she was black in the face.

‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘What have you been dreaming of? Wake up, wake up! What’s the matter?’

‘The—the matter, Jeremiah?’ gasped Mrs Flintwinch, rolling her eyes.

‘Why, Affery, woman—Affery! You have been getting out of bed in your sleep, my dear! I come up, after having fallen asleep myself, below, and find you in your wrapper here, with the nightmare. Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a friendly grin on his expressive countenance, ‘if you ever have a dream of this sort again, it’ll be a sign of your being in want of physic. And I’ll give you such a dose, old woman—such a dose!’

Mrs Flintwinch thanked him and crept into bed.

CAPITOLO 4. La signora Flintwinch ha un sogno

Quando la signora Flintwinch sognava, di solito lo faceva con gli occhi chiusi, a differenza del figlio della sua vecchia padrona. Quella notte fece un sogno stranamente vivido. E in realtà non assomigliava affatto a un sogno; era davvero reale sotto ogni aspetto. Ecco come accadde.

La camera da letto occupata dal signor e dalla signora Flintwinch si trovava a pochi passi da quella in cui la signora Clennam era stata confinata per tanto tempo. Non si trovava al stesso piano, poiché era una stanza situata sul lato della casa, raggiungibile attraverso una ripida discesa di alcuni gradini che si diramavano dalla scala principale, quasi di fronte alla porta della signora Clennam. Non si poteva certo dire che fosse facilmente accessibile, poiché i muri, le porte e gli infissi di quell’antico ambiente erano molto ingombranti; tuttavia, era comunque a portata di mano, in qualsiasi condizione fisica, in qualsiasi momento della :notte e indipendentemente dalle temperature. Alla testa del letto, a meno di un piede dall’orecchio della signora Flintwinch, c’era una campanella il cui cordone era pronto all’uso per la signora Clennam. Ogni volta che questa campanella suonava, Affery si alzava immediatamente e raggiungeva la stanza del malato prima ancora di svegliarsi completamente.

Dopo aver messo a letto la sua padrona, accesa la lampada e augurato le buone notti, la signora Flintwinch andò a dormire come al solito, con l’unica differenza che il suo padrone non era ancora apparso. Fu proprio lui, a differenza dell’ultimo argomento che occupava i suoi pensieri secondo l’osservazione della maggior parte dei filosofi, ad diventare il soggetto del sogno della signora Flintwinch.

Le sembrava di essersi svegliata dopo aver dormito per alcune ore e di trovare Jeremiah ancora sveglio. Guardò la candela che aveva lasciato accesa e, misurando il tempo come faceva Re Alfredo il Grande, si rese conto, osservando lo stato in cui era ridotta la candela, che doveva essersi addormentata per un periodo piuttosto lungo. Allora si alzò, si avvolse in un panno caldo, indossò le scarpe e uscì sulle scale, molto sorpresa, per cercare Jeremiah.

La scala era di legno e solida, proprio come ci si aspettava; Affery la scese dritta senza alcuna deviazione tipica dei sogni. Non la percorse velocemente, ma la scese normalmente, guidandosi lungo le ringhiere, poiché la sua candela si era spenta. In un angolo del corridoio, dietro la porta d’ingresso della casa, c’era una piccola sala d’attesa, simile a un pozzo, con una finestra stretta e lunga che sembrava essere stata strappata via. In questa stanza, che non veniva mai utilizzata, c’era una luce accesa.

La signora Flintwinch attraversò il corridoio, sentendo il pavimento freddo sotto i suoi piedi senza calze, e sbirciò all’interno della porta, le cui serrature arrugginite erano leggermente aperte. Si aspettava di trovare Jeremiah profondamente addormentato o in preda a una crisi, ma lui era seduto tranquillamente su una sedia, sveglio e in ottima salute come al solito. Ma, oh mio Dio! La signora Flintwinch mormorò qualcosa di simile, poi le girò la testa.

Perché il signor Flintwinch, sveglio, stava osservando il signor Flintwinch addormentato. Sedeva su un lato del piccolo tavolo e guardava con attenzione la propria immagine sull’altro lato, con il mento appoggiato al petto e russando. Il Flintwinch sveglio mostrava tutta la faccia alla moglie; il Flintwinch addormentato era visto di profilo. Il Flintwinch sveglio era l’originale; il Flintwinch addormentato era il doppio. Proprio come si potrebbe distinguere un oggetto tangibile dal suo riflesso in uno specchio, Affery riuscì a individuare questa differenza, continuando a rifletterci sopra.

Se avesse avuto anche solo il minimo dubbio riguardo al fatto che si trattasse davvero di Jeremiah, tale dubbio sarebbe stato dissipato dalla sua impazienza. Guardandosi intorno alla ricerca di un’arma offensiva, afferrò i fiammiferi e, prima ancora di usarli per spegnere la candela con la testa a forma di cavolo, si scagliò contro il dormiente come se volesse trafiggerlo con tutto il suo corpo.

“Chi è? Che succede?” gridò il dormiente, svegliandosi di scatto.

Il signor Flintwinch fece un movimento con i fiammiferi, come se volesse imporre il silenzio al suo compagno infilzandoglieli in gola; il compagno, riprendendosi, si strofinò gli occhi e disse: “Ho dimenticato dove mi trovavo”.

“Sei stato addormentato,” ringhiò Jeremiah, guardando l’orologio, “per due ore. Hai detto che una breve siesta ti sarebbe bastata per riposarti.”

“Ho fatto solo un breve pisolino,” disse Double.

“Mezzanotte e venti,” mormorò Jeremiah. “Dove è il tuo cappello? Dove è il tuo cappotto? Dov’è la scatola?”

“Eccomi qui,” disse Double, avvolgendo il proprio collo con cura, come se fosse assonnato. “Aspetta un attimo. Ora dammi la manica. Non quella, l’altra. Ah! Non sono più così giovane come una volta.” Il signor Flintwinch lo aveva trascinato dentro il proprio cappotto con grande energia. “Mi avevi promesso un altro bicchiere dopo che mi fossi riposato, ”

“Bevilo!”, rispose Jeremiah, “e, annegati, volevo dire, ma vai pure, intendo.” Nello stesso momento tirò fuori la stessa bottiglia di porto e riempì un bicchiere di vino.

“Il suo vino di Porto, giusto?”, disse Double, assaggiandolo come se si trovasse nei Docks, con tutto il tempo del mondo a disposizione. “Per la sua salute, ”

Prese un sorso.

“La tua salute!”

Prese un altro sorso.

“La sua salute!”

Prese un altro sorso.

“E tutti gli amici intorno a St Paul’s, ” Mentre pronunciava questo antico brindisi civico, svuotò e posò il bicchiere a metà strada, poi prese la scatola. Era una scatola di ferro, larga circa due piedi, che portava facilmente sotto le braccia. Jeremiah osservava con occhi gelosi il modo in cui lui la reggeva; provò personalmente a tenerla per assicurarsi che fosse ben fissata; gli raccomandò con insistenza di fare molta attenzione, e poi uscì di nascosto per aprirgli la porta. Affery, anticipando quel gesto, era già in cima alle scale. Tutto ciò avvenne in modo così ordinario e naturale che, mentre stava lì ad aspettare, riuscì a sentire la porta aprirsi, a percepire l’aria notturna e a vedere le stelle fuori.

Ma ora arrivava la parte più straordinaria del sogno. Aveva così paura di suo marito che, trovandosi sulle scale, non ebbe la forza di tornare nella sua stanza (cosa che avrebbe potuto fare facilmente prima che lui chiudesse la porta), ma rimase lì immobile a fissarlo. Quando lui salì le scale per andare a letto, con una candela in mano, la trovò proprio lì. Sembrò sorpreso, ma non disse una parola; continuò a guardarla mentre avanzava, e lei, completamente sotto il suo controllo, indietreggiava senza sosta. Così, camminando uno dietro l’altro, arrivarono nella loro stanza. Non appena vi furono chiusi dentro, il signor Flintwinch le afferrò la gola e la scosse fino a farle diventare pallida in volto.

“Ma che cosa, Affery, donna. Affery!” disse il signor Flintwinch. “Di cosa stavi sognando? Svegliati, svegliati! Che cos’è successo?”

“Questa, questa faccenda, Jeremiah?” ansimò la signora Flintwinch, roteando gli occhi.

“Ma insomma, Affery, mia cara. Ti sei alzata dal letto mentre dormivi! Sono salito anch’io dopo essermi addormentato, e ti trovo qui, avvolta nel tuo panno da notte, ancora presa dal incubo. Affery, mia donna,” disse il signor Flintwinch con un sorriso cordiale sul suo volto espressivo, “se mai dovessi avere di nuovo un sogno del genere, sarebbe segno che hai bisogno di medicine. E ti darò una dose tale, una dose davvero forte!”

La signora Flintwinch gli ringraziò e si infilò a letto in silenzio.

CHAPTER 5. Family Affairs

As the city clocks struck nine on Monday morning, Mrs Clennam was wheeled by Jeremiah Flintwinch of the cut-down aspect to her tall cabinet. When she had unlocked and opened it, and had settled herself at its desk, Jeremiah withdrew—as it might be, to hang himself more effectually—and her son appeared.

‘Are you any better this morning, mother?’

She shook her head, with the same austere air of luxuriousness that she had shown over-night when speaking of the weather. ‘I shall never be better any more. It is well for me, Arthur, that I know it and can bear it.’

Sitting with her hands laid separately upon the desk, and the tall cabinet towering before her, she looked as if she were performing on a dumb church organ. Her son thought so (it was an old thought with him), while he took his seat beside it.

She opened a drawer or two, looked over some business papers, and put them back again. Her severe face had no thread of relaxation in it, by which any explorer could have been guided to the gloomy labyrinth of her thoughts.

‘Shall I speak of our affairs, mother? Are you inclined to enter upon business?’

‘Am I inclined, Arthur? Rather, are you? Your father has been dead a year and more. I have been at your disposal, and waiting your pleasure, ever since.’

‘There was much to arrange before I could leave; and when I did leave, I travelled a little for rest and relief.’

She turned her face towards him, as not having heard or understood his last words.

‘For rest and relief.’

She glanced round the sombre room, and appeared from the motion of her lips to repeat the words to herself, as calling it to witness how little of either it afforded her.

‘Besides, mother, you being sole executrix, and having the direction and management of the estate, there remained little business, or I might say none, that I could transact, until you had had time to arrange matters to your satisfaction.’

‘The accounts are made out,’ she returned. ‘I have them here. The vouchers have all been examined and passed. You can inspect them when you like, Arthur; now, if you please.’

‘It is quite enough, mother, to know that the business is completed. Shall I proceed then?’

‘Why not?’ she said, in her frozen way.

‘Mother, our House has done less and less for some years past, and our dealings have been progressively on the decline. We have never shown much confidence, or invited much; we have attached no people to us; the track we have kept is not the track of the time; and we have been left far behind. I need not dwell on this to you, mother. You know it necessarily.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she answered, in a qualified tone.

‘Even this old house in which we speak,’ pursued her son, ‘is an instance of what I say. In my father’s earlier time, and in his uncle’s time before him, it was a place of business—really a place of business, and business resort. Now, it is a mere anomaly and incongruity here, out of date and out of purpose. All our consignments have long been made to Rovinghams’ the commission-merchants; and although, as a check upon them, and in the stewardship of my father’s resources, your judgment and watchfulness have been actively exerted, still those qualities would have influenced my father’s fortunes equally, if you had lived in any private dwelling: would they not?’

‘Do you consider,’ she returned, without answering his question, ‘that a house serves no purpose, Arthur, in sheltering your infirm and afflicted—justly infirm and righteously afflicted—mother?’

‘I was speaking only of business purposes.’

‘With what object?’

‘I am coming to it.’

‘I foresee,’ she returned, fixing her eyes upon him, ‘what it is. But the Lord forbid that I should repine under any visitation. In my sinfulness I merit bitter disappointment, and I accept it.’

‘Mother, I grieve to hear you speak like this, though I have had my apprehensions that you would—’

‘You knew I would. You knew me,’ she interrupted.

Her son paused for a moment. He had struck fire out of her, and was surprised. ‘Well!’ she said, relapsing into stone. ‘Go on. Let me hear.’

‘You have anticipated, mother, that I decide for my part, to abandon the business. I have done with it. I will not take upon myself to advise you; you will continue it, I see. If I had any influence with you, I would simply use it to soften your judgment of me in causing you this disappointment: to represent to you that I have lived the half of a long term of life, and have never before set my own will against yours. I cannot say that I have been able to conform myself, in heart and spirit, to your rules; I cannot say that I believe my forty years have been profitable or pleasant to myself, or any one; but I have habitually submitted, and I only ask you to remember it.’

Woe to the suppliant, if such a one there were or ever had been, who had any concession to look for in the inexorable face at the cabinet. Woe to the defaulter whose appeal lay to the tribunal where those severe eyes presided. Great need had the rigid woman of her mystical religion, veiled in gloom and darkness, with lightnings of cursing, vengeance, and destruction, flashing through the sable clouds. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors, was a prayer too poor in spirit for her. Smite Thou my debtors, Lord, wither them, crush them; do Thou as I would do, and Thou shalt have my worship: this was the impious tower of stone she built up to scale Heaven.

‘Have you finished, Arthur, or have you anything more to say to me? I think there can be nothing else. You have been short, but full of matter!’

‘Mother, I have yet something more to say. It has been upon my mind, night and day, this long time. It is far more difficult to say than what I have said. That concerned myself; this concerns us all.’

‘Us all! Who are us all?’

Capitolo 5. Affari familiari

Quando le campane della città suonarono le nove di lunedì mattina, Signora Clennam fu portata a forza da Jeremiah Flintwinch fino al suo alto scrittoio. Dopo aver aperto lo scrivio e essersi sistemata alla sua scrivania, Jeremiah se ne andò – forse per potersi impiccare in modo più efficace – e allora apparve suo figlio.

“Stai meglio stamattina, mamma?”

Scosse la testa, con lo stesso atteggiamento austero eppure pieno di lusso che aveva mostrato quella notte parlando del tempo. “Non migliorerò mai più. È meglio così per me, Arthur, perché ora lo so e posso accettarlo.”

Con le mani appoggiate separatamente sul tavolo e il grande armadio che si ergeva davanti a lei, sembrava stesse suonando un organo di chiesa muto. Suo figlio pensava proprio così (era un’idea vecchia, ormai radicata in lui), mentre prendeva posto accanto a lei.

Aprì uno o due cassetti, diede un’occhiata a alcuni documenti di lavoro e li rimise a posto. Il suo viso serio non mostrava alcun segno di rilassamento; chiunque avesse osservato quel volto avrebbe potuto intraprendere il percorso oscuro e complesso dei suoi pensieri.

“Devo parlare delle nostre faccende, madre? Siete disposta ad affrontare queste questioni?”

“Sono io incline a farlo, Arthur? O forse sei tu? Tuo padre è morto da più di un anno. Da allora sono stato a tua disposizione, in attesa del tuo volere.”

C’erano molte cose da organizzare prima che potessi partire; e quando finalmente lo feci, viaggiai un po’ per riposarmi e rilassarmi.

Girò il viso verso di lui, poiché non aveva sentito o capito le sue ultime parole.

“Per riposo e sollievo.”

Guardò intorno nella stanza cupa e, dal movimento delle sue labbra, sembrò ripetere quelle parole tra sé, come se volesse chiamare a testimone quanto poco tutto ciò le desse davvero.

“Inoltre, madre, essendo tu l’unica esecutrice e avendo la responsabilità della gestione dell’eredità, non restava quasi nulla, o forse niente affatto, che potessi fare fino a quando non avessi avuto il tempo necessario per sistemare tutto secondo i tuoi desideri.”

“Gli account sono stati preparati,” rispose lei. “Li ho qui con me. Tutti i voucher sono stati controllati e approvati. Puoi verificarli quando vuoi, Arthur; ora, per favore, ”

“È più che sufficiente, madre, sapere che l’affare è stato portato a termine. Devo quindi procedere?”

“Perché no?”, disse lei, con quel suo tono gelido.

“Madre, la nostra Casa negli ultimi anni ha fatto sempre meno, e le nostre attività sono in costante declino. Non abbiamo mai dimostrato molta fiducia, né invitato molte persone a unirci; non abbiamo assunto nessuno con noi; il percorso che abbiamo seguito non è quello del TEMPO, e siamo rimasti molto indietro. Non c’è bisogno che approfondisca questo argomento, madre. Lo sai già.”

“Capisco cosa intendi,” rispose lei, con un tono cauto.

“Anche questa vecchia casa in cui stiamo parlando,” proseguì suo figlio, “è un esempio di ciò che dico. Ai tempi del padre mio, e prima ancora di quello dello zio, era un luogo di affari, davvero un centro commerciale importante. Ora, invece, è solo un’eccezione, qualcosa di fuori luogo e senza scopo. Tutti i nostri ordini vengono ormai inviati a Rovinghams, quei mercanti commissionari; e anche se, per controllarli e gestire al meglio le risorse del padre mio, il vostro giudizio e la vostra attenzione sono stati di grande aiuto, queste stesse qualità avrebbero comunque influenzato positivamente gli affari di mio padre, anche se foste vissuti in una casa privata. Non è vero?”

“Pensi davvero,” rispose lei, senza rispondere alla sua domanda, “che una casa non abbia alcuno scopo nel proteggere tua madre, che è malata e sofferente – malata a causa di cause giuste e sofferente per motivi legittimi?”

“Stavo parlando esclusivamente per motivi di lavoro.”

“Con quale scopo?”

“Ci sto arrivando.”

“Lo prevedo,” rispose lei, fissandolo negli occhi, “ma che il Signore mi protegga dal provare rimorso per qualsiasi prova mi venga inflitta. Per la mia colpevolezza merito amari delusioni, e le accetto.”

“Mamma, mi dispiace molto sentirti parlare in questo modo, anche se avevo già dei timori che potessi farlo, ”

“Sapevi che l’avrei fatto. Conoscevi me,” la interruppe lei.

Suo figlio fece una pausa per un momento. Aveva suscitato in lei il fuoco, e ne era sorpreso. “Bene!”, disse lei, ricadendo di nuovo nella sua forma di pietra. “Continua. Fammi sentire.”

“Madre, avete previsto che io decidessi di abbandonare questa attività. L’ho fatto. Non intendo darvi consigli: continuerete voi, vedo. Se avessi qualche influenza su di voi, la userei semplicemente per mitigare il vostro giudizio su di me per avervi causato questa delusione. Per farvi credere che, in tutti questi anni, non abbia mai messo la mia volontà contro la vostra. Non posso dire di essere riuscito a conformarmi, nel cuore e nello spirito, alle vostre regole; non posso dire che i miei quarant’anni siano stati proficui o piacevoli per me o per chiunque altro. Ma ho sempre obbedito. E vi chiedo soltanto di ricordarlo.”

Maledetto colui che si umilia e supplica, se mai esistesse davvero qualcuno che potesse cercare qualche concessione di fronte a quel volto implacabile. Maledetto il trasgressore il cui appello cade sotto la giurisdizione di quegli occhi severi. Quella donna rigida, devota alla sua religione mistica, avvolta nella tenebra e nell’oscurità, con fulmini di maledizioni, vendetta e distruzione che lampeggiavano tra le nuvole nere, “Perdona i nostri debiti, come noi perdoniamo i nostri debitori”. Una preghiera troppo povera di spirito per lei, “Colpisci i miei debitori, Signore; distruggili, schiacciali. Fa’ ciò che io farei, e avrai la mia adorazione, ” Questa era la torre di pietra empia che aveva costruito per raggiungere il Cielo.

“Hai finito, Arthur? O hai ancora qualcosa da dirmi? Penso che non ci sia altro da aggiungere. Sei stato breve, ma molto significativo!”

“Mamma, ho ancora qualcosa da dire. Questo pensiero non mi lascia in pace, notte e giorno, da molto tempo ormai. È molto più difficile da esprimere di ciò che ho detto finora. Quello riguardava me; questo riguarda tutti noi.”

“Tutti noi. Ma chi siamo davvero tutti noi?”

‘Yourself, myself, my dead father.’

She took her hands from the desk; folded them in her lap; and sat looking towards the fire, with the impenetrability of an old Egyptian sculpture.

‘You knew my father infinitely better than I ever knew him; and his reserve with me yielded to you. You were much the stronger, mother, and directed him. As a child, I knew it as well as I know it now. I knew that your ascendancy over him was the cause of his going to China to take care of the business there, while you took care of it here (though I do not even now know whether these were really terms of separation that you agreed upon); and that it was your will that I should remain with you until I was twenty, and then go to him as I did. You will not be offended by my recalling this, after twenty years?’

‘I am waiting to hear why you recall it.’

He lowered his voice, and said, with manifest reluctance, and against his will:

‘I want to ask you, mother, whether it ever occurred to you to suspect—’

At the word Suspect, she turned her eyes momentarily upon her son, with a dark frown. She then suffered them to seek the fire, as before; but with the frown fixed above them, as if the sculptor of old Egypt had indented it in the hard granite face, to frown for ages.

‘—that he had any secret remembrance which caused him trouble of mind—remorse? Whether you ever observed anything in his conduct suggesting that; or ever spoke to him upon it, or ever heard him hint at such a thing?’

‘I do not understand what kind of secret remembrance you mean to infer that your father was a prey to,’ she returned, after a silence. ‘You speak so mysteriously.’

‘Is it possible, mother,’ her son leaned forward to be the nearer to her while he whispered it, and laid his hand nervously upon her desk, ‘is it possible, mother, that he had unhappily wronged any one, and made no reparation?’

Looking at him wrathfully, she bent herself back in her chair to keep him further off, but gave him no reply.

‘I am deeply sensible, mother, that if this thought has never at any time flashed upon you, it must seem cruel and unnatural in me, even in this confidence, to breathe it. But I cannot shake it off. Time and change (I have tried both before breaking silence) do nothing to wear it out. Remember, I was with my father. Remember, I saw his face when he gave the watch into my keeping, and struggled to express that he sent it as a token you would understand, to you. Remember, I saw him at the last with the pencil in his failing hand, trying to write some word for you to read, but to which he could give no shape. The more remote and cruel this vague suspicion that I have, the stronger the circumstances that could give it any semblance of probability to me. For Heaven’s sake, let us examine sacredly whether there is any wrong entrusted to us to set right. No one can help towards it, mother, but you.’

Still so recoiling in her chair that her overpoised weight moved it, from time to time, a little on its wheels, and gave her the appearance of a phantom of fierce aspect gliding away from him, she interposed her left arm, bent at the elbow with the back of her hand towards her face, between herself and him, and looked at him in a fixed silence.

‘In grasping at money and in driving hard bargains—I have begun, and I must speak of such things now, mother—some one may have been grievously deceived, injured, ruined. You were the moving power of all this machinery before my birth; your stronger spirit has been infused into all my father’s dealings for more than two score years. You can set these doubts at rest, I think, if you will really help me to discover the truth. Will you, mother?’

He stopped in the hope that she would speak. But her grey hair was not more immovable in its two folds, than were her firm lips.

‘If reparation can be made to any one, if restitution can be made to any one, let us know it and make it. Nay, mother, if within my means, let me make it. I have seen so little happiness come of money; it has brought within my knowledge so little peace to this house, or to any one belonging to it, that it is worth less to me than to another. It can buy me nothing that will not be a reproach and misery to me, if I am haunted by a suspicion that it darkened my father’s last hours with remorse, and that it is not honestly and justly mine.’

There was a bell-rope hanging on the panelled wall, some two or three yards from the cabinet. By a swift and sudden action of her foot, she drove her wheeled chair rapidly back to it and pulled it violently—still holding her arm up in its shield-like posture, as if he were striking at her, and she warding off the blow.

A girl came hurrying in, frightened.

‘Send Flintwinch here!’

In a moment the girl had withdrawn, and the old man stood within the door. ‘What! You’re hammer and tongs, already, you two?’ he said, coolly stroking his face. ‘I thought you would be. I was pretty sure of it.’

‘Flintwinch!’ said the mother, ‘look at my son. Look at him!’

‘Well, I am looking at him,’ said Flintwinch.

She stretched out the arm with which she had shielded herself, and as she went on, pointed at the object of her anger.

‘In the very hour of his return almost—before the shoe upon his foot is dry—he asperses his father’s memory to his mother! Asks his mother to become, with him, a spy upon his father’s transactions through a lifetime! Has misgivings that the goods of this world which we have painfully got together early and late, with wear and tear and toil and self-denial, are so much plunder; and asks to whom they shall be given up, as reparation and restitution!’

Although she said this raging, she said it in a voice so far from being beyond her control that it was even lower than her usual tone. She also spoke with great distinctness.

“Te stesso, me stesso, mio padre morto.”

Tolse le mani dal tavolo, le incrociò in grembo e sedette, fissando il fuoco con l’immobilità di una vecchia scultura egizia.

“Conoscevi mio padre molto meglio di quanto io l’abbia mai conosciuto; la sua riservatezza nei miei confronti si era sciolta davanti a te. Tu eri molto più forte, madre, e eri tu a guidarlo. Da >bambino, lo sapevo altrettanto bene quanto lo so ora. Sapevo che il tuo ascendente su di lui era la ragione per cui lui andò in Cina a occuparsi degli affari lì, mentre tu ne tenevi conto qui (sebbene nemmeno ora sappia se quei fossero davvero i termini dell’accordo con cui vi siete separati); e sapevo anche che era stata tua volontà che io rimanessi con te fino ai vent’anni, per poi andare da lui come ho fatto. Non ti offenderai se ricordo tutto questo, dopo vent’anni, vero?”

“Sto aspettando di sapere perché lo ricordi.”

Abbassò la voce e disse, con evidente riluttanza e contro la sua volontà:

“Vorrei chiederti, madre, se ti sia mai venuto in mente di sospettare, ”

Alla parola “Sospettato”, posò lo sguardo per un momento sul figlio, con un’espressione cupa. Poi li lasciò andare verso il fuoco, come prima; ma quell’espressione cupa rimase impressa sul suo volto, come se l’antico scultore dell’>Egitto l’avesse incisa nel granito duro, affinché rimanesse per sempre.

“–Che avesse qualche ricordo segreto che gli causava preoccupazioni mentali, rimorso? Hai mai notato qualcosa nel suo comportamento che potesse suggerirlo; o hai mai parlato con lui al riguardo, o l’hai sentito alludere a una cosa del genere?”

“Non capisco di quale segreto ricordo tu intenda parlare, che secondo te fu causa della sofferenza di tuo padre,” rispose lei dopo un breve silenzio. “Parli in modo davvero misterioso.”

“È possibile, mamma?”, le chiese il figlio avvicinandosi a lei mentre sussurrava quelle parole, e posò nervosamente la mano sul suo tavolo. “È possibile che abbia offeso qualcuno senza volerlo e non abbia cercato di rimediare?”

Guardandolo con rabbia, si appoggiò di nuovo allo schienale della sedia per allontanarlo ulteriormente, ma non gli rispose.

“Madre, sono profondamente consapevole che, se mai questa idea non vi è venuta in mente, dovrà sembrarvi crudele e innaturale da parte mia, anche nel contesto di questa confidenza. Ma non riesco a scacciarla. Il tempo e i cambiamenti (ho provato entrambi prima di rompere il silenzio) non servono a dissiparla. Ricordate: ero con mio padre; ho visto il suo viso quando mi ha affidato l’orologio, cercando disperatamente di esprimere che me lo dava come un segno che avreste capito. Ricordate anche come l’ho visto per l’ultima volta, con la penna in mano, mentre tentava di scrivervi qualcosa da leggere, ma senza riuscirci. Più vaga e crudele sembra questa sospetta, più forti sono le circostanze che potrebbero darle un minimo di plausibilità ai miei occhi. Per l’amor del cielo, esaminiamo con serietà se c’è davvero qualcosa di sbagliato che ci è stato affidato per essere corretto. Nessuno può aiutarci in questo, madre, tranne voi.”

Ancora immobile sulla sedia, il suo eccessivo peso la faceva spostare avanti e indietro sui rotelle; sembrava quasi un fantasma dall’aspetto minaccioso che si allontanasse da lui. Introdusse il braccio sinistro, piegato al gomito con il dorso della mano rivolto verso il viso, tra sé e lui, e lo fissò in un silenzio ostile.

‘Nel cercare di ottenere denaro e nel negoziare con astuzia. Ho iniziato, e ora devo parlare di queste cose, madre. Qualcuno potrebbe essere stato gravemente ingannato, ferito, rovinato. Tu sei stata la forza motrice di tutto questo meccanismo prima della mia nascita; lo spirito tuo più forte è stato infuso in tutte le transazioni di mio padre per oltre vent’anni. Penso che tu possa dissipare queste dubbi, se davvero vorrai aiutarmi a scoprire la verità. Lo farai, madre?’

Si fermò nella >speranza che lei parlasse. Ma i suoi capelli grigi, raccolti in due trecce, non erano meno immobili di quelle sue labbra ferme.

‘Se è possibile fare qualche riparazione, se è possibile restituire qualcosa a qualcuno, ditemelo e lo faremo. Anzi, madre, se è entro le mie possibilità, lasciate che sia io a farlo. Ho visto così poco felicità derivare dal denaro; ha portato così poca pace in questa casa o a chiunque vi appartenga, che per me vale meno che per qualcun altro. Non può comprarmi nulla che non diventi una vergogna e un dolore per me, se continuo a sospettare che abbia offuscato gli ultimi momenti di mio padre con rimorsi, e che in realtà non mi appartenga né onestamente né giustamente.’

C’era una corda per suonare la campanella appesa al muro rivestito di pannelli, a circa due o tre metri dal mobile. Con un movimento rapido e improvviso del piede, spinse la sedia a rotelle verso di essa e la tirò con forza; continuava a tenere il braccio sollevato nella stessa posizione difensiva, come se qualcuno stesse colpendola e lei stesse parando i colpi.

Una ragazza entrò di corsa, spaventata.

“Chiamate qui Flintwinch!”

In un attimo la ragazza se ne era andata, e l’uomo anziano rimase fermo sulla soglia. “Che cosa! Voi due già state insieme, vero?” disse, accarezzandosi freddamente il viso. “Me lo aspettavo. Ne ero abbastanza sicuro.”

“Flintwinch!”, disse la madre, “guarda mio figlio. Guardalo!”

“Beh, sì, lo sto guardando proprio adesso,” disse Flintwinch.

Stese il braccio con cui si era protetta e, continuando a parlare, indicò l’oggetto della sua rabbia.

Nell’istesso momento del suo ritorno, quasi, prima ancora che le scarpe che indossa si asciughino completamente, lui profana la memoria di suo padre davanti a sua madre! Chiede a sua madre di diventare, insieme a lui, una spia delle attività di suo padre per tutta la vita! Ha dei dubbi sul fatto che i beni di questo mondo, che abbiamo ottenuto con tanta fatica, attraverso fatiche, sacrifici e rinunce personali, siano in realtà un semplice bottino; e chiede a chi dovrebbero essere consegnati, come forma di riparazione e restituzione!

Anche se lo disse con rabbia, lo fece con una voce che non era affatto fuori dal suo controllo; anzi, era ancora più bassa del solito tono. Parlò anche in modo molto chiaro e distinto.

‘Reparation!’ said she. ‘Yes, truly! It is easy for him to talk of reparation, fresh from journeying and junketing in foreign lands, and living a life of vanity and pleasure. But let him look at me, in prison, and in bonds here. I endure without murmuring, because it is appointed that I shall so make reparation for my sins. Reparation! Is there none in this room? Has there been none here this fifteen years?’

Thus was she always balancing her bargains with the Majesty of heaven, posting up the entries to her credit, strictly keeping her set-off, and claiming her due. She was only remarkable in this, for the force and emphasis with which she did it. Thousands upon thousands do it, according to their varying manner, every day.

‘Flintwinch, give me that book!’

The old man handed it to her from the table. She put two fingers between the leaves, closed the book upon them, and held it up to her son in a threatening way.

‘In the days of old, Arthur, treated of in this commentary, there were pious men, beloved of the Lord, who would have cursed their sons for less than this: who would have sent them forth, and sent whole nations forth, if such had supported them, to be avoided of God and man, and perish, down to the baby at the breast. But I only tell you that if you ever renew that theme with me, I will renounce you; I will so dismiss you through that doorway, that you had better have been motherless from your cradle. I will never see or know you more. And if, after all, you were to come into this darkened room to look upon me lying dead, my body should bleed, if I could make it, when you came near me.’

In part relieved by the intensity of this threat, and in part (monstrous as the fact is) by a general impression that it was in some sort a religious proceeding, she handed back the book to the old man, and was silent.

‘Now,’ said Jeremiah; ‘premising that I’m not going to stand between you two, will you let me ask (as I have been called in, and made a third) what is all this about?’

‘Take your version of it,’ returned Arthur, finding it left to him to speak, ‘from my mother. Let it rest there. What I have said, was said to my mother only.’

‘Oh!’ returned the old man. ‘From your mother? Take it from your mother? Well! But your mother mentioned that you had been suspecting your father. That’s not dutiful, Mr Arthur. Who will you be suspecting next?’

‘Enough,’ said Mrs Clennam, turning her face so that it was addressed for the moment to the old man only. ‘Let no more be said about this.’

‘Yes, but stop a bit, stop a bit,’ the old man persisted. ‘Let us see how we stand. Have you told Mr Arthur that he mustn’t lay offences at his father’s door? That he has no right to do it? That he has no ground to go upon?’

‘I tell him so now.’

‘Ah! Exactly,’ said the old man. ‘You tell him so now. You hadn’t told him so before, and you tell him so now. Ay, ay! That’s right! You know I stood between you and his father so long, that it seems as if death had made no difference, and I was still standing between you. So I will, and so in fairness I require to have that plainly put forward. Arthur, you please to hear that you have no right to mistrust your father, and have no ground to go upon.’

He put his hands to the back of the wheeled chair, and muttering to himself, slowly wheeled his mistress back to her cabinet. ‘Now,’ he resumed, standing behind her: ‘in case I should go away leaving things half done, and so should be wanted again when you come to the other half and get into one of your flights, has Arthur told you what he means to do about the business?’

‘He has relinquished it.’

‘In favour of nobody, I suppose?’

Mrs Clennam glanced at her son, leaning against one of the windows. He observed the look and said, ‘To my mother, of course. She does what she pleases.’

‘And if any pleasure,’ she said after a short pause, ‘could arise for me out of the disappointment of my expectations that my son, in the prime of his life, would infuse new youth and strength into it, and make it of great profit and power, it would be in advancing an old and faithful servant. Jeremiah, the captain deserts the ship, but you and I will sink or float with it.’

Jeremiah, whose eyes glistened as if they saw money, darted a sudden look at the son, which seemed to say, ‘I owe you no thanks for this; you have done nothing towards it!’ and then told the mother that he thanked her, and that Affery thanked her, and that he would never desert her, and that Affery would never desert her. Finally, he hauled up his watch from its depths, and said, ‘Eleven. Time for your oysters!’ and with that change of subject, which involved no change of expression or manner, rang the bell.

But Mrs Clennam, resolved to treat herself with the greater rigour for having been supposed to be unacquainted with reparation, refused to eat her oysters when they were brought. They looked tempting; eight in number, circularly set out on a white plate on a tray covered with a white napkin, flanked by a slice of buttered French roll, and a little compact glass of cool wine and water; but she resisted all persuasions, and sent them down again—placing the act to her credit, no doubt, in her Eternal Day-Book.

This refection of oysters was not presided over by Affery, but by the girl who had appeared when the bell was rung; the same who had been in the dimly-lighted room last night. Now that he had an opportunity of observing her, Arthur found that her diminutive figure, small features, and slight spare dress, gave her the appearance of being much younger than she was. A woman, probably of not less than two-and-twenty, she might have been passed in the street for little more than half that age. Not that her face was very youthful, for in truth there was more consideration and care in it than naturally belonged to her utmost years; but she was so little and light, so noiseless and shy, and appeared so conscious of being out of place among the three hard elders, that she had all the manner and much of the appearance of a subdued child.

“Riparazione!” disse lei. “Sì, davvero! A lui è facile parlare di riparazione, essendo appena tornato da viaggi e spensieratezze in terre straniere, e conducendo una vita di vanità e piaceri. Ma guardami: sono in prigione, legata qui. Sopporto tutto senza lamentarmi, perché è così che è stato deciso che io debba espiare i miei peccati. Riparazione. Non c’è nessuno in questa stanza che possa offrirmi riparazione? Non ce n’è stato nessuno negli ultimi quindici anni?”

Era così che lei bilanciava sempre i suoi affari con la Maestà del cielo: registrava con cura tutte le voci a suo favore, manteneva rigorosamente gli scambi equilibrati e rivendicava ciò che le spettava. Era eccezionale soltanto per l’intensità e la determinazione con cui lo faceva. Migliaia e migliaia di persone fanno lo stesso, ognuna a modo suo, ogni giorno.

“Flintwinch, dammi quel libro!”

L’uomo anziano glielo passò dal tavolo. Lei inserì due dita tra le pagine, chiuse il libro e lo sollevò verso suo figlio con un gesto minaccioso.

“Nei tempi antichi, in quelli di Arthur di cui parliamo in questo commento, c’erano uomini pietosi, amati dal Signore, che avrebbero maledetto i loro figli anche per motivi meno gravi di questi: li avrebbero mandati via, e avrebbero inviato intere nazioni lontano, se queste ultime li avessero sostenuti, affinché fossero evitati da Dio e dagli uomini e perissero, persino il bambino al seno della madre. Ma vi dico soltanto che, se mai riprenderete questo argomento con me, vi rinnegherò; vi scaccerò via attraverso quella porta, tanto meglio se foste rimasti orfani fin dalla culla. Non vi vedrò più, né vi conoscerò più. E se, nonostante tutto, veniste in questa stanza buia per vedere me morto, il mio corpo sanguinerebbe, se potessi farlo, quando vi avvicinereste a me.”

In parte sollevata dall’intensità di questa minaccia, e in parte (nonostante fosse una cosa orribile), per l’impressione generale che si trattasse in qualche modo di un atto religioso, restituì il libro all’uomo anziano e rimase in silenzio.

“Ora,” disse Geremia, “presupponendo che non intenda mettermi di mezzo tra voi due, mi permetterete di chiedere, poiché sono stato invitato e considerato il terzo partecipante in questa discussione, di cosa si tratta esattamente?”

“Prendi pure la tua versione di ciò che è accaduto,” rispose Arthur, rendendosi conto che spettava a lui parlare, “dalla mia madre. Lascia che rimanga lì. Quello che ho detto è stato detto soltanto a mia madre.”

“Oh!” rispose l’uomo anziano. “Dalla tua madre? L’hai ricevuto dalla tua madre? Beh! Ma tua madre ha detto che sospettavi di tuo padre. Questo non è certo un comportamento filiale, signor Arthur. Di chi pensi di sospettare adesso?”

“Basta,” disse Signora Clennam, voltando il viso in modo che fosse rivolto soltanto all’uomo anziano in quel momento. “Non parliamo più di questo.”

“Sì, ma fermati un attimo, per favore,” insistette l’uomo anziano. “Diamo un’occhiata a come stanno le cose. Gli hai detto, al signor Arthur, che non deve incolpare suo padre? Che non ha il diritto di farlo? Che non ha alcuna base per farlo?”

“Glielo dico subito.”

“Ah! Esattamente,” disse l’uomo anziano. “Diglielo ora. Prima non gliel’avevi detto, e ora invece glielo dici. Sì, è proprio così! Sai, sono stato sempre tra te e suo padre, sembra quasi che anche la morte non abbia cambiato nulla: io continuavo comunque a stare tra voi due. E quindi, per motivi di equità, devo che questo venga detto chiaramente. Arthur, ascolta bene: non hai il diritto di dubitare di tuo padre, e non hai alcuna ragione per farlo.”

Posò le mani sul retro della sedia a rotelle e, mormorando tra sé, la spinse lentamente verso il suo armadio. “Ora,” riprese, stando dietro di lei, “nel caso in cui io dovesse andarmene lasciando le cose a metà, e tu avessi bisogno di me per continuare quando arriverai al resto del lavoro. Arthur ti ha detto cosa intende fare riguardo a questa questione?”

“L’ha lasciato andare.”

“Né a favore di nessuno, immagino, ”

Signora Clennam guardò suo figlio, appoggiata a una delle finestre. Lui notò quel suo sguardo e disse: “Certo, per mia madre. Lei fa ciò che vuole.”

“E se qualche piacere,” disse dopo una breve pausa, “potesse derivare per me dalla delusione delle mie aspettative, che mio figlio, nel fiore degli anni, potesse infondere nuova giovinezza e forza in essa, rendendola di grande utilità e potenza, allora quel piacere sarebbe nel sostenere un vecchio e fedele servitore. Geremia abbandona la nave, ma tu ed io affonderemo o galleggeremo insieme a lei.”

Geremia, i cui occhi brillavano come se vedessero del denaro, gettò un’occhiata rapida al figlio, come per dire: “Non ti devo alcun ringraziamento per questo; tu non hai fatto nulla in merito!”, poi disse alla madre che la ringraziava, che anche Affery la ringraziava, e che lui non l’avrebbe mai abbandonata, né Affery l’avrebbe mai abbandonata. Infine tirò fuori l’orologio dalle profondità della tasca e disse: “Undici. È ora di mangiare le ostriche!” E, con quel cambio di argomento – che non comportò alcun cambiamento nell’espressione o nel modo di parlare – suonò la campanella.

Ma Signora Clennam, decisa a trattarsi con maggiore rigore per essere stata ritenuta ignorante delle questioni legate alle riparazioni, rifiutò di mangiare le ostriche che le furono portate. Sembravano deliziose: otto in totale, disposte in cerchio su un piatto bianco posato su un vassoio coperto da un tovagliolo bianco, affiancate da un pezzo di pane francese spalmato di burro, e da un piccolo bicchiere di vino fresco e acqua; ma resistette a tutte le persuasioni e le fece rimandare indietro, considerando certamente questo atto come merito suo nel suo “Libro Eterno dei Giorni”.

Questa cena di ostriche non fu presieduta da Affery, ma dalla ragazza che era apparsa quando era suonato il campanello; la stessa che si trovava nella stanza scarsamente illuminata la scorsa notte. Ora che aveva l’opportunità di osservarla meglio, Arthur notò che la sua piccola statura, i tratti del viso delicati e l’abito semplice le davano l’aspetto di essere molto più giovane di quanto in realtà fosse. Una donna, probabilmente non meno di ventiduenne, avrebbe potuto essere scambiata per qualcuno che aveva la metà di quell’età se si trovava per strada. Non che il suo viso fosse particolarmente giovane, anzi; in verità, vi era una certa maturità e cura nei suoi tratti che non sarebbero state tipiche della sua età; ma lei era così piccola e leggera, così silenziosa e timida, e sembrava così consapevole di essere fuori posto tra quei tre uomini più anziani, che aveva proprio l’aspetto e il comportamento di una bambina timida e riservata.

In a hard way, and in an uncertain way that fluctuated between patronage and putting down, the sprinkling from a watering-pot and hydraulic pressure, Mrs Clennam showed an interest in this dependent. Even in the moment of her entrance, upon the violent ringing of the bell, when the mother shielded herself with that singular action from the son, Mrs Clennam’s eyes had had some individual recognition in them, which seemed reserved for her. As there are degrees of hardness in the hardest metal, and shades of colour in black itself, so, even in the asperity of Mrs Clennam’s demeanour towards all the rest of humanity and towards Little Dorrit, there was a fine gradation.

Little Dorrit let herself out to do needlework. At so much a day—or at so little—from eight to eight, Little Dorrit was to be hired. Punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit appeared; punctual to the moment, Little Dorrit vanished. What became of Little Dorrit between the two eights was a mystery.

Another of the moral phenomena of Little Dorrit. Besides her consideration money, her daily contract included meals. She had an extraordinary repugnance to dining in company; would never do so, if it were possible to escape. Would always plead that she had this bit of work to begin first, or that bit of work to finish first; and would, of a certainty, scheme and plan—not very cunningly, it would seem, for she deceived no one—to dine alone. Successful in this, happy in carrying off her plate anywhere, to make a table of her lap, or a box, or the ground, or even as was supposed, to stand on tip-toe, dining moderately at a mantel-shelf; the great anxiety of Little Dorrit’s day was set at rest.

It was not easy to make out Little Dorrit’s face; she was so retiring, plied her needle in such removed corners, and started away so scared if encountered on the stairs. But it seemed to be a pale transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature, its soft hazel eyes excepted. A delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands, and a shabby dress—it must needs have been very shabby to look at all so, being so neat—were Little Dorrit as she sat at work.

For these particulars or generalities concerning Little Dorrit, Mr Arthur was indebted in the course of the day to his own eyes and to Mrs Affery’s tongue. If Mrs Affery had had any will or way of her own, it would probably have been unfavourable to Little Dorrit. But as ‘them two clever ones’—Mrs Affery’s perpetual reference, in whom her personality was swallowed up—were agreed to accept Little Dorrit as a matter of course, she had nothing for it but to follow suit. Similarly, if the two clever ones had agreed to murder Little Dorrit by candlelight, Mrs Affery, being required to hold the candle, would no doubt have done it.

In the intervals of roasting the partridge for the invalid chamber, and preparing a baking-dish of beef and pudding for the dining-room, Mrs Affery made the communications above set forth; invariably putting her head in at the door again after she had taken it out, to enforce resistance to the two clever ones. It appeared to have become a perfect passion with Mrs Flintwinch, that the only son should be pitted against them.

In the course of the day, too, Arthur looked through the whole house. Dull and dark he found it. The gaunt rooms, deserted for years upon years, seemed to have settled down into a gloomy lethargy from which nothing could rouse them again. The furniture, at once spare and lumbering, hid in the rooms rather than furnished them, and there was no colour in all the house; such colour as had ever been there, had long ago started away on lost sunbeams—got itself absorbed, perhaps, into flowers, butterflies, plumage of birds, precious stones, what not. There was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old women might have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea; the dead-cold hearths showed no traces of having ever been warmed but in heaps of soot that had tumbled down the chimneys, and eddied about in little dusky whirlwinds when the doors were opened. In what had once been a drawing-room, there were a pair of meagre mirrors, with dismal processions of black figures carrying black garlands, walking round the frames; but even these were short of heads and legs, and one undertaker-like Cupid had swung round on its own axis and got upside down, and another had fallen off altogether. The room Arthur Clennam’s deceased father had occupied for business purposes, when he first remembered him, was so unaltered that he might have been imagined still to keep it invisibly, as his visible relict kept her room up-stairs; Jeremiah Flintwinch still going between them negotiating. His picture, dark and gloomy, earnestly speechless on the wall, with the eyes intently looking at his son as they had looked when life departed from them, seemed to urge him awfully to the task he had attempted; but as to any yielding on the part of his mother, he had now no hope, and as to any other means of setting his distrust at rest, he had abandoned hope a long time. Down in the cellars, as up in the bed-chambers, old objects that he well remembered were changed by age and decay, but were still in their old places; even to empty beer-casks hoary with cobwebs, and empty wine-bottles with fur and fungus choking up their throats. There, too, among unusual bottle-racks and pale slants of light from the yard above, was the strong room stored with old ledgers, which had as musty and corrupt a smell as if they were regularly balanced, in the dead small hours, by a nightly resurrection of old book-keepers.

The baking-dish was served up in a penitential manner on a shrunken cloth at an end of the dining-table, at two o’clock, when he dined with Mr Flintwinch, the new partner. Mr Flintwinch informed him that his mother had recovered her equanimity now, and that he need not fear her again alluding to what had passed in the morning. ‘And don’t you lay offences at your father’s door, Mr Arthur,’ added Jeremiah, ‘once for all, don’t do it! Now, we have done with the subject.’

Mr Flintwinch had been already rearranging and dusting his own particular little office, as if to do honour to his accession to new dignity. He resumed this occupation when he was replete with beef, had sucked up all the gravy in the baking-dish with the flat of his knife, and had drawn liberally on a barrel of small beer in the scullery. Thus refreshed, he tucked up his shirt-sleeves and went to work again; and Mr Arthur, watching him as he set about it, plainly saw that his father’s picture, or his father’s grave, would be as communicative with him as this old man.

‘Now, Affery, woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch, as she crossed the hall. ‘You hadn’t made Mr Arthur’s bed when I was up there last. Stir yourself. Bustle.’

But Mr Arthur found the house so blank and dreary, and was so unwilling to assist at another implacable consignment of his mother’s enemies (perhaps himself among them) to mortal disfigurement and immortal ruin, that he announced his intention of lodging at the coffee-house where he had left his luggage. Mr Flintwinch taking kindly to the idea of getting rid of him, and his mother being indifferent, beyond considerations of saving, to most domestic arrangements that were not bounded by the walls of her own chamber, he easily carried this point without new offence. Daily business hours were agreed upon, which his mother, Mr Flintwinch, and he, were to devote together to a necessary checking of books and papers; and he left the home he had so lately found, with depressed heart.

But Little Dorrit?

The business hours, allowing for intervals of invalid regimen of oysters and partridges, during which Clennam refreshed himself with a walk, were from ten to six for about a fortnight. Sometimes Little Dorrit was employed at her needle, sometimes not, sometimes appeared as a humble visitor: which must have been her character on the occasion of his arrival. His original curiosity augmented every day, as he watched for her, saw or did not see her, and speculated about her. Influenced by his predominant idea, he even fell into a habit of discussing with himself the possibility of her being in some way associated with it. At last he resolved to watch Little Dorrit and know more of her story.

In un modo duro e incerto, che oscillava tra protezione e disprezzo, tra gesti di affetto e atteggiamenti sprezzanti, Mrs Clennam mostrò interesse per questa persona dipendente da lei. Già al momento del suo ingresso, quando il campanello suonò violentemente e la madre si nascose con quel gesto dal figlio, negli occhi di Mrs Clennam c’era qualcosa di particolare, come se fosse riservato solo a lei. Proprio come esistono diversi gradi di durezza nel metallo più resistente e sfumature di colore anche nel nero stesso, così, anche nell’asprezza del comportamento di Mrs Clennam verso tutti gli altri esseri umani e verso Little Dorrit, c’era una sottile gradazione.

Little Dorrit usciva per dedicarsi al cucito. Con soli otto ore di lavoro al giorno – o forse anche meno – da le otto del mattino alle otto di sera, Little Dorrit veniva assunta. Puntuale fino all’ultimo minuto, Little Dorrit appariva; puntuale fino all’ultimo minuto, Little Dorrit scompariva. Quello che accadeva a Little Dorrit in quei due intervalli di tempo rimaneva un mistero.

Un altro degli aspetti morali di Little Dorrit: oltre al denaro che riceveva per i suoi servizi, il suo contratto giornaliero includeva anche pasti. Provava un profondo disgusto all’idea di mangiare in compagnia; avrebbe evitato farlo ogni volta che fosse stato possibile. Si scusava sempre dicendo di dover prima iniziare o finire un lavoro, e sicuramente trovava modi – sebbene non molto ingegnosi, poiché nessuno riusciva a ingannarla – per mangiare da sola. Riuscendo nel suo intento e godendosi il pasto ovunque potesse, anche sulle ginocchia, su una scatola o sul terreno, o persino in piedi sulle punte dei piedi, la grande ansia di Little Dorrit veniva finalmente placata.

Non era facile distinguere i tratti del viso di Little Dorrit; era così riservata, lavorava sempre in angoli remoti e si spaventava molto se qualcuno la incontrava sulle scale. Ma il suo viso sembrava pallido e trasparente, con espressioni rapide; non era bella nel profilo, tranne che per i suoi dolci occhi castani. Una testa delicatamente piegata, una figura minuta, manine agili e impegnate, e un abito logoro. Doveva essere davvero molto logoro, considerando quanto fosse ordinata la ragazza mentre lavorava.

Per queste particolari o generalità riguardanti Little Dorrit, nel corso della giornata il signor Arthur dovette affidarsi ai propri occhi e alla lingua della signora Affery. Se la signora Affery avesse avuto qualche volontà o iniziativa personale, probabilmente sarebbe stata sfavorevole a Little Dorrit. Ma poiché “quei due intelligenti” – di cui la signora Affery parlava sempre, e nei quali la sua personalità veniva completamente sommersa – avevano deciso di accettare Little Dorrit senza obiezioni, lei non aveva altra scelta se non quella di seguirli. Allo stesso modo, se quei due intelligenti avessero deciso di uccidere Little Dorrit alla luce delle candele, la signora Affery, essendo stata incaricata di tenere le candele, non avrebbe certo esitato a farlo.

Nei momenti in cui tostava la pernice per la stanza dell’infermo e preparava una pirofila di manzo e budino per la sala da pranzo, la signora Affery faceva le comunicazioni sopra menzionate; ogni volta, dopo essere entrata nella stanza, riappariva alla porta per incoraggiare tutti a resistere a quelle due donne astute. Sembrava che per la signora Flintwinch fosse diventato un vero e proprio obiettivo quello di far sì che il suo unico figlio venisse messo contro di loro.

Durante il corso della giornata, anche Arthur ispezionò l’intera >casa. La trovò triste e buia; le stanze deserte da anni sembravano essersi immerse in una cupa letargia dalla quale nulla avrebbe potuto risvegliarle. I mobili, sparsi e ingombranti, sembravano più nascondere che arredare quelle stanze; non c’era alcun colore in tutta la casa. Quel poco colore che un tempo vi era stato, era da tempo scomparso insieme ai raggi del sole. Forse si era assorbito nelle >fiori, nei farfalle, nel piumaggio degli uccelli o nelle pietre preziose. Non c’era un pavimento dritto, dalla fondazione al soffitto; i soffitti erano così coperti di fumo e polvere che le vecchie donne avrebbero potuto leggere il futuro in essi meglio che nei fondi di tè. I camini, gelidi e vuoti, non mostravano traccia di essere mai stati riscaldati. Solo mucchi di fuliggine si accumulavano nelle ciminiere, formando piccoli vortici scuri quando le porte venivano aperte. Nella stanza che un tempo era stata un salotto, c’erano due specchi scarsi, nei quali figure nere portavano ghirlande nere e camminavano intorno ai loro telai. Ma anche questi specchi mancavano di teste e gambe; uno dei “Cupidi” simili a un becchino era girato su se stesso e si trovava capovolto. Un altro era completamente caduto. La stanza che il defunto padre di Arthur Clennam aveva utilizzato per gli affari, quando lui lo ricordava ancora, era così immutata che si sarebbe potuto pensare che continuasse a occuparla “invisibilmente”, proprio come la sua figlia visibile continuava a tenere la propria stanza al piano di sopra. Jeremiah Flintwinch continuava ancora a trattare affari con loro. Il suo ritratto, scuro e cupo, appeso al muro, con gli occhi che fissavano intensamente suo figlio proprio come quando la vita lo aveva abbandonato, sembrava esortarlo con forza ad affrontare la missione che aveva intrapreso. Ma per quanto riguardava eventuali cedimenti da parte di sua madre, ormai non aveva più alcuna >speranza. E per quanto riguardasse altri modi per placare i propri sospetti, aveva abbandonato ogni speranza da molto tempo. Nei sotterranei, proprio come nelle camere da letto, vecchi oggetti che lui ricordava bene erano cambiati a causa dell’età e del decadimento. Ma erano ancora al loro posto. Anche le botti di birra vuote, coperte di ragnatele, e le bottiglie di vino vuote, con peli e funghi che ne ostruivano i “gorghi”. Lì, tra scaffali strani per le bottiglie e deboli raggi di luce provenienti dal cortile sopra, c’era la stanza dove venivano conservati vecchi registri contabili. Che avevano un odore così stantio e putrido, come se fossero regolarmente “riscattati” ogni notte da qualche vecchio contabile.

Il vassoio da forno fu servito in modo solenne, su un panno accorciato, all’estremità del tavolo da pranzo, alle due di ore, quando lui pranzò con il signor Flintwinch, il nuovo socio. Il signor Flintwinch gli comunicò che sua madre aveva ormai ripreso la sua calma e che non c’era più motivo di temerla, alludendo a quanto era accaduto quella mattina. “E per l’amor del cielo, signor Arthur, smetta di incolpare suo padre,” aggiunse Jeremiah. “Una volta per tutte, non lo faccia più! Ora, abbiamo finito di parlare di questo argomento.”

Il signor Flintwinch aveva già iniziato a sistemare e pulire la sua piccola stanza, come se volesse rendere omaggio alla nuova dignità che aveva acquisito. Riprese queste attività quando si fu saziato di carne, ebbe assorbito tutto il sugo rimasto nel piatto da forno con il dorso del coltello e bevuto abbondantemente da una botte di birra nella cucina. Rinfrescato in questo modo, arrotolò le maniche della camicia e tornò al lavoro; il signor Arthur, osservandolo mentre si metteva all’opera, capì chiaramente che la foto di suo padre, o la sua >tomba, avrebbero continuato a “parlargli” esattamente come faceva questo vecchio uomo.

“Ora, Affery, donna,” disse il signor Flintwinch mentre lei attraversava l’atrio. “Quando sono stato di sopra l’ultima volta, non avevi ancora fatto il letto del signor Arthur. Sbrigati, muoviti.”

Ma il signor Arthur trovò la casa così desolata e tetra, e era così riluttante ad assistere a un’altra inesorabile sorte per gli nemici di sua madre (forse anche lui tra loro), destinati a una deformità fisica e a una rovina eterna, che annunciò la sua intenzione di alloggiare nella caffetteria dove aveva lasciato i suoi bagagli. Il signor Flintwinch, felice all’idea di sbarazzarsi di lui, e sua madre, indifferente, al di là di qualsiasi considerazione legata alla gestione domestica, a patto che queste non riguardassero le mura della sua stanza personale, permisero facilmente che questa decisione venisse attuata senza ulteriori problemi. Si concordarono gli orari delle attività quotidiane, durante i quali sua madre, il signor Flintwinch e lui avrebbero dovuto controllare insieme libri e documenti; e lui lasciò quella casa che aveva appena trovato, con il cuore pesante.

Ma che ne è di Piccola Dorrit?

Gli orari di apertura del negozio, che prevedevano periodi in cui non venivano serviti ostriche e pernici, durante i quali Clennam si rinfrescava con una passeggiata, erano dalle dieci alle sei, per circa quindici giorni. A volte Little Dorrit lavorava al suo ricamo, a volte no; a volte appariva come una semplice visitatrice. Il che probabilmente corrispondeva al suo comportamento quando lui arrivava. La sua curiosità cresceva di giorno in giorno: la cercava, a volte la vedeva, a volte no, e continuava a riflettere su di lei. Influenzato da questa idea dominante, finì persino per discutere con se stesso della possibilità che lei fosse in qualche modo coinvolta in quella situazione. Alla fine, decise di osservare attentamente Little Dorrit e scoprire di più sulla sua storia.

CHAPTER 6. The Father of the Marshalsea

Thirty years ago there stood, a few doors short of the church of Saint George, in the borough of Southwark, on the left-hand side of the way going southward, the Marshalsea Prison. It had stood there many years before, and it remained there some years afterwards; but it is gone now, and the world is none the worse without it.

It was an oblong pile of barrack building, partitioned into squalid houses standing back to back, so that there were no back rooms; environed by a narrow paved yard, hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at top. Itself a close and confined prison for debtors, it contained within it a much closer and more confined jail for smugglers. Offenders against the revenue laws, and defaulters to excise or customs who had incurred fines which they were unable to pay, were supposed to be incarcerated behind an iron-plated door closing up a second prison, consisting of a strong cell or two, and a blind alley some yard and a half wide, which formed the mysterious termination of the very limited skittle-ground in which the Marshalsea debtors bowled down their troubles.

Supposed to be incarcerated there, because the time had rather outgrown the strong cells and the blind alley. In practice they had come to be considered a little too bad, though in theory they were quite as good as ever; which may be observed to be the case at the present day with other cells that are not at all strong, and with other blind alleys that are stone-blind. Hence the smugglers habitually consorted with the debtors (who received them with open arms), except at certain constitutional moments when somebody came from some Office, to go through some form of overlooking something which neither he nor anybody else knew anything about. On these truly British occasions, the smugglers, if any, made a feint of walking into the strong cells and the blind alley, while this somebody pretended to do his something: and made a reality of walking out again as soon as he hadn’t done it—neatly epitomising the administration of most of the public affairs in our right little, tight little, island.

There had been taken to the Marshalsea Prison, long before the day when the sun shone on Marseilles and on the opening of this narrative, a debtor with whom this narrative has some concern.

He was, at that time, a very amiable and very helpless middle-aged gentleman, who was going out again directly. Necessarily, he was going out again directly, because the Marshalsea lock never turned upon a debtor who was not. He brought in a portmanteau with him, which he doubted its being worth while to unpack; he was so perfectly clear—like all the rest of them, the turnkey on the lock said—that he was going out again directly.

He was a shy, retiring man; well-looking, though in an effeminate style; with a mild voice, curling hair, and irresolute hands—rings upon the fingers in those days—which nervously wandered to his trembling lip a hundred times in the first half-hour of his acquaintance with the jail. His principal anxiety was about his wife.

‘Do you think, sir,’ he asked the turnkey, ‘that she will be very much shocked, if she should come to the gate to-morrow morning?’

The turnkey gave it as the result of his experience that some of ‘em was and some of ‘em wasn’t. In general, more no than yes. ‘What like is she, you see?’ he philosophically asked: ‘that’s what it hinges on.’

‘She is very delicate and inexperienced indeed.’

‘That,’ said the turnkey, ‘is agen her.’

‘She is so little used to go out alone,’ said the debtor, ‘that I am at a loss to think how she will ever make her way here, if she walks.’

‘P’raps,’ quoth the turnkey, ‘she’ll take a ackney coach.’

‘Perhaps.’ The irresolute fingers went to the trembling lip. ‘I hope she will. She may not think of it.’

‘Or p’raps,’ said the turnkey, offering his suggestions from the the top of his well-worn wooden stool, as he might have offered them to a child for whose weakness he felt a compassion, ‘p’raps she’ll get her brother, or her sister, to come along with her.’

‘She has no brother or sister.’

‘Niece, nevy, cousin, serwant, young ‘ooman, greengrocer.—Dash it! One or another on ‘em,’ said the turnkey, repudiating beforehand the refusal of all his suggestions.

‘I fear—I hope it is not against the rules—that she will bring the children.’

‘The children?’ said the turnkey. ‘And the rules? Why, lord set you up like a corner pin, we’ve a reg’lar playground o’ children here. Children! Why we swarm with ‘em. How many a you got?’

‘Two,’ said the debtor, lifting his irresolute hand to his lip again, and turning into the prison.

The turnkey followed him with his eyes. ‘And you another,’ he observed to himself, ‘which makes three on you. And your wife another, I’ll lay a crown. Which makes four on you. And another coming, I’ll lay half-a-crown. Which’ll make five on you. And I’ll go another seven and sixpence to name which is the helplessest, the unborn baby or you!’

He was right in all his particulars. She came next day with a little boy of three years old, and a little girl of two, and he stood entirely corroborated.

‘Got a room now; haven’t you?’ the turnkey asked the debtor after a week or two.

‘Yes, I have got a very good room.’

‘Any little sticks a coming to furnish it?’ said the turnkey.

‘I expect a few necessary articles of furniture to be delivered by the carrier, this afternoon.’

‘Missis and little ‘uns a coming to keep you company?’ asked the turnkey.

‘Why, yes, we think it better that we should not be scattered, even for a few weeks.’

‘Even for a few weeks, of course,’ replied the turnkey. And he followed him again with his eyes, and nodded his head seven times when he was gone.

The affairs of this debtor were perplexed by a partnership, of which he knew no more than that he had invested money in it; by legal matters of assignment and settlement, conveyance here and conveyance there, suspicion of unlawful preference of creditors in this direction, and of mysterious spiriting away of property in that; and as nobody on the face of the earth could be more incapable of explaining any single item in the heap of confusion than the debtor himself, nothing comprehensible could be made of his case. To question him in detail, and endeavour to reconcile his answers; to closet him with accountants and sharp practitioners, learned in the wiles of insolvency and bankruptcy; was only to put the case out at compound interest and incomprehensibility. The irresolute fingers fluttered more and more ineffectually about the trembling lip on every such occasion, and the sharpest practitioners gave him up as a hopeless job.

CAPITOLO 6. Il padre di Marshalsea

Trent’anni fa, poco lontano dalla chiesa di San Giorgio, nel quartiere di Southwark, sul lato sinistro della strada che conduce a sud, sorgeva la prigione di Marshalsea. Esisteva già da molti anni prima e continuò ad esserci anche dopo; ma ora non c’è più, e il mondo non è affatto peggiorato senza di essa.

Era un complesso di edifici rettangolari, divisi in case misere e affiancate le una alle altre, senza alcuna stanza sul retro; circondato da un cortile stretto e lastricato, delimitato da muri alti sulla cui cima erano state piantate punte di ferro. In sé, costituiva una prigione angusta e sovraffollata per i debitori; al suo interno, però, si trovava un carcere ancora più ristretto e insalubre per i contrabbandieri. Coloro che violavano le leggi fiscali o non pagavano le tasse e le multe imposte venivano rinchiusi dietro una porta blindata che dava accesso a un’altra prigione, composta da una o due celle robuste e da un vicolo cieco largo circa un metro e mezzo, che rappresentava la fine misteriosa di quel piccolo spazio dove i debitori del Marshalsea cercavano di dimenticare i loro problemi.

Si supponeva che fossero rinchiusi lì, perché i tempi ormai avevano reso quelle prigioni e quei vicoli ciechi completamente obsoleti. In realtà, però, venivano considerati “un po’ troppo inutili”, anche se teoricamente erano altrettanto efficaci di prima; una situazione che si riscontra ancora oggi con altre prigioni assolutamente non sicure e altri vicoli ciechi completamente inutilizzabili. Per questo motivo, i contrabbandieri avevano l’abitudine di frequentare quei luoghi insieme ai debitori (che li accoglievano a braccia aperte), tranne che in alcune occasioni particolari, quando qualcuno proveniva da un ufficio per effettuare controlli su cose di cui né lui né nessun altro sapeva nulla. In quei momenti davvero tipici della cultura britannica, i contrabbandieri fingevano di entrare nelle prigioni o nei vicoli ciechi, mentre quella persona fingeva di svolgere le proprie mansioni, per poi uscire di nuovo non appena aveva finito – un esempio perfetto dell’efficienza con cui vengono gestite la maggior parte degli affari pubblici nel nostro piccolo, stretto e ordinato paese.

Era stato portato nella prigione di Marshalsea molto tempo prima che il sole splendesse su Marsiglia e che iniziasse questa narrazione; si trattava di un debitore il cui caso è legato in qualche modo a questa storia.

A quel tempo, era un gentiluomo di mezza età molto amabile e allo stesso tempo completamente impotente; stava per uscire di nuovo immediatamente. Era inevitabile che lo facesse, perché il cancello di Marshalsea non veniva mai aperto per un debitore che in realtà non lo fosse. Portava con sé una valigia, ma dubitava che valesse la pena aprirla; era così evidente, proprio come tutti gli altri, disse il custode del cancello, che stava per uscire di nuovo immediatamente.

Era un uomo timido e riservato; di bell’aspetto, sebbene con uno stile effeminato; aveva una voce dolce, capelli ricci e mani indecise. A quei tempi portava anelli alle dita, che nella prima mezz’ora che lo conobbi in prigione si muovevano nervosamente verso le sue labbra tremanti. La sua principale preoccupazione era per sua moglie.

“Credete davvero, signore,” chiese al carceriere, “che lei rimarrà molto scioccata se dovesse venire alla porta domani mattina?”

Il portiere, sulla base della sua esperienza, affermava che alcuni di loro lo erano e altri no; in generale, il numero dei “no” superava quello dei “sì”. “Com’è esattamente?”, chiese filosoficamente: “Ecco su cosa dipende tutto.”

“È davvero molto delicata e inesperta.”

“Quella,” disse il carceriere, “è proprio lei.”

“Non è affatto abituata a uscire da sola”, disse il debitore, “che non so proprio come farà ad arrivare qui, se dovesse camminare.”

“Forse,” disse il carceriere, “prenderà un calesino di Ackney.”

“Forse.” Le dita indecise si avvicinarono alle labbra tremanti. “Spero che lo faccia. Forse non ci penserà nemmeno.”

“Forse,” disse il carceriere, offrendo le sue suggerimenti dal bordo del suo logoro sgabello di legno, come avrebbe potuto farlo con un bambino per cui provava compassione, “forse riuscirà a far venire con sé suo fratello o sua sorella.”

“Non ha fratelli né sorelle.”

“Nipote, pronipote, cugino, servitore, giovane donna, venditore di verdure. Accidenti! Uno di loro andrà bene,” disse il guardiano, rifiutando in anticipo qualsiasi proposta gli venisse fatta.

“Le mie paura. Spero che non vada contro le regole. Che lei porti i bambini.”

“Gli bambini?” disse il custode. “E le regole? Ma signore, vi avete messo in una situazione impossibile. Qui abbiamo un vero e proprio spazio giochi per i bambini. Bambini! Ne abbiamo tantissimi. Ne avete quanti?”

“Due,” disse il debitore, alzando di nuovo la sua mano indecisa verso le labbra, e poi si diresse verso la prigione.

Il portiere lo seguì con lo sguardo. “E tu un altro,” osservò tra sé, “quindi sono tre in tutto. E tua moglie un’altra, metterò una corona. Quindi sono quattro. E ce n’è un altro ancora, metterò mezza corona. Quindi saranno cinque. E aggiungerò altri sette scellini e sei pence per scoprire chi è il più indifeso di tutti: quel bambino non ancora nato, o forse tu!”

Aveva ragione su ogni singolo dettaglio. Il giorno dopo arrivò con un bambino di tre anni e una bambina di due anni, e tutto ciò che aveva detto si rivelò completamente vero.

“Ora ho trovato una stanza; tu no?” chiese il custode al debitore dopo una o due settimane.

“Sì, ho trovato una stanza davvero molto bella.”

“Ci saranno qualche piccolo rametto in arrivo per arredarlo?” chiese il carceriere.

“Mi aspetto che questo pomeriggio il corriere consegni alcuni mobili necessari.”

“La signora e i bambini stanno per venire a farvi compagnia?” chiese il custode.

“Perché sì, riteniamo sia meglio non dispersarci, nemmeno per poche settimane.”

“Anche per poche settimane, certo,” rispose il carceriere. E lo seguì di nuovo con lo sguardo, annuendo sette volte quando lui se ne andò.

Gli affari di questo debitore erano complicati da una partnership di cui non sapeva nulla, se non che vi aveva investito del denaro; da questioni legali relative alla cessione e al regolamento dei diritti, da sospetti di favoritismi illegali nei confronti dei creditori in un senso o nell’altro, e da misteriose sparizioni di beni. Poiché nessuno al mondo era meno in grado di spiegare anche solo uno degli aspetti di questa confusione del debitore stesso, non si riusciva a comprendere nulla della sua situazione. Interrogarlo nei dettagli e cercare di far quadrare le sue risposte, metterlo in contatto con contabili ed esperti abili nelle pratiche legate all’insolvenza e al fallimento, significava soltanto rendere la situazione ancora più complessa e incomprensibile. In ogni occasione, le dita incerte del debitore si muovevano in modo sempre più inefficace sulle sue labbra tremanti, e anche gli esperti più capaci lo consideravano un caso senza speranza.

‘Out?’ said the turnkey, ‘he‘ll never get out, unless his creditors take him by the shoulders and shove him out.’

He had been there five or six months, when he came running to this turnkey one forenoon to tell him, breathless and pale, that his wife was ill.

‘As anybody might a known she would be,’ said the turnkey.

‘We intended,’ he returned, ‘that she should go to a country lodging only to-morrow. What am I to do! Oh, good heaven, what am I to do!’

‘Don’t waste your time in clasping your hands and biting your fingers,’ responded the practical turnkey, taking him by the elbow, ‘but come along with me.’

The turnkey conducted him—trembling from head to foot, and constantly crying under his breath, What was he to do! while his irresolute fingers bedabbled the tears upon his face—up one of the common staircases in the prison to a door on the garret story. Upon which door the turnkey knocked with the handle of his key.

‘Come in!’ cried a voice inside.

The turnkey, opening the door, disclosed in a wretched, ill-smelling little room, two hoarse, puffy, red-faced personages seated at a rickety table, playing at all-fours, smoking pipes, and drinking brandy.

‘Doctor,’ said the turnkey, ‘here’s a gentleman’s wife in want of you without a minute’s loss of time!’

The doctor’s friend was in the positive degree of hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy; the doctor in the comparative—hoarser, puffier, more red-faced, more all-fourey, tobaccoer, dirtier, and brandier. The doctor was amazingly shabby, in a torn and darned rough-weather sea-jacket, out at elbows and eminently short of buttons (he had been in his time the experienced surgeon carried by a passenger ship), the dirtiest white trousers conceivable by mortal man, carpet slippers, and no visible linen. ‘Childbed?’ said the doctor. ‘I’m the boy!’ With that the doctor took a comb from the chimney-piece and stuck his hair upright—which appeared to be his way of washing himself—produced a professional chest or case, of most abject appearance, from the cupboard where his cup and saucer and coals were, settled his chin in the frowsy wrapper round his neck, and became a ghastly medical scarecrow.

The doctor and the debtor ran down-stairs, leaving the turnkey to return to the lock, and made for the debtor’s room. All the ladies in the prison had got hold of the news, and were in the yard. Some of them had already taken possession of the two children, and were hospitably carrying them off; others were offering loans of little comforts from their own scanty store; others were sympathising with the greatest volubility. The gentlemen prisoners, feeling themselves at a disadvantage, had for the most part retired, not to say sneaked, to their rooms; from the open windows of which some of them now complimented the doctor with whistles as he passed below, while others, with several stories between them, interchanged sarcastic references to the prevalent excitement.

It was a hot summer day, and the prison rooms were baking between the high walls. In the debtor’s confined chamber, Mrs Bangham, charwoman and messenger, who was not a prisoner (though she had been once), but was the popular medium of communication with the outer world, had volunteered her services as fly-catcher and general attendant. The walls and ceiling were blackened with flies. Mrs Bangham, expert in sudden device, with one hand fanned the patient with a cabbage leaf, and with the other set traps of vinegar and sugar in gallipots; at the same time enunciating sentiments of an encouraging and congratulatory nature, adapted to the occasion.

‘The flies trouble you, don’t they, my dear?’ said Mrs Bangham. ‘But p’raps they’ll take your mind off of it, and do you good. What between the buryin ground, the grocer’s, the waggon-stables, and the paunch trade, the Marshalsea flies gets very large. P’raps they’re sent as a consolation, if we only know’d it. How are you now, my dear? No better? No, my dear, it ain’t to be expected; you’ll be worse before you’re better, and you know it, don’t you? Yes. That’s right! And to think of a sweet little cherub being born inside the lock! Now ain’t it pretty, ain’t that something to carry you through it pleasant? Why, we ain’t had such a thing happen here, my dear, not for I couldn’t name the time when. And you a crying too?’ said Mrs Bangham, to rally the patient more and more. ‘You! Making yourself so famous! With the flies a falling into the gallipots by fifties! And everything a going on so well! And here if there ain’t,’ said Mrs Bangham as the door opened, ‘if there ain’t your dear gentleman along with Dr Haggage! And now indeed we are complete, I think!’

The doctor was scarcely the kind of apparition to inspire a patient with a sense of absolute completeness, but as he presently delivered the opinion, ‘We are as right as we can be, Mrs Bangham, and we shall come out of this like a house afire;’ and as he and Mrs Bangham took possession of the poor helpless pair, as everybody else and anybody else had always done, the means at hand were as good on the whole as better would have been. The special feature in Dr Haggage’s treatment of the case, was his determination to keep Mrs Bangham up to the mark. As thus:

‘Mrs Bangham,’ said the doctor, before he had been there twenty minutes, ‘go outside and fetch a little brandy, or we shall have you giving in.’

‘Thank you, sir. But none on my accounts,’ said Mrs Bangham.

‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am in professional attendance on this lady, and don’t choose to allow any discussion on your part. Go outside and fetch a little brandy, or I foresee that you’ll break down.’

‘You’re to be obeyed, sir,’ said Mrs Bangham, rising. ‘If you was to put your own lips to it, I think you wouldn’t be the worse, for you look but poorly, sir.’

“Fuori?” disse il carceriere. “Non uscirà mai, a meno che i suoi creditori non lo prendano per le spalle e lo spingano fuori.”

Era lì da cinque o sei mesi quando, un mattino, corse da quel direttore per dirgli, senza fiato e pallido in volto, che sua moglie era malata.

“Come chiunque avrebbe potuto immaginare, era proprio così,” disse il carceriere.

“Intendevamo,” rispose, “che partisse per una locanda di campagna solo domani. Cosa devo fare. Oh, mio Dio, cosa devo fare!”

“Non sprecare il tuo tempo a tenere le mani giunte e morderti le dita,” rispose il pratico custode, prendendolo per il gomito, “ma vieni con me.”

Il carceriere lo accompagnò, tremando dalla testa ai piedi e continuando a sussurrare: “Cosa devo fare!”, mentre le sue dita indecise sporcavano di lacrime il suo viso. Lo portò su uno degli scalini comuni della prigione, fino a una porta situata al piano sovrastante. Il carceriere bussò alla porta con l’impugnatura della sua chiave.

“Entra!” gridò una voce all’interno.

Il portiere, aprendo la porta, rivelò una piccola stanza misera e maleodorante: due persone con voci roche, facce rosse e gonfie erano sedute attorno a un tavolo traballante, giocando a dadi, fumando pipe e bevendo brandy.

“Dottore,” disse il carceriere, “c’è la moglie di un gentiluomo che ha bisogno di lei, senza perdere nemmeno un minuto!”

L’amico del dottore presentava segni evidenti di raucedine, gonfiore, viso arrossato; era coperto di polvere, fumo di tabacco e brandy. Il dottore, invece, mostrava sintomi più gravi: ancora più raucido, più gonfio, con il viso ancora più arrossato, più sporco e consumatore di alcol. Il dottore era davvero in uno stato pietoso: indossava una giacca da marina logora e strappata, senza bottoni (in passato era stato un chirurgo esperto che viaggiava su navi passeggeri), pantaloni bianchi sporchi oltre ogni limite, pantofole di velluto, e nessun indumento intimo visibile. “Parto?” chiese il dottore. “Io sono il bambino!” Rispose lui, prendendo un pettine dal camino e sistemando i propri capelli in modo ordinato. Il che sembrava essere il suo modo di “lavarsi”. Poi prese da un armadio una scatola dall’aspetto molto trasandato, si sistemò la mascella con il fazzoletto sporco intorno al collo, e divenne una sorta di spaventapasseri medico davvero orribile.

Il dottore e il debitore corsero giù per le scale, lasciando il carceriere a tornare alla serratura, e si diressero verso la stanza del debitore. Tutte le donne della prigione avevano già appreso la notizia ed erano nel cortile. Alcune di loro avevano già preso in custodia i due bambini e li portavano via con gentilezza; altre offrivano piccoli conforti dai propri scarsi mezzi; altre ancora esprimevano la loro solidarietà con grande affetto. I prigionieri uomini, sentendosi svantaggiati, si erano per lo più ritirati, anzi, si sarebbe detto che se l’erano svignata, nelle loro stanze; alcuni di loro, attraverso le finestre aperte, fischiavano al dottore mentre questi passava sotto, mentre altri, raccontandosi a vicenda storie, si scambiavano commenti sarcastici sull’eccitazione generale.

Era una calda giornata d’estate, e le stanze della prigione si scaldavano terribilmente tra i muri alti. Nella cella del debitore, la signora Bangham – donna addetta alle pulizie e messaggera, che non era una prigioniera (sebbene lo fosse stata in passato) ma rappresentava il canale principale di comunicazione con il mondo esterno – si offrì volontaria per catturare le mosche e prestare altri servizi. I muri e il soffitto erano coperti di mosche. La signora Bangham, abile nelle soluzioni improvvisate, con una mano ventilava il paziente con una foglia di cavolo, mentre con l’altra preparava trappole con aceto e zucchero; nel frattempo, esprimeva parole di incoraggiamento e congratulazioni adatte alla situazione.

“Le mosche ti danno fastidio, vero, cara mia?” disse la signora Bangham. “Ma forse ti distraggono da quei pensieri e ti fanno bene. Con il cimitero, il negozio del droghiere, le stalle dei carri e tutte quelle altre faccende, le mosche di Marshalsea diventano davvero molto numerose. Forse sono un segno di consolazione, se solo lo sapessimo. Come ti senti ora, cara mia? Non è migliorata? No, cara. Non ci si può aspettare che migliori subito; anzi, probabilmente peggiorerà prima di migliorare, e tu lo sai, vero? Sì. Esatto! E pensa solo a quanto sia meraviglioso che dentro di te stia nascendo un adorabile angioletto. Non è forse una cosa bellissima, qualcosa che possa aiutarti ad affrontare tutto questo in modo più sereno? Beh, qui da noi non era mai successo nulla del genere. E tu, piangi ancora?” disse la signora Bangham, cercando di consolare ancora di più la paziente. “Tu! Che ti stai facendo conoscere così tanto. Con tutte quelle mosche che cadono nei vasi uno dopo l’altro. Eppure tutto sta andando così bene. E guarda, ecco arrivare il tuo caro signore insieme al dottor Haggage! Ora davvero siamo completi, penso, ”

Il dottore non era certo il tipo di persona che potesse ispirare un paziente con un senso di totale sicurezza riguardo al trattamento ricevuto, ma quando espose la sua opinione disse: “Abbiamo fatto del nostro meglio, signora Bangham; usciremo da questa situazione senza gravi conseguenze”. E così, come avevano sempre fatto tutti gli altri, lui e la signora Bangham si presero cura di quella povera coppia indifesa, utilizzando i mezzi a disposizione che, nel complesso, erano sufficientemente efficaci. La caratteristica principale del trattamento fornito dal dottor Haggage fu la sua determinazione nel mantenere la signora Bangham sempre aggiornata riguardo alle procedure da seguire.

“Signora Bangham,” disse il dottore, dopo appena venti minuti, “vada fuori e porti un po’ di brandy; altrimenti potreste svenire.”

“Grazie, signore. Ma non c’è nulla sui miei conti,” disse la signora Bangham.

“Signora Bangham,” rispose il dottore, “sono qui per fornire assistenza professionale a questa signora e non intendo permettere alcuna discussione da parte sua. Vada fuori a prendere un po’ di brandy; altrimenti temo che possa svenire.”

“Dovete essere obbedito, signore,” disse la signora Bangham alzandosi. “Se anche voi lo diceste con le vostre stesse parole, penso che non sarebbe peggio. Del resto, sembrate davvero molto malato, signore.”

‘Mrs Bangham,’ returned the doctor, ‘I am not your business, thank you, but you are mine. Never you mind me, if you please. What you have got to do, is, to do as you are told, and to go and get what I bid you.’

Mrs Bangham submitted; and the doctor, having administered her potion, took his own. He repeated the treatment every hour, being very determined with Mrs Bangham. Three or four hours passed; the flies fell into the traps by hundreds; and at length one little life, hardly stronger than theirs, appeared among the multitude of lesser deaths.

‘A very nice little girl indeed,’ said the doctor; ‘little, but well-formed. Halloa, Mrs Bangham! You’re looking queer! You be off, ma’am, this minute, and fetch a little more brandy, or we shall have you in hysterics.’

By this time, the rings had begun to fall from the debtor’s irresolute hands, like leaves from a wintry tree. Not one was left upon them that night, when he put something that chinked into the doctor’s greasy palm. In the meantime Mrs Bangham had been out on an errand to a neighbouring establishment decorated with three golden balls, where she was very well known.

‘Thank you,’ said the doctor, ‘thank you. Your good lady is quite composed. Doing charmingly.’

‘I am very happy and very thankful to know it,’ said the debtor, ‘though I little thought once, that—’

‘That a child would be born to you in a place like this?’ said the doctor. ‘Bah, bah, sir, what does it signify? A little more elbow-room is all we want here. We are quiet here; we don’t get badgered here; there’s no knocker here, sir, to be hammered at by creditors and bring a man’s heart into his mouth. Nobody comes here to ask if a man’s at home, and to say he’ll stand on the door mat till he is. Nobody writes threatening letters about money to this place. It’s freedom, sir, it’s freedom! I have had to-day’s practice at home and abroad, on a march, and aboard ship, and I’ll tell you this: I don’t know that I have ever pursued it under such quiet circumstances as here this day. Elsewhere, people are restless, worried, hurried about, anxious respecting one thing, anxious respecting another. Nothing of the kind here, sir. We have done all that—we know the worst of it; we have got to the bottom, we can’t fall, and what have we found? Peace. That’s the word for it. Peace.’ With this profession of faith, the doctor, who was an old jail-bird, and was more sodden than usual, and had the additional and unusual stimulus of money in his pocket, returned to his associate and chum in hoarseness, puffiness, red-facedness, all-fours, tobacco, dirt, and brandy.

Now, the debtor was a very different man from the doctor, but he had already begun to travel, by his opposite segment of the circle, to the same point. Crushed at first by his imprisonment, he had soon found a dull relief in it. He was under lock and key; but the lock and key that kept him in, kept numbers of his troubles out. If he had been a man with strength of purpose to face those troubles and fight them, he might have broken the net that held him, or broken his heart; but being what he was, he languidly slipped into this smooth descent, and never more took one step upward.

When he was relieved of the perplexed affairs that nothing would make plain, through having them returned upon his hands by a dozen agents in succession who could make neither beginning, middle, nor end of them or him, he found his miserable place of refuge a quieter refuge than it had been before. He had unpacked the portmanteau long ago; and his elder children now played regularly about the yard, and everybody knew the baby, and claimed a kind of proprietorship in her.

‘Why, I’m getting proud of you,’ said his friend the turnkey, one day. ‘You’ll be the oldest inhabitant soon. The Marshalsea wouldn’t be like the Marshalsea now, without you and your family.’

The turnkey really was proud of him. He would mention him in laudatory terms to new-comers, when his back was turned. ‘You took notice of him,’ he would say, ‘that went out of the lodge just now?’

New-comer would probably answer Yes.

‘Brought up as a gentleman, he was, if ever a man was. Ed’cated at no end of expense. Went into the Marshal’s house once to try a new piano for him. Played it, I understand, like one o’clock—beautiful! As to languages—speaks anything. We’ve had a Frenchman here in his time, and it’s my opinion he knowed more French than the Frenchman did. We’ve had an Italian here in his time, and he shut him up in about half a minute. You’ll find some characters behind other locks, I don’t say you won’t; but if you want the top sawyer in such respects as I’ve mentioned, you must come to the Marshalsea.’

When his youngest child was eight years old, his wife, who had long been languishing away—of her own inherent weakness, not that she retained any greater sensitiveness as to her place of abode than he did—went upon a visit to a poor friend and old nurse in the country, and died there. He remained shut up in his room for a fortnight afterwards; and an attorney’s clerk, who was going through the Insolvent Court, engrossed an address of condolence to him, which looked like a Lease, and which all the prisoners signed. When he appeared again he was greyer (he had soon begun to turn grey); and the turnkey noticed that his hands went often to his trembling lips again, as they had used to do when he first came in. But he got pretty well over it in a month or two; and in the meantime the children played about the yard as regularly as ever, but in black.

Then Mrs Bangham, long popular medium of communication with the outer world, began to be infirm, and to be found oftener than usual comatose on pavements, with her basket of purchases spilt, and the change of her clients ninepence short. His son began to supersede Mrs Bangham, and to execute commissions in a knowing manner, and to be of the prison prisonous, of the streets streety.

“Signora Bangham,” rispose il dottore, “non sono affari vostri, grazie, ma voi sì che siete affari miei. Per favore, non preoccupatevi di me. Quello che dovete fare è seguire le istruzioni che vi vengono date e andare a prendere ciò che vi ho chiesto.”

La signora Bangham si sottopose al trattamento; e il dottore, dopo averle somministrato la pozione, ne prese una dose anche lui. Ripeté l’operazione ogni ora, con grande determinazione. Trascorsero tre o quattro ore: centinaia di mosche caddero nelle trappole; e infine, tra tante vite più deboli, ne apparve una ancora più fragile.

“Una bambina davvero molto carina,” disse il dottore; “piccola, ma ben formata. Ehi, signora Bangham! Sembrate un po’ strana. Andate subito a prendere dell’altro brandy, altrimenti finirete per avere un attacco isterico.”

A quell’ora, gli anelli avevano iniziato a cadere dalle mani indecise del debitore, come foglie da un albero invernale. Non ne era rimasto nemmeno uno quella notte, quando lui mise qualcosa che fece rumore nel palmo unto del dottore. Nel frattempo, la signora Bangham era uscita per una commissione presso un negozio vicino, decorato con tre palline dorate; lì era molto conosciuta.

“Grazie,” disse il dottore, “grazie. Sua signora è molto calma. Si comporta in modo davvero incantevole.”

“Sono molto felice e molto grato di saperlo,” disse il debitore, “anche se una volta non avrei mai pensato che, ”

“Che un bambino possa nascere da te in un posto del genere?” disse il dottore. “Bah, bah, signore. Cosa significa? Qui ci serve soltanto un po’ più di spazio. Siamo tranquilli qui; nessuno ci importuna. Non c’è alcun campanello che i creditori possano bussare per farci venire il cuore in gola. Nessuno viene a chiedere se siamo a casa, né minaccia di scrivere lettere con richieste di denaro. Questo è libertà, signore. Libertà! Oggi ho avuto esperienze in giro per il mondo, su strade, su navi. E vi dico una cosa: non credo di aver mai lavorato in condizioni così tranquille come oggi. Altrove la gente è irrequieta, preoccupata, sempre in fretta, ansiosa per questo o per quello. Qui no, signore. Abbiamo già affrontato il peggio; non possiamo cadere più in basso. E cosa abbiamo trovato? Pace. Proprio così: pace.” Con queste parole, il dottore – un vecchio detenuto, più ubriaco del solito e con l’ulteriore stimolo rappresentato dal denaro in tasca – tornò dal suo compagno, barcollando, rosso in viso, pieno di tabacco, sporcizia e brandy.

Ora, il debitore era un uomo molto diverso dal dottore, ma aveva già iniziato a “viaggiare”, lungo il lato opposto del cerchio, verso lo stesso punto. Inizialmente distrutto dalla sua carcerazione, aveva presto trovato in essa un certo sollievo. Era chiuso a chiave; ma quella stessa chiave che lo teneva prigioniero impediva anche ad molti dei suoi problemi di raggiungerlo. Se fosse stato una persona con la forza di volontà necessaria per affrontare e combattere quei problemi, avrebbe potuto spezzare le catene che lo legavano, o rompersi il cuore; ma essendo ciò che era, si lasciò semplicemente trascinare verso un declino sempre più lento, senza mai più tentare di salire in alto.

Quando fu liberato da quelle questioni complesse e confuse che nulla sembrava in grado di chiarire, poiché venivano continuamente rimandate a lui da una dozzina di agenti che non riuscivano nemmeno a individuare un inizio, uno sviluppo o una conclusione, scoprì che il suo misero rifugio era ora più tranquillo di prima. Aveva già disfatto il baule da tempo; i suoi figli maggiori giocavano regolarmente nel cortile, e tutti conoscevano la bambina, considerandosi in qualche modo suoi “proprietari”.

“Perché, sono davvero orgoglioso di te,” disse un giorno il suo amico, il carceriere. “Tra poco sarai l’abitante più anziano qui. Il Marshalsea non sarebbe più lo stesso senza di te e la tua famiglia.”

Il custode ne era davvero orgoglioso; quando nessuno lo vedeva, parlava di lui in termini lusinghieri ai nuovi arrivati. “Avete notato quel ragazzo che è appena uscito dal club?” diceva.

Un nuovo arrivato probabilmente risponderebbe “Sì”.

‘Cresciuto come un gentiluomo, era davvero l’uomo che si potesse desiderare. Ricevette un’educazione estremamente costosa. Una volta andò nella residenza del Maresciallo per provare un nuovo pianoforte che gli avevano regalato; a quanto si dice, lo suonava come un orologio, meravigliosamente! Per quanto riguarda le lingue, ne parlava tutte. Durante il suo soggiorno qui abbiamo avuto anche un italiano: in meno di mezzo minuto riuscì a zittirlo del tutto. Troverete persone davvero strane, non lo nego; ma se cercate qualcuno veramente eccezionale nelle capacità che ho menzionato, dovete venire proprio al Marshalsea.’

Quando il suo più giovane figlio aveva otto anni, sua moglie – che da tempo soffriva a causa della propria debolezza innata, e non perché avesse una maggiore consapevolezza del proprio ruolo rispetto a lui – andò a far visita a un’amica povera e vecchia infermiera in campagna, dove morì. Lui rimase chiuso nella sua stanza per due settimane; un impiegato legale, che si trovava in tribunale per un caso di bancarotta, scrisse una lettera di condoglianze per lui, che assomigliava a un contratto di affitto e che tutti i prigionieri firmarono. Quando ricomparve, sembrava più anziano (aveva già iniziato ad ingrigire); il carceriere notò che le sue mani si portavano spesso alle labbra tremanti, proprio come facevano quando era arrivato per la prima volta. Ma in un mese o due si riprese completamente; nel frattempo, i bambini continuavano a giocare nel cortile, ma indossavano abiti neri.

Allora la signora Bangham, da tempo una popolare intermediaria di comunicazione con il mondo esterno, iniziò ad ammalarsi e spesso veniva trovata incosciente per strada, con il cestino delle compere rovesciato e la mancanza di nove penny nel resto ricevuto dai clienti. Suo figlio iniziò a sostituirla, svolgendo i suoi compiti in modo astuto e finì per ritrovarsi sia in prigione che per le strade.

Time went on, and the turnkey began to fail. His chest swelled, and his legs got weak, and he was short of breath. The well-worn wooden stool was ‘beyond him,’ he complained. He sat in an arm-chair with a cushion, and sometimes wheezed so, for minutes together, that he couldn’t turn the key. When he was overpowered by these fits, the debtor often turned it for him.

‘You and me,’ said the turnkey, one snowy winter’s night when the lodge, with a bright fire in it, was pretty full of company, ‘is the oldest inhabitants. I wasn’t here myself above seven year before you. I shan’t last long. When I’m off the lock for good and all, you’ll be the Father of the Marshalsea.’

The turnkey went off the lock of this world next day. His words were remembered and repeated; and tradition afterwards handed down from generation to generation—a Marshalsea generation might be calculated as about three months—that the shabby old debtor with the soft manner and the white hair, was the Father of the Marshalsea.

And he grew to be proud of the title. If any impostor had arisen to claim it, he would have shed tears in resentment of the attempt to deprive him of his rights. A disposition began to be perceived in him to exaggerate the number of years he had been there; it was generally understood that you must deduct a few from his account; he was vain, the fleeting generations of debtors said.

All new-comers were presented to him. He was punctilious in the exaction of this ceremony. The wits would perform the office of introduction with overcharged pomp and politeness, but they could not easily overstep his sense of its gravity. He received them in his poor room (he disliked an introduction in the mere yard, as informal—a thing that might happen to anybody), with a kind of bowed-down beneficence. They were welcome to the Marshalsea, he would tell them. Yes, he was the Father of the place. So the world was kind enough to call him; and so he was, if more than twenty years of residence gave him a claim to the title. It looked small at first, but there was very good company there—among a mixture—necessarily a mixture—and very good air.

It became a not unusual circumstance for letters to be put under his door at night, enclosing half-a-crown, two half-crowns, now and then at long intervals even half-a-sovereign, for the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘With the compliments of a collegian taking leave.’ He received the gifts as tributes, from admirers, to a public character. Sometimes these correspondents assumed facetious names, as the Brick, Bellows, Old Gooseberry, Wideawake, Snooks, Mops, Cutaway, the Dogs-meat Man; but he considered this in bad taste, and was always a little hurt by it.

In the fulness of time, this correspondence showing signs of wearing out, and seeming to require an effort on the part of the correspondents to which in the hurried circumstances of departure many of them might not be equal, he established the custom of attending collegians of a certain standing, to the gate, and taking leave of them there. The collegian under treatment, after shaking hands, would occasionally stop to wrap up something in a bit of paper, and would come back again calling ‘Hi!’

He would look round surprised.’Me?’ he would say, with a smile.

By this time the collegian would be up with him, and he would paternally add, VWhat have you forgotten? What can I do for you?’

‘I forgot to leave this,’ the collegian would usually return, ‘for the Father of the Marshalsea.’

‘My good sir,’ he would rejoin, ‘he is infinitely obliged to you.’ But, to the last, the irresolute hand of old would remain in the pocket into which he had slipped the money during two or three turns about the yard, lest the transaction should be too conspicuous to the general body of collegians.

One afternoon he had been doing the honours of the place to a rather large party of collegians, who happened to be going out, when, as he was coming back, he encountered one from the poor side who had been taken in execution for a small sum a week before, had ‘settled’ in the course of that afternoon, and was going out too. The man was a mere Plasterer in his working dress; had his wife with him, and a bundle; and was in high spirits.

‘God bless you, sir,’ he said in passing.

‘And you,’ benignantly returned the Father of the Marshalsea.

They were pretty far divided, going their several ways, when the Plasterer called out, ‘I say!—sir!’ and came back to him.

‘It ain’t much,’ said the Plasterer, putting a little pile of halfpence in his hand, ‘but it’s well meant.’

The Father of the Marshalsea had never been offered tribute in copper yet. His children often had, and with his perfect acquiescence it had gone into the common purse to buy meat that he had eaten, and drink that he had drunk; but fustian splashed with white lime, bestowing halfpence on him, front to front, was new.

‘How dare you!’ he said to the man, and feebly burst into tears.

The Plasterer turned him towards the wall, that his face might not be seen; and the action was so delicate, and the man was so penetrated with repentance, and asked pardon so honestly, that he could make him no less acknowledgment than, ‘I know you meant it kindly. Say no more.’

‘Bless your soul, sir,’ urged the Plasterer, ‘I did indeed. I’d do more by you than the rest of ‘em do, I fancy.’

‘What would you do?’ he asked.

‘I’d come back to see you, after I was let out.’

‘Give me the money again,’ said the other, eagerly, ‘and I’ll keep it, and never spend it. Thank you for it, thank you! I shall see you again?’

‘If I live a week you shall.’

They shook hands and parted. The collegians, assembled in Symposium in the Snuggery that night, marvelled what had happened to their Father; he walked so late in the shadows of the yard, and seemed so downcast.

Il tempo passava, e il chiavistrello iniziava ad avere problemi: il suo petto si gonfiava, le gambe diventavano deboli e gli mancava il respiro. Quel vecchio sgabello di legno, ormai logoro, era “troppo difficile da usare”, si lamentava. Si sedeva su una poltrona con cuscino, e a volte soffriva di attacchi così intensi che non riusciva nemmeno a girare la chiave. Quando questi episodi diventavano troppo frequenti, spesso era il debitore ad aiutarlo a farlo al posto suo.

“Tu ed io,” disse il carceriere, una inverno nevosa, una notte, quando la caserma, con un bel >foco all’interno, era piuttosto piena di gente, “siamo gli abitanti più anziani qui. Io stesso non sono arrivato prima dei sette anni, prima di te. Non durerò a lungo. Quando me ne andrò per sempre da questo posto, tu sarai il ‘Padre’ di Marshalsea.”

Il giorno dopo, la “chiave” che apriva questa “prigione” del mondo se ne andò. Le sue parole furono ricordate e ripetute; in seguito, la tradizione fu tramandata di generazione in generazione. Una generazione a Marshalsea corrispondeva più o meno a tre mesi. Quel vecchio debitore trasandato, dal comportamento gentile e dai capelli bianchi, era quindi considerato il “Padre” di Marshalsea.

E finì per andare fiero di quel titolo. Se qualcuno avesse cercato di usurparlo, avrebbe versato lacrime di rabbia per quell’attentato a privarlo dei suoi diritti. In lui iniziò ad emergere la tendenza ad esagerare il numero degli anni trascorsi lì; si sapeva generalmente che bisognava sottrarre alcuni anni dai suoi calcoli. Era vanitoso, dicevano le generazioni effimere di debitori.

Tutti i nuovi arrivati furono presentati a lui. Era molto attento nel rispettare questa cerimonia. Gli intellettuali svolgevano il compito di presentazione con eccessiva pompa e cortesia, ma non riuscivano facilmente a superare la sua percezione della gravità dell’atto. Li riceveva nella sua umile stanza (disprezzava le presentazioni che avvenivano semplicemente nel cortile, considerandole informali, qualcosa che poteva accadere a chiunque), con un atteggiamento di benevolenza e rispetto. Gli diceva che erano i benvenuti al Marshalsea. Sì, lui era il “Padre” di quel luogo. Così lo chiamava la gente; ed effettivamente lo era, sebbene più di vent’anni di residenza gli dessero diritto a tale titolo. All’inizio sembrava un posto modesto, ma vi si trovava compagnia molto valida, tra persone di ogni tipo, naturalmente, e l’aria era davvero buona.

Diventò una situazione abbastanza comune che, di notte, delle lettere venissero lasciate sotto la sua porta, contenenti mezza corona, due mezze corone, e talvolta, a lunghi intervalli, anche mezzo sovrano, per il “Padre della Marshalsea”. “Con i complimenti di un collega che si congeda”, scrivevano. Lui accettava questi doni come tributi da parte di ammiratori, rivolti a una figura pubblica. A volte questi corrispondenti utilizzavano nomi ironici: il “Mattono”, il “Soffiatore”, l’“Vecchia Uva Rossa”, l’“All’erta”, lo “Snooke”, la “Scopa”, il “Tagliato a Metà”, ma lui riteneva che ciò fosse di cattivo gusto e ne era sempre un po’ offeso.

Nel corso del tempo, questa corrispondenza, ormai segnata dal logorio e che sembrava richiedere uno sforzo da parte degli interlocutori – uno sforzo che, nelle circostanze frenetiche della partenza, molti di loro forse non avrebbero potuto compiere – portò lui ad abituarsi ad andare alla porta ad accomiagnare quegli studenti di certo rilievo. Dopo aver stretto la mano, lo studente in questione a volte si fermava per avvolgere qualcosa in un pezzo di carta, poi tornava indietro chiamando “Ciao!”.

Si guardava intorno sorpreso. “Io?”, diceva, sorridendo.

A quell’ora, il collega sarebbe già stato sveglio con lui, e gli avrebbe detto con tono affettuoso: “Cosa hai dimenticato? Cosa posso fare per te?”

“Ho dimenticato di lasciare questo,” avrebbe detto di solito il collegiale, “per il Padre della Marshalsea.”

“Mio buon signore,” rispondeva lui, “è infinitamente grato a voi.” Ma, fino all’ultimo momento, quella mano indecisa del vecchio rimaneva nella tasca in cui aveva infilato i soldi, dopo averli nascosti più volte nel cortile, per evitare che l’operazione diventasse troppo evidente agli occhi di tutti gli altri studenti.

Un pomeriggio stava intrattenendo un gruppo piuttosto numeroso di studenti che stavano per uscire quando, tornando indietro, incontrò un uomo proveniente dalle classi povere: quest’ultimo era stato giustiziato per una piccola somma di denaro una settimana prima, ma durante quel pomeriggio aveva “trovato pace” e stava anche lui per uscire. L’uomo era soltanto un muratore, vestito con i suoi abiti da lavoro; aveva con sé sua moglie e un fagotto, ed era di ottimo umore.

“Che Dio vi benedica, signore,” disse lui passandogli accanto.

“E tu,” rispose con gentilezza il Padre di Marshalsea.

Erano piuttosto divisi, ognuno andando per la propria strada, quando il muratore gridò: “Dico io, signore!” e tornò da lui.

“Non è molto,” disse il muratore, mettendogli in mano una piccola pila di mezzepence, “ma viene dal buon cuore.”

Al Padre di Marshalsea non era mai stato offerto tributo in rame fino ad ora. I suoi figli, invece, spesso lo ricevevano; e con il suo pieno consenso, quel denaro veniva utilizzato per comprare carne e bevande che lui stesso consumava. Ma offrirgli del tessuto di lino macchiato di calce bianca, donandogli soltanto mezzo penny, era una cosa nuova per lui.

“Come osi!” disse all’uomo, e iniziò a piangere debolmente.

Il muratore lo girò verso il muro, in modo che il suo viso non venisse visto; l’azione fu così delicata, e quell’uomo era così pieno di pentimento e chiedeva scusa con tale sincerità, che non poté fare a meno di riconoscergli: “So che le tue intenzioni erano buone. Non dire altro.”

“Benedica la sua ‘anima, signore,” insistette il muratore, “Lo ho fatto davvero. Credo che per lei farei di più rispetto agli altri.”

“Cosa faresti tu?” chiese.

“Tornerò a trovarti non appena mi lasceranno uscire.”

“Restituiscimi i soldi,” disse l’altro con impazienza, “li terrò e non li spenderò mai. Grazie mille, ti rivedrò?”

“Se io vivo una settimana, anche tu lo farai.”

Si strinsero la mano e si separarono. Gli studenti, riuniti in un simposio nella stanza accogliente quella notte, si chiedevano cosa fosse successo al loro Padre: camminava così tardi, nell’oscurità del cortile, e sembrava così triste.

CHAPTER 7. The Child of the Marshalsea

The baby whose first draught of air had been tinctured with Doctor Haggage’s brandy, was handed down among the generations of collegians, like the tradition of their common parent. In the earlier stages of her existence, she was handed down in a literal and prosaic sense; it being almost a part of the entrance footing of every new collegian to nurse the child who had been born in the college.

‘By rights,’ remarked the turnkey when she was first shown to him, ‘I ought to be her godfather.’

The debtor irresolutely thought of it for a minute, and said, ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t object to really being her godfather?’

‘Oh! I don’t object,’ replied the turnkey, ‘if you don’t.’

Thus it came to pass that she was christened one Sunday afternoon, when the turnkey, being relieved, was off the lock; and that the turnkey went up to the font of Saint George’s Church, and promised and vowed and renounced on her behalf, as he himself related when he came back, ‘like a good ‘un.’

This invested the turnkey with a new proprietary share in the child, over and above his former official one. When she began to walk and talk, he became fond of her; bought a little arm-chair and stood it by the high fender of the lodge fire-place; liked to have her company when he was on the lock; and used to bribe her with cheap toys to come and talk to him. The child, for her part, soon grew so fond of the turnkey that she would come climbing up the lodge-steps of her own accord at all hours of the day. When she fell asleep in the little armchair by the high fender, the turnkey would cover her with his pocket-handkerchief; and when she sat in it dressing and undressing a doll which soon came to be unlike dolls on the other side of the lock, and to bear a horrible family resemblance to Mrs Bangham—he would contemplate her from the top of his stool with exceeding gentleness. Witnessing these things, the collegians would express an opinion that the turnkey, who was a bachelor, had been cut out by nature for a family man. But the turnkey thanked them, and said, ‘No, on the whole it was enough to see other people’s children there.’

At what period of her early life the little creature began to perceive that it was not the habit of all the world to live locked up in narrow yards surrounded by high walls with spikes at the top, would be a difficult question to settle. But she was a very, very little creature indeed, when she had somehow gained the knowledge that her clasp of her father’s hand was to be always loosened at the door which the great key opened; and that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond it, his feet must never cross that line. A pitiful and plaintive look, with which she had begun to regard him when she was still extremely young, was perhaps a part of this discovery.

With a pitiful and plaintive look for everything, indeed, but with something in it for only him that was like protection, this Child of the Marshalsea and the child of the Father of the Marshalsea, sat by her friend the turnkey in the lodge, kept the family room, or wandered about the prison-yard, for the first eight years of her life. With a pitiful and plaintive look for her wayward sister; for her idle brother; for the high blank walls; for the faded crowd they shut in; for the games of the prison children as they whooped and ran, and played at hide-and-seek, and made the iron bars of the inner gateway ‘Home.’

Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too.

‘Thinking of the fields,’ the turnkey said once, after watching her, ‘ain’t you?’

‘Where are they?’ she inquired.

‘Why, they’re—over there, my dear,’ said the turnkey, with a vague flourish of his key. ‘Just about there.’

‘Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?’

The turnkey was discomfited. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Not in general.’

‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, by his own particular request and instruction.

‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups, and there’s daisies, and there’s’—the turnkey hesitated, being short of floral nomenclature—‘there’s dandelions, and all manner of games.’

‘Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?’

‘Prime,’ said the turnkey.

‘Was father ever there?’

‘Hem!’ coughed the turnkey. ‘O yes, he was there, sometimes.’

‘Is he sorry not to be there now?’

‘N-not particular,’ said the turnkey.

‘Nor any of the people?’ she asked, glancing at the listless crowd within. ‘O are you quite sure and certain, Bob?’

At this difficult point of the conversation Bob gave in, and changed the subject to hard-bake: always his last resource when he found his little friend getting him into a political, social, or theological corner. But this was the origin of a series of Sunday excursions that these two curious companions made together. They used to issue from the lodge on alternate Sunday afternoons with great gravity, bound for some meadows or green lanes that had been elaborately appointed by the turnkey in the course of the week; and there she picked grass and flowers to bring home, while he smoked his pipe. Afterwards, there were tea-gardens, shrimps, ale, and other delicacies; and then they would come back hand in hand, unless she was more than usually tired, and had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

In those early days, the turnkey first began profoundly to consider a question which cost him so much mental labour, that it remained undetermined on the day of his death. He decided to will and bequeath his little property of savings to his godchild, and the point arose how could it be so ‘tied up’ as that only she should have the benefit of it? His experience on the lock gave him such an acute perception of the enormous difficulty of ‘tying up’ money with any approach to tightness, and contrariwise of the remarkable ease with which it got loose, that through a series of years he regularly propounded this knotty point to every new insolvent agent and other professional gentleman who passed in and out.

CAPITOLO 7. Il bambino di Marshalsea

Il bambino il cui primo respiro fu contaminato dal brandy del Dottor Hagage, fu tramandato di generazione in generazione tra gli studenti dell’università, come una tradizione legata al loro “genitore comune”. Nei primi stadi della sua esistenza, questa tradizione veniva mantenuta in modo letterale e banale: quasi come un rito di benvenuto per ogni nuovo studente che arrivava a prendersi cura del bambino nato nell’università stessa.

“Per diritto,” osservò la guardiana quando lei le fu presentata per la prima volta, “dovrei essere il suo padrino.”

Il debitore ci pensò per un attimo, poi disse: “Forse non vi opporreste se diventassi davvero il suo padrino, ”

“Ah! Non ho obiezioni,” rispose il custode, “se nemmeno voi le avete.”

Così accadde che fu battezzata un pomeriggio di domenica, quando il custode, essendo stato sostituito, non era più di guardia; e il custode andò fino all’altare della chiesa di San Giorgio, promise, giurò e rinunciò a qualcosa in suo nome, come lui stesso raccontò al suo ritorno, “come un bravo uomo”.

Questo regalo conferì al custode una nuova quota azionaria nella proprietà del bambino, in aggiunta a quella ufficiale che già possedeva. Quando il bambino iniziò a camminare e parlare, il custode prese ad affezionarsi a lui; comprò un piccolo divanetto e lo posizionò accanto al camino della capanna. Gli piaceva la sua compagnia mentre era di servizio alla serratura, e spesso la ricompensava con giocattoli economici perché venisse a parlare con lui. Il bambino, dal canto suo, prese molto affetto per il custode al punto che iniziò a salire da solo i gradini della capanna in qualsiasi momento della giornata. Quando si addormentava nel piccolo divanetto accanto al camino, il custode la copriva con il fazzoletto di tasca; e quando lei sedeva lì a vestire e spogliare una bambola che, col tempo, assunse un aspetto completamente diverso da quello delle altre bambole e iniziò persino a somigliare in modo inquietante alla signora Bangham, il custode la osservava con estrema tenerezza dal suo sgabello. Vedendo queste cose, i colleghi del custode conclusero che lui, essendo un uomo single, fosse stato “creato dalla natura” per diventare un bravo padre di famiglia. Ma il custode ringraziò tutti e disse: “No, in realtà è già sufficiente vedere i bambini degli altri lì.”

In quale periodo della sua giovane vita quella piccola creatura abbia iniziato a rendersi conto che non era abitudine comune vivere rinchiusa in cortili angusti circondati da muri alti con spuntoni sulla sommità, è una domanda difficile da rispondere. Ma era davvero una piccolissima creatura quando, in qualche modo, capì che la sua mano doveva sempre essere lasciata andare alla porta che si apriva con quella grande chiave; e che mentre i suoi passi leggeri potevano liberamente oltrepassarla, i suoi piedi non dovevano mai superare quel confine. Quello sguardo triste e supplichevole che iniziò a rivolgere a lui quando era ancora molto piccola, forse faceva parte di questa scoperta.

Con uno sguardo pietoso e lamentoso verso tutto, ma con qualcosa in esso che, soltanto per lui, sembrava una sorta di protezione, questo bambino del Marshalsea, figlio del padre del Marshalsea, trascorse i primi otto anni della sua vita seduto accanto al suo amico, il carceriere, nella guardiola; curava la stanza familiare o vagabondava per il cortile della prigione. Con uno sguardo pietoso e lamentoso cercava sua sorella ribelle, suo fratello indolente, quei muri alti e vuoti, quella folla sbiadita che erano rinchiusi lì dentro, i giochi dei bambini della prigione, mentre gridavano, correvano e giocavano a nascondino, trasformando le sbarre di ferro del cancello interno in un “casa”.

Con lo sguardo malinconico e pieno di interrogativi, sedeva in mezzo al caldo dell’estate accanto alla balaustra della capanna, guardando il cielo attraverso la finestra sbarrata; quando poi distoglieva lo sguardo, strisce di luce apparivano tra lei e il suo amico, e lei riusciva a vederlo anche attraverso quelle sbarre.

“Pensando ai campi, ”, disse una volta il custode, dopo averla osservata,
“non è vero?”

“Dove sono?” chiese lei.

“Ah, sono laggiù, cara mia,” disse il guardiano, facendo un vago gesto con la sua chiave. “Proprio lì.”

“Qualcuno le apre e le chiude? Sono chiuse a chiave?”

Il portiere di notte era a disagio. “Beh,” disse, “non in generale.”

“Sono molto belle, Bob?” Gli chiamava Bob su sua specifica richiesta e indicazione.

“Adorabile, pieno di fiori. Ci sono margherite, ci sono giglioli, e poi, ” il guardiano esitò, a corto di termini botanici appropriati “, ci sono anche i denti di leone, e ogni sorta di fiore.”

“È davvero piacevole trovarsi lì, Bob?”

“Primo,” disse il carceriere.

“Mai è stato presente un padre?”

“Ahem!”, tossì il carceriere. “Sì, a volte c’era davvero.”

“Mi dispiace che non sia qui adesso, ”

“N-no particolare,” disse il custode.

“Nessuno degli altri?” chiese, lanciando uno sguardo alla folla apatica all’interno. “O sei davvero sicuro, Bob?”

In questo momento difficile della conversazione, Bob cedette e cambiò argomento: era sempre la sua ultima risorsa quando vedeva il suo piccolo amico trovarsi in una situazione imbarazzante, politica, sociale o teologica. Ma fu proprio da questa occasione che nacque una serie di escursioni domenicali che questi due curiosi compagni facevano insieme. Ogni secondo pomeriggio di domenica partivano con grande serietà dalla loro casa, diretti verso prati o sentieri verdi che il custode aveva preparato con cura durante la settimana; lì lei raccoglieva erba e fiori da portare a casa, mentre lui fumava la sua pipa. Dopo, li aspettavano giardini di tè, gamberetti, birra e altre delizie. Poi tornavano a casa mano nella mano, a meno che lei non fosse particolarmente stanca e si addormentasse sulle sue spalle.

In quei primi giorni, il direttore della prigione iniziò seriamente a riflettere su una questione che richiedeva tanto impegno mentale da non essere mai risolta nemmeno al giorno della sua morte. Decise di lasciare in eredità la propria piccola somma di risparmi al proprio padrino, ma sorse il problema di come potesse “legare” quei soldi in modo che solo lui ne potesse beneficiare. La sua esperienza nel campo della gestione delle prigioni gli permise di comprendere appieno l’enorme difficoltà di “bloccare” i fondi in modo efficace, e al contempo notò con quanta facilità questi potessero essere dispersi. Per molti anni, sollevò questa questione a ogni nuovo agente insolvente o altro professionista che gli capitava di incontrare.

‘Supposing,’ he would say, stating the case with his key on the professional gentleman’s waistcoat; ‘supposing a man wanted to leave his property to a young female, and wanted to tie it up so that nobody else should ever be able to make a grab at it; how would you tie up that property?’

‘Settle it strictly on herself,’ the professional gentleman would complacently answer.

‘But look here,’ quoth the turnkey. ‘Supposing she had, say a brother, say a father, say a husband, who would be likely to make a grab at that property when she came into it—how about that?’

‘It would be settled on herself, and they would have no more legal claim on it than you,’ would be the professional answer.

‘Stop a bit,’ said the turnkey. ‘Supposing she was tender-hearted, and they came over her. Where’s your law for tying it up then?’

The deepest character whom the turnkey sounded, was unable to produce his law for tying such a knot as that. So, the turnkey thought about it all his life, and died intestate after all.

But that was long afterwards, when his god-daughter was past sixteen. The first half of that space of her life was only just accomplished, when her pitiful and plaintive look saw her father a widower. From that time the protection that her wondering eyes had expressed towards him, became embodied in action, and the Child of the Marshalsea took upon herself a new relation towards the Father.

At first, such a baby could do little more than sit with him, deserting her livelier place by the high fender, and quietly watching him. But this made her so far necessary to him that he became accustomed to her, and began to be sensible of missing her when she was not there. Through this little gate, she passed out of childhood into the care-laden world.

What her pitiful look saw, at that early time, in her father, in her sister, in her brother, in the jail; how much, or how little of the wretched truth it pleased God to make visible to her; lies hidden with many mysteries. It is enough that she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something, different and laborious, for the sake of the rest. Inspired? Yes. Shall we speak of the inspiration of a poet or a priest, and not of the heart impelled by love and self-devotion to the lowliest work in the lowliest way of life!

With no earthly friend to help her, or so much as to see her, but the one so strangely assorted; with no knowledge even of the common daily tone and habits of the common members of the free community who are not shut up in prisons; born and bred in a social condition, false even with a reference to the falsest condition outside the walls; drinking from infancy of a well whose waters had their own peculiar stain, their own unwholesome and unnatural taste; the Child of the Marshalsea began her womanly life.

No matter through what mistakes and discouragements, what ridicule (not unkindly meant, but deeply felt) of her youth and little figure, what humble consciousness of her own babyhood and want of strength, even in the matter of lifting and carrying; through how much weariness and hopelessness, and how many secret tears; she drudged on, until recognised as useful, even indispensable. That time came. She took the place of eldest of the three, in all things but precedence; was the head of the fallen family; and bore, in her own heart, its anxieties and shames.

At thirteen, she could read and keep accounts, that is, could put down in words and figures how much the bare necessaries that they wanted would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with. She had been, by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister and brother sent to day-schools by desultory starts, during three or four years. There was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knew well—no one better—that a man so broken as to be the Father of the Marshalsea, could be no father to his own children.

To these scanty means of improvement, she added another of her own contriving. Once, among the heterogeneous crowd of inmates there appeared a dancing-master. Her sister had a great desire to learn the dancing-master’s art, and seemed to have a taste that way. At thirteen years old, the Child of the Marshalsea presented herself to the dancing-master, with a little bag in her hand, and preferred her humble petition.

‘If you please, I was born here, sir.’

‘Oh! You are the young lady, are you?’ said the dancing-master, surveying the small figure and uplifted face.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what can I do for you?’ said the dancing-master.

‘Nothing for me, sir, thank you,’ anxiously undrawing the strings of the little bag; ‘but if, while you stay here, you could be so kind as to teach my sister cheap—’

‘My child, I’ll teach her for nothing,’ said the dancing-master, shutting up the bag. He was as good-natured a dancing-master as ever danced to the Insolvent Court, and he kept his word. The sister was so apt a pupil, and the dancing-master had such abundant leisure to bestow upon her (for it took him a matter of ten weeks to set to his creditors, lead off, turn the Commissioners, and right and left back to his professional pursuits), that wonderful progress was made. Indeed the dancing-master was so proud of it, and so wishful to display it before he left to a few select friends among the collegians, that at six o’clock on a certain fine morning, a minuet de la cour came off in the yard—the college-rooms being of too confined proportions for the purpose—in which so much ground was covered, and the steps were so conscientiously executed, that the dancing-master, having to play the kit besides, was thoroughly blown.

The success of this beginning, which led to the dancing-master’s continuing his instruction after his release, emboldened the poor child to try again. She watched and waited months for a seamstress. In the fulness of time a milliner came in, and to her she repaired on her own behalf.

“Supponiamo,” diceva lui, illustrando il caso con la sua chiave appesa al gilet del gentiluomo professionista; “supponiamo che un uomo voglia lasciare la propria proprietà a una giovane donna e voglia assicurarsi che nessun altro possa mai prenderla in considerazione per ottenerla; come farebbe a proteggere quella proprietà?”

“Decida lei stessa in modo definitivo,” rispondeva sempre con soddisfazione quel gentiluomo professionista.

“Ma guardate qui,” disse il carceriere. “Supponiamo che avesse, diciamo, un fratello, un padre, un marito. Chi di loro potrebbe cercare di prendersi quella proprietà non appena lei l’avesse ereditata? Che ne dite?”

“La questione verrebbe risolta a suo favore, e loro non avrebbero alcun diritto legale su di essa, proprio come te,” sarebbe la risposta professionale.

“Fermati un attimo,” disse il carceriere. “Supponiamo che lei abbia un cuore tenero e che loro approfittino di questo. Allora dove sta la tua legge per impedirlo?”

Il personaggio più saggio che il carceriere avesse mai incontrato non fu in grado di fornire una spiegazione su come si potesse fare un nodo del genere. Così, il carceriere ci pensò per tutta la vita, ma alla fine morì senza aver lasciato testamento.

Ma ciò accadde molto tempo dopo, quando sua nipote aveva già superato i sedici anni. La prima metà di quella fase della sua vita era appena iniziata; quando il suo sguardo triste e pieno di dolore rese suo padre un vedovo, l’affetto che i suoi occhi avevano sempre dimostrato per lui si concretizzò in azioni concrete. Da quel momento in poi, la bambina della Marshalsea assunse nei confronti di suo padre un nuovo ruolo e una nuova relazione.

All’inizio, un bambino del genere poteva fare poco più che stare seduto accanto a lui, abbandonando il posto più vivace vicino al parafango e osservandolo in silenzio. Ma questo rendeva la sua presenza estremamente necessaria per lui; così si abituò alla sua compagnia e iniziò a sentirne la mancanza quando lei non c’era. Attraverso questa piccola porta, uscì dall’infanzia ed entrò nel mondo pieno di cure e responsabilità.

Quello che il suo sguardo pieno di compassione vide, a quell’ora così presto del mattino, nel suo padre, nella sua sorella, nel suo fratello, e in prigione; quanto, o quanto poco della terribile verità Dio volle farle vedere. Misteri nascosti dietro molte cose. Basta che lei sia stata ispirata a diventare qualcosa che non era come gli altri, e che abbia scelto quel cammino, diverso e faticoso, per il bene degli altri. Ispirata? Sì. Dovremmo parlare dell’ispirazione di un poeta o di un prete, o forse dell’animo spinto dall’amore e dal dedicamento a sé stesso verso il lavoro più umile, nel modo di vivere più semplice?

Senza alcun amico al mondo che potesse aiutarla, o anche solo vederla, se non quello stranamente assortito a lei; senza nemmeno conoscere le abitudini e i modi di vita quotidiani delle persone libere, che non sono chiuse in prigione; nata e cresciuta in una condizione sociale falsa, persino rispetto alle condizioni più false al di fuori di quelle mura; bevendo fin dall’infanzia da una fonte le cui acque avevano un colore particolare, un sapore nocivo e innaturale. Quella bambina del Marshalsea iniziò la sua vita di donna.

Nonostante tutti gli errori e le delusioni, nonostante l’ironia (non intesa in modo cattivo, ma profondamente sentita) riguardo alla sua giovinezza e alla sua piccola statura, nonostante la consapevolezza umile della propria immaturità e della mancanza di forza, persino nel sollevare e trasportare oggetti; nonostante tanta stanchezza, disperazione e molte lacrime segrete, continuò a lavorare sodo, fino a quando non fu riconosciuta come utile, anzi indispensabile. Quel momento arrivò. Prese il posto della più anziana delle tre sorelle, in tutto tranne che per la precedenza; divenne il capo di quella famiglia caduta in disgrazia; e nel proprio cuore portò con sé le sue angosie e i suoi rimorsi.

A tredici anni, sapeva già leggere e tenere i conti; in altre parole, riusciva a calcolare con precisione quanto costassero le cose di prima necessità che desideravano acquistare, e quanto denaro avessero a disposizione per farlo. Per poche settimane alla volta, aveva frequentato una scuola serale nei dintorni; inoltre, durante tre o quattro anni, aveva fatto iscrivere sia sua sorella che suo fratello a scuole diurne. A casa non ricevevano alcuna istruzione; ma lei sapeva molto bene – meglio di chiunque altro – che un uomo ridotto in condizioni così disperate da diventare il “Padre” della Marshalsea non poteva certo essere un buon padre per i propri figli.

A questi scarsi mezzi per migliorare la situazione, lei ne aggiunse un altro di sua invenzione. Una volta, tra la variegata folla dei detenuti, comparve un maestro di danza. Sua sorella aveva un grande desiderio di imparare l’arte di quel maestro e sembrava davvero avere una predisposizione in quella direzione. All’età di tredici anni, la bambina di Marshalsea si presentò al maestro di danza, con un piccolo sacchetto in mano, e presentò la sua umile richiesta.

“Se vuole, signore, sono nato qui.”

“Oh! Sei tu la giovane signorina, vero?” disse l’insegnante di danza, osservando quella piccola figura e quel viso sollevato verso di lui.

“Sì, signore.”

“E cosa posso fare per voi?” disse il maestro di danza.

“Niente per me, signore, grazie,” disse ansiosamente, tirando indietro le stringhe della piccola borsa; “ma se, mentre lei è qui, potesse avere la gentilezza di insegnare a mia sorella come fare cose economiche, ”

“La mia bambina, le insegnerò senza chiedere nulla in cambio,” disse il maestro di danza, chiudendo la borsa. Era davvero un maestro di danza dal buon carattere: aveva sempre ballato alle feste della Corte dei debitori insolventi e mantenne la sua promessa. La sorella era una allieva molto diligente, e il maestro aveva tanto tempo libero da dedicarle (infatti gli ci vollero circa dieci settimane per sistemare le sue questioni finanziarie con i creditori, poi poté tornare alle sue attività professionali), quindi i progressi furono davvero notevoli. Il maestro ne era così orgoglioso e desiderava tanto mostrarli ad alcuni amici selezionati tra gli studenti, che una bella mattina alle sei, nel cortile dell’università – poiché le aule erano troppo anguste per quel tipo di esibizione – fu eseguito un minuetto de la cour. Le mosse vennero eseguite con estrema precisione, e il maestro, che doveva anche suonare l’orchestra, ne rimase completamente esausto.

Il successo di questo inizio, che permise al maestro di danza di continuare le sue lezioni dopo essere stato rilasciato, incoraggiò la povera bambina a provare di nuovo. Aspettò per mesi l’arrivo di una sarta; infine, un modista entrò nel negozio e lei poté farsi riparare i capelli da lui stesso.

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ she said, looking timidly round the door of the milliner, whom she found in tears and in bed: ‘but I was born here.’

Everybody seemed to hear of her as soon as they arrived; for the milliner sat up in bed, drying her eyes, and said, just as the dancing-master had said:

‘Oh! You are the child, are you?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I am sorry I haven’t got anything for you,’ said the milliner, shaking her head.

‘It’s not that, ma’am. If you please I want to learn needle-work.’

‘Why should you do that,’ returned the milliner, ‘with me before you? It has not done me much good.’

‘Nothing—whatever it is—seems to have done anybody much good who comes here,’ she returned in all simplicity; ‘but I want to learn just the same.’

‘I am afraid you are so weak, you see,’ the milliner objected.

‘I don’t think I am weak, ma’am.’

‘And you are so very, very little, you see,’ the milliner objected.

‘Yes, I am afraid I am very little indeed,’ returned the Child of the Marshalsea; and so began to sob over that unfortunate defect of hers, which came so often in her way. The milliner—who was not morose or hard-hearted, only newly insolvent—was touched, took her in hand with goodwill, found her the most patient and earnest of pupils, and made her a cunning work-woman in course of time.

In course of time, and in the very self-same course of time, the Father of the Marshalsea gradually developed a new flower of character. The more Fatherly he grew as to the Marshalsea, and the more dependent he became on the contributions of his changing family, the greater stand he made by his forlorn gentility. With the same hand that he pocketed a collegian’s half-crown half an hour ago, he would wipe away the tears that streamed over his cheeks if any reference were made to his daughters’ earning their bread. So, over and above other daily cares, the Child of the Marshalsea had always upon her the care of preserving the genteel fiction that they were all idle beggars together.

The sister became a dancer. There was a ruined uncle in the family group—ruined by his brother, the Father of the Marshalsea, and knowing no more how than his ruiner did, but accepting the fact as an inevitable certainty—on whom her protection devolved. Naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined at the time when that calamity fell upon him, further than that he left off washing himself when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any more. He had been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days; and when he fell with his brother, resorted for support to playing a clarionet as dirty as himself in a small Theatre Orchestra. It was the theatre in which his niece became a dancer; he had been a fixture there a long time when she took her poor station in it; and he accepted the task of serving as her escort and guardian, just as he would have accepted an illness, a legacy, a feast, starvation—anything but soap.

To enable this girl to earn her few weekly shillings, it was necessary for the Child of the Marshalsea to go through an elaborate form with the Father.

‘Fanny is not going to live with us just now, father. She will be here a good deal in the day, but she is going to live outside with uncle.’

‘You surprise me. Why?’

‘I think uncle wants a companion, father. He should be attended to, and looked after.’

‘A companion? He passes much of his time here. And you attend to him and look after him, Amy, a great deal more than ever your sister will. You all go out so much; you all go out so much.’

This was to keep up the ceremony and pretence of his having no idea that Amy herself went out by the day to work.

‘But we are always glad to come home, father; now, are we not? And as to Fanny, perhaps besides keeping uncle company and taking care of him, it may be as well for her not quite to live here, always. She was not born here as I was, you know, father.’

‘Well, Amy, well. I don’t quite follow you, but it’s natural I suppose that Fanny should prefer to be outside, and even that you often should, too. So, you and Fanny and your uncle, my dear, shall have your own way. Good, good. I’ll not meddle; don’t mind me.’

To get her brother out of the prison; out of the succession to Mrs Bangham in executing commissions, and out of the slang interchange with very doubtful companions consequent upon both; was her hardest task. At eighteen he would have dragged on from hand to mouth, from hour to hour, from penny to penny, until eighty. Nobody got into the prison from whom he derived anything useful or good, and she could find no patron for him but her old friend and godfather.

‘Dear Bob,’ said she, ‘what is to become of poor Tip?’ His name was Edward, and Ted had been transformed into Tip, within the walls.

The turnkey had strong private opinions as to what would become of poor Tip, and had even gone so far with the view of averting their fulfilment, as to sound Tip in reference to the expediency of running away and going to serve his country. But Tip had thanked him, and said he didn’t seem to care for his country.

‘Well, my dear,’ said the turnkey, ‘something ought to be done with him. Suppose I try and get him into the law?’

‘That would be so good of you, Bob!’

The turnkey had now two points to put to the professional gentlemen as they passed in and out. He put this second one so perseveringly that a stool and twelve shillings a week were at last found for Tip in the office of an attorney in a great National Palladium called the Palace Court; at that time one of a considerable list of everlasting bulwarks to the dignity and safety of Albion, whose places know them no more.

Tip languished in Clifford’s Inns for six months, and at the expiration of that term sauntered back one evening with his hands in his pockets, and incidentally observed to his sister that he was not going back again.

“Perdonatemi, signora,” disse lei, guardandosi intorno timidamente davanti alla porta della modista, che trovò in lacrime e a letto: “ma sono nata qui.”

Sembrava che tutti avessero sentito parlare di lei non appena erano arrivati; perché la modista si alzò a sedere sul letto, si asciugò gli occhi e disse, proprio come aveva detto l’insegnante di danza:

“Oh! Tu sei il bambino, vero?”

‘Sì, signora.’

“Mi dispiace molto di non avere nulla per te,” disse la modista scuotendo la testa.

“Non è quello, signora. Se possibile, vorrei imparare a cucire.”

“Perché dovresti farlo proprio con me?” rispose la modista. “Non mi ha portato a molto vantaggio.”

“Niente, qualunque cosa sia, sembra non portare grandi benefici a chi viene qui,” rispose lei con semplicità; “ma voglio lo stesso impararlo anch’io.”

“Temo che tu sia troppo debole, vedi,” obiettò la modista.

“Non credo di essere debole, signora.”

“E poi sei così piccolo, davvero molto piccolo,” obiettò la modista.

“Sì, temo di essere davvero molto inadeguata,” rispose la bambina di Marshalsea; e così iniziò a piangere per quel sfortunato difetto che le ostacolava sempre la strada. La modista – che non era né malinconica né crudele, ma semplicemente appena diventata insolvente – ne fu commossa, prese a occuparsi di lei con buona volontà, vide in lei una allieva molto paziente e diligente, e col tempo riuscì a farne una abile lavoratrice.

Nel corso del tempo, e proprio nello stesso flusso di quel tempo, la “Figlia” della Marshalsea sviluppò gradualmente un nuovo tratto del suo carattere. Più diventava “paterna” nei confronti della Marshalsea, più dipendeva dalle contribuzioni della sua famiglia in continua evoluzione; e proprio grazie a questa sua nobiltà malinconica riusciva ad affermarsi con maggiore forza. Con la stessa mano che mezz’ora prima si appropriava di metà della “corona” di un collegiale, asciugava le lacrime che scorrevano sulle sue guance ogni volta che veniva menzionato il fatto che le sue figlie dovevano guadagnarsi da vivere. Così, oltre alle altre preoccupazioni quotidiane, la “Figlia” della Marshalsea si impegnava sempre a mantenere quell’illusione gentilizia secondo cui tutti loro fossero semplicemente dei mendicanti oziosi.

La sorella divenne ballerina. C’era un zio nella famiglia che era stato rovinato dal fratello, il padre di quel certo personaggio influente; non sapeva nulla più di quanto sapesse suo fratello, ma accettava quella realtà come qualcosa di inevitabile. Su di lui ricadeva quindi il compito di proteggerla. Naturalmente, essendo un uomo semplice e in pensione, non mostrò alcun particolare senso di disperazione quando quell’infelicità lo colpì; anzi, smise semplicemente di lavarsi dopo che gli fu comunicata la notizia, e da allora non si concesse più quel lusso. Nei suoi giorni migliori era stato un dilettante musicale piuttosto indifferente; quando cadde insieme a suo fratello, cercò sostegno suonando il clarinetto in un piccolo orchestra teatrale. Era lo stesso teatro in cui sua nipote divenne ballerina; lui vi era stato spesso da molto tempo, quando lei iniziò la sua carriera lì. E accettò senza esitazione il compito di farle da accompagnatore e tutore. Proprio come avrebbe accettato qualsiasi altra cosa, tranne il sapone.

Per permettere a questa ragazza di guadagnare quei pochi scellini settimanali, era necessario che il bambino della Marshalsea seguisse una procedura complicata insieme al padre.

“Fanny non starà con noi adesso, padre. Sarà qui durante il giorno, ma andrà a vivere fuori con lo zio.”

“Mi sorprendi. Perché?”

“Penso che zio abbia bisogno di qualcuno che lo accompagni, padre. Dovrebbe essere curato e preso in considerazione.”

“Un compagno? Trascorre gran parte del suo tempo qui. E tu ti prendi cura di lui, Amy, molto più di quanto possa mai fare tua sorella. Voi tutte uscite spesso, molto spesso.”

Questo era necessario per mantenere la cerimonia e l’apparenza che lui non sapesse affatto che Amy stessa usciva di giorno per lavorare.

“Ma siamo sempre felici di tornare a casa, padre; non è vero? E per quanto riguarda Fanny, forse, oltre a tenere compagnia allo zio e prendersi cura di lui, potrebbe essere anche meglio per lei non vivere qui tutto il tempo. Lei non è nata qui come me, lo sai, padre.”

‘Beh, Amy, capisco. Non ti seguo del tutto, ma è naturale che Fanny preferisca stare all’aperto, e anche che tu lo faccia spesso. Quindi, tu, Fanny e vostro zio potrete fare come volete. Bene, bene. Non mi intrometterò; non badare a me.’

Far uscire suo fratello dalla prigione, liberarlo dalla responsabilità di eseguire commissioni per la signora Bangham e farlo smettere di frequentare compagnie molto dubbiose. Questo era il compito più arduo per lei. A diciotto anni, suo fratello avrebbe continuato a vivere alla giornata, sprecando ogni singolo penny, fino a raggiungere gli ottanta anni. Nessuno che finisse nella prigione poteva offrirgli nulla di utile o positivo; inoltre, lei non riusciva a trovare nessun protettore per lui, se non il suo vecchio amico e padrino.

“Caro Bob,” disse lei, “che fine farà povero Tip?” Il suo vero nome era Edward, ma all’interno di quelle mura Ted era stato trasformato in Tip.

Il custode aveva delle opinioni personali molto ferme su ciò che sarebbe accaduto al povero Tip; addirittura era arrivato al punto di suggerirgli, nel tentativo di impedire che tali eventi si realizzassero, di fuggire e andare a servire il proprio paese. Ma Tip lo ringraziò, dicendo che a lui non sembrava importasse nulla del suo paese.

“Beh, caro mio,” disse il guardiano, “bisogna fare qualcosa con lui. Forse potrei provare a farlo finire in tribunale?”

“Sarebbe davvero gentile da parte tua, Bob!”

Ora il portiere aveva due opportunità per “aiutare” quei gentiluomini professionisti ogni volta che entravano o uscivano. Usò con tale insistenza questa seconda opportunità che, alla fine, riuscì a trovare un lavoro per Tip: uno sgabello e dodici scellini a settimana, presso l’ufficio di un avvocato in un grande edificio chiamato Palace Court. A quel tempo, Tip rappresentava uno dei tanti elementi che contribuivano alla dignità e alla sicurezza di Albion, ma oggi quei posti non esistono più.

Tip rimase rinchiuso nelle locande di Clifford per sei mesi; al termine di quel periodo, una sera tornò indietro con le mani in tasca e, incidentalmente, disse a sua sorella che non avrebbe più ripreso a vivere lì.

‘Not going back again?’ said the poor little anxious Child of the Marshalsea, always calculating and planning for Tip, in the front rank of her charges.

‘I am so tired of it,’ said Tip, ‘that I have cut it.’

Tip tired of everything. With intervals of Marshalsea lounging, and Mrs Bangham succession, his small second mother, aided by her trusty friend, got him into a warehouse, into a market garden, into the hop trade, into the law again, into an auctioneers, into a brewery, into a stockbroker’s, into the law again, into a coach office, into a waggon office, into the law again, into a general dealer’s, into a distillery, into the law again, into a wool house, into a dry goods house, into the Billingsgate trade, into the foreign fruit trade, and into the docks. But whatever Tip went into, he came out of tired, announcing that he had cut it. Wherever he went, this foredoomed Tip appeared to take the prison walls with him, and to set them up in such trade or calling; and to prowl about within their narrow limits in the old slip-shod, purposeless, down-at-heel way; until the real immovable Marshalsea walls asserted their fascination over him, and brought him back.

Nevertheless, the brave little creature did so fix her heart on her brother’s rescue, that while he was ringing out these doleful changes, she pinched and scraped enough together to ship him for Canada. When he was tired of nothing to do, and disposed in its turn to cut even that, he graciously consented to go to Canada. And there was grief in her bosom over parting with him, and joy in the hope of his being put in a straight course at last.

‘God bless you, dear Tip. Don’t be too proud to come and see us, when you have made your fortune.’

‘All right!’ said Tip, and went.

But not all the way to Canada; in fact, not further than Liverpool. After making the voyage to that port from London, he found himself so strongly impelled to cut the vessel, that he resolved to walk back again. Carrying out which intention, he presented himself before her at the expiration of a month, in rags, without shoes, and much more tired than ever.

At length, after another interval of successorship to Mrs Bangham, he found a pursuit for himself, and announced it.

‘Amy, I have got a situation.’

‘Have you really and truly, Tip?’

‘All right. I shall do now. You needn’t look anxious about me any more, old girl.’

‘What is it, Tip?’

‘Why, you know Slingo by sight?’

‘Not the man they call the dealer?’

‘That’s the chap. He’ll be out on Monday, and he’s going to give me a berth.’

‘What is he a dealer in, Tip?’

‘Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy.’

She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him once. A whisper passed among the elder collegians that he had been seen at a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for massive silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in bank notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at work—standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above the wall—when he opened the door and walked in.

She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any questions. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.

‘I am afraid, Amy, you’ll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!’

‘I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?’

‘Why—yes.’

‘Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip.’

‘Ah! But that’s not the worst of it.’

‘Not the worst of it?’

‘Don’t look so startled. No, Amy, not the worst of it. I have come back, you see; but—don’t look so startled—I have come back in what I may call a new way. I am off the volunteer list altogether. I am in now, as one of the regulars.’

‘Oh! Don’t say you are a prisoner, Tip! Don’t, don’t!’

‘Well, I don’t want to say it,’ he returned in a reluctant tone; ‘but if you can’t understand me without my saying it, what am I to do? I am in for forty pound odd.’

For the first time in all those years, she sunk under her cares. She cried, with her clasped hands lifted above her head, that it would kill their father if he ever knew it; and fell down at Tip’s graceless feet.

It was easier for Tip to bring her to her senses than for her to bring him to understand that the Father of the Marshalsea would be beside himself if he knew the truth. The thing was incomprehensible to Tip, and altogether a fanciful notion. He yielded to it in that light only, when he submitted to her entreaties, backed by those of his uncle and sister. There was no want of precedent for his return; it was accounted for to the father in the usual way; and the collegians, with a better comprehension of the pious fraud than Tip, supported it loyally.

This was the life, and this the history, of the child of the Marshalsea at twenty-two. With a still surviving attachment to the one miserable yard and block of houses as her birthplace and home, she passed to and fro in it shrinkingly now, with a womanly consciousness that she was pointed out to every one. Since she had begun to work beyond the walls, she had found it necessary to conceal where she lived, and to come and go as secretly as she could, between the free city and the iron gates, outside of which she had never slept in her life. Her original timidity had grown with this concealment, and her light step and her little figure shunned the thronged streets while they passed along them.

Worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all things else. Innocent, in the mist through which she saw her father, and the prison, and the turbid living river that flowed through it and flowed on.

This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; now going home upon a dull September evening, observed at a distance by Arthur Clennam. This was the life, and this the history, of Little Dorrit; turning at the end of London Bridge, recrossing it, going back again, passing on to Saint George’s Church, turning back suddenly once more, and flitting in at the open outer gate and little court-yard of the Marshalsea.

“Non tornerai più indietro?” disse la povera e ansiosa Bambina di Marshalsea, che sempre calcolava e pianificava per Tip, trovandosi sempre tra le prime nel prendersi cura delle sue responsabilità.

“Ne sono così stanco,” disse Tip, “che l’ho tagliato via.”

Tip era stanco di tutto. Tra periodi trascorsi a rilassarsi a Marshalsea e le vicende legate alla successione della signora Bangham, la sua “seconda madre”, con l’aiuto della sua fedele amica, lo coinvolse in vari affari: un magazzino, un mercato ortofrutticolo, il commercio dell’orzo per la produzione di birra, il mondo legale ancora una volta, l’attività di auctioneer, una birreria, una casa di intermediazione finanziaria. E poi di nuovo il settore legale, un ufficio di noleggio di carrozze, un negozio di carri, ancora il settore legale. Ma in ogni ambito in cui si cimentava, Tip ne usciva sempre stanco, dichiarando di averne avuto abbastanza. Ovunque andasse, sembrava che quelle mura “ineluttabili” di Marshalsea lo seguissero ovunque, imponendogli quel tipo di attività o quella professione. E lui continuava a vagabondare entro quei confini ristretti, con il suo solito stile disordinato e senza scopo. Fino a quando le vere mura di Marshalsea non esercitavano su di lui un fascino irresistibile, riportandolo indietro.

Tuttavia, quella coraggiosa creaturina si concentrò così tanto sul salvataggio di suo fratello, che quando questi suonava quelle tristi melodie, lei riuscì a racimolare abbastanza denaro per farlo partire per il Canada. Quando lui, stanco di non avere nulla da fare e disposto persino a rinunciare anche a quello, acconsentì gentilmente ad andare in Canada. Nel suo cuore c’era dolore all’idea di separarsi da lui, ma anche gioia nella speranza che finalmente potesse imboccare la retta strada.

“Dio ti benedica, caro Tip. Non essere troppo orgoglioso per venire a trovarci, quando avrai fatto fortuna.”

“Va bene!” disse Tip, e se ne andò.

Ma non fino in Canada; anzi, nemmeno oltre Liverpool. Dopo aver fatto il viaggio fino a quel porto da Londra, si sentì così spinto dal desiderio di abbandonare la nave che decise di tornare indietro a piedi. Realizzando questo proposito, si presentò davanti a lei dopo un mese: in stracci, senza scarpe e molto più stanco che mai.

Finalmente, dopo un altro periodo di successione alla signora Bangham, trovò qualcosa che lo appassionasse e ne annunciò l’intenzione.

“Amy, ho un problema.”

“Sei davvero sicuro, Tip?”

“Bene, ora lo farò. Non c’è più bisogno che ti preoccupi per me, vecchia mia.”

“Che cos’è, Tip?”

“Ma sai riconoscere Slingo a prima vista?”

“Non è l’uomo che chiamano il ‘dealer’?”

“Ecco quel tizio. Uscirà lunedì e mi troverà un posto dove dormire.”

“Di cosa si occupa come commerciante, Tip?”

“Cavalli. Va bene, ora lo farò, Amy.”

Per mesi dopo, non riuscì più a trovarlo e ricevette sue notizie solo una volta. Tra gli studenti più anziani circolò la voce che lo avessero visto partecipare a un’asta simulata a Moorfields: fingeva di acquistare oggetti placcati a prezzi esorbitanti, pagandoli con banconote; ma lei non venne mai a sapere nulla. Una sera, mentre lavorava da sola, in piedi davanti alla finestra per godersi l’ultima luce del crepuscolo, lui bussò alla porta ed entrò.

Lo baciò e lo accolse con affetto; ma non osò fargli domande. Lui vide quanto fosse ansiosa e timida, e sembrò dispiaciuto per questo.

“Temo, Amy, che questa volta tu ti arrabbi. Lo giuro sulla mia vita!”

“Mi dispiace molto sentirti dire così, Tip. Sei tornato?”

“Perché, sì.”

Non mi aspettavo che, questa volta, ciò che avevi trovato rispondesse in modo così efficace. Sono meno sorpreso e dispiaciuto di quanto potessi essere, Tip.

“Ah! Ma questo non è nemmeno il peggio.”

“Non è nemmeno la cosa peggiore, ”

“Non sembrare così sorpresa. No, Amy, non è niente di terribile. Sono tornata, vedi; ma, non sembrare così sorpresa. Sono tornata in un modo che potrei definire ‘nuovo’. Non sono più nella lista dei volontari; ora faccio parte del personale regolare.”

“Oh! Non dirmi che sei un prigioniero, Tip. Per favore, no!”

“Beh,” rispose lui con tono riluttante, “non vorrei dirlo, ma se non riesci a capirmi senza che lo dica, cosa dovrei fare? Mi aspettano più di quaranta sterline.”

Per la prima volta in tutti quegli anni, fu sopraffatta dai suoi problemi. Piangeva, con le mani giunte sopra la testa, dicendo che se suo padre lo scoprisse, ne morirebbe; poi si gettò ai piedi di Tip, senza alcuna dignità.

Per Tip fu più facile farle tornare in sé che convincerlo lui stesso che il “Padre di Marshalsea” sarebbe stato al suo fianco se avesse conosciuto la verità. Quella idea era del tutto incomprensibile per Tip e, in fondo, solo una fantasia. Lui acconsentì soltanto perché cedette alle sue suppliche, sostenute anche da quelle di suo zio e sua sorella. Non mancavano precedenti per il suo ritorno; al padre fu spiegato tutto nel modo abituale, e i compagni di studi, che comprendevano meglio di Tip la natura di questa “frode pia”, lo appogiarono fedelmente.

Questa era la vita, e questa la storia della bambina di Marshalsea a ventidue anni. Con un legame ancora vivo per quel misero cortile e quei pochi edifici che considerava il suo luogo di nascita e la sua casa, vi andava avanti e indietro con timore, consapevole che tutti la notavano. Da quando aveva iniziato a lavorare al di fuori delle mura della città, aveva trovato necessario nascondere dove viveva e spostarsi il più segretamente possibile tra la libera città e le porte di ferro che mai, in tutta la sua vita, aveva oltrepassato. La sua timidezza naturale era aumentata con questi sforzi per nascondersi; il suo passo leggero e la sua piccola statura la facevano evitare le strade affollate.

Saggia nel mondo delle difficoltà e delle necessità materiali, era innocente in ogni altra cosa. Innocente, nella nebbia attraverso la quale vedeva suo padre, la prigione e il fiume torbido che la attraversava e proseguiva nel suo corso.

Questa era la vita, e questa la storia di Little Dorrit; ora, in una noiosa serata di settembre, tornava a casa, osservata da lontano da Arthur Clennam. Questa era la vita, e questa la storia di Little Dorrit: svoltava all’estremità del London Bridge, lo attraversava di nuovo, proseguiva fino alla chiesa di Saint George’s, poi tornava indietro bruscamente, per infine entrare nel piccolo cortile esterno della residenza di Marshalsea.

CHAPTER 8. The Lock

Arthur Clennam stood in the street, waiting to ask some passer-by what place that was. He suffered a few people to pass him in whose face there was no encouragement to make the inquiry, and still stood pausing in the street, when an old man came up and turned into the courtyard.

He stooped a good deal, and plodded along in a slow pre-occupied manner, which made the bustling London thoroughfares no very safe resort for him. He was dirtily and meanly dressed, in a threadbare coat, once blue, reaching to his ankles and buttoned to his chin, where it vanished in the pale ghost of a velvet collar. A piece of red cloth with which that phantom had been stiffened in its lifetime was now laid bare, and poked itself up, at the back of the old man’s neck, into a confusion of grey hair and rusty stock and buckle which altogether nearly poked his hat off. A greasy hat it was, and a napless; impending over his eyes, cracked and crumpled at the brim, and with a wisp of pocket-handkerchief dangling out below it. His trousers were so long and loose, and his shoes so clumsy and large, that he shuffled like an elephant; though how much of this was gait, and how much trailing cloth and leather, no one could have told. Under one arm he carried a limp and worn-out case, containing some wind instrument; in the same hand he had a pennyworth of snuff in a little packet of whitey-brown paper, from which he slowly comforted his poor blue old nose with a lengthened-out pinch, as Arthur Clennam looked at him.

To this old man crossing the court-yard, he preferred his inquiry, touching him on the shoulder. The old man stopped and looked round, with the expression in his weak grey eyes of one whose thoughts had been far off, and who was a little dull of hearing also.

‘Pray, sir,’ said Arthur, repeating his question, ‘what is this place?’

‘Ay! This place?’ returned the old man, staying his pinch of snuff on its road, and pointing at the place without looking at it. ‘This is the Marshalsea, sir.’

‘The debtors’ prison?’

‘Sir,’ said the old man, with the air of deeming it not quite necessary to insist upon that designation, ‘the debtors’ prison.’

He turned himself about, and went on.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Arthur, stopping him once more, ‘but will you allow me to ask you another question? Can any one go in here?’

‘Any one can go in,’ replied the old man; plainly adding by the significance of his emphasis, ‘but it is not every one who can go out.’

‘Pardon me once more. Are you familiar with the place?’

‘Sir,’ returned the old man, squeezing his little packet of snuff in his hand, and turning upon his interrogator as if such questions hurt him. ‘I am.’

‘I beg you to excuse me. I am not impertinently curious, but have a good object. Do you know the name of Dorrit here?’

‘My name, sir,’ replied the old man most unexpectedly, ‘is Dorrit.’

Arthur pulled off his hat to him. ‘Grant me the favour of half-a-dozen words. I was wholly unprepared for your announcement, and hope that assurance is my sufficient apology for having taken the liberty of addressing you. I have recently come home to England after a long absence. I have seen at my mother’s—Mrs Clennam in the city—a young woman working at her needle, whom I have only heard addressed or spoken of as Little Dorrit. I have felt sincerely interested in her, and have had a great desire to know something more about her. I saw her, not a minute before you came up, pass in at that door.’

The old man looked at him attentively. ‘Are you a sailor, sir?’ he asked. He seemed a little disappointed by the shake of the head that replied to him. ‘Not a sailor? I judged from your sunburnt face that you might be. Are you in earnest, sir?’

‘I do assure you that I am, and do entreat you to believe that I am, in plain earnest.’

‘I know very little of the world, sir,’ returned the other, who had a weak and quavering voice. ‘I am merely passing on, like the shadow over the sun-dial. It would be worth no man’s while to mislead me; it would really be too easy—too poor a success, to yield any satisfaction. The young woman whom you saw go in here is my brother’s child. My brother is William Dorrit; I am Frederick. You say you have seen her at your mother’s (I know your mother befriends her), you have felt an interest in her, and you wish to know what she does here. Come and see.’

He went on again, and Arthur accompanied him.

‘My brother,’ said the old man, pausing on the step and slowly facing round again, ‘has been here many years; and much that happens even among ourselves, out of doors, is kept from him for reasons that I needn’t enter upon now. Be so good as to say nothing of my niece’s working at her needle. Be so good as to say nothing that goes beyond what is said among us. If you keep within our bounds, you cannot well be wrong. Now! Come and see.’

Arthur followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key was turned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them into a lodge or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another door and a grating into the prison. The old man always plodding on before, turned round, in his slow, stiff, stooping manner, when they came to the turnkey on duty, as if to present his companion. The turnkey nodded; and the companion passed in without being asked whom he wanted.

The night was dark; and the prison lamps in the yard, and the candles in the prison windows faintly shining behind many sorts of wry old curtain and blind, had not the air of making it lighter. A few people loitered about, but the greater part of the population was within doors. The old man, taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third or fourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs. ‘They are rather dark, sir, but you will not find anything in the way.’

Capitolo 8: La chiave di accesso

Arthur Clennam stava fermo in strada, aspettando di chiedere a qualche passante dove si trovasse quel luogo. Fece passare diverse persone davanti a sé, ma nessuno sembrò disposto ad aiutarlo con la sua domanda; così rimase lì, fermo, quando un vecchio gli si avvicinò e entrò nel cortile.

Si chinava molto e procedeva con passi lenti e assorti, il che rendeva le affollate strade di Londra un luogo tutt’altro che sicuro per lui. Era vestito in modo sporco e trasandato: indossava un cappotto logoro, un tempo blu, che gli arrivava fino alle caviglie e era abbottonato fino al mento, dove scompariva nella pallida traccia di un colletto di velluto. Un pezzo di stoffa rossa, con cui quel “fantasma” di colletto era stato una volta rafforzato, ora spuntava fuori dal retro del suo collo, mescolandosi con i capelli grigi e le stringhe arrugginite della sua camicia. Il cappello che indossava era unto e senza tesa; gli pendeva sopra gli occhi, crepato e stropicciato sul bordo, con un lembo di fazzoletto da tasca che spuntava sotto di esso. I suoi pantaloni erano così lunghi e larghi, le sue scarpe così goffe e grandi, che camminava dondolando come un elefante; anche se nessuno avrebbe potuto dire con certezza quanto di tutto ciò fosse dovuto al suo modo di camminare e quanto invece a strisce di stoffa e pelle che gli pendevano addosso. Sotto un braccio portava una valigetta logora, contenente qualche strumento musicale a fiato; nell’altra mano teneva un penny di tabacco in un piccolo pacchetto di carta bianco-marrone, e con lenti movimenti si soffiava il naso, mentre Arthur Clennam lo osservava.

Verso quell’uomo anziano che attraversava il cortile, preferì porre la sua domanda toccandolo sulla spalla. L’anziano si fermò e guardò intorno, con quell’espressione negli occhi grigi e deboli di chi aveva la mente lontana da lì e che inoltre aveva un po’ di difficoltà ad ascoltare.

“Pregate, signore,” disse Arthur, ripetendo la sua domanda, “che posto è questo?”

“Ah! Questo posto?” rispose l’uomo anziano, tenendo il suo pizzico di tabacco sulla strada e indicando quel luogo senza nemmeno guardarlo. “Questo è Marshalsea, signore.”

“La prigione dei debitori”?

“Signore,” disse l’uomo anziano, con l’aria di ritenere che non fosse del tutto necessario insistere su quel titolo, “la prigione dei debitori.”

Si girò e proseguì per la sua strada.

“Mi scusi,” disse Arthur, fermandolo di nuovo, “ma mi permetterà di farle un’altra domanda? Qualcuno può entrare qui dentro?”

“Chiunque può entrare,” rispose l’uomo anziano; aggiungendo chiaramente, dal tono enfatico con cui lo disse, “ma non è chiunque che possa uscire.”

“Perdonami ancora una volta. Conosci quel posto?”

“Signore,” rispose l’uomo anziano, stringendo nella mano il suo piccolo pacchetto di tabacco da fiuto e voltandosi verso chi lo interrogava, come se tali domande gli facessero male. “Sì, sono io.”

“Vi prego di scusarmi. Non sono curioso in modo irrispettoso, ma ho un buon motivo per farlo. Conoscete il nome di Dorrit qui?”

“Il mio nome, signore”, rispose l’uomo anziano in modo del tutto inaspettato, “è Dorrit.”

Arthur si tolse il cappello e gli disse: “Permettetemi di dirvi poche parole. Non ero affatto preparato alla vostra notizia, e spero che questa spiegazione sia sufficiente a scusarmi per aver avuto l’ardire di rivolgermi a voi. Sono appena tornato in Inghilterra dopo una lunga assenza. Alla casa di mia madre, la signora Clennam nella città, ho visto una giovane donna che lavorava a maglia; di lei conosco soltanto il nome, Little Dorrit. Sono sinceramente interessato a lei e desidero molto saperne di più. L’ho vista, appena un minuto prima che arrivaste voi, entrare da quella porta.”

L’uomo anziano lo guardò attentamente. “Siete un marinaio, signore?” chiese. Sembrava un po’ deluso dal cenno di diniego che ricevette in risposta. “Non un marinaio? Dalla vostra pelle abbronzata avevo pensato che lo foste. Dite davvero, signore?”

“Vi assicuro sinceramente che lo sono, e vi prego di credere che lo sono davvero.”

“Conosco molto poco il mondo, signore,” rispose l’altro, con una voce debole e tremante. “Sono soltanto un’ombra che passa sopra il quadrante del sole. Non varrebbe la pena ingannarmi; sarebbe troppo facile. Un successo troppo insignificante per procurare alcuna soddisfazione. La giovane donna che avete visto entrare qui è la figlia di mio fratello. Mio fratello si chiama William Dorrit; io sono Frederick. Dite di averla vista da vostra madre (so che lei le è amica), di provare interesse per lei. E desiderate sapere cosa faccia qui. Venite a vedere.”

Continuò il suo cammino, e Arthur lo accompagnò.

“Mio fratello,” disse l’uomo anziano, fermandosi sul gradino e voltandosi lentamente di nuovo, “è qui da molti anni; e molte cose che accadono anche tra di noi, fuori casa, gli vengono nascoste per motivi che non è necessario discutere ora. Ti prego, non parla della nipote mia che lavora a maglia. E non raccontare nulla che vada oltre ciò che diciamo tra noi. Se ti attieni ai limiti stabiliti, non potrai certo sbagliare. Ora! Vieni a vedere.”

Arthur lo seguì lungo un passaggio stretto; alla fine di esso si girò una chiave e una porta robusta si aprì dall’interno. Questa li fece entrare in una sorta di anticamera, che attraversarono per poi passare attraverso un’altra porta e una grata fino alla prigione. L’uomo anziano, che continuava ad avanzare lentamente davanti a loro, si girò, con i suoi movimenti lenti, rigidi e curvi, quando arrivarono al carceriere di servizio, come per presentargli il suo compagno. Il carceriere annuì; e il compagno entrò senza che gli venisse chiesto chi cercasse.

La notte era buia; le lampade della prigione nel cortile, e le candele alle finestre della prigione, che brillavano debolmente dietro strani vecchi tendaggi e persiane, non contribuivano affatto a rendere l’atmosfera più luminosa. Qualcuno si aggirava intorno, ma la maggior parte delle persone era rimasta dentro casa. L’uomo anziano, prendendo il lato destro del cortile, entrò dalla terza o quarta porta e iniziò a salire le scale. “Sono piuttosto buie, signore, ma non troverà nulla che possa ostacolarla nel suo cammino.”

He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second story. He had no sooner turned the handle than the visitor saw Little Dorrit, and saw the reason of her setting so much store by dining alone.

She had brought the meat home that she should have eaten herself, and was already warming it on a gridiron over the fire for her father, clad in an old grey gown and a black cap, awaiting his supper at the table. A clean cloth was spread before him, with knife, fork, and spoon, salt-cellar, pepper-box, glass, and pewter ale-pot. Such zests as his particular little phial of cayenne pepper and his pennyworth of pickles in a saucer, were not wanting.

She started, coloured deeply, and turned white. The visitor, more with his eyes than by the slight impulsive motion of his hand, entreated her to be reassured and to trust him.

‘I found this gentleman,’ said the uncle—‘Mr Clennam, William, son of Amy’s friend—at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying his respects, but hesitating whether to come in or not. This is my brother William, sir.’

‘I hope,’ said Arthur, very doubtful what to say, ‘that my respect for your daughter may explain and justify my desire to be presented to you, sir.’

‘Mr Clennam,’ returned the other, rising, taking his cap off in the flat of his hand, and so holding it, ready to put on again, ‘you do me honour. You are welcome, sir;’ with a low bow. ‘Frederick, a chair. Pray sit down, Mr Clennam.’

He put his black cap on again as he had taken it off, and resumed his own seat. There was a wonderful air of benignity and patronage in his manner. These were the ceremonies with which he received the collegians.

‘You are welcome to the Marshalsea, sir. I have welcomed many gentlemen to these walls. Perhaps you are aware—my daughter Amy may have mentioned that I am the Father of this place.’

‘I—so I have understood,’ said Arthur, dashing at the assertion.

‘You know, I dare say, that my daughter Amy was born here. A good girl, sir, a dear girl, and long a comfort and support to me. Amy, my dear, put this dish on; Mr Clennam will excuse the primitive customs to which we are reduced here. Is it a compliment to ask you if you would do me the honour, sir, to—’

‘Thank you,’ returned Arthur. ‘Not a morsel.’

He felt himself quite lost in wonder at the manner of the man, and that the probability of his daughter’s having had a reserve as to her family history, should be so far out of his mind.

She filled his glass, put all the little matters on the table ready to his hand, and then sat beside him while he ate his supper. Evidently in observance of their nightly custom, she put some bread before herself, and touched his glass with her lips; but Arthur saw she was troubled and took nothing. Her look at her father, half admiring him and proud of him, half ashamed for him, all devoted and loving, went to his inmost heart.

The Father of the Marshalsea condescended towards his brother as an amiable, well-meaning man; a private character, who had not arrived at distinction. ‘Frederick,’ said he, ‘you and Fanny sup at your lodgings to-night, I know. What have you done with Fanny, Frederick?’

‘She is walking with Tip.’

‘Tip—as you may know—is my son, Mr Clennam. He has been a little wild, and difficult to settle, but his introduction to the world was rather’—he shrugged his shoulders with a faint sigh, and looked round the room—‘a little adverse. Your first visit here, sir?’

‘My first.’

‘You could hardly have been here since your boyhood without my knowledge. It very seldom happens that anybody—of any pretensions—any pretensions—comes here without being presented to me.’

‘As many as forty or fifty in a day have been introduced to my brother,’ said Frederick, faintly lighting up with a ray of pride.

‘Yes!’ the Father of the Marshalsea assented. ‘We have even exceeded that number. On a fine Sunday in term time, it is quite a Levee—quite a Levee. Amy, my dear, I have been trying half the day to remember the name of the gentleman from Camberwell who was introduced to me last Christmas week by that agreeable coal-merchant who was remanded for six months.’

‘I don’t remember his name, father.’

‘Frederick, do you remember his name?’

Frederick doubted if he had ever heard it. No one could doubt that Frederick was the last person upon earth to put such a question to, with any hope of information.

‘I mean,’ said his brother, ‘the gentleman who did that handsome action with so much delicacy. Ha! Tush! The name has quite escaped me. Mr Clennam, as I have happened to mention handsome and delicate action, you may like, perhaps, to know what it was.’

‘Very much,’ said Arthur, withdrawing his eyes from the delicate head beginning to droop and the pale face with a new solicitude stealing over it.

‘It is so generous, and shows so much fine feeling, that it is almost a duty to mention it. I said at the time that I always would mention it on every suitable occasion, without regard to personal sensitiveness. A—well—a—it’s of no use to disguise the fact—you must know, Mr Clennam, that it does sometimes occur that people who come here desire to offer some little—Testimonial—to the Father of the place.’

To see her hand upon his arm in mute entreaty half-repressed, and her timid little shrinking figure turning away, was to see a sad, sad sight.

‘Sometimes,’ he went on in a low, soft voice, agitated, and clearing his throat every now and then; ‘sometimes—hem—it takes one shape and sometimes another; but it is generally—ha—Money. And it is, I cannot but confess it, it is too often—hem—acceptable. This gentleman that I refer to, was presented to me, Mr Clennam, in a manner highly gratifying to my feelings, and conversed not only with great politeness, but with great—ahem—information.’ All this time, though he had finished his supper, he was nervously going about his plate with his knife and fork, as if some of it were still before him. ‘It appeared from his conversation that he had a garden, though he was delicate of mentioning it at first, as gardens are—hem—are not accessible to me. But it came out, through my admiring a very fine cluster of geranium—beautiful cluster of geranium to be sure—which he had brought from his conservatory. On my taking notice of its rich colour, he showed me a piece of paper round it, on which was written, “For the Father of the Marshalsea,” and presented it to me. But this was—hem—not all. He made a particular request, on taking leave, that I would remove the paper in half an hour. I—ha—I did so; and I found that it contained—ahem—two guineas. I assure you, Mr Clennam, I have received—hem—Testimonials in many ways, and of many degrees of value, and they have always been—ha—unfortunately acceptable; but I never was more pleased than with this—ahem—this particular Testimonial.’

Si fermò per un momento prima di aprire una porta al secondo piano. Non appena girò la maniglia, il visitatore vide Little Dorrit e capì il motivo per cui dava tanta importanza a pranzare da sola.

Aveva portato a >casa la carne che avrebbe dovuto mangiare lei stessa, e stava già riscaldandola su una griglia sopra il >foco per suo padre, vestito con un vecchio abito grigio e un cappello nero, che aspettava la sua cena al tavolo. Davanti a lui era steso un panno pulito, insieme a coltello, forchetta e cucchiaio, saliera, pepiera, bicchiere e una brocca di birra in peltro. Non mancavano nemmeno piccoli dettagli come la sua particolare bottiglietta di pepe di Cayenna e i suoi cetrioli sottaceti in un piattino.

Iniziò a dipingere con forti colori, ma poi il suo viso divenne pallido. Il visitatore, più con lo sguardo che con un lieve movimento impulsivo della mano, la pregò di calmarsi e di fidarsi di lui.

“Ho incontrato questo signore,” disse lo zio, “il signor Clennam, figlio di William, amico di Amy. Alla porta d’ingresso, mentre passava di lì, desiderava molto presentarsi a voi, ma esitava se entrare o meno. Questo è mio fratello William, signore.”

“Spero,” disse Arthur, incerto su cosa dire, “che il mio rispetto per vostra figlia possa spiegare e giustificare il mio desiderio di essere presentato a voi, signore.”

“Signor Clennam,” rispose l’altro alzandosi, togliendosi il cappello e tenendolo così, pronto a rimetterselo, “mi fate un onore. Prego, signore; è un piacere per me,” disse inchinandosi leggermente. “Frederick, portate una sedia. Si accomodi, per favore, signor Clennam.”

Si rimise il cappello nero che aveva tolto e tornò al suo posto. Il suo comportamento trasmetteva un’atmosfera meravigliosa di benevolenza e protezione. Queste erano le cerimonie con cui accoglieva i suoi colleghi.

“Benvenuto a Marshalsea, signore. Ho accolto molti gentiluomini in queste mura. Forse saprà già che mia figlia Amy ha menzionato che io sono il “Padre” di questo luogo.”

“Credo di aver capito,” disse Arthur, respingendo decisamente quell’affermazione.

“Sa, oserei dire che mia figlia Amy sia nata qui. Una brava ragazza, signore, una cara ragazza, per me è stata un grande conforto e sostegno. Amy, mia cara, metti questo piatto sul tavolo; il signor Clennam scuserà queste usanze primitive a cui siamo costretti qui. È un complimento chiedervi se potreste farmi l’onore di, ”

“Grazie,” rispose Arthur. “Non ne ho mangiato nemmeno un boccone.”

Si sentì completamente sopraffatto dallo stupore di fronte al comportamento di quell’uomo, e pensò che l’eventualità che sua figlia avesse dei pregiudizi riguardo alla storia della sua famiglia dovesse essere del tutto scartata dalla sua mente.

Gli riempì il bicchiere, mise tutte le piccole cose sul tavolo pronte per lui e poi si sedette accanto a lui mentre mangiava la cena. Evidentemente, rispettando la loro abitudine notturna, si preparò anche lei del pane e toccò con le labbra il suo bicchiere; ma Arthur vide che era turbata e non prese nulla. Il suo sguardo verso suo padre, metà ammirazione e orgoglio per lui, metà vergogna per lui, pieno di devozione e amore, raggiunse il profondo del suo cuore.

Il Padre di Marshalsea trattava suo fratello con affetto e buone intenzioni; era una persona semplice, che non aveva raggiunto alcuna posizione elevata nella società. “Frederick,” disse, “so che tu e Fanny cenate nei vostri alloggi stasera. Cosa hai fatto di Fanny, Frederick?”

“Cammina insieme a Tip.”

“Tip, come probabilmente sapete, è mio figlio, il signor Clennam. È stato un po’ selvaggio e difficile da gestire, ma le sue prime esperienze nella vita sono state piuttosto, ” Scrollò le spalle con un leggero sospiro e guardò intorno alla stanza, “un po’ difficili. È la sua prima visita qui, signore?”

“Il mio primo.”

“È praticamente impossibile che tu sia arrivato qui dopo l’infanzia senza che io ne fossi a conoscenza. È molto raro che qualcuno – chiunque esso sia e con qualsiasi pretese abbia – venga qui senza essere presentato a me.”

“Fino a quaranta o cinquanta persone al giorno vengono presentate a mio fratello,” disse Frederick, illuminandosi leggermente per un barlume di orgoglio.

“Sì!”, concordò il Padre di Marshalsea. “Anzi, abbiamo persino superato quel numero. In una bella domenica, a un’ora appropriata del giorno, sarà davvero un grande evento. Amy, mia cara, ho cercato per tutta la mattina di ricordare il nome di quel gentiluomo di Camberwell che mi è stato presentato la scorsa settimana di Natale da quel simpatico commerciante di carbone che è stato condannato a sei mesi di reclusione, ”

“Non ricordo il suo nome, padre.”

“Frederick, ricordi il suo nome?”

Frederick dubitava di averlo mai sentito prima. Nessuno poteva mettere in dubbio che Frederick fosse l’ultima persona al mondo ad avanzare una domanda del genere, con la minima speranza di ottenere informazioni.

“Voglio dire,” disse suo fratello, “quel gentiluomo che ha compiuto quell’atto nobile con tanta delicatezza. Ah! Accidenti, mi è proprio sfuggito il nome. Signor Clennam, poiché ho menzionato un atto nobile e delicato, forse le piacerebbe sapere di cosa si tratta.”

“Molto,” disse Arthur, distogliendo lo sguardo da quella testa delicata che iniziava a piegarsi verso il basso, e dal viso pallido su cui si leggeva una nuova preoccupazione.

“È così generoso e dimostra un tale senso di delicatezza che quasi è un dovere menzionarlo. All’epoca ho detto che l’avrei sempre fatto ogni volta che ci fosse stata l’occasione, senza tenere conto delle possibili sensibilità personali. Beh, non ha senso nascondere il fatto: deve sapere, signor Clennam, che a volte capita che le persone che vengono qui desiderino offrire qualcosa, un piccolo segno di riconoscenza, al “Padre” di questo luogo.”

Vederla posare la sua mano sul suo braccio in un silenzioso appello a malapena trattenuto, e vedere il suo piccolo corpo timido allontanarsi, era davvero una scena triste, molto triste.

“A volte,” proseguì con voce bassa e morbida, agitato, schiarendosi la gola di tanto in tanto, “a volte assume una certa forma e a volte un’altra; ma di solito, beh, si tratta di denaro. E devo ammetterlo: troppo spesso viene accettato senza problemi. Questo signore di cui parlo mi è stato presentato in modo molto gradito ai miei occhi; non solo ha conversato con grande cortesia, ma anche con notevole, ahem, erudizione.” Durante tutto questo tempo, sebbene avesse già finito di cenare, continuava a muovere nervosamente forchetta e coltello sul piatto, come se ci fosse ancora del cibo davanti a lui. “Dalla sua conversazione risultò che possedeva un giardino, anche se all’inizio evitò di menzionarlo, visto che i giardini, beh, non sono accessibili a me. Ma ne parlò quando notai un bellissimo mazzo di gerani che aveva portato dal suo orto botanico. Notando il loro intenso colore, mi mostrò un foglio su cui era scritto: ‘Per il Padre della Marshalsea’ e me lo diede. Ma non era tutto. Alla fine mi chiese esplicitamente di rimuovere quel foglio dopo mezz’ora. Lo feci, e scoprii che conteneva due ghinee. Vi assicuro, signor Clennam, ho ricevuto in passato molti attestati di gratitudine, di vario valore, ma mai uno mi ha reso così felice come questo.”

Arthur was in the act of saying the little he could say on such a theme, when a bell began to ring, and footsteps approached the door. A pretty girl of a far better figure and much more developed than Little Dorrit, though looking much younger in the face when the two were observed together, stopped in the doorway on seeing a stranger; and a young man who was with her, stopped too.

‘Mr Clennam, Fanny. My eldest daughter and my son, Mr Clennam. The bell is a signal for visitors to retire, and so they have come to say good night; but there is plenty of time, plenty of time. Girls, Mr Clennam will excuse any household business you may have together. He knows, I dare say, that I have but one room here.’

‘I only want my clean dress from Amy, father,’ said the second girl.

‘And I my clothes,’ said Tip.

Amy opened a drawer in an old piece of furniture that was a chest of drawers above and a bedstead below, and produced two little bundles, which she handed to her brother and sister. ‘Mended and made up?’ Clennam heard the sister ask in a whisper. To which Amy answered ‘Yes.’ He had risen now, and took the opportunity of glancing round the room. The bare walls had been coloured green, evidently by an unskilled hand, and were poorly decorated with a few prints. The window was curtained, and the floor carpeted; and there were shelves and pegs, and other such conveniences, that had accumulated in the course of years. It was a close, confined room, poorly furnished; and the chimney smoked to boot, or the tin screen at the top of the fireplace was superfluous; but constant pains and care had made it neat, and even, after its kind, comfortable.

All the while the bell was ringing, and the uncle was anxious to go. ‘Come, Fanny, come, Fanny,’ he said, with his ragged clarionet case under his arm; ‘the lock, child, the lock!’

Fanny bade her father good night, and whisked off airily. Tip had already clattered down-stairs. ‘Now, Mr Clennam,’ said the uncle, looking back as he shuffled out after them, ‘the lock, sir, the lock.’

Mr Clennam had two things to do before he followed; one, to offer his testimonial to the Father of the Marshalsea, without giving pain to his child; the other to say something to that child, though it were but a word, in explanation of his having come there.

‘Allow me,’ said the Father, ‘to see you down-stairs.’

She had slipped out after the rest, and they were alone. ‘Not on any account,’ said the visitor, hurriedly. ‘Pray allow me to—’ chink, chink, chink.

‘Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘I am deeply, deeply—’ But his visitor had shut up his hand to stop the clinking, and had gone down-stairs with great speed.

He saw no Little Dorrit on his way down, or in the yard. The last two or three stragglers were hurrying to the lodge, and he was following, when he caught sight of her in the doorway of the first house from the entrance. He turned back hastily.

‘Pray forgive me,’ he said, ‘for speaking to you here; pray forgive me for coming here at all! I followed you to-night. I did so, that I might endeavour to render you and your family some service. You know the terms on which I and my mother are, and may not be surprised that I have preserved our distant relations at her house, lest I should unintentionally make her jealous, or resentful, or do you any injury in her estimation. What I have seen here, in this short time, has greatly increased my heartfelt wish to be a friend to you. It would recompense me for much disappointment if I could hope to gain your confidence.’

She was scared at first, but seemed to take courage while he spoke to her.

‘You are very good, sir. You speak very earnestly to me. But I—but I wish you had not watched me.’

He understood the emotion with which she said it, to arise in her father’s behalf; and he respected it, and was silent.

‘Mrs Clennam has been of great service to me; I don’t know what we should have done without the employment she has given me; I am afraid it may not be a good return to become secret with her; I can say no more to-night, sir. I am sure you mean to be kind to us. Thank you, thank you.’

‘Let me ask you one question before I leave. Have you known my mother long?’

‘I think two years, sir,—The bell has stopped.’

‘How did you know her first? Did she send here for you?’

‘No. She does not even know that I live here. We have a friend, father and I—a poor labouring man, but the best of friends—and I wrote out that I wished to do needlework, and gave his address. And he got what I wrote out displayed at a few places where it cost nothing, and Mrs Clennam found me that way, and sent for me. The gate will be locked, sir!’

She was so tremulous and agitated, and he was so moved by compassion for her, and by deep interest in her story as it dawned upon him, that he could scarcely tear himself away. But the stoppage of the bell, and the quiet in the prison, were a warning to depart; and with a few hurried words of kindness he left her gliding back to her father.

But he remained too late. The inner gate was locked, and the lodge closed. After a little fruitless knocking with his hand, he was standing there with the disagreeable conviction upon him that he had got to get through the night, when a voice accosted him from behind.

‘Caught, eh?’ said the voice. ‘You won’t go home till morning. Oh! It’s you, is it, Mr Clennam?’

The voice was Tip’s; and they stood looking at one another in the prison-yard, as it began to rain.

‘You’ve done it,’ observed Tip; ‘you must be sharper than that next time.’

‘But you are locked in too,’ said Arthur.

‘I believe I am!’ said Tip, sarcastically. ‘About! But not in your way. I belong to the shop, only my sister has a theory that our governor must never know it. I don’t see why, myself.’

Arthur stava appunto cercando di dire ciò che poteva su un argomento del genere, quando una campanella iniziò a suonare e dei passi si avvicinarono alla porta. Una bella ragazza, di corporatura molto più snella e sviluppata rispetto a Little Dorrit, anche se sembrava molto più giovane in volto quando i due venivano osservati insieme, si fermò sulla soglia non appena vide uno sconosciuto; lo stesso fece anche un giovane che era con lei.

‘Signor Clennam, Fanny. Mia figlia maggiore e mio figlio, Signor Clennam. La campanella è un segnale affinché i visitatori se ne vadano; sono venuti quindi a salutarci per la buona notte, ma c’è ancora molto tempo. Ragazze, Signor Clennam, scuserà eventuali questioni domestiche che dovessero sorgere. So bene che qui ho soltanto una stanza.’

“Voglio solo il mio vestito pulito che mi ha dato Amy, padre,” disse la seconda ragazza.

“E i miei vestiti?” disse Tip.

Amy aprì un cassetto di un vecchio mobile che consisteva in un comò sopra e in un letto sotto, e ne tirò fuori due piccoli pacchetti, che porse a suo fratello e a sua sorella. “Riparati e sistemati?” chiese sottovoce la sorella. Amy rispose: “Sì.” Ormai Clennam si era alzato e ne approfittò per guardarsi intorno nella stanza. Le pareti nude erano state dipinte di verde, evidentemente da una mano inesperta, e erano scarsamente decorate da alcune stampe. La finestra era coperta da tende e il pavimento era rivestito di moquette; c’erano inoltre scaffali, ganci e altre comodità accumulate nel corso degli anni. Era una stanza piccola e angusta, scarsamente arredata; in più, il camino fumava, o forse la griglia di ferro posta sulla parte superiore del caminetto era superflua. Ma cura e attenzione costanti avevano reso l’ambiente ordinato, e persino, per quel che era, confortevole.

Per tutto il tempo la campana continuava a suonare, e lo zio era ansioso di andarsene.
“Vieni, Fanny, vieni,” diceva, con la sua vecchia custodia per il clarinetto sotto il braccio; “la chiave. bambino, la chiave!”

Fanny augurò buona notte a suo padre e se ne andò leggera come l’aria. Tip era già sceso le scale rumorosamente. “Ora, signor Clennam,” disse lo zio, guardandoli mentre uscivano, “la chiave, la chiave, per favore.”

Prima di andarsene, il signor Clennam aveva due cose da fare: la prima era fornire una sua testimonianza al padre del ragazzo di Marshalsea, senza causargli alcun dolore; la seconda era dire qualcosa a quel ragazzo, anche solo una parola, per spiegargli il motivo della sua visita.

“Permettetemi,” disse il Padre, “di accompagnarvi al piano di sotto.”

Era uscita di nascosto dopo che gli altri se ne erano andati, e ora erano soli. “Assolutamente no,” disse l’ospite in fretta. “Per favore, lasciate che io, ” clic, clic, clic.

“Signor Clennam,” disse il padre, “sono profondamente, profondamente, ” Ma il suo visitatore aveva già chiuso la mano per fermare quel tintinnio e si era precipitato giù per le scale con grande velocità.

Non vide nessuna Little Dorrit mentre scendeva, né nel cortile. Gli ultimi due o tre che si trovavano ancora indietro si affrettavano verso la capanna; lui li stava seguendo quando la scorse all’ingresso della prima casa dopo l’entrata principale. Si girò immediatamente indietro.

“Perdonami,” disse, “per aver parlato con te qui; perdonami anche per essere venuto fin qui! Ti ho seguito fino a notte fonda. L’ho fatto nel tentativo di poterti essere d’aiuto tu e la tua famiglia. Conosci le condizioni alle quali io e mia madre ci troviamo, quindi non dovresti sorprenderti se ho mantenuto le nostre distanze nella sua casa. Non vorrei certo farla gelosa o risentire i suoi sentimenti, né causarti alcun danno ai suoi occhi. Quello che ho visto qui, in questo breve lasso di tempo, ha ancora rafforzato il mio desiderio sincero di diventare tuo amico. Spero davvero di poter guadagnare la tua fiducia.”

All’inizio aveva paura, ma sembrò prendere coraggio mentre lui le parlava.

“Siete molto gentile, signore. Parlate con me con grande sincerità. Ma io, vorrei che non mi aveste osservato.”

Capì l’emozione con cui lo disse, l’intenzione di difendere suo padre; e la rispettò, quindi rimase in silenzio.

‘Signora Clennam mi è stata di grande aiuto; non so cosa avremmo fatto senza il lavoro che mi ha offerto; temo però che diventare sua confidente non sia la scelta migliore. Non posso dire altro, signore. Sono sicura che voglia essere gentile con noi. Grazie, grazie.’

“Lasciami farle una domanda prima di andarmene: conosce mia madre da molto tempo?”

“Credo siano passati due anni, signore. Il campanello ha smesso di suonare.”

“Come l’hai conosciuta per la prima volta? È stata lei ad inviarti da me?”

“No. Lei nemmeno sa che vivo qui. Abbiamo un amico, lui e io, un povero lavoratore, ma il miglior degli amici. Gli ho scritto dicendo di voler imparare a fare lavori a maglia e gli ho dato il suo indirizzo. Lui ha fatto affiggere quel messaggio in diversi posti, dove non costava nulla. E così la signora Clennam mi ha trovato e mi ha fatto chiamare. La porta sarà chiusa a chiave, signore!”

Era così tremante e agitata, e lui era così commosso dalla compassione per lei, e dal profondo interesse per la sua storia che gli stava diventando chiara, che faticava a separarsi da lei. Ma il cessare del suono della campana e il silenzio nella prigione furono un segnale di dover andarsene; e dopo averle detto alcune parole affettuose in fretta, la lasciò tornare da suo padre.

Ma arrivò troppo tardi. Il cancello interno era chiuso a chiave e la capanna era sprangata. Dopo alcuni tentativi infruttuosi di bussare, si rese conto che avrebbe dovuto passare attraverso la notte, quando una voce lo chiamò da dietro.

“Catturato, eh?”, disse la voce. “Non tornerai a casa fino a domani mattina. Oh! Sei tu, vero, signor Clennam?”

La voce era quella di Tip; si fermarono a guardarsi l’un l’altro nel cortile della prigione, mentre iniziava a piovere.

“Ce l’hai fatta,” osservò Tip; “dovrai essere ancora più astuto la prossima volta.”

“Ma anche tu sei intrappolato,” disse Arthur.

“Credo di sì!” disse Tip in tono sarcastico. “Più o meno. Ma non nel tuo modo di vedere le cose. Appartengo al negozio; solo mia sorella ha l’idea che il nostro direttore non debba mai saperlo. Io, personalmente, non capisco il motivo.”

‘Can I get any shelter?’ asked Arthur. ‘What had I better do?’

‘We had better get hold of Amy first of all,’ said Tip, referring any difficulty to her as a matter of course.

‘I would rather walk about all night—it’s not much to do—than give that trouble.’

‘You needn’t do that, if you don’t mind paying for a bed. If you don’t mind paying, they’ll make you up one on the Snuggery table, under the circumstances. If you’ll come along, I’ll introduce you there.’

As they passed down the yard, Arthur looked up at the window of the room he had lately left, where the light was still burning. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tip, following his glance. ‘That’s the governor’s. She’ll sit with him for another hour reading yesterday’s paper to him, or something of that sort; and then she’ll come out like a little ghost, and vanish away without a sound.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘The governor sleeps up in the room, and she has a lodging at the turnkey’s. First house there,’ said Tip, pointing out the doorway into which she had retired. ‘First house, sky parlour. She pays twice as much for it as she would for one twice as good outside. But she stands by the governor, poor dear girl, day and night.’

This brought them to the tavern-establishment at the upper end of the prison, where the collegians had just vacated their social evening club. The apartment on the ground-floor in which it was held, was the Snuggery in question; the presidential tribune of the chairman, the pewter-pots, glasses, pipes, tobacco-ashes, and general flavour of members, were still as that convivial institution had left them on its adjournment. The Snuggery had two of the qualities popularly held to be essential to grog for ladies, in respect that it was hot and strong; but in the third point of analogy, requiring plenty of it, the Snuggery was defective; being but a cooped-up apartment.

The unaccustomed visitor from outside, naturally assumed everybody here to be prisoners—landlord, waiter, barmaid, potboy, and all. Whether they were or not, did not appear; but they all had a weedy look. The keeper of a chandler’s shop in a front parlour, who took in gentlemen boarders, lent his assistance in making the bed. He had been a tailor in his time, and had kept a phaeton, he said. He boasted that he stood up litigiously for the interests of the college; and he had undefined and undefinable ideas that the marshal intercepted a ‘Fund,’ which ought to come to the collegians. He liked to believe this, and always impressed the shadowy grievance on new-comers and strangers; though he could not, for his life, have explained what Fund he meant, or how the notion had got rooted in his soul. He had fully convinced himself, notwithstanding, that his own proper share of the Fund was three and ninepence a week; and that in this amount he, as an individual collegian, was swindled by the marshal, regularly every Monday. Apparently, he helped to make the bed, that he might not lose an opportunity of stating this case; after which unloading of his mind, and after announcing (as it seemed he always did, without anything coming of it) that he was going to write a letter to the papers and show the marshal up, he fell into miscellaneous conversation with the rest. It was evident from the general tone of the whole party, that they had come to regard insolvency as the normal state of mankind, and the payment of debts as a disease that occasionally broke out.

In this strange scene, and with these strange spectres flitting about him, Arthur Clennam looked on at the preparations as if they were part of a dream. Pending which, the long-initiated Tip, with an awful enjoyment of the Snuggery’s resources, pointed out the common kitchen fire maintained by subscription of collegians, the boiler for hot water supported in like manner, and other premises generally tending to the deduction that the way to be healthy, wealthy, and wise, was to come to the Marshalsea.

The two tables put together in a corner, were, at length, converted into a very fair bed; and the stranger was left to the Windsor chairs, the presidential tribune, the beery atmosphere, sawdust, pipe-lights, spittoons and repose. But the last item was long, long, long, in linking itself to the rest. The novelty of the place, the coming upon it without preparation, the sense of being locked up, the remembrance of that room up-stairs, of the two brothers, and above all of the retiring childish form, and the face in which he now saw years of insufficient food, if not of want, kept him waking and unhappy.

Speculations, too, bearing the strangest relations towards the prison, but always concerning the prison, ran like nightmares through his mind while he lay awake. Whether coffins were kept ready for people who might die there, where they were kept, how they were kept, where people who died in the prison were buried, how they were taken out, what forms were observed, whether an implacable creditor could arrest the dead? As to escaping, what chances there were of escape? Whether a prisoner could scale the walls with a cord and grapple, how he would descend upon the other side? whether he could alight on a housetop, steal down a staircase, let himself out at a door, and get lost in the crowd? As to Fire in the prison, if one were to break out while he lay there?

And these involuntary starts of fancy were, after all, but the setting of a picture in which three people kept before him. His father, with the steadfast look with which he had died, prophetically darkened forth in the portrait; his mother, with her arm up, warding off his suspicion; Little Dorrit, with her hand on the degraded arm, and her drooping head turned away.

What if his mother had an old reason she well knew for softening to this poor girl! What if the prisoner now sleeping quietly—Heaven grant it!—by the light of the great Day of judgment should trace back his fall to her. What if any act of hers and of his father’s, should have even remotely brought the grey heads of those two brothers so low!

A swift thought shot into his mind. In that long imprisonment here, and in her own long confinement to her room, did his mother find a balance to be struck? ‘I admit that I was accessory to that man’s captivity. I have suffered for it in kind. He has decayed in his prison: I in mine. I have paid the penalty.’

When all the other thoughts had faded out, this one held possession of him. When he fell asleep, she came before him in her wheeled chair, warding him off with this justification. When he awoke, and sprang up causelessly frightened, the words were in his ears, as if her voice had slowly spoken them at his pillow, to break his rest: ‘He withers away in his prison; I wither away in mine; inexorable justice is done; what do I owe on this score!’

“Posso trovare un riparo?” chiese Arthur. “Cosa dovrei fare?”

“Dovremmo prima metterci in contatto con Amy,” disse Tip, considerando qualsiasi difficoltà come qualcosa di del tutto normale.

“Preferirei passeggiare per tutta la notte, non c’è molto da fare, piuttosto che causarmi tutti quei problemi.”

“Non è necessario che lo facciate, se non vi dispiace pagare per una brandina. Se siete disposti a pagare, vi prepareranno una brandina sul tavolo della stanza accogliente, in queste circostanze. Se volete venire con me, vi ci porterò.”

Mentre attraversavano il cortile, Arthur alzò lo sguardo verso la finestra della stanza che aveva appena lasciato; la luce era ancora accesa. “Sì, signore,” disse Tip seguendo il suo sguardo. “È quella del governatore. Starà con lui per un’altra ora a leggergli i giornali di ieri, o qualcosa del genere; poi uscirà come un piccolo fantasma e scomparirà senza fare rumore.”

“Non capisco cosa intendi.”

“Il governatore dorme nella stanza di sopra, mentre lei alloggia presso il custode. È la prima casa lì,” disse Tip, indicando l’ingresso da cui era entrata. “La prima casa, sala da pranzo. Paga il doppio di quanto pagherebbe per una casa due volte migliore fuori, ma sta sempre al fianco del governatore, povera ragazza, ”

Questo li portò alla taverna situata nella parte superiore della prigione, dove i colleghi avevano appena lasciato il loro club serale. L’appartamento al piano terra in cui si tenevano le riunioni era proprio quella che veniva chiamata “Snuggery”; la tribuna presidenziale del presidente, le pentole di stagno, i bicchieri, le pipe, le ceneri di tabacco e l’atmosfera generale tipica dei membri erano ancora esattamente come quella istituzione conviviale le aveva lasciate al termine della riunione. La “Snuggery” possedeva due delle caratteristiche generalmente ritenute essenziali per un buon grog da donna: era calda e forte; ma nel terzo aspetto, che richiede una grande quantità di liquido, presentava una carenza: si trattava infatti soltanto di un appartamento chiuso e angusto.

Il visitatore inaspettato proveniente dall’esterno presumeva naturalmente che tutti qui fossero prigionieri: il proprietario dell’edificio, i camerieri, le bariste, i servitori. Che lo fossero o meno non sembrava importare; comunque, tutti avevano un aspetto malaticcio. Il gestore di una bottega di candele che ospitava alcuni gentiluomini come inquilini offrì il suo aiuto per fare il letto. Un tempo era stato sarto e aveva posseduto anche una carrozza a due ruote, diceva. Si vantava di difendere sempre gli interessi del college con determinazione; inoltre, aveva idee vaghe e confuse riguardo a un “fondo” che, secondo lui, avrebbe dovuto essere destinato agli studenti. Gli piaceva crederci e non mancava mai di sottolineare questa sua convinzione davanti ai nuovi arrivati e agli estranei; tuttavia, non riusciva mai a spiegare con precisione di quale fondo si trattasse, né come quell’idea fosse entrata nella sua mente. Era comunque assolutamente convinto che la sua parte del “fondo” ammontasse a tre penny e nove centesimi a settimana. E che, in quanto studente, venisse regolarmente truffato dal direttore del college ogni lunedì. Ovviamente, aiutava a fare il letto proprio per non perdere l’occasione di esporre questa sua lamentela; dopo aver sfogato i suoi pensieri e annunciato (come faceva sempre, senza che mai nulla succedesse) che avrebbe scritto ai giornali per smascherare il direttore, iniziava a chiacchierare con gli altri. Era evidente, dall’atmosfera generale del gruppo, che tutti considerassero l’insolvenza lo stato normale dell’umanità, e il pagamento dei debiti una malattia che occasionalmente si manifestava.

In questa strana scena, con questi strani spettri che gli volavano intorno, Arthur Clennam osservava tutte quelle preparazioni come se facessero parte di un sogno. Nel frattempo, Tip, che aveva da tempo iniziato a occuparsene, si divertiva enormemente nell’utilizzare le risorse della Snuggery: indicò la cucina comune riscaldata grazie alle donazioni degli studenti, il boiler per l’acqua calda che funzionava allo stesso modo, e altre strutture che, in generale, sembravano dimostrare che il modo per essere sani, ricchi e saggi era, andare alla Marshalsea.

I due tavoli, messi insieme in un angolo, alla fine furono trasformati in un letto molto confortevole; il viaggiatore fu quindi costretto a riposare sulle sedie di Windsor, nella “tribuna presidenziale”, in quell’atmosfera pervasa dall’odore della birra, tra polvere da legno, luci delle pipe, posacenere. Ma quest’ultimo elemento impiegò molto tempo per integrarsi completamente nel resto dell’ambiente. La novità di quel luogo, il fatto di esservici arrivato senza alcuna preparazione, la sensazione di essere “chiuso in trappola”, il ricordo di quella stanza al piano di sopra, dei due fratelli. E soprattutto quell’aspetto infantile e quel viso che rifletteva anni di cibo insufficiente, se non addirittura di povertà, lo tennero sveglio e infelice.

Speculazioni, anch’esse stranamente collegate alla prigione, ma sempre riguardanti quella prigione, gli attraversavano la mente come incubi mentre giaceva sveglio. Si chiedeva se ci fossero bare pronte per coloro che potessero morire lì, dove venivano conservate, in che modo; si chiedeva dove venissero sepolti i morti nella prigione, come venivano portati fuori, quali procedure venivano seguite; si chiedeva anche se un creditore implacabile potesse “arrestare” i morti. Per quanto riguardava la fuga, quali possibilità esistevano? Un prigioniero poteva forse scalare le mura con una corda e poi scendere dall’altra parte; poteva atterrare su un tetto, scendere per le scale, uscire da una porta e perdersi nella folla? E in caso di incendio nella prigione, se mai uno dovesse scoppiare mentre lui era lì dentro.

E questi involontari sprazzi di fantasia non erano, in fondo, altro che il preludio a un quadro nel quale tre persone gli apparivano davanti agli occhi: suo padre, con lo sguardo fermo con cui era morto, emergeva profeticamente nel ritratto; sua madre, con il braccio alzato per scacciare i suoi sospetti; e Little Dorrit, con la mano posata sul braccio degradato di lui e la testa china, distolta da lui.

E se sua madre avesse avuto un motivo antico e ben noto per essere così gentile con questa povera ragazza. E se il prigioniero che ora dorme in pace – possa il cielo concederlo –, alla luce del grande Giorno del Giudizio, riuscisse a capire la causa della sua rovina. E se qualche azione di lei o di suo padre avesse potuto anche solo in minima parte causare tanta sofferenza a quei due fratelli.

Un pensiero rapido gli attraversò la mente. In quella lunga prigionia qui, e nel suo stesso lungo confinamento nella sua stanza, forse sua madre aveva trovato un equilibrio da mantenere, “Ammetto di essere stata complice nella prigionia di quell’uomo; ne ho sofferto a mia volta. Lui è decaduto nella sua prigione, io nella mia. Ho pagato il prezzo.”

Quando tutti gli altri pensieri si erano dissipati, solo questo rimase nella sua mente. Quando si addormentava, lei gli appariva nella sua sedia a rotelle, scacciandolo con questa giustificazione. Quando si svegliava, spaventato senza motivo, quelle parole risuonavano nelle sue orecchie, come se la sua voce le avesse pronunciate lentamente accanto al suo cuscino, per interrompere il suo riposo: “Lui appassisce nella sua prigione; io appassisco nella mia; la giustizia inesorabile si compie. Quanto devo ancora pagare per questo?”

CHAPTER 9. Little Mother

The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in at the Snuggery windows; and when it did come, it would have been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with it. But the equinoctial gales were blowing out at sea, and the impartial south-west wind, in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow Marshalsea. While it roared through the steeple of St George’s Church, and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them.

Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though his bed had been in a more private situation, and less affected by the raking out of yesterday’s fire, the kindling of to-day’s under the collegiate boiler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the sweeping and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations. Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two heavy hours before the gate was opened.

The walls were so near to one another, and the wild clouds hurried over them so fast, that it gave him a sensation like the beginning of sea-sickness to look up at the gusty sky. The rain, carried aslant by flaws of wind, blackened that side of the central building which he had visited last night, but left a narrow dry trough under the lee of the wall, where he walked up and down among the waits of straw and dust and paper, the waste droppings of the pump, and the stray leaves of yesterday’s greens. It was as haggard a view of life as a man need look upon.

Nor was it relieved by any glimpse of the little creature who had brought him there. Perhaps she glided out of her doorway and in at that where her father lived, while his face was turned from both; but he saw nothing of her. It was too early for her brother; to have seen him once, was to have seen enough of him to know that he would be sluggish to leave whatever frowsy bed he occupied at night; so, as Arthur Clennam walked up and down, waiting for the gate to open, he cast about in his mind for future rather than for present means of pursuing his discoveries.

At last the lodge-gate turned, and the turnkey, standing on the step, taking an early comb at his hair, was ready to let him out. With a joyful sense of release he passed through the lodge, and found himself again in the little outer court-yard where he had spoken to the brother last night.

There was a string of people already straggling in, whom it was not difficult to identify as the nondescript messengers, go-betweens, and errand-bearers of the place. Some of them had been lounging in the rain until the gate should open; others, who had timed their arrival with greater nicety, were coming up now, and passing in with damp whitey-brown paper bags from the grocers, loaves of bread, lumps of butter, eggs, milk, and the like. The shabbiness of these attendants upon shabbiness, the poverty of these insolvent waiters upon insolvency, was a sight to see. Such threadbare coats and trousers, such fusty gowns and shawls, such squashed hats and bonnets, such boots and shoes, such umbrellas and walking-sticks, never were seen in Rag Fair. All of them wore the cast-off clothes of other men and women, were made up of patches and pieces of other people’s individuality, and had no sartorial existence of their own proper. Their walk was the walk of a race apart. They had a peculiar way of doggedly slinking round the corner, as if they were eternally going to the pawnbroker’s. When they coughed, they coughed like people accustomed to be forgotten on doorsteps and in draughty passages, waiting for answers to letters in faded ink, which gave the recipients of those manuscripts great mental disturbance and no satisfaction. As they eyed the stranger in passing, they eyed him with borrowing eyes—hungry, sharp, speculative as to his softness if they were accredited to him, and the likelihood of his standing something handsome. Mendicity on commission stooped in their high shoulders, shambled in their unsteady legs, buttoned and pinned and darned and dragged their clothes, frayed their button-holes, leaked out of their figures in dirty little ends of tape, and issued from their mouths in alcoholic breathings.

As these people passed him standing still in the court-yard, and one of them turned back to inquire if he could assist him with his services, it came into Arthur Clennam’s mind that he would speak to Little Dorrit again before he went away. She would have recovered her first surprise, and might feel easier with him. He asked this member of the fraternity (who had two red herrings in his hand, and a loaf and a blacking brush under his arm), where was the nearest place to get a cup of coffee at. The nondescript replied in encouraging terms, and brought him to a coffee-shop in the street within a stone’s throw.

‘Do you know Miss Dorrit?’ asked the new client.

The nondescript knew two Miss Dorrits; one who was born inside—That was the one! That was the one? The nondescript had known her many years. In regard of the other Miss Dorrit, the nondescript lodged in the same house with herself and uncle.

This changed the client’s half-formed design of remaining at the coffee-shop until the nondescript should bring him word that Dorrit had issued forth into the street. He entrusted the nondescript with a confidential message to her, importing that the visitor who had waited on her father last night, begged the favour of a few words with her at her uncle’s lodging; he obtained from the same source full directions to the house, which was very near; dismissed the nondescript gratified with half-a-crown; and having hastily refreshed himself at the coffee-shop, repaired with all speed to the clarionet-player’s dwelling.

CAPITOLO 9. La piccola mamma

La luce del mattino non aveva alcuna fretta di salire sul muro della prigione per guardare attraverso le finestre della cella; e quando finalmente arrivava, sarebbe stata molto più gradita se fosse venuta da sola, invece di portare con sé una pioggia torrenziale. Ma i venti equinoziali soffiavano sul mare, e il neutro vento sud-ovest, nel suo corso, non trascurava nemmeno la stretta zona di Marshalsea. Mentre ruggiva attraverso la guglia della chiesa di San Giorgio e faceva vorticare tutte le cupole nelle vicinanze, si abbassava per soffiare il fumo di Southwark all’interno della prigione; e, precipitandosi giù per i camini dei pochi studenti che ancora accendevano i loro fuochi, quasi li soffocava.

Arthur Clennam non aveva certo voglia di restare a letto, anche se il suo letto si trovava in una posizione più appartata e era stato meno colpito dagli effetti dell’incendio di ieri, dal preparare il fuoco per oggi sotto la caldaia del collegio, dal riempire quel recipiente “spartano” alla pompa, dalla pulizia e dalla spazzatura della sala comune, e da altre simili attività. Felice di vedere arrivare la mattina, anche se non aveva riposato molto durante la notte, si alzò non appena riuscì a distinguere gli oggetti intorno a sé e passeggiò avanti e indietro nel cortile per due ore intere prima che il cancello venisse aperto.

Le pareti erano così vicine l’una all’altra, e le nuvole selvagge si muovevano sopra di esse così rapidamente che guardare verso quel cielo tempestoso gli provocava una sensazione simile a quella dell’inizio del mal di mare. La pioggia, trasportata obliquamente dai colpi di vento, anneriva il lato dell’edificio centrale che aveva visitato la sera precedente, ma lasciava un stretto tratto asciutto sotto il riparo del muro, dove camminava avanti e indietro tra mucchi di paglia, polvere, carta, rifiuti lasciati dalla pompa e foglie sparse delle piante di ieri. Era uno spettacolo desolato della vita, proprio quello che un uomo potesse voler vedere.

Né fu sollevato da alcun segno della piccola creatura che lo aveva portato lì. Forse lei era uscita dalla sua porta e si era infilata in quella dove viveva suo padre, mentre lui aveva il viso girato dall’altra parte; ma non la vide affatto. Era ancora troppo presto per vedere suo fratello: averlo visto una volta significava averne già visto abbastanza da capire che sarebbe stato lento a lasciare quel letto disordinato in cui si trovava di notte. Quindi, mentre Arthur Clennam andava avanti e indietro aspettando che il cancello si aprisse, cercò nella sua mente modi futuri, piuttosto che presenti, per continuare le sue ricerche.

Finalmente la porta della guardiola si aprì; il custode, fermo sul gradino e sistemandosi i capelli con un pettine, era pronto a lasciarlo uscire. Con un senso di gioia per essere finalmente libero, attraversò la guardiola e si ritrovò nuovamente nel piccolo cortile esterno dove aveva parlato con il fratello la notte precedente.

C’era una fila di persone che stavano entrando; non era difficile riconoscerle come quei messaggeri insignificanti, quegli intermediari e quei portatori di commissioni tipici di quel luogo. Alcuni di loro avevano passato il tempo sotto la pioggia in attesa che si aprisse il cancello; altri, invece, avevano calcolato con precisione l’orario del loro arrivo e ora stavano entrando, portando con sé sacchetti di carta bianco-marrone umidi provenienti dai negozi di alimentari, pani, burro, uova, latte e simili. La povertà di quegli assistenti, la miseria di quei servitori insolventi, era davvero uno spettacolo penoso da vedere. Indossavano cappotti e pantaloni logori, abiti e sciarpe vecchi e stantii, cappelli e berretti deformi, scarpe e stivali malconci, ombrelli e bastoni da passeggio. Nella Fiera dei Rifiuti non si vedevano mai cose del genere. Tutti indossavano abiti smessi da altre persone; erano composti da pezzi e strappi appartenenti ad altri individui, e non avevano alcuna identità vestimentaria propria. Il loro modo di camminare era caratteristico di una classe sociale distinta. Si muovevano in modo furtivo, come se fossero sempre diretti dal peggiore usuraio del quartiere. Quando tossivano, lo facevano come persone abituate ad essere ignorate sulle soglie delle case o nei corridoi freddi e bui, in attesa di risposte a lettere scritte con inchiostro sbiadito. Risposte che causavano grande ansia ai destinatari di quei messaggi, senza però portare alcun sollievo. Quando guardavano lo sconosciuto che passava loro accanto, lo facevano con occhi “prestati” da altri. Occhi affamati, acuti, curiosi riguardo alla sua bontà, e alla possibilità che fosse una persona piacevole. La mendicità, sotto forma di commissioni, si manifestava nei loro gesti goffi, nelle loro gambe instabili. Nei loro abiti strappati e logori. Nei buchi dei bottoni. Nelle estremità sporche delle strisce di nastro che spuntavano dai loro vestiti. E anche nel respiro alcolico che emettevano.

Mentre queste persone lo superavano mentre stava fermo nel cortile, uno di loro tornò indietro per chiedergli se potesse aiutarlo con qualche servizio. A Arthur Clennam venne in mente che avrebbe voluto parlare di nuovo con Little Dorrit prima di andarsene. Lei aveva sicuramente superato la sua prima sorpresa e forse si sarebbe sentita più a suo agio con lui. Chiese a quest’uomo (che aveva due “tracce false” in mano, e un pane e una spazzola da lucidare sotto il braccio) dove fosse il posto più vicino per bere un caffè. L’uomo rispose in modo incoraggiante e lo portò in una caffetteria situata nella strada, a pochi passi di distanza.

“Conosce la signorina Dorrit?” chiese il nuovo cliente.

Quel persona senza caratteristiche particolari conosceva due signorine Dorrit; una era nata lì dentro. Quella era! La conosceva da molti anni. Per quanto riguarda l’altra signorina Dorrit, quella persona soggiornava nella stessa casa insieme a lei e a suo zio.

Questo cambiò il piano iniziale del cliente, che consisteva nel rimanere nella caffetteria fino a quando qualcuno non gli avrebbe portato la notizia che Dorrit era uscita in strada. Confidò a questa persona un messaggio confidenziale: l’uomo che aveva aspettato suo padre la scorsa notte chiedeva il favore di poterle parlare per qualche istante presso l’abitazione di suo zio; inoltre ottenne da quella stessa fonte indicazioni precise sulla posizione della casa, che si trovava molto vicina. Dopo aver dato alla persona incaricata mezza corona in segno di ringraziamento, si rinfrescò rapidamente nella caffetteria e si recò il più velocemente possibile presso l’abitazione del suonatore di clarinetto.

There were so many lodgers in this house that the doorpost seemed to be as full of bell-handles as a cathedral organ is of stops. Doubtful which might be the clarionet-stop, he was considering the point, when a shuttlecock flew out of the parlour window, and alighted on his hat. He then observed that in the parlour window was a blind with the inscription, MR CRIPPLES’s ACADEMY; also in another line, EVENING TUITION; and behind the blind was a little white-faced boy, with a slice of bread-and-butter and a battledore. The window being accessible from the footway, he looked in over the blind, returned the shuttlecock, and put his question.

‘Dorrit?’ said the little white-faced boy (Master Cripples in fact). ‘Mr Dorrit? Third bell and one knock.’

The pupils of Mr Cripples appeared to have been making a copy-book of the street-door, it was so extensively scribbled over in pencil. The frequency of the inscriptions, ‘Old Dorrit,’ and ‘Dirty Dick,’ in combination, suggested intentions of personality on the part Of Mr Cripples’s pupils. There was ample time to make these observations before the door was opened by the poor old man himself.

‘Ha!’ said he, very slowly remembering Arthur, ‘you were shut in last night?’

‘Yes, Mr Dorrit. I hope to meet your niece here presently.’

‘Oh!’ said he, pondering. ‘Out of my brother’s way? True. Would you come up-stairs and wait for her?’

‘Thank you.’

Turning himself as slowly as he turned in his mind whatever he heard or said, he led the way up the narrow stairs. The house was very close, and had an unwholesome smell. The little staircase windows looked in at the back windows of other houses as unwholesome as itself, with poles and lines thrust out of them, on which unsightly linen hung; as if the inhabitants were angling for clothes, and had had some wretched bites not worth attending to. In the back garret—a sickly room, with a turn-up bedstead in it, so hastily and recently turned up that the blankets were boiling over, as it were, and keeping the lid open—a half-finished breakfast of coffee and toast for two persons was jumbled down anyhow on a rickety table.

There was no one there. The old man mumbling to himself, after some consideration, that Fanny had run away, went to the next room to fetch her back. The visitor, observing that she held the door on the inside, and that, when the uncle tried to open it, there was a sharp adjuration of ‘Don’t, stupid!’ and an appearance of loose stocking and flannel, concluded that the young lady was in an undress. The uncle, without appearing to come to any conclusion, shuffled in again, sat down in his chair, and began warming his hands at the fire; not that it was cold, or that he had any waking idea whether it was or not.

‘What did you think of my brother, sir?’ he asked, when he by-and-by discovered what he was doing, left off, reached over to the chimney-piece, and took his clarionet case down.

‘I was glad,’ said Arthur, very much at a loss, for his thoughts were on the brother before him; ‘to find him so well and cheerful.’

‘Ha!’ muttered the old man, ‘yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’

Arthur wondered what he could possibly want with the clarionet case. He did not want it at all. He discovered, in due time, that it was not the little paper of snuff (which was also on the chimney-piece), put it back again, took down the snuff instead, and solaced himself with a pinch. He was as feeble, spare, and slow in his pinches as in everything else, but a certain little trickling of enjoyment of them played in the poor worn nerves about the corners of his eyes and mouth.

‘Amy, Mr Clennam. What do you think of her?’

‘I am much impressed, Mr Dorrit, by all that I have seen of her and thought of her.’

‘My brother would have been quite lost without Amy,’ he returned. ‘We should all have been lost without Amy. She is a very good girl, Amy. She does her duty.’

Arthur fancied that he heard in these praises a certain tone of custom, which he had heard from the father last night with an inward protest and feeling of antagonism. It was not that they stinted her praises, or were insensible to what she did for them; but that they were lazily habituated to her, as they were to all the rest of their condition. He fancied that although they had before them, every day, the means of comparison between her and one another and themselves, they regarded her as being in her necessary place; as holding a position towards them all which belonged to her, like her name or her age. He fancied that they viewed her, not as having risen away from the prison atmosphere, but as appertaining to it; as being vaguely what they had a right to expect, and nothing more.

Her uncle resumed his breakfast, and was munching toast sopped in coffee, oblivious of his guest, when the third bell rang. That was Amy, he said, and went down to let her in; leaving the visitor with as vivid a picture on his mind of his begrimed hands, dirt-worn face, and decayed figure, as if he were still drooping in his chair.

She came up after him, in the usual plain dress, and with the usual timid manner. Her lips were a little parted, as if her heart beat faster than usual.

‘Mr Clennam, Amy,’ said her uncle, ‘has been expecting you some time.’

‘I took the liberty of sending you a message.’

‘I received the message, sir.’

‘Are you going to my mother’s this morning? I think not, for it is past your usual hour.’

‘Not to-day, sir. I am not wanted to-day.’

‘Will you allow Me to walk a little way in whatever direction you may be going? I can then speak to you as we walk, both without detaining you here, and without intruding longer here myself.’

She looked embarrassed, but said, if he pleased. He made a pretence of having mislaid his walking-stick, to give her time to set the bedstead right, to answer her sister’s impatient knock at the wall, and to say a word softly to her uncle. Then he found it, and they went down-stairs; she first, he following; the uncle standing at the stair-head, and probably forgetting them before they had reached the ground floor.

C’erano così tanti inquilini in questa casa che lo stipite della porta sembrava essere pieno di maniglie delle campane tanto quanto l’organo di una cattedrale è pieno di registri musicali. Mentre si chiedeva quale di quei registri potesse corrispondere alla tromba, un volano da tennis uscì dalla finestra del salotto e atterrò sul suo cappello. Allora notò che nella finestra del salotto c’era una tenda con l’iscrizione “ACADEMIA DI MR CRIPPLES”; in un’altra riga era scritto “LEZIONI SERALI”; dietro la tenda c’era un piccolo ragazzo dal viso pallido, con un pezzo di pane e burro e una racchetta da tennis. Poiché la finestra era accessibile dal marciapiede, guardò attraverso la tenda, restituì il volano e pose la sua domanda.

“Dorrit?” disse il piccolo ragazzo dal viso pallido (in realtà era Master Cripples).
“Signor Dorrit? Terza campana e un colpo alla porta.”

Gli studenti del signor Cripples sembravano aver copiato alla lettera l’indirizzo scritto sulla porta di casa, poiché era completamente ricoperto di scarabocchi fatti a matita. La frequenza con cui comparivano le scritte “Old Dorrit” e “Dirty Dick” suggeriva che gli studenti del signor Cripples volessero esprimere il proprio personale punto di vista riguardo a quell’indirizzo. C’era abbastanza tempo per fare queste osservazioni, prima che la porta venisse aperta dal povero vecchio stesso.

“Ha!” disse lui, ricordando molto lentamente Arthur, “eri chiuso dentro la scorsa notte?”

“Sì, signor Dorrit. Spero di incontrare sua nipote qui presto.”

“Oh!”, disse lui, pensieroso. “Allontanarla dal mio fratello. Sì, certo. Verresti di sopra ad aspettarla?”

“Grazie.”

Mentre rifletteva lentamente su tutto ciò che sentiva o diceva, guidò la strada su per le strette scale. La casa era molto vicina e emanava un odore sgradevole. Le piccole finestre delle scale si affacciavano sulle finestre posteriori di altre case, altrettanto poco igieniche; da esse spuntavano stecche e corde su cui erano appese lenzuola brutte a vedersi; sembrava che gli abitanti cercassero di pescare via i vestiti, ma senza successo. Nella soffitta posteriore, una stanza malata e disordinata: un letto a soppalco era stato sistemato in modo così affrettato che le coperte sembravano “bollire” sopra di esso, tenendo aperto il coperchio; su un tavolo traballante erano ammucchiati i resti di una colazione a base di caffè e toast, destinata a due persone.

Non c’era nessuno lì. L’uomo anziano, mormorando tra sé e sé dopo un po’ di riflessione che Fanny doveva essere scappata, andò nella stanza accanto per riportarla indietro. Il visitatore, osservando che lei teneva la porta chiusa dall’interno e che, quando lo zio cercò di aprirla, sentì un deciso “Non farlo, stupido!”, oltre al vedere delle calze sfilacciate e della flanella, concluse che la giovane signorina fosse in vestaglia. Lo zio, senza sembrare giungere a nessuna conclusione, rientrò nella stanza, si sedette sulla sua sedia e iniziò a scaldarsi le mani davanti al focolare; anche se non faceva freddo, né aveva la minima idea se lo fosse o meno.

“Che ne pensa di mio fratello, signore?” chiese lui, quando finalmente capì cosa stava facendo, smise di fare ciò che stava facendo, allungò la mano verso il camino e prese giù la custodia della sua clarinetta.

“Ero felice,” disse Arthur, piuttosto perplesso, perché i suoi pensieri erano rivolti al fratello davanti a lui; “di vederlo così benissimo e di buon umore.”

“Ah!” mormorò l’uomo anziano, “sì, sì, sì, sì, sì!”

Arthur si chiese cosa potesse voler fare con quella custodia per il clarinetto. Non la voleva affatto. Scoprì, in due occasioni diverse, che non conteneva quel piccolo pezzo di tabacco da fiuto (che si trovava anche sul camino); allora la rimise a posto e prese invece il tabacco da fiuto, assaporandone una pizzicata. Era debole, lento in tutto ciò che faceva, ma quella piccola soddisfazione procuratagli dal tabacco da fiuto suscitava, nei suoi nervi stanchi e logori, un leggero senso di piacere, che gli appariva negli angoli degli occhi e della bocca.

“Amy, signor Clennam. Che ne pensate di lei?”

“Sono molto colpito, signor Dorrit, da tutto ciò che ho visto e pensato di lei.”

“Mio fratello si sarebbe perso completamente senza Amy,” rispose. “Tutti noi ci saremmo persi senza Amy. È una ragazza davvero brava, Amy. Fa sempre il suo dovere.”

Arthur pensava di percepire in queste lodi un certo tono di abitudine, lo stesso che aveva sentito dal padre la sera precedente, e questo gli suscitava un’intima protesta e un senso di antagonismo. Non era perché loro le mancassero le lodi, o perché non apprezzassero ciò che faceva per loro; ma perché erano pigramente abituati a lei, proprio come lo erano a tutto il resto della loro condizione quotidiana. Gli sembrava che, pur avendo ogni giorno la possibilità di confrontarla con gli altri e con se stessi, la considerassero semplicemente nel posto che le spettava; come qualcuno che occupava una posizione naturale rispetto a loro, proprio come il suo nome o la sua età. Gli sembrava che la vedessero non come qualcuno che fosse uscito dall’atmosfera “prigioniera” in cui vivevano, ma come qualcuno che ne faceva parte; come qualcosa che, in modo vago, avevano il diritto di aspettarsi, e nient’altro.

Suo zio riprese a fare colazione, masticando pane tostato immerso nel caffè, completamente ignaro della presenza della sua ospite, quando suonò la terza campanella. “È Amy”, disse, e andò ad aprirle; lasciando alla visitatrice l’immagine vivida delle sue mani sporche, del viso coperto di polvere e della figura in declino, come se fosse ancora seduto sulla sedia.

Lo seguì, indossando come sempre quel semplice abito e con quell’abituale atteggiamento timido. Le sue labbra erano leggermente dischiuse, come se il suo cuore battesse più velocemente del solito.

“Signor Clennam, Amy,” disse suo zio, “vi aspetta da un po’ di tempo.”

“Mi sono preso la libertà di inviarti un messaggio.”

“Ho ricevuto il messaggio, signore.”

“Stai andando da mia madre stamattina? Penso di no, visto che è passata l’ora abituale.”

“Non oggi, signore. Non sono necessario oggi.”

“Mi permetterete di camminare un po’ nella direzione in cui state andando? Così potrò parlare con voi mentre camminiamo, senza ritardarvi e senza trattenermi qui troppo a lungo.”

Sembrava imbarazzata, ma disse che se a lui piaceva. Lui fece finta di aver perso il suo bastone da passeggio, per darle il tempo di sistemare correttamente il letto, di rispondere ai colpi impazienti della sua sorella contro il muro, e di dire qualcosa sottovoce a suo zio. Poi trovò il bastone e scesero le scale: lei per prima, lui dietro; lo zio stava in piedi all’inizio delle scale. E probabilmente li dimenticò prima ancora che raggiungessero il piano terra.

Mr Cripples’s pupils, who were by this time coming to school, desisted from their morning recreation of cuffing one another with bags and books, to stare with all the eyes they had at a stranger who had been to see Dirty Dick. They bore the trying spectacle in silence, until the mysterious visitor was at a safe distance; when they burst into pebbles and yells, and likewise into reviling dances, and in all respects buried the pipe of peace with so many savage ceremonies, that, if Mr Cripples had been the chief of the Cripplewayboo tribe with his war-paint on, they could scarcely have done greater justice to their education.

In the midst of this homage, Mr Arthur Clennam offered his arm to Little Dorrit, and Little Dorrit took it. ‘Will you go by the Iron Bridge,’ said he, ‘where there is an escape from the noise of the street?’ Little Dorrit answered, if he pleased, and presently ventured to hope that he would ‘not mind’ Mr Cripples’s boys, for she had herself received her education, such as it was, in Mr Cripples’s evening academy. He returned, with the best will in the world, that Mr Cripples’s boys were forgiven out of the bottom of his soul. Thus did Cripples unconsciously become a master of the ceremonies between them, and bring them more naturally together than Beau Nash might have done if they had lived in his golden days, and he had alighted from his coach and six for the purpose.

The morning remained squally, and the streets were miserably muddy, but no rain fell as they walked towards the Iron Bridge. The little creature seemed so young in his eyes, that there were moments when he found himself thinking of her, if not speaking to her, as if she were a child. Perhaps he seemed as old in her eyes as she seemed young in his.

‘I am sorry to hear you were so inconvenienced last night, sir, as to be locked in. It was very unfortunate.’

It was nothing, he returned. He had had a very good bed.

‘Oh yes!’ she said quickly; ‘she believed there were excellent beds at the coffee-house.’ He noticed that the coffee-house was quite a majestic hotel to her, and that she treasured its reputation.

‘I believe it is very expensive,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘but my father has told me that quite beautiful dinners may be got there. And wine,’ she added timidly.

‘Were you ever there?’

‘Oh no! Only into the kitchen to fetch hot water.’

To think of growing up with a kind of awe upon one as to the luxuries of that superb establishment, the Marshalsea Hotel!

‘I asked you last night,’ said Clennam, ‘how you had become acquainted with my mother. Did you ever hear her name before she sent for you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you think your father ever did?’

‘No, sir.’

He met her eyes raised to his with so much wonder in them (she was scared when the encounter took place, and shrunk away again), that he felt it necessary to say:

‘I have a reason for asking, which I cannot very well explain; but you must, on no account, suppose it to be of a nature to cause you the least alarm or anxiety. Quite the reverse. And you think that at no time of your father’s life was my name of Clennam ever familiar to him?’

‘No, sir.’

He felt, from the tone in which she spoke, that she was glancing up at him with those parted lips; therefore he looked before him, rather than make her heart beat quicker still by embarrassing her afresh.

Thus they emerged upon the Iron Bridge, which was as quiet after the roaring streets as though it had been open country. The wind blew roughly, the wet squalls came rattling past them, skimming the pools on the road and pavement, and raining them down into the river. The clouds raced on furiously in the lead-coloured sky, the smoke and mist raced after them, the dark tide ran fierce and strong in the same direction. Little Dorrit seemed the least, the quietest, and weakest of Heaven’s creatures.

‘Let me put you in a coach,’ said Clennam, very nearly adding ‘my poor child.’

She hurriedly declined, saying that wet or dry made little difference to her; she was used to go about in all weathers. He knew it to be so, and was touched with more pity; thinking of the slight figure at his side, making its nightly way through the damp dark boisterous streets to such a place of rest.

‘You spoke so feelingly to me last night, sir, and I found afterwards that you had been so generous to my father, that I could not resist your message, if it was only to thank you; especially as I wished very much to say to you—’ she hesitated and trembled, and tears rose in her eyes, but did not fall.

‘To say to me—?’

‘That I hope you will not misunderstand my father. Don’t judge him, sir, as you would judge others outside the gates. He has been there so long! I never saw him outside, but I can understand that he must have grown different in some things since.’

‘My thoughts will never be unjust or harsh towards him, believe me.’

‘Not,’ she said, with a prouder air, as the misgiving evidently crept upon her that she might seem to be abandoning him, ‘not that he has anything to be ashamed of for himself, or that I have anything to be ashamed of for him. He only requires to be understood. I only ask for him that his life may be fairly remembered. All that he said was quite true. It all happened just as he related it. He is very much respected. Everybody who comes in, is glad to know him. He is more courted than anyone else. He is far more thought of than the Marshal is.’

If ever pride were innocent, it was innocent in Little Dorrit when she grew boastful of her father.

‘It is often said that his manners are a true gentleman’s, and quite a study. I see none like them in that place, but he is admitted to be superior to all the rest. This is quite as much why they make him presents, as because they know him to be needy. He is not to be blamed for being in need, poor love. Who could be in prison a quarter of a century, and be prosperous!’

Gli alunni di Mr Cripples, che ormai venivano a scuola, smisero della loro abitudine mattutina di schiaffeggiarsi a vicenda con borse e libri, per fissare con tutti gli occhi disponibili uno sconosciuto che era andato a trovare “Dirty Dick”. Rimasero in silenzio ad assistere a quella strana scena, fino a quando il misterioso visitatore non si fu allontanato a distanza di sicurezza; poi scoppiarono in grida, danze oscene e ogni sorta di comportamenti selvaggi, dimostrando con tali rituali quanto fosse profonda la loro “educazione”. Se solo Mr Cripples fosse stato il capo della tribù dei Cripplewayboo, con i suoi tratti di guerra dipinti sul viso, probabilmente non avrebbero potuto rendere giustizia alla loro “istruzione” in modo più efficace.

Durante questo omaggio, il signor Arthur Clennam offrì il proprio braccio a Little Dorrit, e lei lo accettò. “Vorresti passare dal Ponte di Ferro,” le disse, “là dove si può sfuggire al rumore della strada?” Little Dorrit rispose che, se a lui piaceva. E poi osò sperare che “non gli dispiacessero” i ragazzi del signor Cripples, perché lei stessa aveva ricevuto la propria istruzione, per quanto limitata, presso l’accademia serale del signor Cripples. Lui rispose con la migliore volontà del mondo che i ragazzi del signor Cripples fossero stati perdonati, fino in fondo al suo ‘animo. Così, senza saperlo, il signor Cripples divenne di fatto l’arbitro delle loro interazioni, avvicinandoli più naturalmente di quanto avrebbe potuto fare Beau Nash, se solo fossero vissuti ai suoi tempi d’oro e lui fosse sceso dal suo cocchio per questo scopo.

La mattina rimase tempestosa e le strade erano terribilmente fangose, ma non piovve mentre si dirigevano verso il Ponte di Ferro. Quella piccola creatura gli sembrava così giovane che, a volte, pensava a lei, se non addirittura parlava con lei, come se fosse una bambina. Forse, ai suoi occhi, lui appariva vecchio proprio come lei appariva giovane ai suoi.

“Mi dispiace molto sentire che lei abbia avuto tanti inconvenienti ieri sera, signore, essere chiuso dentro è stato davvero sfortunato.”

Non era niente, è tornato. Aveva dormito molto bene in quel letto.

“Oh sì!”, disse in fretta; “credeva che ci fossero letti eccellenti nella caffetteria”. Lui notò che per lei quella caffetteria era praticamente un hotel maestoso, e che apprezzava molto la sua reputazione.

“Credo che sia molto costoso,” disse Little Dorrit, “ma mio padre mi ha detto che lì si possono gustare cene davvero deliziose. E anche vino,” aggiunse timidamente.

“Sei mai stato lì?”

“Oh no! Devo solo andare in cucina a prendere dell’acqua calda.”

Pensare a crescere con un certo timore reverenziale di fronte ai lussi di quell’eccezionale luogo, il Marshalsea Hotel!

“Te l’ho chiesto la scorsa notte,” disse Clennam, “come hai fatto a conoscere mia madre. Avevi mai sentito il suo nome prima che ti mandasse a chiamare?”

“No, signore.”

“Pensi che tuo padre l’abbia mai fatto?”

“No, signore.”

I suoi occhi si alzarono verso i suoi pieni di tanto stupore (era spaventata quando si erano incontrati e si era subito allontanata); per questo sentì il bisogno di dire:

“Ho una ragione per far questa domanda, che non posso spiegare molto bene; ma tu non devi assolutamente pensare che abbia a che fare con qualcosa che possa causarti il minimo allarme o preoccupazione. Anzi, al contrario. E credi che, in nessun momento della vita di tuo padre, il mio nome, Clennam, gli sia mai stato noto?”

“No, signore.”

Dall’intonazione della sua voce, capì che lei lo stava guardando con quelle labbra socchiuse; quindi fissò lo sguardo davanti a sé, piuttosto che farle battere il cuore ancora più velocemente mettendola in imbarazzo una volta di più.

Così emersero sul Ponte di Ferro, che, dopo le strade rumorose, era tranquillo come se fosse una campagna deserta. Il vento soffiava forte; raffiche umide passavano veloci accanto a loro, sollevando schizzi d’acqua dalle pozzanghere sulla strada e sul marciapiede, per poi gettarli nel >fiume. Le nuvole si muovevano rapidamente nel cielo color rame; fumo e nebbia le inseguivano, mentre una corrente scura e potente scorreva nella stessa direzione. La piccola Dorrit sembrava l’essere più tranquillo, debole e insignificante tra tutte le creature del cielo.

“Lascia che ti accompagni in carrozza,” disse Clennam, quasi aggiungendo “povero mio >bambino”.

Rifiutò in fretta, dicendo che per lei non faceva molta differenza se fosse bagnata o asciutta; era abituata a muoversi in ogni condizione meteorologica. Lui lo sapeva bene e ne provò ancora più compassione; pensando a quella piccola figura al suo fianco, che ogni notte percorreva le strade umide, buie e rumorose per raggiungere un luogo di riposo come quello.

‘Ieri sera mi avete parlato con tanta emozione, signore, e in seguito ho scoperto che siete stato così generoso con mio padre, che non ho potuto rifiutare il vostro messaggio, anche solo per ringraziarvi; soprattutto perché desideravo molto dirvi qualcosa, ’ Esitò, tremò, e le lacrime iniziarono a sgorgare dai suoi occhi, ma non cadde.

“Dirmi,?”

‘Spero davvero che non fraintendiate mio padre. Non giudicatelo, signore, come fareste con altre persone al di fuori di queste mura. È stato lì per così tanto tempo. Non l’ho mai visto all’esterno, ma posso capire che in alcuni aspetti debba essersi cambiato.’

“Puoi credere che i miei pensieri verso di lui non saranno mai ingiusti o duri.”

“No,” disse lei, con un tono più orgoglioso, poiché evidentemente le era venuta l’idea che potesse sembrare di abbandonarlo, “non perché lui abbia qualcosa di cui vergognarsi, né perché io abbia qualcosa di cui vergognarmi per lui. Lui ha solo bisogno di essere compreso. Tutto ciò che chiedo è che la sua vita venga ricordata con giustizia. Quello che ha detto era del tutto vero; tutto è accaduto esattamente come lo ha raccontato. È molto rispettato: tutti quelli che entrano sono felici di conoscerlo; viene corteggiato più di chiunque altro. E si pensa a lui molto più di quanto si pensi al Maresciallo.”

Se mai l’orgoglio può essere considerato innocente, allora lo era certamente quello di Little Dorrit quando iniziò a vantarsi di suo padre.

Si dice spesso che i suoi modi siano quelli di un vero gentiluomo, e rappresentino davvero uno studio interessante. Non vedo nessuno altrove con simili maniere, ma si riconosce che sia superiore a tutti gli altri. Proprio per questo motivo gli fanno regali, oltre al fatto che sappiano che è in difficoltà economiche. Non si può biasimarlo per essere nella povertà, povero amore mio. Chi potrebbe trascorrere un quarto di secolo in prigione e rimanere comunque prospero?

What affection in her words, what compassion in her repressed tears, what a great soul of fidelity within her, how true the light that shed false brightness round him!

‘If I have found it best to conceal where my home is, it is not because I am ashamed of him. God forbid! Nor am I so much ashamed of the place itself as might be supposed. People are not bad because they come there. I have known numbers of good, persevering, honest people come there through misfortune. They are almost all kind-hearted to one another. And it would be ungrateful indeed in me, to forget that I have had many quiet, comfortable hours there; that I had an excellent friend there when I was quite a baby, who was very very fond of me; that I have been taught there, and have worked there, and have slept soundly there. I think it would be almost cowardly and cruel not to have some little attachment for it, after all this.’

She had relieved the faithful fulness of her heart, and modestly said, raising her eyes appealingly to her new friend’s, ‘I did not mean to say so much, nor have I ever but once spoken about this before. But it seems to set it more right than it was last night. I said I wished you had not followed me, sir. I don’t wish it so much now, unless you should think—indeed I don’t wish it at all, unless I should have spoken so confusedly, that—that you can scarcely understand me, which I am afraid may be the case.’

He told her with perfect truth that it was not the case; and putting himself between her and the sharp wind and rain, sheltered her as well as he could.

‘I feel permitted now,’ he said, ‘to ask you a little more concerning your father. Has he many creditors?’

‘Oh! a great number.’

‘I mean detaining creditors, who keep him where he is?’

‘Oh yes! a great number.’

‘Can you tell me—I can get the information, no doubt, elsewhere, if you cannot—who is the most influential of them?’

Little Dorrit said, after considering a little, that she used to hear long ago of Mr Tite Barnacle as a man of great power. He was a commissioner, or a board, or a trustee, ‘or something.’ He lived in Grosvenor Square, she thought, or very near it. He was under Government—high in the Circumlocution Office. She appeared to have acquired, in her infancy, some awful impression of the might of this formidable Mr Tite Barnacle of Grosvenor Square, or very near it, and the Circumlocution Office, which quite crushed her when she mentioned him.

‘It can do no harm,’ thought Arthur, ‘if I see this Mr Tite Barnacle.’

The thought did not present itself so quietly but that her quickness intercepted it. ‘Ah!’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head with the mild despair of a lifetime. ‘Many people used to think once of getting my poor father out, but you don’t know how hopeless it is.’

She forgot to be shy at the moment, in honestly warning him away from the sunken wreck he had a dream of raising; and looked at him with eyes which assuredly, in association with her patient face, her fragile figure, her spare dress, and the wind and rain, did not turn him from his purpose of helping her.

‘Even if it could be done,’ said she—‘and it never can be done now—where could father live, or how could he live? I have often thought that if such a change could come, it might be anything but a service to him now. People might not think so well of him outside as they do there. He might not be so gently dealt with outside as he is there. He might not be so fit himself for the life outside as he is for that.’

Here for the first time she could not restrain her tears from falling; and the little thin hands he had watched when they were so busy, trembled as they clasped each other.

‘It would be a new distress to him even to know that I earn a little money, and that Fanny earns a little money. He is so anxious about us, you see, feeling helplessly shut up there. Such a good, good father!’

He let the little burst of feeling go by before he spoke. It was soon gone. She was not accustomed to think of herself, or to trouble any one with her emotions. He had but glanced away at the piles of city roofs and chimneys among which the smoke was rolling heavily, and at the wilderness of masts on the river, and the wilderness of steeples on the shore, indistinctly mixed together in the stormy haze, when she was again as quiet as if she had been plying her needle in his mother’s room.

‘You would be glad to have your brother set at liberty?’

‘Oh very, very glad, sir!’

‘Well, we will hope for him at least. You told me last night of a friend you had?’

His name was Plornish, Little Dorrit said.

And where did Plornish live? Plornish lived in Bleeding Heart Yard. He was ‘only a plasterer,’ Little Dorrit said, as a caution to him not to form high social expectations of Plornish. He lived at the last house in Bleeding Heart Yard, and his name was over a little gateway.

Arthur took down the address and gave her his. He had now done all he sought to do for the present, except that he wished to leave her with a reliance upon him, and to have something like a promise from her that she would cherish it.

‘There is one friend!’ he said, putting up his pocketbook. ‘As I take you back—you are going back?’

‘Oh yes! going straight home.’

‘—As I take you back,’ the word home jarred upon him, ‘let me ask you to persuade yourself that you have another friend. I make no professions, and say no more.’

‘You are truly kind to me, sir. I am sure I need no more.’

They walked back through the miserable muddy streets, and among the poor, mean shops, and were jostled by the crowds of dirty hucksters usual to a poor neighbourhood. There was nothing, by the short way, that was pleasant to any of the five senses. Yet it was not a common passage through common rain, and mire, and noise, to Clennam, having this little, slender, careful creature on his arm. How young she seemed to him, or how old he to her; or what a secret either to the other, in that beginning of the destined interweaving of their stories, matters not here. He thought of her having been born and bred among these scenes, and shrinking through them now, familiar yet misplaced; he thought of her long acquaintance with the squalid needs of life, and of her innocence; of her solicitude for others, and her few years, and her childish aspect.

Quanta affetto nelle sue parole, quanta compassione nei suoi lacrime trattenute. Che grande anima di fedeltà possedeva; quanto vera era la luce che irradiava, offrendogli un’illusoria bellezza!

“Se ho ritenuto opportuno nascondere dove si trova la mia casa, non è perché ne abbia vergogna. Dio me ne scampi! Né provo una vergogna così grande per il luogo stesso come si potrebbe pensare. Le persone non sono cattive solo perché vi vanno. Ho conosciuto molte persone buone, perseveranti e oneste che ci sono arrivate a causa di sfortune. Sono quasi tutte gentili le une con le altre. E sarebbe davvero ingratitudine da parte mia dimenticare che ho trascorso lì molti momenti tranquilli e confortevoli; che avevo un ottimo amico lì quando ero ancora molto piccolo, che mi voleva molto bene; che ho imparato lì, ho lavorato lì e ho dormito serenamente lì. Penso che sarebbe quasi codardo e crudele non provare un po’ di affetto per quel luogo, dopo tutto ciò.”

Aveva espresso apertamente i sentimenti sinceri del proprio cuore e, con modestia, alzando lo sguardo verso il suo nuovo amico, disse: “Non intendevo dire tutto ciò; in realtà non ne ho mai parlato prima d’ora. Ma sembra che ora le mie parole siano più chiare rispetto a quelle di ieri notte. Avevo detto che avrei preferito non foste venuto con me. Ora, però, non lo desidero più, a meno che voi non pensiate. Anzi, non lo desidero affatto, a meno che non abbia parlato in modo così confuso da rendere difficile capirmi. Il che, temo, possa essere vero.”

Le disse con assoluta verità che non era così; e mettendosi tra lei e il forte )vento e la pioggia, la protesse nel miglior modo possibile.

“Ora mi sembra giusto,” disse, “chiederti qualcos’altro riguardo a tuo padre. Ha molti creditori?”

“Ah, un gran numero.”

“Intendo dire, chi sono questi creditori che lo tengono prigioniero lì dove si trova?”

“Ah sì! Un gran numero.”

“Puoi dirmi. Posso ottenere queste informazioni altrove, senza alcun dubbio, se non riesci tu. Chi di loro è il più influente?”

Dopo averci pensato un po’, Little Dorrit disse che molto tempo prima aveva sentito parlare del signor Tite Barnacle come di una persona dal grande potere. Era un commissario, o un membro di un consiglio, o un fiduciario, “O qualcosa del genere”. Viveva a Grosvenor Square, pensò lei, o molto vicino. Apparteneva al Governo – e ricopriva una posizione elevata presso l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. Sembrava che fin da piccola avesse acquisito un’immagine terribile della potenza di questo temibile signor Tite Barnacle, residente a Grosvenor Square o nelle sue vicinanze, e dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. Un’immagine tale da sopraffarla ogni volta che ne parlava.

“Non può fare alcun danno,” pensò Arthur, “se incontro questo signor Tite Barnacle.”

Quel pensiero non le venne in mente in modo così silenzioso; fu la sua prontezza ad intercettarlo. “Ah!”, esclamò Little Dorrit, scuotendo la testa con quel lieve dispero che l’aveva accompagnata per tutta la vita. “Molte persone avevano pensato di aiutare mio povero padre a uscire da quella situazione, ma voi non sapete quanto tutto sia senza speranza, ”

In quel momento dimenticò di essere timida e lo avvertì onestamente di stare lontano da quella nave affondata di cui aveva sognato di ripristinarla; lo guardò con occhi che, uniti al suo viso paziente, alla sua figura fragile, al suo abito semplice, e al vento e alla pioggia che intorno c’erano, non fecero certo cambiare idea a lui riguardo al suo proposito di aiutarla.

“Anche se fosse possibile,” disse lei, “e ora non lo è affatto. Dove potrebbe vivere mio padre, e come potrebbe sopravvivere? Spesso ho pensato che, anche se un cambiamento del genere dovesse avvenire, potrebbe rivelarsi tutt’altro che vantaggioso per lui in questo momento. Fuori da qui, la gente potrebbe non pensar bene di lui come fa qui; potrebbero trattarlo con meno gentilezza. E forse non sarebbe nemmeno adatto alla vita che lo aspetta fuori.”

Per la prima volta, non riuscì a trattenere le sue lacrime;
e quelle piccole mani sottili, che aveva osservato mentre erano così impegnate,
tremavano mentre si stringevano l’una all’altra.

Sarebbe un altro dolore per lui anche solo sapere che guadagno un po’ di soldi, e che Fanny ne guadagna anch’essa un po’. È così preoccupato per noi, si sente impotente, chiuso lì dentro. Che bravo padre!

Lasciò che quel breve momento di emozione passasse prima di parlare. Presto svanì. Lei non era abituata a pensare a se stessa, né ad angosciare nessuno con le proprie emozioni. Lui aveva solo dato un’occhiata alle pile di tetti e camini della città tra cui il fumo si levava denso, al caos di alberi maestri sul fiume e alla confusione di guglie sulla riva, tutti mescolati insieme nella nebbia tempestosa. Quando tornò a parlare, lei era di nuovo silenziosa, come se stesse ancora lavorando al suo ricamo nella stanza di sua madre.

“Vorresti davvero che tuo fratello fosse liberato?”

“Ah sì, davvero molto felice, signore!”

‘Beh, almeno possiamo sperare per lui. L’altra notte mi hai parlato di un amico che avevi, vero?’

Si chiamava Plornish, disse Little Dorrit.

E dove viveva Plornish? Plornish viveva in Bleeding Heart Yard. Era “solo un imbianchino”, disse Little Dorrit, come modo per avvertirlo di non avere aspettative sociali troppo elevate riguardo a Plornish. Viveva nell’ultima casa di Bleeding Heart Yard, e il suo nome era scritto sopra un piccolo cancello d’ingresso.

Arthur prese l’indirizzo e le diede il proprio. Ora aveva fatto tutto ciò che desiderava fare per il momento; voleva solo lasciarle la certezza della sua disponibilità e ottenere da lei una sorta di promessa, affinché la custodisse con cura.

“C’è un amico!” disse, tirando fuori il portafoglio. “Poiché ti riporto indietro, tu tornerai davvero?”

“Oh sì! Andrò dritto a casa.”

“–Mentre ti riporto a casa,“ la parola casa lo colpì profondamente, “lascia che ti chieda di convincerti che hai un altro amico. Non faccio promesse e non dirò altro.“

“Siete davvero molto gentile con me, signore. Sono sicura che non abbia bisogno di nient’altro.”

Ritornarono indietro attraverso quelle strade fangose e misere, tra negozi poveri e squallidi, spinti avanti dalla folla di venditori ambulanti che caratterizza i quartieri poveri. Lungo quel percorso breve, non c’era nulla che potesse piacere ai cinque sensi di nessuno dei due. Eppure, per Clennam, quella non era una strada normale da percorrere sotto la pioggia, nel fango e nel rumore, con quella piccola, esile creatura tra le sue braccia. Quanto sembrava giovane a lui, o quanto vecchio lui a lei. E quale segreto nascondevano l’uno nell’altro, in quel momento iniziale dell’intreccio destinato delle loro storie. Non importa. Pensò che fosse nata e cresciuta tra quelle scene, e ora vi si muovesse con timore, pur essendoci abituata; pensò alla sua lunga familiarità con le difficoltà della vita, alla sua innocenza, alla sua premura per gli altri, ai suoi pochi anni, al suo aspetto infantile.

They were come into the High Street, where the prison stood, when a voice cried, ‘Little mother, little mother!’ Little Dorrit stopping and looking back, an excited figure of a strange kind bounced against them (still crying ‘little mother’), fell down, and scattered the contents of a large basket, filled with potatoes, in the mud.

‘Oh, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘what a clumsy child you are!’

Maggy was not hurt, but picked herself up immediately, and then began to pick up the potatoes, in which both Little Dorrit and Arthur Clennam helped. Maggy picked up very few potatoes and a great quantity of mud; but they were all recovered, and deposited in the basket. Maggy then smeared her muddy face with her shawl, and presenting it to Mr Clennam as a type of purity, enabled him to see what she was like.

She was about eight-and-twenty, with large bones, large features, large feet and hands, large eyes and no hair. Her large eyes were limpid and almost colourless; they seemed to be very little affected by light, and to stand unnaturally still. There was also that attentive listening expression in her face, which is seen in the faces of the blind; but she was not blind, having one tolerably serviceable eye. Her face was not exceedingly ugly, though it was only redeemed from being so by a smile; a good-humoured smile, and pleasant in itself, but rendered pitiable by being constantly there. A great white cap, with a quantity of opaque frilling that was always flapping about, apologised for Maggy’s baldness, and made it so very difficult for her old black bonnet to retain its place upon her head, that it held on round her neck like a gipsy’s baby. A commission of haberdashers could alone have reported what the rest of her poor dress was made of, but it had a strong general resemblance to seaweed, with here and there a gigantic tea-leaf. Her shawl looked particularly like a tea-leaf after long infusion.

Arthur Clennam looked at Little Dorrit with the expression of one saying, ‘May I ask who this is?’ Little Dorrit, whose hand this Maggy, still calling her little mother, had begun to fondle, answered in words (they were under a gateway into which the majority of the potatoes had rolled).

‘This is Maggy, sir.’

‘Maggy, sir,’ echoed the personage presented. ‘Little mother!’

‘She is the grand-daughter—’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Grand-daughter,’ echoed Maggy.

‘Of my old nurse, who has been dead a long time. Maggy, how old are you?’

‘Ten, mother,’ said Maggy.

‘You can’t think how good she is, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, with infinite tenderness.

‘Good she is,’ echoed Maggy, transferring the pronoun in a most expressive way from herself to her little mother.

‘Or how clever,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘She goes on errands as well as any one.’ Maggy laughed. ‘And is as trustworthy as the Bank of England.’ Maggy laughed. ‘She earns her own living entirely. Entirely, sir!’ said Little Dorrit, in a lower and triumphant tone. ‘Really does!’

‘What is her history?’ asked Clennam.

‘Think of that, Maggy?’ said Little Dorrit, taking her two large hands and clapping them together. ‘A gentleman from thousands of miles away, wanting to know your history!’

‘My history?’ cried Maggy. ‘Little mother.’

‘She means me,’ said Little Dorrit, rather confused; ‘she is very much attached to me. Her old grandmother was not so kind to her as she should have been; was she, Maggy?’

Maggy shook her head, made a drinking vessel of her clenched left hand, drank out of it, and said, ‘Gin.’ Then beat an imaginary child, and said, ‘Broom-handles and pokers.’

‘When Maggy was ten years old,’ said Little Dorrit, watching her face while she spoke, ‘she had a bad fever, sir, and she has never grown any older ever since.’

‘Ten years old,’ said Maggy, nodding her head. ‘But what a nice hospital! So comfortable, wasn’t it? Oh so nice it was. Such a Ev’nly place!’

‘She had never been at peace before, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, turning towards Arthur for an instant and speaking low, ‘and she always runs off upon that.’

‘Such beds there is there!’ cried Maggy. ‘Such lemonades! Such oranges! Such d’licious broth and wine! Such Chicking! Oh, AIN’T it a delightful place to go and stop at!’

‘So Maggy stopped there as long as she could,’ said Little Dorrit, in her former tone of telling a child’s story; the tone designed for Maggy’s ear, ‘and at last, when she could stop there no longer, she came out. Then, because she was never to be more than ten years old, however long she lived—’

‘However long she lived,’ echoed Maggy.

‘—And because she was very weak; indeed was so weak that when she began to laugh she couldn’t stop herself—which was a great pity—’

(Maggy mighty grave of a sudden.)

‘—Her grandmother did not know what to do with her, and for some years was very unkind to her indeed. At length, in course of time, Maggy began to take pains to improve herself, and to be very attentive and very industrious; and by degrees was allowed to come in and out as often as she liked, and got enough to do to support herself, and does support herself. And that,’ said Little Dorrit, clapping the two great hands together again, ‘is Maggy’s history, as Maggy knows!’

Ah! But Arthur would have known what was wanting to its completeness, though he had never heard of the words Little mother; though he had never seen the fondling of the small spare hand; though he had had no sight for the tears now standing in the colourless eyes; though he had had no hearing for the sob that checked the clumsy laugh. The dirty gateway with the wind and rain whistling through it, and the basket of muddy potatoes waiting to be spilt again or taken up, never seemed the common hole it really was, when he looked back to it by these lights. Never, never!

They were very near the end of their walk, and they now came out of the gateway to finish it. Nothing would serve Maggy but that they must stop at a grocer’s window, short of their destination, for her to show her learning. She could read after a sort; and picked out the fat figures in the tickets of prices, for the most part correctly. She also stumbled, with a large balance of success against her failures, through various philanthropic recommendations to Try our Mixture, Try our Family Black, Try our Orange-flavoured Pekoe, challenging competition at the head of Flowery Teas; and various cautions to the public against spurious establishments and adulterated articles. When he saw how pleasure brought a rosy tint into Little Dorrit’s face when Maggy made a hit, he felt that he could have stood there making a library of the grocer’s window until the rain and wind were tired.

The court-yard received them at last, and there he said goodbye to Little Dorrit. Little as she had always looked, she looked less than ever when he saw her going into the Marshalsea lodge passage, the little mother attended by her big child.

The cage door opened, and when the small bird, reared in captivity, had tamely fluttered in, he saw it shut again; and then he came away.

Erano appena entrati nella High Street, dove si trovava la prigione, quando una voce gridò: “Piccola mamma, piccola mamma!” Little Dorrit si fermò e si girò indietro; una figura eccitata e di aspetto strano le corse incontro (continuando a chiamare “piccola mamma”), cadde a terra e sparse nel fango il contenuto di un grande cesto pieno di patate.

“Oh, Maggy,” disse Little Dorrit, “che bambino goffo che sei!”

Maggy non era ferita, ma si alzò immediatamente e iniziò a raccogliere le patate; sia Little Dorrit che Arthur Clennam le aiutarono. Maggy raccolse poche patate, ma molta fanghiglia; tuttavia, tutto venne recuperato e messo nel cesto. Poi si pulì il viso sporco di fango con il suo scialle e lo mostrò a Mr Clennam, come una sorta di “purezza”, permettendogli così di vedere com’era veramente.

Aveva circa ventotto anni; aveva ossa grandi, tratti facciali marcati, piedi e mani grandi, occhi grandi, e nessun capello. I suoi occhi erano limpidi e quasi privi di colore; sembravano non essere affatto influenzati dalla luce e rimanere immobili in modo innaturale. Sul suo viso c’era anche quell’espressione di attenta ascolto tipica delle persone non vedenti, ma lei non era cieca, poiché aveva un occhio abbastanza funzionante. Il suo viso non era particolarmente brutto, sebbene solo un sorriso potesse renderlo meno sgradevole all’occhio; un sorriso gentile e piacevole in sé, ma reso triste dal fatto che fosse sempre presente sul suo volto. Un grande cappello bianco, con una quantità di frange opache che continuavano a svolazzare intorno, “scusava” la calvizie di Maggy; rendeva anche molto difficile al suo vecchio cappello nero rimanere fermo sulla sua testa, tanto che sembrava attaccato al suo collo come il berretto di un bambino zingaro. Solo una commissione di sarti avrebbe potuto descrivere con precisione di cosa fosse fatto il resto dei suoi poveri vestiti, ma in generale assomigliavano molto all’alga marina, con qua e là qualche “folio di tè” gigantesco. Il suo scialle, dopo essere stato a lungo immerso nell’acqua, sembrava davvero un foglio di tè.

Arthur Clennam guardò Little Dorrit con l’espressione di chi chiedesse: “Posso sapere chi è questa ragazza?” Little Dorrit, la cui mano quella Maggy, che continuava a chiamarla “piccola mamma”, aveva iniziato ad accarezzare, rispose a parole, (erano sotto un cancello dal quale la maggior parte delle patate era rotolata fuori).

“Questa è Maggy, signore.”

“Maggy, signore,” rispose la persona che fu presentata. “Piccola mamma!”

“È la nipote, ” disse Little Dorrit.

“Nipote”, echeggiò la voce di Maggy.

“Di mia vecchia infermiera, che è morta da molto tempo. Maggy, quanti anni hai?”

“Tieni, mamma,” disse Maggy.

“Non potete immaginare quanto sia buona, signore,” disse Little Dorrit con infinita tenerezza.

“Che brava lei è,” ripeté Maggy, utilizzando il pronome in modo molto espressivo per passare da sé stessa alla sua piccola madre.

“Che abilità,” disse Little Dorrit. “Svolge i suoi compiti altrettanto bene di chiunque altro.” Maggy rise. “E è affidabile quanto la Banca d’Inghilterra.” Maggy rise ancora. “Si guadagna da vivere completamente da sola. Completamente, signore!” disse Little Dorrit, con un tono più basso e trionfante. “Davvero!”

“Qual è la sua storia?” chiese Clennam.

“Pensa un po’, Maggy, ”, disse Little Dorrit, mettendo insieme le sue due grandi mani e battendole. “Un gentiluomo proveniente da migliaia di chilometri lontani, che vuole conoscere la tua storia!”

“La mia storia?”, gridò Maggy. “Mia piccola mamma.”

“Intende me,” disse Little Dorrit, piuttosto confusa; “è molto legata a me. Sua nonna non è stata gentile con lei come avrebbe dovuto essere, vero, Maggy?”

Maggy scosse la testa, usò la sua mano sinistra stretta a pugno come recipiente per bere, ne bevve il contenuto e disse: “Gin.” Poi immaginò di picchiare un bambino e aggiunse: “Manici di scopa e forchette.”

“Quando Maggy aveva dieci anni,” disse Little Dorrit, osservandone il viso mentre parlava, “lei ebbe una febbre terribile, signore, e da allora non è mai più cresciuta.”

“Dieci anni,” disse Maggy annuendo con la testa. “Ma che bel ospedale! Così confortevole, vero? Davvero molto bello. Un posto davvero meraviglioso!”

“Non era mai stata in pace prima d’ora, signore,” disse Little Dorrit, voltandosi per un istante verso Arthur e parlando a bassa voce, “e lei continua sempre a fuggire via a causa di quello.”

“Che letti deliziosi ci sono lì!” esclamò Maggy. “Che limonate! Che arance! Che brodo e vino squisiti! Che cibo delizioso! Oh, non è davvero un posto meraviglioso in cui fermarsi?”

“So che Maggy è rimasta lì per tutto il tempo possibile,” disse Little Dorrit, usando quel tono tipico con cui si raccontano le storie ai bambini, un tono adatto alle orecchie di Maggy; “e alla fine, quando non poté più restare lì, uscì. Poi, poiché non avrebbe mai superato i dieci anni, per quanto a lungo fosse vissuta, ”

“Per quanto tempo anche fosse vissuta,” echeggiò la voce di Maggy.

“E perché era molto debole; davvero così debole che, quando iniziava a ridere, non riusciva a smettere, il che è stato un grande peccato, ”

(Maggy, improvvisamente molto seria.)

“Sua nonna non sapeva come comportarsi con lei, e per alcuni anni fu davvero molto crudele con lei. Alla fine, col passare del tempo, Maggy iniziò a impegnarsi seriamente per migliorare se stessa, ad essere molto attenta e diligente; gradualmente le fu permesso di andare e venire quando voleva, ottenne abbastanza lavoro per mantenersi, e oggi si mantiene davvero da sola. E questa,” disse Little Dorrit, battendo di nuovo insieme le sue grandi mani, “è la storia di Maggy, come lei stessa sa!”

Ah! Ma Arthur avrebbe saputo cosa mancava per rendere tutto completo, anche se non aveva mai sentito pronunciare le parole “piccola mamma”; anche se non aveva mai visto quel gesto di tenerezza con quella piccola mano; anche se non si era accorto delle lacrime che ora brillavano nei suoi occhi incolori; anche se non aveva sentito quel singhiozzo che soffocava quella risata goffa. Quel cancello sporco, dove il vento e la pioggia sibilavano attraverso di esso, e quel cesto pieno di patate fangose, in attesa di essere di nuovo rovesciato o raccolto. Mai sembrava davvero quella “normale” porta d’ingresso, quando lui la guardava alla luce di quei momenti speciali. Mai, mai!

Erano quasi arrivati alla fine del loro percorso e ora uscirono dall’ingresso per concluderlo. Non c’era altra scelta se non fermarsi davanti alla vetrina di un negozio di alimentari, anche se questo era lontano dal loro vero obiettivo, così che Maggy potesse dimostrare quanto aveva imparato. Riusciva più o meno a leggere; riconosceva correttamente le cifre indicate sui cartelli dei prezzi e, nonostante qualche errore, riusciva comunque a formulare varie raccomandazioni filantropiche del tipo “Provate la nostra miscela”, “Provate il nostro tè nero familiare”, “Provate il nostro Pekoe al sapore di arancia”, sfidando così la concorrenza nel settore dei tè profumati; inoltre, dava anche avvertimenti al pubblico riguardo a negozi fraudolenti e prodotti adulterati. Quando vide quanto piacere facesse a Little Dorrit ogni volta che Maggy riusciva a rispondere correttamente alle domande, pensò che avrebbe potuto rimanere lì per tutta la notte, creando letteralmente una “biblioteca” di informazioni all’interno della vetrina del negozio, finché pioggia e vento non si fossero stancati.

Il cortile li accolse finalmente, e lì lui disse addio a Little Dorrit. Per quanto fosse sempre stata piccola, sembrava ancora più minuta quando la vide entrare nel corridoio della residenza di Marshalsea, quella piccola madre accompagnata dal suo grande figlio.

La porta della gabbia si aprì, e quando il piccolo uccello, cresciuto in cattività, entrò timidamente fluttuando all’interno, vide che la porta si chiudeva di nuovo; poi se ne andò.

CHAPTER 10. Containing the whole Science of Government

The Circumlocution Office was (as everybody knows without being told) the most important Department under Government. No public business of any kind could possibly be done at any time without the acquiescence of the Circumlocution Office. Its finger was in the largest public pie, and in the smallest public tart. It was equally impossible to do the plainest right and to undo the plainest wrong without the express authority of the Circumlocution Office. If another Gunpowder Plot had been discovered half an hour before the lighting of the match, nobody would have been justified in saving the parliament until there had been half a score of boards, half a bushel of minutes, several sacks of official memoranda, and a family-vault full of ungrammatical correspondence, on the part of the Circumlocution Office.

This glorious establishment had been early in the field, when the one sublime principle involving the difficult art of governing a country, was first distinctly revealed to statesmen. It had been foremost to study that bright revelation and to carry its shining influence through the whole of the official proceedings. Whatever was required to be done, the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments in the art of perceiving—HOW NOT TO DO IT.

Through this delicate perception, through the tact with which it invariably seized it, and through the genius with which it always acted on it, the Circumlocution Office had risen to overtop all the public departments; and the public condition had risen to be—what it was.

It is true that How not to do it was the great study and object of all public departments and professional politicians all round the Circumlocution Office. It is true that every new premier and every new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their utmost faculties to discovering How not to do it. It is true that from the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had been raving on hustings because it hadn’t been done, and who had been asking the friends of the honourable gentleman in the opposite interest on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn’t been done, and who had been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found out; and with the blessing of Providence upon the harvest (natural, not political), I now dismiss you. All this is true, but the Circumlocution Office went beyond it.

Because the Circumlocution Office went on mechanically, every day, keeping this wonderful, all-sufficient wheel of statesmanship, How not to do it, in motion. Because the Circumlocution Office was down upon any ill-advised public servant who was going to do it, or who appeared to be by any surprising accident in remote danger of doing it, with a minute, and a memorandum, and a letter of instructions that extinguished him. It was this spirit of national efficiency in the Circumlocution Office that had gradually led to its having something to do with everything. Mechanicians, natural philosophers, soldiers, sailors, petitioners, memorialists, people with grievances, people who wanted to prevent grievances, people who wanted to redress grievances, jobbing people, jobbed people, people who couldn’t get rewarded for merit, and people who couldn’t get punished for demerit, were all indiscriminately tucked up under the foolscap paper of the Circumlocution Office.

Numbers of people were lost in the Circumlocution Office. Unfortunates with wrongs, or with projects for the general welfare (and they had better have had wrongs at first, than have taken that bitter English recipe for certainly getting them), who in slow lapse of time and agony had passed safely through other public departments; who, according to rule, had been bullied in this, over-reached by that, and evaded by the other; got referred at last to the Circumlocution Office, and never reappeared in the light of day. Boards sat upon them, secretaries minuted upon them, commissioners gabbled about them, clerks registered, entered, checked, and ticked them off, and they melted away. In short, all the business of the country went through the Circumlocution Office, except the business that never came out of it; and its name was Legion.

Sometimes, angry spirits attacked the Circumlocution Office. Sometimes, parliamentary questions were asked about it, and even parliamentary motions made or threatened about it by demagogues so low and ignorant as to hold that the real recipe of government was, How to do it. Then would the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, in whose department it was to defend the Circumlocution Office, put an orange in his pocket, and make a regular field-day of the occasion. Then would he come down to that house with a slap upon the table, and meet the honourable gentleman foot to foot. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that the Circumlocution Office not only was blameless in this matter, but was commendable in this matter, was extollable to the skies in this matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that, although the Circumlocution Office was invariably right and wholly right, it never was so right as in this matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that it would have been more to his honour, more to his credit, more to his good taste, more to his good sense, more to half the dictionary of commonplaces, if he had left the Circumlocution Office alone, and never approached this matter. Then would he keep one eye upon a coach or crammer from the Circumlocution Office sitting below the bar, and smash the honourable gentleman with the Circumlocution Office account of this matter. And although one of two things always happened; namely, either that the Circumlocution Office had nothing to say and said it, or that it had something to say of which the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, blundered one half and forgot the other; the Circumlocution Office was always voted immaculate by an accommodating majority.

CAPITOLO 10. Che contiene tutta la scienza della governazione

L’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni era (come tutti sanno senza che ce ne sia bisogno) il Dipartimento più importante all’interno del Governo. Nessuna questione pubblica di alcun tipo poteva essere risolta in qualsiasi momento senza l’approvazione dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. Aveva il controllo su tutte le questioni pubbliche, grandi e piccole; era altrettanto impossibile compiere un atto giusto o correggere un errore senza l’autorizzazione esplicita di quell’ufficio. Se un altro “complotto alla polvere da sparo” fosse stato scoperto mezz’ora prima che venisse accesa la miccia, nessuno avrebbe avuto il diritto di salvare il parlamento, a meno che l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni non avesse prodotto una ventina di documenti ufficiali, mezzo secchio di minute scritte con precisione, diversi sacchi di comunicazioni grammaticalmente scorrette, e un intero archivio pieno di corrispondenza incoerente.

Questo glorioso istituto fu tra i primi ad operare in questo campo, quando il principio sublime legato all’arte difficile di governare un paese fu per la prima volta chiaramente rivelato agli statisti. Fu essenziale studiare questa rivelazione e farne diffondere l’influenza positiva in tutti gli ambiti delle attività ufficiali. Qualunque cosa dovesse essere fatta, l’Ufficio della Circumlocuzione era sempre avanti rispetto a tutti gli altri dipartimenti pubblici nell’arte di capire. COME NON FARLO.

Attraverso questa delicata percezione, attraverso il tatto con cui la afferrava invariabilmente, e attraverso l’ingegno con cui agiva sempre su di essa, l’Ufficio delle Perifrasi era riuscito a superare tutti gli altri dipartimenti pubblici; e la situazione sociale era diventata, quella che era.

È vero che “Come non farlo” rappresentava lo studio principale e l’obiettivo di tutti i dipartimenti pubblici e dei politici professionisti in tutto il Paese. È vero che ogni nuovo primo ministro e ogni nuova governo, che arrivavano al potere perché avevano sostenuto che qualcosa fosse necessario fare, non appena prendevano il comando si impegnavano al massimo per scoprire “come non farlo”. È vero che, non appena terminavano le elezioni generali, ogni candidato che aveva parlato con fervore durante la campagna elettorale sostenendo l’importanza di quel provvedimento, e che aveva chiesto ai suoi avversari di spiegargli perché non fosse stato attuato, iniziava immediatamente a ideare modi per “non farlo”. È vero che i dibattiti nelle due Camere del Parlamento, durante l’intera sessione, tendevano sempre a concentrarsi su come non procedere. È vero che il discorso reale all’inizio di tali sessioni sostanzialmente diceva: “Signori, avete molto lavoro da svolgere; vi prego di ritirarvi nelle vostre aule e discutere, come non farlo”. È vero anche che il discorso reale alla fine di tali sessioni sostanzialmente concludeva: “Signori, dopo mesi di intenso lavoro e con grande lealtà e patriottismo avete cercato di capire, come non farlo; e ora, con la benedizione della Provvidenza, vi congedo”. Tutto questo è vero, ma il “Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni” andava ancora oltre.

Poiché l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni funzionava in modo meccanico, ogni giorno, mantenendo questo meraviglioso e sufficiente “ingranaggio” della politica statale, come non farlo funzionare? L’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni interveniva immediatamente contro qualsiasi funzionario pubblico che avesse l’intenzione di agire in modo imprudente, o che sembrasse correre il rischio di farlo per qualche motivo inaspettato: con un semplice memorandum o una lettera di istruzioni, quel funzionario veniva immediatamente “soppresso”. Era proprio questo spirito di efficienza nazionale all’interno dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni che aveva gradualmente portato a far sì che esso si occupasse di praticamente ogni cosa. Meccanici, filosofi naturali, soldati, marinai, petentieri, persone con lamentele, coloro che volevano prevenire problemi, coloro che volevano risolverli, individui in cerca di lavoro o che non ricevevano riconoscimenti per i loro meriti, e quelli che non venivano puniti per i loro demeriti: tutti venivano indiscriminatamente “infilati” sotto le carte burocratiche dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni.

Numerose persone scomparivano all’interno dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. Sfortunati che avevano subito ingiustizie, o che progettavano azioni a beneficio del bene pubblico (e avrebbero fatto meglio ad aver subito ingiustizie fin dall’inizio, piuttosto che seguire quella amara “ricetta” inglese che garantiva di incorrere inevitabilmente in difficoltà), persone che, nel corso di un lento e doloroso percorso, erano riuscite a superare altri uffici pubblici; persone che, secondo le regole vigenti, venivano maltrattate da un lato, sopraffatte da un altro e eluse da ancora un altro, finivano tutte per essere indirizzate all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni e non riapparivano mai più alla luce del giorno. Commissioni si riunivano su di loro, segretari ne prendevano appunti, funzionari discutevano animatamente al loro riguardo, impiegati registravano i loro casi, li verificavano e li contrassegnavano, e poi quelle persone semplicemente scomparivano. In breve: tutte le attività del paese passavano attraverso l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, tranne quelle che non ne uscivano mai più; e il suo nome era. Legione.

A volte, spiriti arrabbiati attaccavano l’Ufficio della Circonlocuzione. A volte venivano poste domande parlamentari al riguardo, e persino venivano presentate mozioni o minacce da parte di demagoghi così ignoranti da ritenere che la vera “ricetta” per governare consistesse semplicemente nel “sapere come farlo”. Allora il nobile signore, o l’onorevole gentiluomo incaricato di difendere l’Ufficio della Circonlocuzione, metteva un’arancia in tasca e trasformava quell’occasione in un vero e proprio spettacolo pubblico. Scendeva quindi in quella “casa” del parlamento, batteva il pugno sul tavolo e affrontava direttamente l’onorevole gentiluomo in questione. Gli diceva che l’Ufficio della Circonlocuzione non solo era innocente in quella faccenda, ma addirittura meritevole di lode. Anzi, che sarebbe stato un vero e proprio esempio da seguire. Aggiungeva poi che, sebbene quell’ufficio avesse sempre ragione – o almeno la ragione totale – in quella specifica questione, non c’era mai stata occasione in cui avesse avuto ragione più di così. E concludeva dicendo che sarebbe stato molto più nel suo “onore”, nel suo interesse personale, nel suo buon gusto, e addirittura nella logica stessa del linguaggio comune, se avesse lasciato quell’ufficio in pace e non si fosse mai occupato di quella faccenda. Nel frattempo, teneva d’occhio eventuali rappresentanti dell’Ufficio della Circonlocuzione presenti nella sala e li utilizzava per confondere ulteriormente l’onorevole gentiluomo in discussione. E anche se una delle due possibili conseguenze era sempre la stessa – ovvero che o quell’ufficio non avesse nulla da dire oppure che dicesse qualcosa di sbagliato, l’Ufficio della Circonlocuzione veniva comunque dichiarato “immacolato” da una maggioranza compiacente.

Such a nursery of statesmen had the Department become in virtue of a long career of this nature, that several solemn lords had attained the reputation of being quite unearthly prodigies of business, solely from having practised, How not to do it, as the head of the Circumlocution Office. As to the minor priests and acolytes of that temple, the result of all this was that they stood divided into two classes, and, down to the junior messenger, either believed in the Circumlocution Office as a heaven-born institution that had an absolute right to do whatever it liked; or took refuge in total infidelity, and considered it a flagrant nuisance.

The Barnacle family had for some time helped to administer the Circumlocution Office. The Tite Barnacle Branch, indeed, considered themselves in a general way as having vested rights in that direction, and took it ill if any other family had much to say to it. The Barnacles were a very high family, and a very large family. They were dispersed all over the public offices, and held all sorts of public places. Either the nation was under a load of obligation to the Barnacles, or the Barnacles were under a load of obligation to the nation. It was not quite unanimously settled which; the Barnacles having their opinion, the nation theirs.

The Mr Tite Barnacle who at the period now in question usually coached or crammed the statesman at the head of the Circumlocution Office, when that noble or right honourable individual sat a little uneasily in his saddle by reason of some vagabond making a tilt at him in a newspaper, was more flush of blood than money. As a Barnacle he had his place, which was a snug thing enough; and as a Barnacle he had of course put in his son Barnacle Junior in the office. But he had intermarried with a branch of the Stiltstalkings, who were also better endowed in a sanguineous point of view than with real or personal property, and of this marriage there had been issue, Barnacle junior and three young ladies. What with the patrician requirements of Barnacle junior, the three young ladies, Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, and himself, Mr Tite Barnacle found the intervals between quarter day and quarter day rather longer than he could have desired; a circumstance which he always attributed to the country’s parsimony.

For Mr Tite Barnacle, Mr Arthur Clennam made his fifth inquiry one day at the Circumlocution Office; having on previous occasions awaited that gentleman successively in a hall, a glass case, a waiting room, and a fire-proof passage where the Department seemed to keep its wind. On this occasion Mr Barnacle was not engaged, as he had been before, with the noble prodigy at the head of the Department; but was absent. Barnacle Junior, however, was announced as a lesser star, yet visible above the office horizon.

With Barnacle junior, he signified his desire to confer; and found that young gentleman singeing the calves of his legs at the parental fire, and supporting his spine against the mantel-shelf. It was a comfortable room, handsomely furnished in the higher official manner; and presenting stately suggestions of the absent Barnacle, in the thick carpet, the leather-covered desk to sit at, the leather-covered desk to stand at, the formidable easy-chair and hearth-rug, the interposed screen, the torn-up papers, the dispatch-boxes with little labels sticking out of them, like medicine bottles or dead game, the pervading smell of leather and mahogany, and a general bamboozling air of How not to do it.

The present Barnacle, holding Mr Clennam’s card in his hand, had a youthful aspect, and the fluffiest little whisker, perhaps, that ever was seen. Such a downy tip was on his callow chin, that he seemed half fledged like a young bird; and a compassionate observer might have urged that, if he had not singed the calves of his legs, he would have died of cold. He had a superior eye-glass dangling round his neck, but unfortunately had such flat orbits to his eyes and such limp little eyelids that it wouldn’t stick in when he put it up, but kept tumbling out against his waistcoat buttons with a click that discomposed him very much.

‘Oh, I say. Look here! My father’s not in the way, and won’t be in the way to-day,’ said Barnacle Junior. ‘Is this anything that I can do?’

(Click! Eye-glass down. Barnacle Junior quite frightened and feeling all round himself, but not able to find it.)

‘You are very good,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘I wish however to see Mr Barnacle.’

‘But I say. Look here! You haven’t got any appointment, you know,’ said Barnacle Junior.

(By this time he had found the eye-glass, and put it up again.)

‘No,’ said Arthur Clennam. ‘That is what I wish to have.’

‘But I say. Look here! Is this public business?’ asked Barnacle junior.

(Click! Eye-glass down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of search after it that Mr Clennam felt it useless to reply at present.)

‘Is it,’ said Barnacle junior, taking heed of his visitor’s brown face, ‘anything about—Tonnage—or that sort of thing?’

(Pausing for a reply, he opened his right eye with his hand, and stuck his glass in it, in that inflammatory manner that his eye began watering dreadfully.)

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it is nothing about tonnage.’

‘Then look here. Is it private business?’

‘I really am not sure. It relates to a Mr Dorrit.’

‘Look here, I tell you what! You had better call at our house, if you are going that way. Twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. My father’s got a slight touch of the gout, and is kept at home by it.’

(The misguided young Barnacle evidently going blind on his eye-glass side, but ashamed to make any further alteration in his painful arrangements.)

‘Thank you. I will call there now. Good morning.’ Young Barnacle seemed discomfited at this, as not having at all expected him to go.

‘You are quite sure,’ said Barnacle junior, calling after him when he got to the door, unwilling wholly to relinquish the bright business idea he had conceived; ‘that it’s nothing about Tonnage?’

Un vero e proprio “vivaio” di statisti era diventato il Dipartimento grazie alla lunga esperienza accumulata da queste persone di questo tipo; diversi nobili avevano acquisito la reputazione di essere veri e propri geni nel campo degli affari, semplicemente perché avevano imparato, in qualità di capi dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, come non fare le cose in modo diretto. Per quanto riguarda i sacerdoti minori e gli accoliti di quel “tempio”, il risultato di tutto ciò fu che si divisero in due categorie: da un lato, coloro che credevano davvero nell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni come in un’istituzione divina, con il diritto assoluto di fare ciò che voleva; dall’altro, coloro che si rifugiarono nella totale incredulità, considerandolo una vera e propria scocciatura.

La famiglia Barnacle, per un certo periodo di tempo, aveva aiutato ad amministrare l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. La branca Tite Barnacle, in particolare, si considerava titolare di diritti legittimi in quella materia e si offendeva molto se un’altra famiglia cercava di interferire nelle sue decisioni. I Barnacle erano una famiglia molto importante e numerosa: erano distribuiti in tutti gli uffici pubblici e occupavano posizioni di rilievo. O la nazione aveva dei debiti nei confronti della famiglia Barnacle, oppure era la famiglia Barnacle ad avere dei debiti verso la nazione. Non si era ancora raggiunto un accordo unanime su questo punto: i Barnacle avevano la loro opinione, e così pure la nazione.

Il signor Tite Barnacle, che all’epoca in questione solitamente allenava o istruiva lo statista incaricato dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, quando quel nobile e rispettabile individuo si trovava un po’ a disagio a causa di qualche attacco diffamatorio pubblicato sui giornali, possedeva più sangue che denaro. Come Barnacle, aveva il suo posto nel mondo, che non era certo male; e naturalmente aveva fatto assumere anche suo figlio, Barnacle Junior, in quell’ufficio. Tuttavia si era sposato con una famiglia appartenente ai Stiltstalkings, i quali possedevano più sangue che beni materiali. Da questo matrimonio erano nati Barnacle Junior e tre giovani signore. A causa delle esigenze particolari di Barnacle Junior, delle tre figlie e di sua moglie, la signora Tite Barnacle, i periodi tra un pagamento e l’altro risultavano piuttosto lunghi. Una situazione che lui attribuiva sempre alla parsimonia del paese.

Per il signor Tite Barnacle, un giorno il signor Arthur Clennam effettuò la sua quinta richiesta presso l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni; in precedenza aveva atteso quel gentiluomo in una sala, in una vetrina espositiva, in un salotto d’attesa e in un corridoio antincendio, dove sembrava che il Dipartimento conservasse il proprio “vento”. Questa volta, però, il signor Barnacle non era impegnato, come nelle occasioni precedenti, con quel nobile prodigio che dirigeva il Dipartimento; era assente. Tuttavia, Barnacle Junior fu annunciato come una “stella minore”, sebbene comunque visibile al di sopra dell’orizzonte dell’ufficio.

Con Barnacle junior, esprimeva il proprio desiderio di consultarsi con lui; e vide quel giovane signore seduto accanto al camino, con le gambe appoggiate alla mensola del caminetto. Era una stanza confortevole, arredata in modo elegante, tipico delle abitazioni dei funzionari di alto rango; tutto ciò ricordava Barnacle senior, sia nell’aspetto che negli oggetti presenti nella stanza: il tappeto spesso, la scrivania rivestita di pelle, la poltrona comoda e imponente. C’era anche uno schermo posizionato tra le due parti della stanza, fogli di carta sparsi ovunque, scatole da lettere con etichette che spuntavano fuori, come bottiglie di medicina o carcasse di animali. L’intera atmosfera trasmetteva l’idea di “come non farlo”.

Il presente Barnacle, con la carta del signor Clennam in mano, aveva un aspetto giovane e probabilmente le sopracciglia più soffici che si fossero mai viste. Sul suo mento ancora acerbo c’era una peluria così fine che sembrava quasi completamente sviluppato, come un piccolo uccellino; un osservatore compassionevole avrebbe potuto suggerire che, se non si fosse bruciato le gambe con il fuoco, sarebbe morto di freddo. Portava anche un occhialone appeso al collo, ma purtroppo i suoi occhi avevano orbite così piatte e le palpebre così flaccide che l’occhialone non rimaneva fermo quando se lo metteva, ma continuava a cadere giù fino ai bottoni del gilet con un suono metallico che lo innervosiva molto.

“Ohi, guardate qui! Mio padre non è d’intralcio, e nemmeno lo sarà oggi,” disse Barnacle Junior. “Posso fare qualcosa al riguardo?”

(Clicca! Occhiali calati. Barnacle Junior è piuttosto spaventato e cerca dappertutto intorno a sé, ma non riesce a trovarlo.)

“Sei molto bravo,” disse Arthur Clennam. “Tuttavia vorrei incontrare il signor Barnacle.”

“Ma dico. Guarda qui! Non hai nessun appuntamento, vero?” disse Barnacle Junior.

(A questo momento aveva già trovato il occhiale e se l’era rimesso.)

“No,” disse Arthur Clennam. “È proprio quello che desidero avere.”

“Ma dico. Guardate qui! Si tratta davvero di un affare pubblico?” chiese Barnacle Junior.

(Clicca! Gli occhiali da vista vengono di nuovo abbassati. Barnacle Junior, in quello stato di ricerca disperata, fa sì che il signor Clennam ritenga inutile rispondere per il momento.)

“È qualcosa riguardo al–tonnellaggio, o qualcosa del genere?”, chiese Barnacle Junior, osservando il viso marrone del suo visitatore.

(Dopo aver atteso una risposta, aprì con la mano l’occhio destro e ci infilò il bicchiere, in quel modo così provocatorio che il suo occhio iniziò a lacrimare terribilmente.)

“No,” disse Arthur, “non ha nulla a che fare con la stazza.”

“E allora guardate qui: si tratta di affari privati?”

“Non ne sono davvero sicura. Riguarda un certo signor Dorrit.”

“Guarda qui, ascoltami bene! Se devi passare da quella parte, è meglio che vieni a casa nostra. Via Mews 24, Grosvenor Square. Mio padre soffre un po’ di gotta e per questo rimane in casa.”

Il giovane Barnacle, evidentemente, stava perdendo la vista sul lato dove indossava gli occhiali; ma si vergognava di apportare ulteriori modifiche alle sue dolorose abitudini.

“Grazie. Chiamerò lì adesso. Buongiorno.” Il giovane Barnacle sembrava a disagio, poiché non si aspettava affatto che lo facesse.

“Sei davvero sicuro?”, gli chiese Barnacle Junior mentre lui stava per uscire dalla porta, riluttante ad abbandonare l’ottima idea di affari che aveva concepito; “che non c’entri nulla la questione del tonnellaggio?”

‘Quite sure.’

With such assurance, and rather wondering what might have taken place if it had been anything about tonnage, Mr Clennam withdrew to pursue his inquiries.

Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, was not absolutely Grosvenor Square itself, but it was very near it. It was a hideous little street of dead wall, stables, and dunghills, with lofts over coach-houses inhabited by coachmen’s families, who had a passion for drying clothes and decorating their window-sills with miniature turnpike-gates. The principal chimney-sweep of that fashionable quarter lived at the blind end of Mews Street; and the same corner contained an establishment much frequented about early morning and twilight for the purchase of wine-bottles and kitchen-stuff. Punch’s shows used to lean against the dead wall in Mews Street, while their proprietors were dining elsewhere; and the dogs of the neighbourhood made appointments to meet in the same locality. Yet there were two or three small airless houses at the entrance end of Mews Street, which went at enormous rents on account of their being abject hangers-on to a fashionable situation; and whenever one of these fearful little coops was to be let (which seldom happened, for they were in great request), the house agent advertised it as a gentlemanly residence in the most aristocratic part of town, inhabited solely by the elite of the beau monde.

If a gentlemanly residence coming strictly within this narrow margin had not been essential to the blood of the Barnacles, this particular branch would have had a pretty wide selection among, let us say, ten thousand houses, offering fifty times the accommodation for a third of the money. As it was, Mr Barnacle, finding his gentlemanly residence extremely inconvenient and extremely dear, always laid it, as a public servant, at the door of the country, and adduced it as another instance of the country’s parsimony.

Arthur Clennam came to a squeezed house, with a ramshackle bowed front, little dingy windows, and a little dark area like a damp waistcoat-pocket, which he found to be number twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. To the sense of smell the house was like a sort of bottle filled with a strong distillation of Mews; and when the footman opened the door, he seemed to take the stopper out.

The footman was to the Grosvenor Square footmen, what the house was to the Grosvenor Square houses. Admirable in his way, his way was a back and a bye way. His gorgeousness was not unmixed with dirt; and both in complexion and consistency he had suffered from the closeness of his pantry. A sallow flabbiness was upon him when he took the stopper out, and presented the bottle to Mr Clennam’s nose.

‘Be so good as to give that card to Mr Tite Barnacle, and to say that I have just now seen the younger Mr Barnacle, who recommended me to call here.’

The footman (who had as many large buttons with the Barnacle crest upon them on the flaps of his pockets, as if he were the family strong box, and carried the plate and jewels about with him buttoned up) pondered over the card a little; then said, ‘Walk in.’ It required some judgment to do it without butting the inner hall-door open, and in the consequent mental confusion and physical darkness slipping down the kitchen stairs. The visitor, however, brought himself up safely on the door-mat.

Still the footman said ‘Walk in,’ so the visitor followed him. At the inner hall-door, another bottle seemed to be presented and another stopper taken out. This second vial appeared to be filled with concentrated provisions and extract of Sink from the pantry. After a skirmish in the narrow passage, occasioned by the footman’s opening the door of the dismal dining-room with confidence, finding some one there with consternation, and backing on the visitor with disorder, the visitor was shut up, pending his announcement, in a close back parlour. There he had an opportunity of refreshing himself with both the bottles at once, looking out at a low blinding wall three feet off, and speculating on the number of Barnacle families within the bills of mortality who lived in such hutches of their own free flunkey choice.

Mr Barnacle would see him. Would he walk up-stairs? He would, and he did; and in the drawing-room, with his leg on a rest, he found Mr Barnacle himself, the express image and presentment of How not to do it.

Mr Barnacle dated from a better time, when the country was not so parsimonious and the Circumlocution Office was not so badgered. He wound and wound folds of white cravat round his neck, as he wound and wound folds of tape and paper round the neck of the country. His wristbands and collar were oppressive; his voice and manner were oppressive. He had a large watch-chain and bunch of seals, a coat buttoned up to inconvenience, a waistcoat buttoned up to inconvenience, an unwrinkled pair of trousers, a stiff pair of boots. He was altogether splendid, massive, overpowering, and impracticable. He seemed to have been sitting for his portrait to Sir Thomas Lawrence all the days of his life.

‘Mr Clennam?’ said Mr Barnacle. ‘Be seated.’

Mr Clennam became seated.

‘You have called on me, I believe,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘at the Circumlocution—’ giving it the air of a word of about five-and-twenty syllables—‘Office.’

‘I have taken that liberty.’

Mr Barnacle solemnly bent his head as who should say, ‘I do not deny that it is a liberty; proceed to take another liberty, and let me know your business.’

‘Allow me to observe that I have been for some years in China, am quite a stranger at home, and have no personal motive or interest in the inquiry I am about to make.’

Mr Barnacle tapped his fingers on the table, and, as if he were now sitting for his portrait to a new and strange artist, appeared to say to his visitor, ‘If you will be good enough to take me with my present lofty expression, I shall feel obliged.’

“Assolutamente sicuro.”

Con tale sicurezza, e chiedendosi cosa sarebbe potuto accadere se si fosse trattato davvero di una questione legata al tonnellaggio, il signor Clennam proseguì le sue indagini.

Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, non era esattamente Grosvenor Square stesso, ma vi era molto vicina. Era una stradina orribile, composta da muri in rovina, stalle e cumuli di letame; i sottotetti sopra le scuderie erano abitati dalle famiglie dei cocchieri, i quali avevano la passione di stendere i panni ad asciugare e decorare i davanzali delle loro finestre con piccoli modellini di caselli doganali. Il principale spazzacamino di quel quartiere elegante viveva all’estremità senza uscita di Mews Street; nello stesso angolo si trovava un negozio molto frequentato all’alba e al crepuscolo, dove si potevano acquistare bottiglie di vino e prodotti per la cucina. Gli spettacoli di Punch si svolgevano contro quel muro in rovina, mentre i loro proprietari pranzavano altrove; anche i cani del quartiere avevano l’abitudine di incontrarsi nello stesso luogo. Tuttavia, all’inizio di Mews Street c’erano due o tre piccole case soffocanti, affittate a prezzi esorbitanti semplicemente perché si trovavano in una zona prestigiosa; e ogni volta che una di queste case veniva messa in vendita (il che accadeva raramente, poiché erano molto richieste), l’agente immobiliare la pubblicizzava come una residenza signorile, situata nella parte più aristocratica della città e abitata esclusivamente dall’élite della società.

Se una residenza degna di un gentiluomo, che rientrasse esclusivamente in questo ristretto ambito, non fosse stata essenziale per le esigenze della famiglia Barnacle, questa particolare branca avrebbe potuto disporre di una scelta molto più ampia tra, diciamo, diecimila case, ottenendo così un alloggio cinquanta volte migliore spendendo solo un terzo del denaro. Tuttavia, il signor Barnacle, trovando la sua residenza estremamente scomoda e costosa, la sceglieva sempre, in qualità di funzionario pubblico, nelle zone periferiche della città, adducendola come un altro esempio della parsimonia del governo locale.

Arthur Clennam arrivò davanti a una casa stretta e malandata, con un fronte inclinato e fatiscente, piccole finestre sporche, e un angolo buio che sembrava il taschino di un gilet umido. Scoprì che si trattava del numero ventiquattro di Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. Per quanto riguarda l’olfatto, quella casa era come una sorta di bottiglia piena di un forte distillato, dell’atmosfera caratteristica di quel quartiere; e quando il maggiordomo aprì la porta, sembrò quasi che avesse rimosso il tappo di quella “bottiglia”.

Il valletto rappresentava, per le case di Grosvenor Square, ciò che la casa stessa rappresentava per tutte le altre case di Grosvenor Square. Ammirevole a modo suo, ma un modo tortuoso e indiretto. La sua magnificenza non era priva di difetti; sia nell’aspetto che nella costanza delle sue qualità, aveva sofferto a causa della “vicinanza” dei suoi mezzi limitati per realizzare ciò che desiderava. Quando toglieva il tappo della bottiglia e la presentava al naso di Mr Clennam, il suo viso appariva pallido e flaccido.

“Per favore, consegni questa carta al signor Tite Barnacle e digli che ho appena incontrato il fratello minore del signor Barnacle, il quale mi ha consigliato di venire qui.”

Il valletto (che aveva sulle tasche tantissimi bottoni grandi con lo stemma della Barnacle, come se fosse la cassaforte di famiglia, e portava sempre con sé piatti e gioielli, tutti ben abbottonati) rifletté un po’ sulla carta; poi disse: “Entrate”. Fu necessario un certo acume per farlo senza aprire accidentalmente la porta del corridoio interno, evitando così di finire nella confusione mentale e nell’oscurità che regnavano nelle scale della cucina. Tuttavia, il visitatore riuscì a raggiungere salvo il tappetino davanti alla porta.

Lo scudiero disse comunque “Entri”, quindi il visitatore lo seguì. Alla porta dell’atrio interno, sembrò che venisse presentata un’altra bottiglia e ne venisse rimosso un altro tappo. Questa seconda fiala conteneva, a quanto pare, provviste concentrate e estratti di vari ingredienti provenienti dalla dispensa. Dopo alcuni momenti di confusione nel corridoio stretto – causati dallo scudiero che aveva aperto con sicurezza la porta della triste sala da pranzo, trovandovi qualcuno all’interno e arretrando poi disordinatamente verso il visitatore – quest’ultimo fu chiuso in una stanza sul retro, in attesa che venisse annunciato il suo arrivo. Lì ebbe l’opportunità di bere entrambe le bottiglie contemporaneamente, guardando attraverso un muro basso e opaco situato a circa tre piedi di distanza, e riflettendo sul numero di famiglie che, secondo i registri della mortalità, vivevano in simili tughe, scelte liberamente da loro stessi.

Il signor Barnacle lo avrebbe incontrato. Sarebbe salito le scale? Sì, lo fece; e nel salotto, con la gamba appoggiata a un bracciolo del divano, trovò il signor Barnacle in persona: l’esempio vivente di come non farlo.

Il signor Barnacle apparteneva a un’epoca migliore, quando il paese non era così avaro e l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni non veniva così assillato. Avvolgeva il proprio collo con strati e strati di cravatta bianca, proprio come avvolgeva il collo del paese con strati e strati di nastri e carta. I suoi polsini e il suo colletto erano opprimenti; la sua voce e i suoi modi erano opprimenti. Portava una lunga catena d’orologio e un mazzo di sigilli; il suo cappotto era abbottonato fino a creare disagio, così come il gilet; i suoi pantaloni erano inamidati e le sue scarpe rigide. Era davvero imponente, massiccio, opprimente, e praticamente impossibile da gestire. Sembrava che avesse trascorso tutta la sua vita seduto mentre Sir Thomas Lawrence lo ritraeva.

“Signor Clennam?” disse il signor Barnacle. “Si sieda, per favore.”

Il signor Clennam si sedette.

“Mi avete chiamato qui, credo,” disse il signor Barnacle, “all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, ” pronunciando quel nome come se fosse una parola composta da circa venticinque sillabe.

“Mi sono preso quella libertà.”

Il signor Barnacle chinò solennemente la testa, come per dire: “Non nego che si tratti di una libertà. Procedete pure a prendervene un’altra, e ditemi qual è il vostro scopo.”

“Permettetemi di osservare che sono in Cina da alcuni anni, sono praticamente uno straniero nel mio paese d’origine, e non ho alcun motivo personale o interesse legato all’indagine che sto per intraprendere.”

Il signor Barnacle batté le dita sul tavolo; e, come se ora stesse farsi ritrarre da un nuovo e strano artista, sembrò dire al suo visitatore: “Se sareste così gentile da ritrarmi con la mia attuale espressione solenne, vi sarei molto grato.”

‘I have found a debtor in the Marshalsea Prison of the name of Dorrit, who has been there many years. I wish to investigate his confused affairs so far as to ascertain whether it may not be possible, after this lapse of time, to ameliorate his unhappy condition. The name of Mr Tite Barnacle has been mentioned to me as representing some highly influential interest among his creditors. Am I correctly informed?’

It being one of the principles of the Circumlocution Office never, on any account whatever, to give a straightforward answer, Mr Barnacle said, ‘Possibly.’

‘On behalf of the Crown, may I ask, or as private individual?’

‘The Circumlocution Department, sir,’ Mr Barnacle replied, ‘may have possibly recommended—possibly—I cannot say—that some public claim against the insolvent estate of a firm or copartnership to which this person may have belonged, should be enforced. The question may have been, in the course of official business, referred to the Circumlocution Department for its consideration. The Department may have either originated, or confirmed, a Minute making that recommendation.’

‘I assume this to be the case, then.’

‘The Circumlocution Department,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘is not responsible for any gentleman’s assumptions.’

‘May I inquire how I can obtain official information as to the real state of the case?’

‘It is competent,’ said Mr Barnacle, ‘to any member of the—Public,’ mentioning that obscure body with reluctance, as his natural enemy, ‘to memorialise the Circumlocution Department. Such formalities as are required to be observed in so doing, may be known on application to the proper branch of that Department.’

‘Which is the proper branch?’

‘I must refer you,’ returned Mr Barnacle, ringing the bell, ‘to the Department itself for a formal answer to that inquiry.’

‘Excuse my mentioning—’

‘The Department is accessible to the—Public,’ Mr Barnacle was always checked a little by that word of impertinent signification, ‘if the—Public approaches it according to the official forms; if the—Public does not approach it according to the official forms, the—Public has itself to blame.’

Mr Barnacle made him a severe bow, as a wounded man of family, a wounded man of place, and a wounded man of a gentlemanly residence, all rolled into one; and he made Mr Barnacle a bow, and was shut out into Mews Street by the flabby footman.

Having got to this pass, he resolved as an exercise in perseverance, to betake himself again to the Circumlocution Office, and try what satisfaction he could get there. So he went back to the Circumlocution Office, and once more sent up his card to Barnacle junior by a messenger who took it very ill indeed that he should come back again, and who was eating mashed potatoes and gravy behind a partition by the hall fire.

He was readmitted to the presence of Barnacle junior, and found that young gentleman singeing his knees now, and gaping his weary way on to four o’clock.

‘I say. Look here. You stick to us in a devil of a manner,’ Said Barnacle junior, looking over his shoulder.

‘I want to know—’

‘Look here. Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know,’ remonstrated Barnacle junior, turning about and putting up the eye-glass.

‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam, who had made up his mind to persistence in one short form of words, ‘the precise nature of the claim of the Crown against a prisoner for debt, named Dorrit.’

‘I say. Look here. You really are going it at a great pace, you know. Egad, you haven’t got an appointment,’ said Barnacle junior, as if the thing were growing serious.

‘I want to know,’ said Arthur, and repeated his case.

Barnacle junior stared at him until his eye-glass fell out, and then put it in again and stared at him until it fell out again. ‘You have no right to come this sort of move,’ he then observed with the greatest weakness. ‘Look here. What do you mean? You told me you didn’t know whether it was public business or not.’

‘I have now ascertained that it is public business,’ returned the suitor, ‘and I want to know’—and again repeated his monotonous inquiry.

Its effect upon young Barnacle was to make him repeat in a defenceless way, ‘Look here! Upon my SOUL you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know!’ The effect of that upon Arthur Clennam was to make him repeat his inquiry in exactly the same words and tone as before. The effect of that upon young Barnacle was to make him a wonderful spectacle of failure and helplessness.

‘Well, I tell you what. Look here. You had better try the Secretarial Department,’ he said at last, sidling to the bell and ringing it. ‘Jenkinson,’ to the mashed potatoes messenger, ‘Mr Wobbler!’

Arthur Clennam, who now felt that he had devoted himself to the storming of the Circumlocution Office, and must go through with it, accompanied the messenger to another floor of the building, where that functionary pointed out Mr Wobbler’s room. He entered that apartment, and found two gentlemen sitting face to face at a large and easy desk, one of whom was polishing a gun-barrel on his pocket-handkerchief, while the other was spreading marmalade on bread with a paper-knife.

‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor.

Both gentlemen glanced at him, and seemed surprised at his assurance.

‘So he went,’ said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an extremely deliberate speaker, ‘down to his cousin’s place, and took the Dog with him by rail. Inestimable Dog. Flew at the porter fellow when he was put into the dog-box, and flew at the guard when he was taken out. He got half-a-dozen fellows into a Barn, and a good supply of Rats, and timed the Dog. Finding the Dog able to do it immensely, made the match, and heavily backed the Dog. When the match came off, some devil of a fellow was bought over, Sir, Dog was made drunk, Dog’s master was cleaned out.’

‘Ho trovato un debitore nella prigione di Marshalsea, di nome Dorrit, che vi si trova da molti anni. Desidero indagare sulle sue complesse situazioni finanziarie per verificare se, dopo questo lasso di tempo, non sia possibile migliorare la sua sfortunata condizione. Mi è stato detto che il signor Tite Barnacle rappresenti interessi molto influenti tra i suoi creditori. Sono informato correttamente?’

Essendo uno dei principi dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni quello di non dare mai, per nessun motivo, una risposta diretta, il signor Barnacle disse: “Forse.”

‘A nome della Corona, posso chiedere, oppure come individuo privato?’

“Il Dipartimento delle Perifrasi, signore,” rispose il signor Barnacle, “potrebbe aver consigliato – forse – non posso dirlo con certezza – che venisse presentata un’azione legale contro l’attivo insolvente di una società o di una partnership a cui questa persona potesse appartenere. La questione potrebbe essere stata, nell’ambito delle attività ufficiali, sottoposta al Dipartimento delle Perifrasi per valutazione. Il Dipartimento potrebbe aver redatto, o confermato, un documento che formulava tale raccomandazione.”

“Suppongo che sia così, allora.”

“Il Dipartimento delle Perifrasi,” disse il signor Barnacle, “non è responsabile delle supposizioni di alcun gentiluomo.”

“Posso chiedere come sia possibile ottenere informazioni ufficiali sulla vera situazione dei fatti?”

“È competente,” disse il signor Barnacle, “per qualsiasi membro del–Pubblico,” menzionando con riluttanza quella oscura istituzione, considerandola il proprio nemico naturale, “per commemorare il Dipartimento delle Circonlocuzioni. Le formalità necessarie per farlo possono essere apprese presentando una richiesta al relativo settore di quel Dipartimento.”

“Quale è la branca corretta?”

“Devo rimandarvi,” rispose il signor Barnacle, suonando la campanella, “direttamente al Dipartimento stesso per ottenere una risposta formale a quella domanda.”

“Scusate se ne parlo, ”

“Il Dipartimento è accessibile al–Pubblico,” il signor Barnacle si sentiva sempre un po’ a disagio di fronte a quella parola dal significato così impertinente; “se il–Pubblico lo richiede seguendo le procedure ufficiali; se il–Pubblico non lo richiede seguendo le procedure ufficiali, allora è il–Pubblico stesso da biasimare.”

Il signor Barnacle gli fece un profondo inchino: un uomo ferito della sua famiglia, un uomo ferito del suo rango sociale, un uomo ferito di una residenza rispettabile, tutto questo concentrato in un unico gesto. E dopo avergli fatto l’inchino, fu scacciato via da quel servitore flaccido e incompetente, verso Mews Street.

Essendo giunto a questo punto, decise, come esercizio di perseveranza, di recarsi nuovamente all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni per provare ad ottenere qualche soddisfazione lì. Così tornò all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni e ancora una volta inviò la sua carta a Barnacle junior tramite un messaggero, il quale si arrabbiò molto nel vederlo tornare indietro; in quel momento il messaggero stava mangiando patate schiacciate con salsa di carne dietro una parete, vicino alla fiamma del camino.

Fu nuovamente ammesso alla presenza di Barnacle Junior e scoprì che quel giovane gentiluomo ora si torceva le ginocchia dal dolore, avanzando con fatica verso le quattro di ore.

“Dico io. Guarda qui: ti attacchi a noi in un modo davvero insopportabile,” disse Barnacle Junior, guardando indietro con la coda dell’occhio.

“Voglio sapere, ”

“Guarda qui. Non puoi entrare in questo posto dicendo di voler sapere qualcosa, quando in realtà già lo sai,” rimproverò Barnacle Junior, girandosi e sollevando il monocolo.

“Voglio saperlo,” disse Arthur Clennam, deciso a mantenere un tono conciso e diretto. “Voglio conoscere con esattezza la natura delle accuse della Corona contro un prigioniero indebitato di nome Dorrit.”

“Dico davvero. Guarda qui: stai andando davvero a grande velocità, sai?
Accidenti, non hai nessun appuntamento,” disse Barnacle Junior, come se la situazione fosse diventata seria.

“Voglio saperlo,” disse Arthur, ripetendo il suo ragionamento.

Barnacle junior lo fissò fino a quando il suo occhiale non gli cadde, poi se lo rimise e continuò a fissarlo finché non gli cadde di nuovo. “Non hai il diritto di fare una cosa del genere,” osservò infine con la massima debolezza. “Ascolta. Cosa intendi? Mi avevi detto che non sapevi se si trattasse di un affare pubblico o no.”

“Ora ho accertato che si tratta di una questione pubblica,” rispose lo spasimante, “e voglio sapere, ” e ripeté ancora la sua domanda monotona.

L’effetto su giovane Barnacle fu quello di farlo ripetere, in modo indifeso, frasi del tipo: “Guarda qui! Non puoi entrare in questo posto dicendo di voler sapere, tu già sai!” L’effetto su Arthur Clennam fu invece quello di fargli ripetere la sua domanda esattamente con le stesse parole e lo stesso tono di prima. Il risultato, per giovane Barnacle, fu uno spettacolo davvero patetico di fallimento e impotenza.

“Beh,” disse infine avvicinandosi al campanello e suonandolo, “dovresti provare il Dipartimento di Segreteria.” “Jenkinson,” disse poi all’inviato con i patatine schiacciate, “chiamate il signor Wobbler!”

Arthur Clennam, che ora si sentiva impegnato nella lotta contro l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni e doveva portarla a termine, accompagnò il messaggero al piano superiore dell’edificio, dove quel funzionario gli indicò la stanza di Mr Wobbler. Entrando in quell’appartamento, vide due signori seduti uno di fronte all’altro davanti a un grande e comodo scrittoio: uno stava lucidando il cannone di una pistola con un fazzoletto da tasca, mentre l’altro spalmava marmellata sul pane con un coltello di carta.

“Signor Wobbler?”, chiese il corteggiatore.

Entrambi i signori lo guardarono, sembrando sorpresi dalla sua sicurezza.

“So che è andato,” disse il gentiluomo con la canna da fucile, che parlava in modo estremamente ponderato, “da casa di suo cugino e ha portato con sé il cane in treno. Un cane inestimabile. Ha attaccato il facchino quando è stato messo nella cuccia del cane, e ha attaccato anche la guardia quando è stato fatto uscire. Ha fatto finire sei o sette persone in un fienile, oltre a procurarsi una buona quantità di ratti. E ha scommesso parecchio su quel cane. Quando è arrivato il momento della scommessa, però, qualcuno lo ha corrotto. Il cane è stato fatto ubriacare, e il suo padrone è rimasto senza un soldo.”

‘Mr Wobbler?’ inquired the suitor.

The gentleman who was spreading the marmalade returned, without looking up from that occupation, ‘What did he call the Dog?’

‘Called him Lovely,’ said the other gentleman. ‘Said the Dog was the perfect picture of the old aunt from whom he had expectations. Found him particularly like her when hocussed.’

‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor.

Both gentlemen laughed for some time. The gentleman with the gun-barrel, considering it, on inspection, in a satisfactory state, referred it to the other; receiving confirmation of his views, he fitted it into its place in the case before him, and took out the stock and polished that, softly whistling.

‘Mr Wobbler?’ said the suitor.

‘What’s the matter?’ then said Mr Wobbler, with his mouth full.

‘I want to know—’ and Arthur Clennam again mechanically set forth what he wanted to know.

‘Can’t inform you,’ observed Mr Wobbler, apparently to his lunch. ‘Never heard of it. Nothing at all to do with it. Better try Mr Clive, second door on the left in the next passage.’

‘Perhaps he will give me the same answer.’

‘Very likely. Don’t know anything about it,’ said Mr Wobbler.

The suitor turned away and had left the room, when the gentleman with the gun called out ‘Mister! Hallo!’

He looked in again.

‘Shut the door after you. You’re letting in a devil of a draught here!’

A few steps brought him to the second door on the left in the next passage. In that room he found three gentlemen; number one doing nothing particular, number two doing nothing particular, number three doing nothing particular. They seemed, however, to be more directly concerned than the others had been in the effective execution of the great principle of the office, as there was an awful inner apartment with a double door, in which the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be assembled in council, and out of which there was an imposing coming of papers, and into which there was an imposing going of papers, almost constantly; wherein another gentleman, number four, was the active instrument.

‘I want to know,’ said Arthur Clennam,—and again stated his case in the same barrel-organ way. As number one referred him to number two, and as number two referred him to number three, he had occasion to state it three times before they all referred him to number four, to whom he stated it again.

Number four was a vivacious, well-looking, well-dressed, agreeable young fellow—he was a Barnacle, but on the more sprightly side of the family—and he said in an easy way, ‘Oh! you had better not bother yourself about it, I think.’

‘Not bother myself about it?’

‘No! I recommend you not to bother yourself about it.’

This was such a new point of view that Arthur Clennam found himself at a loss how to receive it.

‘You can if you like. I can give you plenty of forms to fill up. Lots of ‘em here. You can have a dozen if you like. But you’ll never go on with it,’ said number four.

‘Would it be such hopeless work? Excuse me; I am a stranger in England.’

‘I don’t say it would be hopeless,’ returned number four, with a frank smile. ‘I don’t express an opinion about that; I only express an opinion about you. I don’t think you’d go on with it. However, of course, you can do as you like. I suppose there was a failure in the performance of a contract, or something of that kind, was there?’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Well! That you can find out. Then you’ll find out what Department the contract was in, and then you’ll find out all about it there.’

‘I beg your pardon. How shall I find out?’

‘Why, you’ll—you’ll ask till they tell you. Then you’ll memorialise that Department (according to regular forms which you’ll find out) for leave to memorialise this Department. If you get it (which you may after a time), that memorial must be entered in that Department, sent to be registered in this Department, sent back to be signed by that Department, sent back to be countersigned by this Department, and then it will begin to be regularly before that Department. You’ll find out when the business passes through each of these stages by asking at both Departments till they tell you.’

‘But surely this is not the way to do the business,’ Arthur Clennam could not help saying.

This airy young Barnacle was quite entertained by his simplicity in supposing for a moment that it was. This light in hand young Barnacle knew perfectly that it was not. This touch and go young Barnacle had ‘got up’ the Department in a private secretaryship, that he might be ready for any little bit of fat that came to hand; and he fully understood the Department to be a politico-diplomatic hocus pocus piece of machinery for the assistance of the nobs in keeping off the snobs. This dashing young Barnacle, in a word, was likely to become a statesman, and to make a figure.

‘When the business is regularly before that Department, whatever it is,’ pursued this bright young Barnacle, ‘then you can watch it from time to time through that Department. When it comes regularly before this Department, then you must watch it from time to time through this Department. We shall have to refer it right and left; and when we refer it anywhere, then you’ll have to look it up. When it comes back to us at any time, then you had better look us up. When it sticks anywhere, you’ll have to try to give it a jog. When you write to another Department about it, and then to this Department about it, and don’t hear anything satisfactory about it, why then you had better—keep on writing.’

Arthur Clennam looked very doubtful indeed. ‘But I am obliged to you at any rate,’ said he, ‘for your politeness.’

‘Not at all,’ replied this engaging young Barnacle. ‘Try the thing, and see how you like it. It will be in your power to give it up at any time, if you don’t like it. You had better take a lot of forms away with you. Give him a lot of forms!’ With which instruction to number two, this sparkling young Barnacle took a fresh handful of papers from numbers one and three, and carried them into the sanctuary to offer to the presiding Idol of the Circumlocution Office.

“Signor Wobbler?”, chiese il corteggiatore.

Il signore che stava spalmando la marmellata tornò, senza alzare lo sguardo da quella occupazione, e chiese: “Come ha chiamato il cane?”

“Lo chiamavano ‘Carino’”, disse l’altro gentiluomo. “Dissero che il cane rappresentasse perfettamente l’immagine dell’anziana zia da cui si aspettava qualcosa. Lo trovarono particolarmente simile a lei quando era sotto l’effetto dei farmaci.”

“Signor Wobbler?”, disse lo spasimante.

Entrambi i signori risero per un po’. Il signore con il cannone da fucile, dopo averlo esaminato e constatato che era in buone condizioni, lo passò all’altro; avendo ricevuto conferma delle sue osservazioni, lo rimise al suo posto nella custodia davanti a lui, poi prese il calcio del fucile e lo pulì, mentre suonava dolcemente una melodia con le labbra.

“Signor Wobbler?”, disse lo spasimante.

“Che c’è che non va?” disse poi il signor Wobbler, con la bocca piena.

“Voglio sapere, ” e ancora una volta, in modo meccanico, Arthur Clennam elencò ciò che voleva sapere.

“Non posso darvi alcuna informazione,” osservò il signor Wobbler, apparentemente mentre mangiava il suo pranzo. “Non ne ho mai sentito parlare. Non ha nulla a che fare con questa faccenda. È meglio provare con il signor Clive: è la seconda porta a sinistra nel corridoio successivo.”

“Forse mi darà la stessa risposta.”

“Molto probabile. Non so nulla al riguardo,” disse il signor Wobbler.

Il corteggiatore si allontanò e lasciò la stanza, quando il signore con la pistola gridò: “Signore! Ehi!”

Guardò di nuovo all’interno.

“Chiudi la porta dietro di te. Stai facendo entrare un sacco d’aria fredda!”

Alcuni passi lo portarono alla seconda porta a sinistra nel corridoio successivo. In quella stanza trovò tre signori: il primo non faceva nulla di particolare, il secondo nemmeno; il terzo, altrettanto. Tuttavia, sembravano essere più direttamente coinvolti nell’attuazione concreta del grande principio fondamentale dell’ufficio in questione. C’era infatti un’altra stanza interna, con una doppia porta; lì i “Saggi delle Circonlocuzioni” sembravano riunirsi in consiglio. Da quella stanza provenivano e vi entravano continuamente documenti di grande importanza; un altro signore, il quarto, ne era l’elemento attivo principale.

“Voglio saperlo,” disse Arthur Clennam – e ripeté ancora una volta il suo racconto nello stesso modo monotono e stereotipato. Poiché il primo lo rimandava al secondo, e il secondo al terzo, ebbe l’occasione di ripeterlo per tre volte prima che tutti quanti lo indirizzassero verso il quarto, a cui lo raccontò nuovamente.

Il numero quattro era un giovane vivace, di bell’aspetto, ben vestito e piacevole da compagnia; apparteneva alla famiglia dei Barnacle, ma al ramo più allegro della stessa. E disse in tono disinvolto: “Oh, credo che non valga la pena che vi preoccupiate per questo.”

“Non devo nemmeno preoccuparmene?”

“No! Vi consiglio di non preoccuparvene affatto.”

Si trattava di un punto di vista del tutto nuovo, che fece sì che Arthur Clennam non sapesse proprio come recepirlo.

“Puoi farlo se vuoi. Posso darti molti moduli da compilare. Ce ne sono tantissimi qui; puoi averne anche una dozzina, se vuoi. Ma non riuscirai mai a finirli tutti,” disse il numero quattro.

“Sarebbe davvero un lavoro senza speranza? Scusate, sono uno straniero in Inghilterra.”

“Non dico che sia senza speranza,” rispose il numero quattro, con un sorriso sincero. “Non esprimo un’opinione al riguardo; esprimo un’opinione solo su di te. Non credo che tu continueresti in questa direzione. Comunque, naturalmente, puoi fare ciò che vuoi. Immagino che si sia verificato un mancato adempimento di un contratto, o qualcosa del genere, vero?”

“Non lo so davvero.”

‘Beh! Puoi scoprirlo tu stesso. Allora saprai in quale dipartimento si trovava il contratto, e lì potrai conoscere tutti i dettagli al riguardo.’

“Mi scusi, come posso scoprirlo?”

“Perché, continuerete a chiedere finché non vi verrà detto. Poi dovrete compilare il modulo ufficiale (che potrete trovare) per richiedere l’autorizzazione di rendere omaggio a quel Dipartimento. Se riuscirete ad ottenerla (dopo un certo periodo), quel documento dovrà essere registrato in quel Dipartimento, inviato qui per la registrazione ufficiale, riinviato a quel Dipartimento per la firma, e successivamente nuovamente inviato qui per la controfirma. Solo dopo questo processo potrà essere considerato ufficialmente valido da quel Dipartimento. Potrete scoprire in quale fase si trova il vostro documento chiedendo sia a quel che a questo Dipartimento, finché non vi verranno fornite le informazioni necessarie.”

“Ma sicuramente non è questo il modo giusto per svolgere gli affari,” non poté fare a meno di dire Arthur Clennam.

Questo giovane e spensierato “Barnacle” trovava davvero divertente la sua semplicità nel credere, per un momento, che le cose fossero come lui pensava. Ma questo giovane “Barnacle”, con la sua superficialità, sapeva perfettamente che non era così. Grazie a questa sua capacità di approfittare delle opportunità, era riuscito a ottenere un lavoro come segretario privato nel Dipartimento. Così poteva essere sempre pronto ad afferrare qualsiasi “piccola opportunità” che gli capitasse. E capiva perfettamente che quel Dipartimento non era altro che una sorta di meccanismo politico-diplomatico, utilizzato dai nobili per tenersi alla larga da altri nobili. In breve, questo giovane e ambizioso “Barnacle” aveva tutte le carte in regola per diventare uno statista e fare la sua figura.

“Quando una pratica viene regolarmente presentata a quel Dipartimento, qualunque essa sia,” continuò questo brillante giovane Barnacle, “allora si può seguirne l’andamento da ore a ore all’interno di quel Dipartimento. Quando arriva regolarmente in questo Dipartimento, è necessario monitorarla da ore a ore all’interno di esso. Dovremo indirizzarla in varie direzioni; e ogni volta che la inviamo altrove, sarà necessario verificare la situazione. Quando torna da noi in qualsiasi momento, è meglio che siate voi a ‘trovarci’. Se si blocca da qualche parte, dovrete provare a risolvere il problema. E se scrivete ad altri Dipartimenti al riguardo, e poi anche a questo Dipartimento senza ottenere risposte soddisfacenti, allora, è meglio continuare a scrivere.”

Arthur Clennam sembrava davvero molto scettico. “Ma in ogni caso vi sono grato,” disse, “per la vostra gentilezza.”

“Assolutamente no,” rispose questo affascinante giovane Barnacle. “Prova questa cosa e vedi come ti piace. Potrai smetterla in qualsiasi momento, se non ti piace. È meglio che porti via con te molte di queste formule. Dagliene un bel po’!” Con queste istruzioni, il giovane Barnacle prese un altro mucchio di documenti dai numeri uno e tre e li portò nel santuario per offrirli all’Idolo che presiedeva l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni.

Arthur Clennam put his forms in his pocket gloomily enough, and went his way down the long stone passage and the long stone staircase. He had come to the swing doors leading into the street, and was waiting, not over patiently, for two people who were between him and them to pass out and let him follow, when the voice of one of them struck familiarly on his ear. He looked at the speaker and recognised Mr Meagles. Mr Meagles was very red in the face—redder than travel could have made him—and collaring a short man who was with him, said, ‘come out, you rascal, come Out!’

It was such an unexpected hearing, and it was also such an unexpected sight to see Mr Meagles burst the swing doors open, and emerge into the street with the short man, who was of an unoffending appearance, that Clennam stood still for the moment exchanging looks of surprise with the porter. He followed, however, quickly; and saw Mr Meagles going down the street with his enemy at his side. He soon came up with his old travelling companion, and touched him on the back. The choleric face which Mr Meagles turned upon him smoothed when he saw who it was, and he put out his friendly hand.

‘How are you?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘How d’ye do? I have only just come over from abroad. I am glad to see you.’

‘And I am rejoiced to see you.’

‘Thank’ee. Thank’ee!’

‘Mrs Meagles and your daughter—?’

‘Are as well as possible,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I only wish you had come upon me in a more prepossessing condition as to coolness.’

Though it was anything but a hot day, Mr Meagles was in a heated state that attracted the attention of the passersby; more particularly as he leaned his back against a railing, took off his hat and cravat, and heartily rubbed his steaming head and face, and his reddened ears and neck, without the least regard for public opinion.

‘Whew!’ said Mr Meagles, dressing again. ‘That’s comfortable. Now I am cooler.’

‘You have been ruffled, Mr Meagles. What is the matter?’

‘Wait a bit, and I’ll tell you. Have you leisure for a turn in the Park?’

‘As much as you please.’

‘Come along then. Ah! you may well look at him.’ He happened to have turned his eyes towards the offender whom Mr Meagles had so angrily collared. ‘He’s something to look at, that fellow is.’

He was not much to look at, either in point of size or in point of dress; being merely a short, square, practical looking man, whose hair had turned grey, and in whose face and forehead there were deep lines of cogitation, which looked as though they were carved in hard wood. He was dressed in decent black, a little rusty, and had the appearance of a sagacious master in some handicraft. He had a spectacle-case in his hand, which he turned over and over while he was thus in question, with a certain free use of the thumb that is never seen but in a hand accustomed to tools.

‘You keep with us,’ said Mr Meagles, in a threatening kind of Way, ‘and I’ll introduce you presently. Now then!’

Clennam wondered within himself, as they took the nearest way to the Park, what this unknown (who complied in the gentlest manner) could have been doing. His appearance did not at all justify the suspicion that he had been detected in designs on Mr Meagles’s pocket-handkerchief; nor had he any appearance of being quarrelsome or violent. He was a quiet, plain, steady man; made no attempt to escape; and seemed a little depressed, but neither ashamed nor repentant. If he were a criminal offender, he must surely be an incorrigible hypocrite; and if he were no offender, why should Mr Meagles have collared him in the Circumlocution Office? He perceived that the man was not a difficulty in his own mind alone, but in Mr Meagles’s too; for such conversation as they had together on the short way to the Park was by no means well sustained, and Mr Meagles’s eye always wandered back to the man, even when he spoke of something very different.

At length they being among the trees, Mr Meagles stopped short, and said:

‘Mr Clennam, will you do me the favour to look at this man? His name is Doyce, Daniel Doyce. You wouldn’t suppose this man to be a notorious rascal; would you?’

‘I certainly should not.’ It was really a disconcerting question, with the man there.

‘No. You would not. I know you would not. You wouldn’t suppose him to be a public offender; would you?’

‘No.’

‘No. But he is. He is a public offender. What has he been guilty of? Murder, manslaughter, arson, forgery, swindling, house-breaking, highway robbery, larceny, conspiracy, fraud? Which should you say, now?’

‘I should say,’ returned Arthur Clennam, observing a faint smile in Daniel Doyce’s face, ‘not one of them.’

‘You are right,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘But he has been ingenious, and he has been trying to turn his ingenuity to his country’s service. That makes him a public offender directly, sir.’

Arthur looked at the man himself, who only shook his head.

‘This Doyce,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is a smith and engineer. He is not in a large way, but he is well known as a very ingenious man. A dozen years ago, he perfects an invention (involving a very curious secret process) of great importance to his country and his fellow-creatures. I won’t say how much money it cost him, or how many years of his life he had been about it, but he brought it to perfection a dozen years ago. Wasn’t it a dozen?’ said Mr Meagles, addressing Doyce. ‘He is the most exasperating man in the world; he never complains!’

‘Yes. Rather better than twelve years ago.’

‘Rather better?’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you mean rather worse. Well, Mr Clennam, he addresses himself to the Government. The moment he addresses himself to the Government, he becomes a public offender! Sir,’ said Mr Meagles, in danger of making himself excessively hot again, ‘he ceases to be an innocent citizen, and becomes a culprit. He is treated from that instant as a man who has done some infernal action. He is a man to be shirked, put off, brow-beaten, sneered at, handed over by this highly-connected young or old gentleman, to that highly-connected young or old gentleman, and dodged back again; he is a man with no rights in his own time, or his own property; a mere outlaw, whom it is justifiable to get rid of anyhow; a man to be worn out by all possible means.’

Arthur Clennam mise tristemente i suoi documenti in tasca e proseguì lungo il corridoio di pietra e la scalinata di pietra. Era arrivato alle porte a battenti che conducevano in strada e aspettava, non molto pazientemente, che due persone che si trovavano tra lui e quelle porte finissero per andarsene e gli permettessero di passare; proprio in quel momento, la voce di una di loro gli risuonò familiare all’orecchio. Guardò chi parlava e riconobbe il signor Meagles. Il signor Meagles aveva il viso molto rosso – più rosso di quanto potesse farlo il viaggio stesso – e, afferrando per il colletto un uomo basso che era con lui, disse: “Vieni fuori, mascalzone, vieni fuori!”

Fu una scena davvero inaspettata: vedere il signor Meagles spalancare le porte del portone e uscire in strada insieme a quell’uomo di aspetto innocuo fu così sorprendente che Clennam rimase fermo per un momento, scambiando sguardi stupiti con il portiere. Tuttavia lo seguì rapidamente e vide il signor Meagles camminare lungo la strada al fianco del suo “nemico”. Presto raggiunse il suo vecchio compagno di viaggio e gli toccò la spalla. Il volto cupo del signor Meagles si addolcì non appena vide chi era, e allungò la mano in segno di amicizia.

“Come stai?” disse il signor Meagles. “Come te la passi? Sono appena tornato dall’estero. È bello rivederti.”

“E sono lieto di vederti.”

“Grazie, grazie!”

“La signora Meagles e vostra figlia,?”

“Sono il più in buona forma possibile,” disse il signor Meagles. “Vorrei solo che mi aveste incontrato in condizioni ancora più favorevoli, sotto il profilo della calma e della compostezza.”

Sebbene non fosse affatto una giornata calda, il signor Meagles era in uno stato di agitazione tale da attirare l’attenzione dei passanti; soprattutto perché si appoggiava a una ringhiera, si toglieva cappello e cravatta, e si strofinava energicamente la testa, il viso, le orecchie e il collo sudati, senza minimamente curarsi dell’opinione pubblica.

“Uff!”, disse il signor Meagles mentre si rivestiva. “Che sollievo. Ora sto molto meglio.”

“Sembra che lei sia turbato, signor Meagles. Cosa c’è che non va?”

“Aspetta un attimo e te lo dico. Hai tempo per fare una passeggiata nel Parco?”

“Quanto vuoi tu.”

“Allora, vieni con me. Ah! Puoi ben guardarlo.” Si trovava proprio a fissare in quella direzione il colpevole che il signor Meagles aveva afferrato con tanta rabbia. “È davvero qualcuno da notare, quel tipo, ”

Non era molto attraente, né per statura né per abbigliamento; era semplicemente un uomo basso, robusto e dall’aspetto pratico, i cui capelli erano diventati grigi, e il cui viso e la fronte presentavano profonde rughe causate da lunghe riflessioni, come se fossero state incise nel legno duro. Indossava abiti neri, un po’ logori, e dava l’impressione di essere un saggio maestro in qualche mestiere artigianale. Teneva in mano una custodia da occhiali, che girava continuamente tra le mani mentre veniva interrogato, utilizzando il pollice con grande abilità, una cosa che si vede soltanto nelle mani abituate a maneggiare strumenti.

“Resta con noi,” disse il signor Meagles in tono minaccioso, “e tra poco ti presenterò. Ora andiamo!”

Clennam si chiedeva, mentre percorrevano la strada più breve per raggiungere il Parco, cosa potesse fare quest’uomo sconosciuto (che si comportava in modo estremamente gentile). Il suo aspetto non giustificava affatto il sospetto che avesse tentato di rubare il fazzoletto da tasca del signor Meagles; inoltre, non dava affatto l’impressione di essere una persona litigiosa o violenta. Era un uomo tranquillo, semplice e affidabile; non cercava in alcun modo di scappare e sembrava un po’ depresso, ma né imbarazzato né pentito. Se fosse stato un criminale, sicuramente sarebbe stato un ipocrita irrimediabile; se invece non lo fosse stato, perché il signor Meagles avrebbe dovuto fermarlo all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni? Clennam si rendeva conto che quell’uomo rappresentava un problema non solo per lui, ma anche per il signor Meagles: infatti, le conversazioni che avevano durante il breve tragitto verso il Parco non erano affatto piacevoli da seguire, e lo sguardo del signor Meagles continuava a tornare su di lui, anche quando parlava di argomenti completamente diversi.

Finalmente, raggiunti gli alberi, il signor Meagles si fermò e disse:

“Signor Clennam, potrebbe fare questo favore per me e dare un’occhiata a quest’uomo? Si chiama Doyce, Daniel Doyce. Non si direbbe mai che quest’uomo sia un individuo disonorevole, vero?”

“Certamente non dovrei.” Era davvero una domanda sconcertante, con quell’uomo lì presente.

“No. Non lo faresti. So che non lo faresti. Non penseresti mai che sia un criminale pubblico, vero?”

‘No.’

“No. Ma lo è. È un criminale pubblico. Di cosa è stato accusato? Omicidio, omicidio colposo, incendio doloso, falsificazione, truffa, furto in abitazione, rapina su strada, furto, cospirazione, frode. Quale di queste accuse dovresti menzionare ora?”

“Dovrei dire,” rispose Arthur Clennam, notando un debole sorriso sul volto di Daniel Doyce, “nessuno di loro.”

“Hai ragione,” disse il signor Meagles. “Ma è stato ingegnoso, e ha cercato di utilizzare la sua ingegnosità al servizio del suo paese. Questo lo rende direttamente un criminale pubblico, signore.”

Arthur guardò quell’uomo in persona, ma quest’ultimo si limitò a scuotere la testa.

“Questo Doyce,” disse il signor Meagles, “è un ferroviere e ingegnere. Non è molto ricco, ma è ben conosciuto come una persona molto ingegnosa. Una dozzina di anni fa, perfezionò un’invenzione che comportava un processo segreto e molto curioso, di grande importanza per il suo paese e per tutti gli esseri umani. Non dirò quanto denaro gli sia costato né quanti anni della sua vita abbia dedicato a questo progetto, ma lo portò a termine una dozzina di anni fa. Giusto, una dozzina?” disse il signor Meagles rivolgendosi a Doyce. “È l’uomo più esasperante del mondo: non si lamenta mai!”

“Sì. Molto meglio rispetto a dodici anni fa.”

“Molto meglio?” disse il signor Meagles. “Volete dire molto peggio. Beh, signor Clennam, lui si rivolge al Governo. Non appena lo fa, diventa un criminale pubblico! Signore,” continuò il signor Meagles, rischiando di arrabbiarsi ancora di più, “smette di essere un cittadino innocente e diventa un colpevole. Da quel momento in poi viene trattato come una persona che ha commesso qualche atto orribile. È una persona da evitare, da ignorare, da umiliare, da deridere; viene passata da un gentiluomo influente all’altro, e così via. Non ha diritti nel proprio tempo, né possiede nulla di suo; è semplicemente un fuorilegge, di cui si può liberarsi in qualsiasi modo. Una persona da logorare con ogni mezzo possibile.”

It was not so difficult to believe, after the morning’s experience, as Mr Meagles supposed.

‘Don’t stand there, Doyce, turning your spectacle-case over and over,’ cried Mr Meagles, ‘but tell Mr Clennam what you confessed to me.’

‘I undoubtedly was made to feel,’ said the inventor, ‘as if I had committed an offence. In dancing attendance at the various offices, I was always treated, more or less, as if it was a very bad offence. I have frequently found it necessary to reflect, for my own self-support, that I really had not done anything to bring myself into the Newgate Calendar, but only wanted to effect a great saving and a great improvement.’

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Judge whether I exaggerate. Now you’ll be able to believe me when I tell you the rest of the case.’

With this prelude, Mr Meagles went through the narrative; the established narrative, which has become tiresome; the matter-of-course narrative which we all know by heart. How, after interminable attendance and correspondence, after infinite impertinences, ignorances, and insults, my lords made a Minute, number three thousand four hundred and seventy-two, allowing the culprit to make certain trials of his invention at his own expense. How the trials were made in the presence of a board of six, of whom two ancient members were too blind to see it, two other ancient members were too deaf to hear it, one other ancient member was too lame to get near it, and the final ancient member was too pig-headed to look at it. How there were more years; more impertinences, ignorances, and insults. How my lords then made a Minute, number five thousand one hundred and three, whereby they resigned the business to the Circumlocution Office. How the Circumlocution Office, in course of time, took up the business as if it were a bran new thing of yesterday, which had never been heard of before; muddled the business, addled the business, tossed the business in a wet blanket. How the impertinences, ignorances, and insults went through the multiplication table. How there was a reference of the invention to three Barnacles and a Stiltstalking, who knew nothing about it; into whose heads nothing could be hammered about it; who got bored about it, and reported physical impossibilities about it. How the Circumlocution Office, in a Minute, number eight thousand seven hundred and forty, ‘saw no reason to reverse the decision at which my lords had arrived.’ How the Circumlocution Office, being reminded that my lords had arrived at no decision, shelved the business. How there had been a final interview with the head of the Circumlocution Office that very morning, and how the Brazen Head had spoken, and had been, upon the whole, and under all the circumstances, and looking at it from the various points of view, of opinion that one of two courses was to be pursued in respect of the business: that was to say, either to leave it alone for evermore, or to begin it all over again.

‘Upon which,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘as a practical man, I then and there, in that presence, took Doyce by the collar, and told him it was plain to me that he was an infamous rascal and treasonable disturber of the government peace, and took him away. I brought him out of the office door by the collar, that the very porter might know I was a practical man who appreciated the official estimate of such characters; and here we are!’

If that airy young Barnacle had been there, he would have frankly told them perhaps that the Circumlocution Office had achieved its function. That what the Barnacles had to do, was to stick on to the national ship as long as they could. That to trim the ship, lighten the ship, clean the ship, would be to knock them off; that they could but be knocked off once; and that if the ship went down with them yet sticking to it, that was the ship’s look out, and not theirs.

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘now you know all about Doyce. Except, which I own does not improve my state of mind, that even now you don’t hear him complain.’

‘You must have great patience,’ said Arthur Clennam, looking at him with some wonder, ‘great forbearance.’

‘No,’ he returned, ‘I don’t know that I have more than another man.’

‘By the Lord, you have more than I have, though!’ cried Mr Meagles.

Doyce smiled, as he said to Clennam, ‘You see, my experience of these things does not begin with myself. It has been in my way to know a little about them from time to time. Mine is not a particular case. I am not worse used than a hundred others who have put themselves in the same position—than all the others, I was going to say.’

‘I don’t know that I should find that a consolation, if it were my case; but I am very glad that you do.’

‘Understand me! I don’t say,’ he replied in his steady, planning way, and looking into the distance before him as if his grey eye were measuring it, ‘that it’s recompense for a man’s toil and hope; but it’s a certain sort of relief to know that I might have counted on this.’

He spoke in that quiet deliberate manner, and in that undertone, which is often observable in mechanics who consider and adjust with great nicety. It belonged to him like his suppleness of thumb, or his peculiar way of tilting up his hat at the back every now and then, as if he were contemplating some half-finished work of his hand and thinking about it.

‘Disappointed?’ he went on, as he walked between them under the trees. ‘Yes. No doubt I am disappointed. Hurt? Yes. No doubt I am hurt. That’s only natural. But what I mean when I say that people who put themselves in the same position are mostly used in the same way—’

‘In England,’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Oh! of course I mean in England. When they take their inventions into foreign countries, that’s quite different. And that’s the reason why so many go there.’

Mr Meagles very hot indeed again.

‘What I mean is, that however this comes to be the regular way of our government, it is its regular way. Have you ever heard of any projector or inventor who failed to find it all but inaccessible, and whom it did not discourage and ill-treat?’

Dopo l’esperienza di quella mattina, non era così difficile crederci, come il signor Meagles aveva supposto.

“Non stai lì fermo a rigirare la tua custodia degli occhiali,” gridò il signor Meagles, “ma racconta al signor Clennam quello che hai confessato a me.”

“Indubbiamente mi sentivo,” disse l’inventore, “come se avessi commesso un reato. Partecipando alle varie riunioni e cerimonie, venivo sempre trattato, più o meno, come se si trattasse di un grave errore. Spesso ho dovuto riflettere, per il mio stesso benessere personale, sul fatto che in realtà non avevo fatto nulla che potesse portarmi nei guai, ma volevo soltanto ottenere grandi risparmi e apportare notevoli miglioramenti.”

“Eccola!” disse il signor Meagles. “Giudicate voi stesso se esagero. Ora potrete credermi quando vi racconterò il resto della storia.”

Con questo preludio, il signor Meagles proseguì con la narrazione; quella narrazione consolidata, ormai noiosa da ascoltare; quella narrazione banale che tutti noi conosciamo a memoria. Come, dopo un’infinità di riunioni e corrispondenze, dopo innumerevoli insolenze, ignoranze e offese, i miei signori redassero una delibera numero tremilaquattrocentosettantadue, che permetteva al colpevole di sperimentare la sua invenzione a sue spese. Come tali esperimenti venissero condotti alla presenza di un comitato composto da sei membri: due dei quali erano troppo ciechi per vedere ciò che accadeva, altri due troppo sordi per sentire, uno troppo zoppo per avvicinarsi, e l’ultimo troppo testardo per prestare attenzione. Come in seguito si verificarono ancora più insolenze, ignoranze e offese. Come i miei signori redassero poi una delibera numero cinquemilacentouno, con la quale cedettero l’incarico all’Ufficio della Circumlocuzione. Come quest’ultimo, nel corso del tempo, si occupò dell’affare come se fosse qualcosa di completamente nuovo e mai esistito prima; complicandolo ulteriormente e rovinandone ogni possibilità di risoluzione. Come le insolenze, ignoranze e offese continuarono ad aumentare senza sosta. Come venne fatta riferimento all’invenzione da parte di tre individui che non ne sapevano nulla; persone nelle cui menti non era possibile inserire alcuna informazione al riguardo; persone che si stancarono rapidamente dell’intera faccenda e iniziarono a sostenere l’impossibilità tecnica di realizzarla. Come, infine, l’Ufficio della Circumlocuzione, con una delibera numero ottomila-settecentoquaranta, dichiarò di non vedere alcun motivo per modificare la decisione presa dai miei signori. Come, venuto loro ricordato che in realtà nessuna decisione era stata presa, l’affare venne semplicemente archiviato. Come quella stessa mattina ebbe luogo un ultimo colloquio con il responsabile dell’Ufficio della Circumlocuzione; e come, considerando tutte le circostanze e valutandola da diversi punti di vista, si concluse che ci fossero solo due possibili soluzioni per quell’affare: lasciarlo completamente da parte per sempre, o ricominciare tutto da capo.

“Su questo,” disse il signor Meagles, “come uomo pratico, in quel momento stesso, davanti a tutti, afferrai Doyce per il colletto e gli dissi chiaramente che era un individuo spregevole e un traditore che disturbava la pace della governanza; poi lo portai via. Lo trascinai fuori dall’ufficio per il colletto, affinché anche il portiere potesse vedere che ero un uomo pratico, che rispettava l’opinione ufficiale su persone del genere; ed eccoci qui!”

Se quel giovane e presuntuoso Barnacle fosse stato lì, avrebbe loro detto francamente che forse l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni aveva svolto la sua funzione. Che ciò che i Barnacles dovevano fare era attaccarsi al navio nazionale per quanto possibile. Che pulire, alleggerire e sistemare il navio significava in realtà staccarli via; che una volta staccati, non avrebbero potuto più tornare indietro. E che, se il navio affondasse con loro ancora attaccati, la colpa sarebbe stata del navio, non loro.

“Ecco!” disse il signor Meagles, “ora sai tutto su Doyce. Tranne che, il che a mio parere non migliora affatto il mio umore, nemmeno ora lo senti lamentarsi.”

“Dovete avere una grande pazienza,” disse Arthur Clennam guardandolo con un certo stupore, “una grande tolleranza.”

“No,” rispose, “non so se abbia qualcosa in più rispetto agli altri uomini.”

“Per il Signore, tu hai più di quanto abbia io, però!”, esclamò il signor Meagles.

Doyce sorrise e disse a Clennam: “Vedi, la mia esperienza riguardo a queste cose non inizia con me stesso. Nel corso del tempo ho avuto modo di conoscere qualcosa al riguardo. Il mio caso non è un caso particolare; non sono più sperimentato di centinaia di altre persone che si sono trovate nella stessa situazione, anzi, direi di tutte le altre.”

“Non so se dovrei considerarlo un conforto, se fosse il mio caso;
ma sono molto felice che tu lo faccia.”

“Capite ciò che intendo! Non sto dicendo,” rispose lui con quel suo tono calmo e ponderato, guardando lontano davanti a sé come se il suo occhio grigio stesse misurando qualcosa, “che si tratti di una ricompensa per il duro lavoro e la >speranza di un uomo; ma è comunque un certo tipo di conforto sapere che potevo contare su questo.”

Parlava con quel modo tranquillo e deliberato, con quel tono che si osserva spesso nei meccanici che analizzano e regolano le cose con grande precisione. Quel modo di parlare faceva parte di lui, proprio come la flessibilità del suo pollice o il suo particolare modo di sollevare il cappello all’indietro di tanto in tanto, come se stesse contemplando un lavoro incompleto fatto dalle sue mani e ne riflettesse.

“Deluso?” continuò, camminando tra di loro sotto gli alberi.
“Sì. Non ho dubbi che sia deluso. Ferito? Sì. Anche questo è chiaro. È naturale. Ma quello che intendo dire è che le persone che si mettono nella stessa situazione di solito vengono trattate allo stesso modo, ”

“In Inghilterra,” disse il signor Meagles.

“Oh! Certo, intendo dire in Inghilterra. Quando portano le loro invenzioni nei paesi stranieri, è tutto molto diverso. Ed è proprio per questo che tante persone vanno lì.”

Il signor Meagles era davvero molto caldo di nuovo.

Quello che intendo è che, per quanto questo possa diventare il modo abituale di funzionamento del nostro governo, rimane comunque il suo modo abituale. Avete mai sentito parlare di qualche proiettore o inventore che abbia trovato tutto estremamente inaccessibile, ma che non si sia scoraggiato né sia stato maltrattato a causa di ciò?

‘I cannot say that I ever have.’

‘Have you ever known it to be beforehand in the adoption of any useful thing? Ever known it to set an example of any useful kind?’

‘I am a good deal older than my friend here,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and I’ll answer that. Never.’

‘But we all three have known, I expect,’ said the inventor, ‘a pretty many cases of its fixed determination to be miles upon miles, and years upon years, behind the rest of us; and of its being found out persisting in the use of things long superseded, even after the better things were well known and generally taken up?’

They all agreed upon that.

‘Well then,’ said Doyce, with a sigh, ‘as I know what such a metal will do at such a temperature, and such a body under such a pressure, so I may know (if I will only consider), how these great lords and gentlemen will certainly deal with such a matter as mine. I have no right to be surprised, with a head upon my shoulders, and memory in it, that I fall into the ranks with all who came before me. I ought to have let it alone. I have had warning enough, I am sure.’

With that he put up his spectacle-case, and said to Arthur, ‘If I don’t complain, Mr Clennam, I can feel gratitude; and I assure you that I feel it towards our mutual friend. Many’s the day, and many’s the way in which he has backed me.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Mr Meagles.

Arthur could not but glance at Daniel Doyce in the ensuing silence. Though it was evidently in the grain of his character, and of his respect for his own case, that he should abstain from idle murmuring, it was evident that he had grown the older, the sterner, and the poorer, for his long endeavour. He could not but think what a blessed thing it would have been for this man, if he had taken a lesson from the gentlemen who were so kind as to take a nation’s affairs in charge, and had learnt How not to do it.

Mr Meagles was hot and despondent for about five minutes, and then began to cool and clear up.

‘Come, come!’ said he. ‘We shall not make this the better by being grim. Where do you think of going, Dan?’

‘I shall go back to the factory,’ said Dan.

‘Why then, we’ll all go back to the factory, or walk in that direction,’ returned Mr Meagles cheerfully. ‘Mr Clennam won’t be deterred by its being in Bleeding Heart Yard.’

‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Clennam. ‘I want to go there.’

‘So much the better,’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Come along!’

As they went along, certainly one of the party, and probably more than one, thought that Bleeding Heart Yard was no inappropriate destination for a man who had been in official correspondence with my lords and the Barnacles—and perhaps had a misgiving also that Britannia herself might come to look for lodgings in Bleeding Heart Yard some ugly day or other, if she over-did the Circumlocution Office.

“Non posso dire di averlo mai fatto.”

“Avete mai visto, prima d’ora, che l’adozione di qualcosa di utile portasse a risultati concreti? Avete mai visto che ciò costituisse un esempio positivo in qualche ambito?”

“Sono molto più vecchio del mio amico qui,” disse il signor Meagles, “e posso dirlo con certezza: mai.”

“Ma tutti e tre noi abbiamo sicuramente conosciuto,” disse l’inventore, “molte occasioni in cui questo fenomeno si è manifestato: quando un oggetto o una pratica persistono nell’essere utilizzati per chilometri e anni, rimanendo indietro rispetto al resto di noi; quando continuano ad essere impiegati anche dopo che cose migliori erano ormai ben conosciute e ampiamente diffuse.”

Tutti erano d’accordo su questo punto.

“Allora,” disse Doyce con un sospiro, “poiché so cosa farà un metallo del genere a tale temperatura, e quale effetto avrà su un determinato corpo sotto una certa pressione, posso immaginare (se solo lo volessi considerare) come questi grandi signori e gentiluomini affronterebbero senz’altro una situazione come la mia. Non ho alcun diritto di sorprendermi: con una testa sulle spalle e una memoria funzionante, dovrei essere consapevole che finirò tra coloro che sono venuti prima di me. Avrei dovuto lasciar perdere tutto. Ne ho avute abbastanza avvertenze, ne sono sicuro.”

Dopo aver fatto questo, aprì il suo astuccio da occhiali e disse a Arthur: “Se non mi lamento, signor Clennam, posso provare gratitudine; e vi assicuro che la provo verso il nostro comune amico. Ci sono stati molti giorni, e in molti modi, in cui lui mi ha sostenuto.”

“Sciocchezze,” disse il signor Meagles.

Arthur non poté fare a meno di lanciare uno sguardo verso Daniel Doyce nel silenzio che seguì. Sebbene fosse proprio nella sua natura, e nel rispetto che provava per la propria causa, astenersi da commenti inutili, era evidente che con il passare degli anni fosse diventato più severo e, anche più povero a causa dei suoi sforzi prolungati. Non poté fare a meno di pensare quanto sarebbe stato meglio per quell’uomo se avesse imparato da quei gentiluomini che, con tanta generosità, si erano assunti la responsabilità degli affari di una nazione, e avesse imparato come non farlo.

Il signor Meagles rimase arrabbiato e sconsolato per circa cinque minuti, poi iniziò a calmarsi e a ragionare più lucidamente.

“Ma come!”, disse. “Non miglioreremo la situazione comportandoci in modo cupo. Dove pensi di andare, Dan?”

“Tornerò in fabbrica,” disse Dan.

“Allora torneremo tutti in fabbrica, o andremo in quella direzione,” rispose felicemente il signor Meagles. “Il signor Clennam non si lascerà scoraggiare dal fatto che si trovi in Bleeding Heart Yard.”

“Bleeding Heart Yard?”, disse Clennam. “Vorrei andarci.”

“Meglio così,” esclamò il signor Meagles. “Andiamo!”

Mentre procedevano, sicuramente uno di loro, e probabilmente più di uno, pensò che Bleeding Heart Yard non fosse affatto un luogo inappropriato per un uomo che aveva avuto corrispondenza ufficiale con i miei signori e i membri del gruppo dei Barnacles. E forse anche alcuni nutrivano il timore che la stessa Britannia potesse, un giorno o l’altro, decidere di cercare una sistemazione proprio a Bleeding Heart Yard, se avesse esagerato con le formalità burocratiche.

CHAPTER 11. Let Loose

A late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected the clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there, as if they were half curious, and half afraid, to see their darkening pictures in the water. The flat expanse of country about Chalons lay a long heavy streak, occasionally made a little ragged by a row of poplar trees against the wrathful sunset. On the banks of the river Saone it was wet, depressing, solitary; and the night deepened fast.

One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him, as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.

He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he limped on again, toiling and muttering.

‘To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness, wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!’

And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and looking into the distance before him, stopped again.

‘I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder, eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!’

But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town, brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier, and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood looking about him.

There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of cooking; there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling of dominoes; there was the dyer’s with its strips of red cloth on the doorposts; there was the silversmith’s with its earrings, and its offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer’s with its lively group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels, and the faint lamps slung across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up, getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the public cistern at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There, in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial embellishment of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play billiards; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings, whether one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines, liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day door, and limped in.

He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among her cloudy bottles of syrups, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for glasses, working at her needle.

Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside him.

‘One can lodge here to-night, madame?’

‘Perfectly!’ said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice.

‘Good. One can dine—sup—what you please to call it?’

‘Ah, perfectly!’ cried the landlady as before.

‘Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.’

‘It is very bad weather, monsieur,’ said the landlady.

‘Cursed weather.’

‘And a very long road.’

‘A cursed road.’

His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate, salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew crust, until such time as his repast should be ready.

There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the stove, and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one another, which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing at him, and were talking again.

‘That’s the true reason,’ said one of them, bringing a story he had been telling, to a close, ‘that’s the true reason why they said that the devil was let loose.’ The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the discussion—especially as the devil was in question.

CAPITOLO 11. Lasciare andare

Una tarda e cupa autunno notte stava avvicinandosi al fiume Saone. Il corso d’acqua, simile a uno specchio sporco in un luogo tenebroso, rifletteva pesantemente le nuvole; le basse rive si inclinavano da una parte e dall’altra, come se fossero sia curiose che spaventate di vedere i propri riflessi oscurarsi nell’acqua. L’ampia distesa di terra intorno a Chalons formava un lungo e cupo nastro, interrotto occasionalmente da una fila di pioppi contro il cielo infuocato del tramonto. Lungo le rive del fiume Saone tutto era umido, desolato e solitario; la notte si approfondiva rapidamente.

Un uomo che si muoveva lentamente verso Chalons era l’unica figura visibile in quel paesaggio. Cain sembrava altrettanto solo e isolato. Con un vecchio zaino di pelle di pecora sulle spalle e un bastone ruvido e grezzo in mano; i piedi doloranti a causa del fango, le scarpe e i gambali logori; i capelli e la barba in disordine; il mantello che gli copriva le spalle e i vestiti bagnati fradici. Zoppicando nel dolore e nella difficoltà, sembrava che le nuvole si allontanassero da lui, che il ululato del vento e il tremolio dell’erba fossero direzionati contro di lui, che il misterioso fruscio dell’acqua gli sussurrasse qualcosa all’orecchio, che la capricciosa autunno e la notte turbolenta fossero disturbate dalla sua presenza.

Guardava intorno in modo cupo e timoroso; a volte si fermava e si girava per osservare tutto ciò che lo circondava. Poi proseguiva zoppicando, lavorando sodo e mormorando tra sé.

“All’inferno questa pianura senza fine! All’inferno queste pietre affilate come coltelli! All’inferno questa oscurità tetra che ci avvolge con il suo freddo! Vi odio!”

E avrebbe riversato tutto il suo odio su quelle cose con quell’aria cupa che aveva intorno a sé, se solo ne fosse stato in grado. Proseguì ancora un po’, poi, guardando lontano davanti a sé, si fermò di nuovo.

“Io, affamato, assetato, stanco. Voi, idioti, là dove ci sono le luci, mangiate e bevete, vi riscaldate al fuoco. Vorrei possedere la vostra città; vi ripagherei, miei figli, ”

Ma i denti che aveva minacciato la città, e la mano che aveva agitato contro di essa, non portarono la città nemmeno un passo più vicina al suo obiettivo; quell’uomo era ancora più affamato, assetato e stanco, mentre camminava sulle sue strade accidentate, fermandosi ad osservare intorno a sé.

C’era l’hotel con il suo ingresso e il suo profumo invitante di cibo cucinato; c’era il caffè con le sue finestre luminose e il rumore delle biglie da domino che si muovevano; c’era il negozio del tintore, con strisce di stoffa rossa appese alle porte; c’era il negozio dell’orefice, con orecchini e offerte per gli altari; c’era il negozio del tabaccaio, con un gruppo vivace di clienti soldati che ne uscivano con la pipa in bocca; c’erano anche i cattivi odori della città, la pioggia, i rifiuti nei canili, le luci fioche appese lungo la strada, e il enorme carro postale con la sua montagna di bagagli e i sei cavalli grigi con la coda legata, pronti a partire dall’ufficio delle poste. Ma non c’era nessun piccolo cabaret visibile per un viaggiatore in difficoltà; doveva quindi cercarlo nell’angolo buio, dove le foglie di cavolo erano più fitte e le donne continuavano ad attingere acqua dalla fontana pubblica. Lì, in una strada secondaria, trovò il locale chiamato “Break of Day”. Le finestre oscurate rendevano l’interno poco visibile, ma sembrava luminoso e accogliente; insegne chiare e decorate con immagini di mazze da biliardo annunciavano che lì si poteva giocare a biliardo, trovare cibo, bevande e alloggio, indipendentemente dal mezzo di trasporto utilizzato; inoltre, offrivano vini pregiati, liquori e brandy. L’uomo girò la maniglia della porta del locale e entrò zoppicando.

Entrando dalla porta, toccò il proprio cappello ingiallito e appesantito mentre si avvicinava agli uomini che occupavano la stanza. Due di loro stavano giocando a dama a uno dei piccoli tavoli; tre o quattro erano seduti intorno al camino, chiacchierando mentre fumavano; il biliardo al centro era per il momento vuoto; la padrona di casa del Daybreak sedeva dietro il suo bancone, tra le sue bottiglie di sciroppi torbidi, cesti di dolci e i contenitori di piombo per i bicchieri, intenta al suo lavoro a maglia.

Si diresse verso un piccolo tavolo vuoto in un angolo della stanza, dietro il camino; posò lo zaino e il mantello a terra. Mentre si rialzava dopo essersi chinato per farlo, vide la padrona di casa accanto a lui.

“Si può pernottare qui, signora?”

“Perfettamente!” disse la padrona di casa con una voce alta, allegra e cantante.

“Bene. Si può mangiare, cenare, o come si preferisce chiamarlo.”

“Ah, perfetto!” esclamò la padrona di casa, come prima.

“Allora mandatemi qualcosa da mangiare il prima possibile, signora, e anche del vino subito. Sono estenuato.”

“Il tempo è molto cattivo, signore,” disse la padrona di casa.

“Tempo maledetto.”

“E una strada molto lunga.”

“Una maledetta strada.”

La sua voce rauca lo tradì; si appoggiò le mani sulla testa fino a quando non gli portarono una bottiglia di vino dal bancone. Dopo aver riempito e svuotato due volte il suo piccolo bicchiere, e dopo essersi tagliato un pezzo del grande pane che gli era stato servito insieme al tovagliolo, al piatto per la zuppa, al sale, al pepe e all’olio, si appoggiò alla parete, utilizzò il banco su cui sedeva come divano e iniziò a masticare la crosta del pane, aspettando che il suo pasto fosse pronto.

C’era stata quella breve interruzione nella conversazione riguardante il camino, quel momento di distrazione reciproca che, in una compagnia del genere, è solitamente legato all’arrivo di uno sconosciuto. Ora tutto era passato; gli uomini lo avevano lanciato un’occhiata e avevano ripreso a parlare.

“Ecco il vero motivo,” disse uno di loro, concludendo la storia che stava raccontando, “ecco perché si dice che il diavolo sia stato liberato.” Chi parlava era quel alto svizzero appartenente alla chiesa; il suo discorso portava con sé un certo peso autoritario legato alla chiesa, soprattutto visto che in discussione c’era il diavolo.

The landlady having given her directions for the new guest’s entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head, but without looking up from her work.

‘Ah Heaven, then,’ said she. ‘When the boat came up from Lyons, and brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles, some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.’

‘Madame, you are always right,’ returned the tall Swiss. ‘Doubtless you were enraged against that man, madame?’

‘Ay, yes, then!’ cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work, opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. ‘Naturally, yes.’

‘He was a bad subject.’

‘He was a wicked wretch,’ said the landlady, ‘and well merited what he had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.’

‘Stay, madame! Let us see,’ returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning his cigar between his lips. ‘It may have been his unfortunate destiny. He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out. Philosophical philanthropy teaches—’

The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day.

‘Hold there, you and your philanthropy,’ cried the smiling landlady, nodding her head more than ever. ‘Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself. And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women both, unfortunately) who have no good in them—none. That there are people whom it is necessary to detest without compromise. That there are people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this man—whatever they call him, I forget his name—is one of them.’

The landlady’s lively speech was received with greater favour at the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer Great Britain.

‘My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,’ said the landlady, putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger’s soup from her husband, who appeared with it at a side door, ‘puts anybody at the mercy of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn’t worth a sou.’

As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.

‘Well!’ said the previous speaker, ‘let us come back to our subject. Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant; nothing more.’

‘How do they call him?’ said the landlady. ‘Biraud, is it not?’

‘Rigaud, madame,’ returned the tall Swiss.

‘Rigaud! To be sure.’

The traveller’s soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance.

The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees, and not being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking by the stove, warming his ragged feet.

‘Pardon me, madame—that Biraud.’

‘Rigaud, monsieur.’

‘Rigaud. Pardon me again—has contracted your displeasure, how?’

The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she said, who had killed his wife.

‘Ay, ay? Death of my life, that’s a criminal indeed. But how do you know it?’

‘All the world knows it.’

‘Hah! And yet he escaped justice?’

‘Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction. So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.’

‘Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?’ said the guest. ‘Haha!’

The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was not ill-looking after all.

‘Did you mention, madame—or was it mentioned among the gentlemen—what became of him?’

The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational stage at which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the worse.

Dopo aver dato al marito le istruzioni su come intrattenere il nuovo ospite – il quale lavorava come cuoco presso “Break of Day” – la padrona di casa riprese a cucire dietro al bancone. Era una donna piccola, intelligente, ordinata e vivace; indossava un cappello piuttosto alto e calze spesse. Intanto, annuendo più volte con un sorriso, iniziò a chiacchierare senza mai alzare lo sguardo dal suo lavoro.

“Ah, allora, ” disse lei. “Quando la barca arrivò da Lione e portò la notizia che il diavolo fosse stato davvero liberato a Marsiglia, alcuni cacciatori di mosche la presero per vera. Ma io? No, io no.”

“Signora, avete sempre ragione,” rispose lo svizzero alto. “Senza dubbio eravate furiosa con quell’uomo, vero, signora?”

“Ah sì, allora!” esclamò la padrona di casa, alzando lo sguardo dal suo lavoro, aprendo molto gli occhi e scuotendo la testa da una parte. “Naturalmente, sì.”

“Era un soggetto difficile da gestire.”

“Era un miserabile malvagio,” disse la padrona di casa, “e meritava davvero ciò che gli è accaduto. Anzi, peggio ancora.”

“Resti, signora! Lasciate che vediamo,” rispose lo svizzero, girando il suo sigaro tra le labbra in modo discutibile. “Forse era il suo sfortunato destino. Forse era soltanto una vittima delle circostanze. È sempre possibile che avesse, e abbia ancora, del buono dentro di sé, se solo si sapesse come scoprirlo. La filosofia della filantropia insegna proprio questo, ”

Il resto del piccolo gruppo intorno al camino mormorò delle obiezioni all’introduzione di quell’espressione minacciosa. Anche i due giocatori a dama alzarono lo sguardo dal loro gioco, come per protestare contro il fatto che la filantropia filosofica venisse menzionata apertamente in quel contesto.

“Aspetta un attimo, tu e la tua filantropia,” gridò la sorridente padrona di casa, annuendo più del solito. “Ascolta allora: sono una donna, io. Non so nulla di questa filantropia filosofica. Ma so ciò che ho visto, ciò che ho affrontato in questo mondo in cui mi trovo. E ti dico questo, amico mio: ci sono persone (uomini e donne, purtroppo) che non hanno alcun bene dentro di sé. Nessuno. Ci sono persone che bisogna detestare senza esitazioni. Ci sono persone che devono essere trattate come nemici dell’umanità. Ci sono persone che non hanno cuore umano, e che devono essere distrutte come bestie selvagge, eliminate dal nostro cammino. Spero siano poche; ma ho visto (in questo mondo in cui mi trovo, e anche nel piccolo villaggio di Break of Day) che esistono davvero persone del genere. E non dubito affatto che quest’uomo, qualunque sia il suo nome, appartenga a loro.”

Il vivace discorso della padrona di casa fu accolto con maggiore favore all’alba, rispetto a quanto avrebbe potuto suscitare in alcuni gentili imbianchini appartenenti alla classe contro cui lei si era così irragionevolmente opposta, situati più vicino alla Gran Bretagna.

“La mia >fede. Se la vostra filantropia filosofica,” disse la padrona di casa, mettendo da parte il suo lavoro e alzandosi per prendere la zuppa del forestiero dal marito che era arrivato da una porta laterale, “se davvero permette a qualcuno di cadere sotto la misericordia di persone del genere, anche solo mantenendo rapporti con loro, in parole o in fatti, o entrambi, allora toglietemi questa ‘fede’, perché non vale nemmeno un soldo.”

Mentre lei posava la zuppa davanti al cliente, il quale cambiò immediatamente atteggiamento e si sedette, lui la guardò dritto in faccia; i suoi mustacchi si sollevarono verso l’alto, mentre il suo naso sembrò abbassarsi verso di loro.

“‘Bene!’” disse il precedente oratore, “torniamo al nostro argomento. Mettendo da parte tutto ciò, signori, è proprio perché quell’uomo fu assolto nel processo che a Marsiglia si disse che il diavolo fosse stato liberato. È così che questa espressione iniziò a diffondersi, e questo era tutto ciò che significava; nient’altro.”

“Come lo chiamano?” disse la padrona di casa. “Biraud, giusto?”

“‘Rigaud, signora’”, rispose l’alto svizzero.

‘Rigaud! Sicuramente.’

Dopo la zuppa del viaggiatore venne servito un piatto di carne, e poi un piatto di verdure. Mangiò tutto ciò che gli fu portato davanti, svuotò la sua bottiglia di vino, chiese un bicchiere di rum e fumò la sua sigaretta mentre beveva il caffè. Man mano che si rinfrescava, diventava sempre più prepotente; iniziò a trattare con condiscendenza i presenti al Daybreak, intervenendo in conversazioni banali come se il suo status fosse molto superiore a quanto sembrasse esteriormente.

L’azienda forse aveva altri impegni, o forse provava un senso di inferiorità, ma in ogni caso si dispersero gradualmente; e poiché non furono sostituiti da un’altra azienda, il loro nuovo cliente rimase in possesso della “Alba”. Il padrone di casa rumoreggiava in cucina; la padrona di casa lavorava in silenzio; e il viaggiatore, riposato, sedeva accanto al camino fumando, riscaldandosi i piedi stracciati.

“Scusi, signora, quel Biraud.”

‘Rigaud, signore.’

‘Rigaud. Scusami ancora. In che modo ha suscitato il tuo dispiacere?’

La padrona di casa, che in un momento aveva pensato tra sé e sé che quell’uomo fosse attraente, in un altro momento che fosse sgradevole da vedere, osservò il naso che si abbassava e la barba che si alzava, e inclinò fortemente per questa seconda opinione. Rigaud era un criminale, disse lei, che aveva ucciso sua moglie.

‘Ah, ah? La Morte della mia vita. Quello è davvero un criminale. Ma come fai a saperlo?’

“Tutti lo sanno.”

“Ahah. Eppure è riuscito a sfuggire alla giustizia?”

“Signore, la legge non è riuscita a provarlo colpevole in modo convincente. È così che dice la legge. Tuttavia, tutti sanno che è stato lui ad averlo fatto. La gente lo sapeva così bene che ha cercato di distruggerlo.”

“Essere completamente in armonia con le proprie mogli?” disse l’ospite.
“Ahah!”

La padrona di casa del “Break of Day” lo guardò di nuovo e si sentì quasi confermata nella sua ultima decisione. Tuttavia, aveva una mano davvero bella, e la muoveva con grande abilità. Iniziò di nuovo a pensare che, dopotutto, non fosse così sgradevole da vedere.

“Ha mai menzionato, signora, o forse è stato detto tra gli uomini, cosa ne è stato di lui?”

La padrona di casa scosse la testa; era la prima fase della conversazione in cui la sua vivace sincerità aveva smesso di annuire in segno di accordo mentre parlava. Aveva menzionato, basandosi sui giornali, che lui fosse stato tenuto in prigione per la propria sicurezza. Comunque fosse, era riuscito a fuggire, il che, anzi, poteva rivelarsi ancora peggiore.

The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression that might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting conclusion on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy moustache.

‘May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?’

Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue; but it was a large chamber with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between whiles, ‘Hola, my husband!’ out at the side door.

My husband answered at length, ‘It is I, my wife!’ and presenting himself in his cook’s cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary reference to the pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads on opposite sides. Here ‘my husband’ put down the candle he carried, and with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly gave him the instruction, ‘The bed to the right!’ and left him to his repose. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had fully made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow.

The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. ‘One must eat,’ he muttered to himself, ‘but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other man to-morrow!’

As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm, the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man was covered up warm, and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing, still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and cravat, became at length a strong provocative to curiosity, and incentive to get a glimpse of the sleeper’s face.

The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller’s bed, until he stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put his smooth white hand (such a treacherous hand it looked, as it went creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away.

‘Death of my soul!’ he whispered, falling back, ‘here’s Cavalletto!’

The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At first they were not awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly at his old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and alarm, sprang out of bed.

‘Hush! What’s the matter? Keep quiet! It’s I. You know me?’ cried the other, in a suppressed voice.

But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck, manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back upon the door, and set his shoulders against it.

‘Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you used to call me—don’t use that—Lagnier, say Lagnier!’

John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width, made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term of his life.

‘Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch the hand of a gentleman!’

Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his hand in his patron’s. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.

‘Then you were—’ faltered John Baptist.

‘Not shaved? No. See here!’ cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; ‘as tight on as your own.’

John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key in the door, and then sat down upon his bed.

‘Look!’ he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. ‘That’s a poor trim for a gentleman, you’ll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I’ll mend it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!’

John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor at the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time.

‘That’s well!’ cried Lagnier. ‘Now we might be in the old infernal hole again, hey? How long have you been out?’

‘Two days after you, my master.’

‘How do you come here?’

‘I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once, and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and ends at Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.’ As he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon the floor.

‘And where are you going?’

‘Going, my master?’

‘Ay!’

John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing how. ‘By Bacchus!’ he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, ‘I have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.’

L’ospite sedeva a fissarla mentre fumava l’ultima sigaretta; lei, con la testa china sul lavoro, aveva un’espressione che forse avrebbe potuto dissipare i suoi dubbi e portarla a una conclusione definitiva riguardo al fatto che lui fosse attraente o meno. Se solo lo avesse visto. Quando finalmente alzò lo sguardo, quell’espressione era scomparsa; la sua mano stava accarezzando la sua barba folta.

“Posso chiedere di essere accompagnato a letto, signora?”

Con grande piacere, signore. Ola, mio marito! Mio marito lo accompagnerà di sopra. C’era un viaggiatore lì, addormentato; si era coricato molto presto a causa della stanchezza. Ma era una stanza grande, con due letti, e c’era abbastanza spazio per venti persone. Così spiegò allegramente la padrona di casa, chiamando di tanto in tanto “Ola, mio marito!” dalla porta laterale.

Mio marito rispose a lungo: “Sono io, mia moglie!”, e presentandosi con il suo cappello da cuoco, accompagnò il viaggiatore su una stretta e ripida scala; il viaggiatore, portando con sé il proprio mantello e lo zaino, augurò alla padrona di casa buona notte, ringraziandola per l’piacere di rivederla il giorno dopo. Era una stanza grande, con un pavimento ruvido e pieno di schegge, travi non intonacate sul soffitto, e due letti posti ai lati opposti della stanza. Qui “mio marito” posò la candela che teneva in mano e, lanciando uno sguardo obliquo al suo ospite intento a sistemare lo zaino, gli disse bruscamente: “Il letto a destra!”, poi lo lasciò riposare. Il padrone di casa, che fosse un buon o cattivo osservatore delle persone, aveva già concluso che l’ospite fosse un individuo di aspetto poco attraente.

Il ospite guardò con disprezzo le lenzuola pulite e ruvide preparate per lui; poi, sedutosi sulla sedia di paglia accanto al letto, tirò fuori i suoi soldi dalla tasca e li contò. “Si deve pur mangiare”, mormorò tra sé, “ma per Dio, domani mangerò a scapito di un altro uomo!”

Mentre sedeva immerso nei suoi pensieri, contando meccanicamente i propri soldi nel palmo della mano, il respiro profondo e regolare del viaggiatore nell’altro letto attirò la sua attenzione. L’uomo era ben coperto e aveva tirato le tende bianche sopra la testa, quindi si potevano sentire solo i suoi respiri, ma non vederlo. Tuttavia, quel respiro profondo e continuo – che proseguiva mentre l’altro viaggiatore si toglieva le scarpe e i calzini logori, e continuava anche dopo che aveva messo da parte cappotto e cravatta – divenne alla fine una forte tentazione per la sua curiosità, spingendolo a voler dare un’occhiata al viso di il dormiente.

Quindi, il viaggiatore sveglio si avvicinò ancora un po’, sempre di più, fino a trovarsi proprio accanto al letto del viaggiatore addormentato. Anche allora non riuscì a vedere il suo viso, perché la coperta lo nascondeva completamente. Poiché il respiro regolare continuava, posò la sua mano liscia e bianca (quanta mano traditrice sembrava, mentre si avvicinava furtivamente, ) sulla coperta e la sollevò delicatamente.

“La morte della mia ‘anima, ”, sussurrò, mentre cadeva all’indietro, “ecco arrivare Cavalletto!”

Il piccolo italiano, precedentemente influenzato, forse, durante il suo sonno, dalla presenza silenziosa al suo fianco nel letto, smise di respirare regolarmente e, con un respiro lungo e profondo, aprì gli occhi. All’inizio non era sveglio, anche se aveva gli occhi aperti. Rimase disteso per qualche secondo, guardando tranquillamente il suo vecchio compagno di prigione, poi, all’improvviso, con un grido di sorpresa e allarme, saltò giù dal letto.

“Zitta! Che c’è? Stai tranquilla! Sono io. Mi riconosci?” gridò l’altra, con voce soffocata.

Ma Giovanni Battista, fissando intorno con aria smarrita, mormorando diverse invocazioni e esclamazioni, indietreggiò tremante in un angolo, si infilò i pantaloni e si legò il cappotto attorno al collo, mostrando chiaramente un irrefrenabile desiderio di fuggire dalla porta piuttosto che rinnovare quella conoscenza. Vedendo questo, il suo vecchio compagno di prigione si appoggiò contro la porta e vi posizionò le spalle sopra.

“Cavalletto! Svegliati, ragazzo! Scuoti gli occhi e guardami. Non usare il nome con cui mi chiamavi prima. Non dire ‘Lagnier’, ma ‘Lagnier’!”

Giovanni Battista, fissandolo con gli occhi spalancati al massimo, fece quella tipica mossa con l’indice destro, come se fosse deciso a negare in anticipo qualsiasi cosa l’altro potesse proporre per tutta la durata della sua vita.

“Cavaliere! Dammi la tua mano. Conosci Lagnier, quel gentiluomo. Tocca la mano di un gentiluomo!”

Rivolgendosi al vecchio tono autoritario e condiscendente, John Baptist, che ancora non riusciva a camminare con sicurezza, si avvicinò e mise la sua mano in quella del suo protettore. Monsieur Lagnier rise; dopo averla stretta un po’, la lasciò andare.

“Allora tu eri, ” esitò Giovanni Battista.

“Non ti sei rasato? No. Guarda qui!” gridò Lagnier, girando la testa; “è proprio come la tua.”

Giovanni Battista, con un leggero brivido, guardò intorno nella stanza come se cercasse di ricordare dove si trovasse. Il suo protettore approfittò di quel momento per girare la chiave nella serratura e poi si sedette sul suo letto.

“Guarda!” disse, mostrando i suoi scarponi e i gambali. “Una cura davvero scadente per un gentiluomo, direte. Ma non importa, vedrete quanto in fretta la riparerò. Venite a sedervi. Riprendete il vostro solito posto!”

Giovanni Battista, che non sembrava affatto tranquillo, si sedette a terra accanto al letto, tenendo gli occhi fissi sul suo protettore per tutto il tempo.

“È davvero fantastico!”, esclamò Lagnier. “Ora potremmo ritrovarci di nuovo in quell’antico buco infernale, eh? Da quanto tempo sei fuori?”

“Due giorni dopo di te, mio padrone.”

“Come sei arrivato qui?”

“Mi è stato detto di non rimanere lì, quindi ho lasciato immediatamente la città; da allora ho cambiato spesso residenza. Ho lavorato in vari posti: ad Avignone, a Pont Esprit, a Lione. Lungo il Rodano, lungo la Saona.” Mentre parlava, con la sua mano abbronzata tracciava rapidamente sulla parete i luoghi dove aveva vissuto.

“E dove stai andando?”

“Parti, mio padrone?”

‘Ay!’

Sembra che Giovanni Battista desiderasse evitare di rispondere a quella domanda, senza però sapere come farlo. “Per Bacchus!”, disse infine, come se fosse stato costretto ad ammetterlo, “a volte ho pensato di andare a Parigi, e forse anche in Inghilterra.”

‘Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps to England. We’ll go together.’

The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement.

‘We’ll go together,’ repeated Lagnier. ‘You shall see how soon I will force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by it. It is agreed? Are we one?’

‘Oh, surely, surely!’ said the little man.

‘Then you shall hear before I sleep—and in six words, for I want sleep—how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the other.’

‘Altro, altro! Not Ri----’ Before John Baptist could finish the name, his comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth.

‘Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon and stoned? Do you want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You don’t imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go? Don’t think it!’

There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his friend’s jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier would so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman Monsieur Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made.

‘I am a man,’ said Monsieur Lagnier, ‘whom society has deeply wronged since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities in me? I have been shrieked at through the streets. I have been guarded through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in prison for security, with the place of my confinement kept a secret, lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my house; and, with a beggar’s pittance in my pocket, I have walked through vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled—look at them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon me, possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to possess. But society shall pay for it.’

All this he said in his companion’s ear, and with his hand before his lips.

‘Even here,’ he went on in the same way, ‘even in this mean drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are treasured in this breast.’

To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the suppressed hoarse voice, said from time to time, ‘Surely, surely!’ tossing his head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against society that perfect candour could make out.

‘Put my shoes there,’ continued Lagnier. ‘Hang my cloak to dry there by the door. Take my hat.’ He obeyed each instruction, as it was given. ‘And this is the bed to which society consigns me, is it? Hah. Very well!’

As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did.

‘Shaken out of destiny’s dice-box again into your company, eh? By Heaven! So much the better for you. You’ll profit by it. I shall need a long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.’

John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to undress; but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot, saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck, to get through the night.

When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in the door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was astir there but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and madame’s little counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid madame his little note at it over night, and wanted to see nobody—wanted nothing but to get on his shoes and his knapsack, open the door, and run away.

He prospered in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief looked out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full disc above the flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out of the long muddy vista of paved road with its weary avenue of little trees, a black speck moved along the road and splashed among the flaming pools of rain-water, which black speck was John Baptist Cavalletto running away from his patron.

“Cavalletto. Questo è un segreto tra noi. Anch’io andrò a Parigi e forse anche in Inghilterra. Andremo insieme.”

Il piccolo uomo annuì con la testa e mostrò i suoi denti; tuttavia sembrava non essere del tutto convinto che si trattasse di un accordo estremamente desiderabile.

“Andremo insieme,” ripeté Lagnier. “Vedrai quanto in fretta riuscirò a far riconoscere me stesso come un gentiluomo, e ne trarrai vantaggio anche tu. È d’accordo? Siamo una squadra?”

“Oh, sicuramente, sicuramente!” disse il piccolo uomo.

“Allora ascolterai prima che io dorma, e in sei parole, perché voglio dormire, come appaio davanti a te, io, Lagnier. Ricordatelo: non l’altro.”

“Altro, altro! Non Ri----” Prima che Giovanni Battista potesse finire di pronunciare quel nome, il suo compagno gli mise una mano sotto il mento e lo zittì con forza.

‘Morte! Cosa stai facendo? Vuoi che venga calpestato e lapidato? Vuoi tu stesso essere calpestato e lapidato? Lo saresti tu. Non pensare nemmeno che si mettano contro di me e lascino andare il mio compagno di prigione! Non illuderti!’

C’era un’espressione sul suo viso quando allentò la presa sulla mascella del suo amico; da questo, l’amico dedusse che, se davvero fossero arrivati a dei momenti di violenza e aggressività, il signor Lagnier lo avrebbe sicuramente distinto, facendogli avere la sua parte equa. Ricordava quanto il signor Lagnier fosse un gentiluomo cosmopolita, e quanto raramente facesse distinzioni basate su criteri deboli o meschini.

“Sono un uomo,” disse Monsieur Lagnier, “che la società ha profondamente ingiustamente trattato da quando mi avete visto l’ultima volta. Sapete che sono sensibile e coraggioso, e che è nel mio carattere prendere in mano le redini della mia vita. Eppure, come ha rispettato la società queste qualità in me? Sono stato insultato per le strade; sono stato protetto mentre camminavo, soprattutto dalle donne, che mi assalivano con qualsiasi arma avessero a disposizione. Per garantire la mia sicurezza, ho dovuto trascorrere del tempo in prigione, e il luogo della mia detenzione è stato tenuto segreto, per evitare che venissi tirato fuori e ucciso. Sono stato portato via da Marsiglia nel cuore della notte, avvolto nella paglia. Non era sicuro nemmeno tornare a casa mia; con solo una misera somma in tasca, ho dovuto camminare attraverso fango e intemperie, fino a quando i miei piedi non sono diventati deformi. Guardateli! Queste sono le umiliazioni che la società mi ha inflitto, nonostante possieda le qualità di cui vi ho parlato. Ma la società pagherà per questo.”

Tutto ciò lo disse all’orecchio del suo compagno, tenendo la mano davanti alle labbra.

“Anche qui,” continuò allo stesso modo, “anche in questo misero bar, la società mi perseguita. Madame mi diffama, e anche i suoi ospiti mi diffamano. Io, invece, un gentiluomo con modi e cultura sufficienti a farli morire di vergogna! Ma le ingiustizie che la società mi ha inflitto sono custodite nel mio cuore.”

A tutto ciò, Giovanni Battista, ascoltando attentamente quella voce roca e soffocata, diceva di tanto in tanto: “Certamente, certamente!”, scuotendo la testa e chiudendo gli occhi, come se si trattasse del caso più evidente contro la società che la massima onestà potesse presentare.

“Metti i miei scarpi lì,” continuò Lagnier. “Appende il mio mantello ad asciugare vicino alla porta. Prendi il mio cappello.” Obbedì a ogni istruzione, così come venivano date. “E questa è dunque la ‘letto’ nella quale la società mi rinchiude, eh? Ah, Molto bene!”

Mentre si stendeva sopra di esso, con un fazzoletto logoro legato intorno alla sua testa malvagia, e solo quella testa malvagia che spuntava fuori dalle coperte, Giovanni Battista venne colpito da un forte ricordo di ciò che era quasi successo, qualcosa che avrebbe potuto impedire al mustacchio di continuare a crescere nel modo in cui cresceva, e al naso di continuare a ridursi nel modo in cui si riduceva.

“Scosso di nuovo fuori dalla scatola dei dadi del destino e riportato nella tua compagnia, eh? Per il Cielo! Meglio così per te. Ne trarrai vantaggio. Io invece ho bisogno di riposare a lungo. Lasciami )dormire questa mattina.”

Giovanni Battista rispose che poteva dormire quanto voleva e, augurandogli una buona notte, spense la candela. Si sarebbe potuto pensare che il prossimo passo dell’italiano fosse quello di spogliarsi; invece fece esattamente il contrario: si vestì dalla testa ai piedi, tranne che per le scarpe. Una volta fatto ciò, si sdraiò sul letto coprendosi con alcuni strati di coperta e tenendo ancora il cappotto legato intorno al collo, per affrontare la notte.

Quando lo accese, il “Godfather Break of Day” iniziò a funzionare; prese le sue scarpe, girò la chiave nella porta con grande cautela e scese di sotto. Non c’era nessuno lì, tranne l’odore di caffè, vino, tabacco e sciroppi; il piccolo bancone della signora sembrava davvero spaventoso. Ma aveva già pagato la signora quella sera, e non voleva vedere nessuno: voleva solo mettersi le scarpe e lo zaino, aprire la porta e scappare.

Riuscì nel suo intento. Non si udì alcun movimento né voce quando aprì la porta; nessuna testa malvagia, avvolta in un fazzoletto stracciato, spuntò dalla finestra superiore. Quando il sole sollevò completamente il proprio disco sopra l’orizzonte piatto e iniziò a illuminare la lunga strada fangosa, lastricata di pietre, fiancheggiata da una fila stentata di alberelli, un punto nero si mosse lungo la strada, immergendosi tra le pozzanghere di acqua piovana. Quel punto nero era John Baptist Cavalletto che fuggiva dal suo protettore.

CHAPTER 12. Bleeding Heart Yard

In London itself, though in the old rustic road towards a suburb of note where in the days of William Shakespeare, author and stage-player, there were Royal hunting-seats—howbeit no sport is left there now but for hunters of men—Bleeding Heart Yard was to be found; a place much changed in feature and in fortune, yet with some relish of ancient greatness about it. Two or three mighty stacks of chimneys, and a few large dark rooms which had escaped being walled and subdivided out of the recognition of their old proportions, gave the Yard a character. It was inhabited by poor people, who set up their rest among its faded glories, as Arabs of the desert pitch their tents among the fallen stones of the Pyramids; but there was a family sentimental feeling prevalent in the Yard, that it had a character.

As if the aspiring city had become puffed up in the very ground on which it stood, the ground had so risen about Bleeding Heart Yard that you got into it down a flight of steps which formed no part of the original approach, and got out of it by a low gateway into a maze of shabby streets, which went about and about, tortuously ascending to the level again. At this end of the Yard and over the gateway, was the factory of Daniel Doyce, often heavily beating like a bleeding heart of iron, with the clink of metal upon metal.

The opinion of the Yard was divided respecting the derivation of its name. The more practical of its inmates abided by the tradition of a murder; the gentler and more imaginative inhabitants, including the whole of the tender sex, were loyal to the legend of a young lady of former times closely imprisoned in her chamber by a cruel father for remaining true to her own true love, and refusing to marry the suitor he chose for her. The legend related how that the young lady used to be seen up at her window behind the bars, murmuring a love-lorn song of which the burden was, ‘Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away,’ until she died. It was objected by the murderous party that this Refrain was notoriously the invention of a tambour-worker, a spinster and romantic, still lodging in the Yard. But, forasmuch as all favourite legends must be associated with the affections, and as many more people fall in love than commit murder—which it may be hoped, howsoever bad we are, will continue until the end of the world to be the dispensation under which we shall live—the Bleeding Heart, Bleeding Heart, bleeding away story, carried the day by a great majority. Neither party would listen to the antiquaries who delivered learned lectures in the neighbourhood, showing the Bleeding Heart to have been the heraldic cognisance of the old family to whom the property had once belonged. And, considering that the hour-glass they turned from year to year was filled with the earthiest and coarsest sand, the Bleeding Heart Yarders had reason enough for objecting to be despoiled of the one little golden grain of poetry that sparkled in it.

Down in to the Yard, by way of the steps, came Daniel Doyce, Mr Meagles, and Clennam. Passing along the Yard, and between the open doors on either hand, all abundantly garnished with light children nursing heavy ones, they arrived at its opposite boundary, the gateway. Here Arthur Clennam stopped to look about him for the domicile of Plornish, plasterer, whose name, according to the custom of Londoners, Daniel Doyce had never seen or heard of to that hour.

It was plain enough, nevertheless, as Little Dorrit had said; over a lime-splashed gateway in the corner, within which Plornish kept a ladder and a barrel or two. The last house in Bleeding Heart Yard which she had described as his place of habitation, was a large house, let off to various tenants; but Plornish ingeniously hinted that he lived in the parlour, by means of a painted hand under his name, the forefinger of which hand (on which the artist had depicted a ring and a most elaborate nail of the genteelest form) referred all inquirers to that apartment.

Parting from his companions, after arranging another meeting with Mr Meagles, Clennam went alone into the entry, and knocked with his knuckles at the parlour-door. It was opened presently by a woman with a child in her arms, whose unoccupied hand was hastily rearranging the upper part of her dress. This was Mrs Plornish, and this maternal action was the action of Mrs Plornish during a large part of her waking existence.

Was Mr Plornish at home? ‘Well, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish, a civil woman, ‘not to deceive you, he’s gone to look for a job.’

‘Not to deceive you’ was a method of speech with Mrs Plornish. She would deceive you, under any circumstances, as little as might be; but she had a trick of answering in this provisional form.

‘Do you think he will be back soon, if I wait for him?’

‘I have been expecting him,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘this half an hour, at any minute of time. Walk in, sir.’

Arthur entered the rather dark and close parlour (though it was lofty too), and sat down in the chair she placed for him.

‘Not to deceive you, sir, I notice it,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘and I take it kind of you.’

He was at a loss to understand what she meant; and by expressing as much in his looks, elicited her explanation.

‘It ain’t many that comes into a poor place, that deems it worth their while to move their hats,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘But people think more of it than people think.’

Clennam returned, with an uncomfortable feeling in so very slight a courtesy being unusual, Was that all! And stooping down to pinch the cheek of another young child who was sitting on the floor, staring at him, asked Mrs Plornish how old that fine boy was?

‘Four year just turned, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘He is a fine little fellow, ain’t he, sir? But this one is rather sickly.’ She tenderly hushed the baby in her arms, as she said it. ‘You wouldn’t mind my asking if it happened to be a job as you was come about, sir, would you?’ asked Mrs Plornish wistfully.

CAPITOLO 12. Il Giardino del Cuore Sanguinante

Nella stessa Londra, però, lungo la vecchia e rustica strada che conduceva verso un sobborgo importante, dove ai tempi di William Shakespeare, autore e attore teatrale, sorgevano i padiglioni reali per le caccie. Oggi, tuttavia, non vi si pratica più alcun sport, se non la “caccia alle persone”. Lì si trovava il Bleeding Heart Yard: un luogo profondamente cambiato nel suo aspetto e nella sua sorte, ma ancora pervaso da tracce di antica grandezza. Due o tre imponenti grattacieli, insieme a alcune grandi stanze oscure che non erano state murate né suddivise, conservavano il carattere originale del luogo. Vi abitavano persone povere, che si sistemavano tra quelle glorie ormai sbiadite, proprio come gli arabi del deserto tendono le loro tende tra le rovine delle piramidi. Ma nel Bleeding Heart Yard prevaleva un senso di affetto e di apprezzamento per il suo carattere unico.

Come se la futura città si fosse gonfiata nel terreno su cui sorgeva; il terreno intorno a Bleeding Heart Yard era infatti salito così tanto che per entrarvi bisognava scendere una serie di gradini che non facevano parte dell’accesso originale, e per uscire si passava attraverso un basso cancello che conduceva in un labirinto di strade fatiscenti, tortuose e serpeggianti, che risalivano lentamente verso il livello precedente. All’estremità di questo cortile, oltre il cancello, si trovava la fabbrica di Daniel Doyce, dove spesso risuonavano forti rumori, come se un cuore di ferro stesse sanguinando, a causa dello sfregamento dei metalli tra loro.

Le opinioni riguardo all’origine del nome di quel luogo erano divise tra i suoi abitanti. Quelli più pratici si attenevano alla tradizione legata a un omicidio avvenuto lì; invece, gli abitanti più gentili e fantasiosi, comprese tutte le donne, credevano fermamente nella leggenda di una giovane donna del passato che era stata imprigionata a vita nella sua stanza dal proprio crudele padre perché rimase fedele al vero amore della sua vita e rifiutò di sposare l’uomo scelto per lei da suo padre. Secondo la leggenda, quella giovane veniva spesso vista alla sua finestra, dietro le sbarre, mentre mormorava una canzone d’amore triste, il cui ritornello era “Cuore sanguinante, cuore sanguinante, ”, fino alla sua morte. Coloro che sostenevano la versione legata all’omicidio obiettavano che quel ritornello fosse in realtà l’invenzione di una zitella romantica ancora residente nel luogo. Tuttavia, poiché tutte le leggende popolari sono legate agli affetti umani, e molte più persone si innamorano che commettono omicidi – speriamo che questa sia sempre stata la nostra sorte fino alla fine del mondo – la storia del “Cuore sanguinante” prevalse largamente. Nessuna delle due fazioni era disposta ad ascoltare gli studiosi che tenevano lezioni erudite, sostenendo che quel nome derivasse da un simbolo araldico della vecchia famiglia a cui un tempo apparteneva quella proprietà. Inoltre, considerando che l’orologio a clessidra utilizzato nel luogo era riempito con sabbia grossolana e terrena, gli abitanti di quel quartiere avevano tutte le ragioni per opporsi al fatto che venisse loro tolto quell’unico, piccolo frammento di poesia che vi brillava.

Giù nel cortile, attraverso le scale, arrivarono Daniel Doyce, il signor Meagles e Arthur Clennam. Passando lungo il cortile, tra le porte aperte su entrambi i lati – tutte piene di bambini che allattavano altri bambini più grandi – raggiunsero l’altro capo del cortile, l’ingresso principale. Qui Arthur Clennam si fermò per cercare il luogo dove abitava Plornish, il muratore; il cui nome, secondo l’usanza dei londinesi, Daniel Doyce non aveva mai sentito fino a quel momento.

Era abbastanza evidente, comunque, proprio come aveva detto Little Dorrit: oltre un cancello imbrattato di limone, nell’angolo, dove Plornish teneva una scala e uno o due barili. L’ultima casa in Bleeding Heart Yard che lei aveva descritto come il suo luogo di abitazione era una grande casa affittata a diversi inquilini; ma Plornish, con astuzia, lasciava intendere di vivere nel salotto, indicando con una mano dipinta sotto il proprio nome – il dito indice della quale (sul quale l’artista aveva raffigurato un anello e un’unghia estremamente curata) guidava chiunque volesse informazioni verso quell’appartamento.

Allontanandosi dai suoi compagni e dopo aver concordato un altro incontro con il signor Meagles, Clennam entrò da solo nell’ingresso e bussò alle porte del salotto con le nocche delle dita. Presto la porta fu aperta da una donna che teneva in braccio un bambino, mentre con l’altra mano sistemava frettolosamente la parte superiore del suo abito. Era la signora Plornish, e questa azione materna rappresentava ciò che faceva la signora Plornish per gran parte della sua vita quotidiana.

Il signor Plornish era a casa? “Beh, signore,” disse la signora Plornish, una donna gentile, “per non ingannarla, è andato a cercare lavoro.”

“Per non ingannarvi” era un modo di esprimersi tipico della signora Plornish. In ogni circostanza, lei vi avrebbe comunque ingannato, nella misura minima possibile; ma aveva l’abitudine di rispondere usando questa formulazione evasiva.

“Pensi che tornerà presto se lo aspetto?”

“Lo aspettavo,” disse la signora Plornish, “da mezz’ora, in qualsiasi momento di tempo. Entrate pure, signore.”

Arthur entrò nella stanza piuttosto buia e angusta (sebbene anche abbastanza alta) e si sedette sulla sedia che lei gli aveva preparato.

“Per non ingannarla, signora, me ne sono accorta,” disse la signora Plornish, “e la considero una gentilezza da parte sua.”

Era completamente perplesso nel tentativo di capire cosa intendesse; e manifestando tale perplessità con il suo sguardo, la indusse a fornirgli una spiegazione.

“Non sono molti quelli che vengono in un posto povero e ritengono che valga la pena togliersi il cappello,” disse la signora Plornish. “Ma la gente ci dà più importanza di quanto si possa pensare.”

Clennam tornò, provando una sensazione di disagio: un gesto così semplice e gentile era insolito. Era davvero tutto? Poi si chinò per pizzicare la guancia di un altro piccolo bambino che stava seduto a terra, fissandolo, e chiese alla signora Plornish quanti anni avesse quel caro bambino.

“Ha appena compiuto quattro anni, signore,” disse la signora Plornish. “È davvero un bravo bambino, vero, signore? Ma questo qui è un po’ malaticcio, ” Mentre parlava, accarezzò dolcemente il bambino tra le sue braccia. “Non le dispiacerebbe se le chiedessi, se per caso fosse venuto qui per qualche lavoro, vero, signore?” chiese la signora Plornish con un tono malinconico.

She asked it so anxiously, that if he had been in possession of any kind of tenement, he would have had it plastered a foot deep rather than answer No. But he was obliged to answer No; and he saw a shade of disappointment on her face, as she checked a sigh, and looked at the low fire. Then he saw, also, that Mrs Plornish was a young woman, made somewhat slatternly in herself and her belongings by poverty; and so dragged at by poverty and the children together, that their united forces had already dragged her face into wrinkles.

‘All such things as jobs,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘seems to me to have gone underground, they do indeed.’ (Herein Mrs Plornish limited her remark to the plastering trade, and spoke without reference to the Circumlocution Office and the Barnacle Family.)

‘Is it so difficult to get work?’ asked Arthur Clennam.

‘Plornish finds it so,’ she returned. ‘He is quite unfortunate. Really he is.’

Really he was. He was one of those many wayfarers on the road of life, who seem to be afflicted with supernatural corns, rendering it impossible for them to keep up even with their lame competitors. A willing, working, soft hearted, not hard-headed fellow, Plornish took his fortune as smoothly as could be expected; but it was a rough one. It so rarely happened that anybody seemed to want him, it was such an exceptional case when his powers were in any request, that his misty mind could not make out how it happened. He took it as it came, therefore; he tumbled into all kinds of difficulties, and tumbled out of them; and, by tumbling through life, got himself considerably bruised.

‘It’s not for want of looking after jobs, I am sure,’ said Mrs Plornish, lifting up her eyebrows, and searching for a solution of the problem between the bars of the grate; ‘nor yet for want of working at them when they are to be got. No one ever heard my husband complain of work.’

Somehow or other, this was the general misfortune of Bleeding Heart Yard. From time to time there were public complaints, pathetically going about, of labour being scarce—which certain people seemed to take extraordinarily ill, as though they had an absolute right to it on their own terms—but Bleeding Heart Yard, though as willing a Yard as any in Britain, was never the better for the demand. That high old family, the Barnacles, had long been too busy with their great principle to look into the matter; and indeed the matter had nothing to do with their watchfulness in out-generalling all other high old families except the Stiltstalkings.

While Mrs Plornish spoke in these words of her absent lord, her lord returned. A smooth-cheeked, fresh-coloured, sandy-whiskered man of thirty. Long in the legs, yielding at the knees, foolish in the face, flannel-jacketed, lime-whitened.

‘This is Plornish, sir.’

‘I came,’ said Clennam, rising, ‘to beg the favour of a little conversation with you on the subject of the Dorrit family.’

Plornish became suspicious. Seemed to scent a creditor. Said, ‘Ah, yes. Well. He didn’t know what satisfaction he could give any gentleman, respecting that family. What might it be about, now?’

‘I know you better,’ said Clennam, smiling, ‘than you suppose.’

Plornish observed, not smiling in return, And yet he hadn’t the pleasure of being acquainted with the gentleman, neither.

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘I know your kind offices at second hand, but on the best authority; through Little Dorrit.—I mean,’ he explained, ‘Miss Dorrit.’

‘Mr Clennam, is it? Oh! I’ve heard of you, Sir.’

‘And I of you,’ said Arthur.

‘Please to sit down again, Sir, and consider yourself welcome.—Why, yes,’ said Plornish, taking a chair, and lifting the elder child upon his knee, that he might have the moral support of speaking to a stranger over his head, ‘I have been on the wrong side of the Lock myself, and in that way we come to know Miss Dorrit. Me and my wife, we are well acquainted with Miss Dorrit.’

‘Intimate!’ cried Mrs Plornish. Indeed, she was so proud of the acquaintance, that she had awakened some bitterness of spirit in the Yard by magnifying to an enormous amount the sum for which Miss Dorrit’s father had become insolvent. The Bleeding Hearts resented her claiming to know people of such distinction.

‘It was her father that I got acquainted with first. And through getting acquainted with him, you see—why—I got acquainted with her,’ said Plornish tautologically.

‘I see.’

‘Ah! And there’s manners! There’s polish! There’s a gentleman to have run to seed in the Marshalsea jail! Why, perhaps you are not aware,’ said Plornish, lowering his voice, and speaking with a perverse admiration of what he ought to have pitied or despised, ‘not aware that Miss Dorrit and her sister dursn’t let him know that they work for a living. No!’ said Plornish, looking with a ridiculous triumph first at his wife, and then all round the room. ‘Dursn’t let him know it, they dursn’t!’

‘Without admiring him for that,’ Clennam quietly observed, ‘I am very sorry for him.’ The remark appeared to suggest to Plornish, for the first time, that it might not be a very fine trait of character after all. He pondered about it for a moment, and gave it up.

‘As to me,’ he resumed, ‘certainly Mr Dorrit is as affable with me, I am sure, as I can possibly expect. Considering the differences and distances betwixt us, more so. But it’s Miss Dorrit that we were speaking of.’

‘True. Pray how did you introduce her at my mother’s!’

Mr Plornish picked a bit of lime out of his whisker, put it between his lips, turned it with his tongue like a sugar-plum, considered, found himself unequal to the task of lucid explanation, and appealing to his wife, said, ‘Sally, you may as well mention how it was, old woman.’

‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Sally, hushing the baby from side to side, and laying her chin upon the little hand as it tried to disarrange the gown again, ‘came here one afternoon with a bit of writing, telling that how she wished for needlework, and asked if it would be considered any ill-conwenience in case she was to give her address here.’ (Plornish repeated, her address here, in a low voice, as if he were making responses at church.) ‘Me and Plornish says, No, Miss Dorrit, no ill-conwenience,’ (Plornish repeated, no ill-conwenience,) ‘and she wrote it in, according. Which then me and Plornish says, Ho Miss Dorrit!’ (Plornish repeated, Ho Miss Dorrit.) ‘Have you thought of copying it three or four times, as the way to make it known in more places than one? No, says Miss Dorrit, I have not, but I will. She copied it out according, on this table, in a sweet writing, and Plornish, he took it where he worked, having a job just then,’ (Plornish repeated job just then,) ‘and likewise to the landlord of the Yard; through which it was that Mrs Clennam first happened to employ Miss Dorrit.’ Plornish repeated, employ Miss Dorrit; and Mrs Plornish having come to an end, feigned to bite the fingers of the little hand as she kissed it.

Lo chiese con tale ansia che, se avesse posseduto anche il minimo spazio dove vivere, l’avrebbe fatto rivestire di intonaco fino a un piede di altezza piuttosto che rispondere di no. Ma dovette rispondere di no; e vide un’ombra di delusione sul suo viso: lei trattenne un sospiro e guardò il debole fuoco acceso nella stanza. Allora notò anche che la signora Plornish era una giovane donna, resa un po’ trasandata sia nel modo di vestire che nelle sue cose a causa della povertà; e così, trascinata giù dalla povertà e dai suoi figli, le loro influenze negative avevano già causato rughe sul suo viso.

“Tutte queste cose, come i lavori,” disse la signora Plornish, “sembrano essere scomparse, davvero.” (In questo contesto, la signora Plornish si riferiva esclusivamente al mestiere del cartongesso e non menzionò né l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni né la Famiglia Barnacle.)

“È davvero così difficile trovare lavoro?” chiese Arthur Clennam.

“Plornish la pensa proprio così”, rispose lei. “È davvero sfortunato. Davvero.”

Davvero lo era. Era uno di quei molti viandanti sulla strada della vita, che sembravano essere afflitti da “callosità soprannaturali”, il che rendeva impossibile per loro anche tenere il passo con i loro concorrenti più deboli. Un uomo volenteroso, laborioso e dal cuore gentile. Plornish affrontò le avversità della vita nel modo più pacifico possibile; ma la sua esistenza fu davvero difficile. Raramente qualcuno sembrava desiderarlo veramente; solo in casi eccezionali le sue capacità venivano richieste. E la sua mente confusa non riusciva proprio a capire come ciò fosse possibile. Così, accettava semplicemente tutto ciò che gli capitava: finiva nei guai, ne usciva, e, attraverso tutte queste difficoltà, si ritrovava spesso ferito o danneggiato.

“Non è certo per mancanza di impegno nel cercare lavoro,” disse la signora Plornish, alzando le sopracciglia e cercando una soluzione al problema tra le sbarre della grata; “né tantomeno per mancanza di impegno nel lavorare quando ne aveva l’opportunità. Nessuno ha mai sentito mio marito lamentarsi del lavoro.”

In un modo o nell’altro, questa fu la sfortuna comune di Bleeding Heart Yard. Di tanto in tanto si verificavano lamentele pubbliche riguardo alla scarsità della manodopera; alcune persone sembravano prendersela particolarmente a cuore, come se ne avessero un diritto assoluto secondo i loro criteri. Ma Bleeding Heart Yard, per quanto fosse uno dei cortili più disponibili del Regno Unito, non ne traeva mai beneficio. Quella nobile famiglia, i Barnacles, era da tempo troppo impegnata a perseguire i propri principi morali per occuparsi della questione; in realtà, essa non aveva alcuna responsabilità riguardo alla situazione, a differenza di altre nobili famiglie, tra cui gli Stiltstalkings.

Mentre la signora Plornish pronunciava queste parole riguardo al suo signore assente, lui tornò. Un uomo di trent’anni, con guance lisce, carnagione fresca e baffi biondi; alto, ma con le ginocchia deboli; dall’aspetto un po’ sciocco, indossava una giacca di flanella e aveva i denti sbiancati con la lima.

“Questo è Plornish, signore.”

“Sono venuto,” disse Clennam alzandosi, “per chiedervi il favore di conversare un po’ con voi sull’argomento della famiglia Dorrit.”

Plornish iniziò a sospettare; sembrava che avesse annusato la presenza di un creditore. Disse: “Ah, sì. Beh, non sapeva quale tipo di soddisfazione potesse offrire a qualsiasi gentiluomo, considerando quella famiglia. Di cosa si tratterà ora?”

“Ti conosco meglio di quanto tu creda,” disse Clennam sorridendo.

Plornish osservò, senza sorridere a sua volta; eppure nemmeno lui aveva il piacere di conoscere quel gentiluomo.

“No,” disse Arthur, “conosco le vostre gentili attenzioni per sentito dire, ma da fonti molto affidabili, attraverso Little Dorrit. Voglio dire,” spiegò, “la signorina Dorrit.”

“Mr Clennam, giusto? Oh! Ho sentito parlare di lei, signore.”

“E anch’io tra voi,” disse Arthur.

“Per favore, si sieda di nuovo, signore, e si senta libero di farlo. Perché, sì,” disse Plornish, prendendo una sedia e sollevando il bambino più grande sulle sue ginocchia, in modo che potesse ricevere un po’ di sostegno morale nel parlare con uno sconosciuto davanti a lui, “anch’io ho avuto esperienze negative in passato. Ed è così che abbiamo conosciuto la signorina Dorrit. Mia moglie ed io conosciamo molto bene la signorina Dorrit.”

“Intima!” esclamò la signora Plornish. Infatti, era così orgogliosa di quella conoscenza che aveva suscitato in alcuni sentimenti di amarezza tra i membri del gruppo “Bleeding Hearts”, esagerando enormemente l’importo per cui il padre di Miss Dorrit era diventato insolvente. I membri di quel gruppo le rimproveravano per affermare di conoscere persone di tale rilievo.

“Fu suo padre con cui ebbi modo di conoscere me per primo. E attraverso la conoscenza con lui, capisci, ecco perché, alla fine, conobbi anche lei,” disse Plornish in modo un po’ tautologico.

“Capisco.”

“Ah! E che maniere. Che raffinatezza. Che vero gentiluomo, anche se finito in prigione a Marshalsea! Forse non lo sapete,” disse Plornish, abbassando la voce e parlando con un’ammirazione perversa per qualcosa che avrebbe dovuto invece disprezzare, “forse non sapete che Miss Dorrit e sua sorella non gli hanno mai permesso di scoprire che lavorano per guadagnarsi da vivere. No!” disse Plornish, guardando prima sua moglie con un’espressione di ridicolo trionfo, poi tutta la stanza. “Non gliel’hanno mai detto. Non gliel’hanno mai permesso.”

“Anche senza ammirarlo per questo,” osservò tranquillamente Clennam, “mi dispiace molto per lui.” Quella dichiarazione sembrò suggerire a Plornish, per la prima volta, che forse non si trattasse davvero di un tratto di carattere positivo. Ci pensò per un momento, ma poi decise di lasciar perdere.

“Per quanto mi riguarda,” continuò, “certamente il signor Dorrit è molto gentile con me, ne sono sicuro, tanto quanto possa aspettarmi. Considerando le differenze e le distanze che ci separano, ancora di più. Ma di chi stavamo parlando era la signorina Dorrit.”

“Vero. Ma come diavolo hai potuto presentarla davanti a mia madre?”

Il signor Plornish prese un pezzetto di lime dalla sua barba, se lo mise tra le labbra, lo girò con la lingua come se fosse una caramella, ci pensò su, si rese conto di non essere in grado di fornire una spiegazione chiara, e rivolgendosi a sua moglie disse: “Sally, tu potresti benissimo raccontare com’è andata, vecchia mia.”

“Miss Dorrit,” disse Sally, calmando il bambino da una parte all’altra e appoggiando il mento sulla sua manina mentre quest’ultima cercava di scompigliare di nuovo l’abito, “venne qui un pomeriggio con qualche riga scritta, dicendo quanto desiderasse imparare a cucire e chiedendo se ci fosse qualche inconveniente nel caso decidesse di lasciare qui il suo indirizzo.” (Plornish ripeté sottovoce “il suo indirizzo qui”, come se stesse rispondendo in chiesa.) “Io e Plornish abbiamo detto: ‘No, Miss Dorrit, nessun inconveniente’,” (Plornish ripeté “nessun inconveniente”), “e lei lo scrisse giù. Allora io e Plornish abbiamo detto: ‘Ecco, Miss Dorrit!’” (Plornish ripeté “Ecco, Miss Dorrit!”) “Ha pensato di farne fare tre o quattro copie, in modo che venisse conosciuto in più posti?” “No,” rispose Miss Dorrit, “non l’ho fatto, ma lo farò.” Lei ne fece quindi alcune copie su questo tavolo, con una bella calligrafia; Plornish le portò dove lavorava, poiché in quel momento aveva un incarico da svolgere, e ne diede anche una al proprietario dello stabile. Fu così che Mrs Clennam ebbe modo di assumere Miss Dorrit.” Plornish ripeté “assumere Miss Dorrit”; e quando Mrs Plornish finì di raccontare, fingette di mordicchiare le dita della manina del bambino mentre la baciava.

‘The landlord of the Yard,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘is—’

‘He is Mr Casby, by name, he is,’ said Plornish, ‘and Pancks, he collects the rents. That,’ added Mr Plornish, dwelling on the subject with a slow thoughtfulness that appeared to have no connection with any specific object, and to lead him nowhere, ‘that is about what they are, you may believe me or not, as you think proper.’

‘Ay?’ returned Clennam, thoughtful in his turn. ‘Mr Casby, too! An old acquaintance of mine, long ago!’

Mr Plornish did not see his road to any comment on this fact, and made none. As there truly was no reason why he should have the least interest in it, Arthur Clennam went on to the present purport of his visit; namely, to make Plornish the instrument of effecting Tip’s release, with as little detriment as possible to the self-reliance and self-helpfulness of the young man, supposing him to possess any remnant of those qualities: without doubt a very wide stretch of supposition. Plornish, having been made acquainted with the cause of action from the Defendant’s own mouth, gave Arthur to understand that the Plaintiff was a ‘Chaunter’—meaning, not a singer of anthems, but a seller of horses—and that he (Plornish) considered that ten shillings in the pound ‘would settle handsome,’ and that more would be a waste of money. The Principal and instrument soon drove off together to a stable-yard in High Holborn, where a remarkably fine grey gelding, worth, at the lowest figure, seventy-five guineas (not taking into account the value of the shot he had been made to swallow for the improvement of his form), was to be parted with for a twenty-pound note, in consequence of his having run away last week with Mrs Captain Barbary of Cheltenham, who wasn’t up to a horse of his courage, and who, in mere spite, insisted on selling him for that ridiculous sum: or, in other words, on giving him away. Plornish, going up this yard alone and leaving his Principal outside, found a gentleman with tight drab legs, a rather old hat, a little hooked stick, and a blue neckerchief (Captain Maroon of Gloucestershire, a private friend of Captain Barbary); who happened to be there, in a friendly way, to mention these little circumstances concerning the remarkably fine grey gelding to any real judge of a horse and quick snapper-up of a good thing, who might look in at that address as per advertisement. This gentleman, happening also to be the Plaintiff in the Tip case, referred Mr Plornish to his solicitor, and declined to treat with Mr Plornish, or even to endure his presence in the yard, unless he appeared there with a twenty-pound note: in which case only, the gentleman would augur from appearances that he meant business, and might be induced to talk to him. On this hint, Mr Plornish retired to communicate with his Principal, and presently came back with the required credentials. Then said Captain Maroon, ‘Now, how much time do you want to make the other twenty in? Now, I’ll give you a month.’ Then said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell what I’ll do with you. You shall get me a good bill at four months, made payable at a banking-house, for the other twenty!’ Then said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, come; Here’s the last I’ve got to say to you. You shall give me another ten down, and I’ll run my pen clean through it.’ Then said Captain Maroon when that wouldn’t suit, ‘Now, I’ll tell you what it is, and this shuts it up; he has used me bad, but I’ll let him off for another five down and a bottle of wine; and if you mean done, say done, and if you don’t like it, leave it.’ Finally said Captain Maroon, when that wouldn’t suit either, ‘Hand over, then!’—And in consideration of the first offer, gave a receipt in full and discharged the prisoner.

‘Mr Plornish,’ said Arthur, ‘I trust to you, if you please, to keep my secret. If you will undertake to let the young man know that he is free, and to tell him that you were employed to compound for the debt by some one whom you are not at liberty to name, you will not only do me a service, but may do him one, and his sister also.’

‘The last reason, sir,’ said Plornish, ‘would be quite sufficient. Your wishes shall be attended to.’

‘A Friend has obtained his discharge, you can say if you please. A Friend who hopes that for his sister’s sake, if for no one else’s, he will make good use of his liberty.’

‘Your wishes, sir, shall be attended to.’

‘And if you will be so good, in your better knowledge of the family, as to communicate freely with me, and to point out to me any means by which you think I may be delicately and really useful to Little Dorrit, I shall feel under an obligation to you.’

‘Don’t name it, sir,’ returned Plornish, ‘it’ll be ekally a pleasure an a—it’l be ekally a pleasure and a—’ Finding himself unable to balance his sentence after two efforts, Mr Plornish wisely dropped it. He took Clennam’s card and appropriate pecuniary compliment.

He was earnest to finish his commission at once, and his Principal was in the same mind. So his Principal offered to set him down at the Marshalsea Gate, and they drove in that direction over Blackfriars Bridge. On the way, Arthur elicited from his new friend a confused summary of the interior life of Bleeding Heart Yard. They was all hard up there, Mr Plornish said, uncommon hard up, to be sure. Well, he couldn’t say how it was; he didn’t know as anybody could say how it was; all he know’d was, that so it was. When a man felt, on his own back and in his own belly, that poor he was, that man (Mr Plornish gave it as his decided belief) know’d well that he was poor somehow or another, and you couldn’t talk it out of him, no more than you could talk Beef into him. Then you see, some people as was better off said, and a good many such people lived pretty close up to the mark themselves if not beyond it so he’d heerd, that they was ‘improvident’ (that was the favourite word) down the Yard. For instance, if they see a man with his wife and children going to Hampton Court in a Wan, perhaps once in a year, they says, ‘Hallo! I thought you was poor, my improvident friend!’ Why, Lord, how hard it was upon a man! What was a man to do? He couldn’t go mollancholy mad, and even if he did, you wouldn’t be the better for it. In Mr Plornish’s judgment you would be the worse for it. Yet you seemed to want to make a man mollancholy mad. You was always at it—if not with your right hand, with your left. What was they a doing in the Yard? Why, take a look at ‘em and see. There was the girls and their mothers a working at their sewing, or their shoe-binding, or their trimming, or their waistcoat making, day and night and night and day, and not more than able to keep body and soul together after all—often not so much. There was people of pretty well all sorts of trades you could name, all wanting to work, and yet not able to get it. There was old people, after working all their lives, going and being shut up in the workhouse, much worse fed and lodged and treated altogether, than—Mr Plornish said manufacturers, but appeared to mean malefactors. Why, a man didn’t know where to turn himself for a crumb of comfort. As to who was to blame for it, Mr Plornish didn’t know who was to blame for it. He could tell you who suffered, but he couldn’t tell you whose fault it was. It wasn’t his place to find out, and who’d mind what he said, if he did find out? He only know’d that it wasn’t put right by them what undertook that line of business, and that it didn’t come right of itself. And, in brief, his illogical opinion was, that if you couldn’t do nothing for him, you had better take nothing from him for doing of it; so far as he could make out, that was about what it come to. Thus, in a prolix, gently-growling, foolish way, did Plornish turn the tangled skein of his estate about and about, like a blind man who was trying to find some beginning or end to it; until they reached the prison gate. There, he left his Principal alone; to wonder, as he rode away, how many thousand Plornishes there might be within a day or two’s journey of the Circumlocution Office, playing sundry curious variations on the same tune, which were not known by ear in that glorious institution.

“Il proprietario di quel cortile,” disse Arthur Clennam, “è, ”

“Si chiama signor Casby,” disse Plornish, “e Pancks, è lui a raccogliere gli affitti. Questo, ”, aggiunse il signor Plornish, riflettendo lentamente su quell’argomento con un’espressione che sembrava non avere alcuna connessione con nulla di specifico e che, in realtà, non portava da nessuna parte, “è proprio ciò che loro sono. Potete credermi o no, come preferite.”

“Ah?” rispose Clennam, a sua volta pensieroso. “Anche il signor Casby! Un vecchio conoscente mio, di molto tempo fa, ”

Il signor Plornish non ebbe alcun commento da fare su questo fatto e non ne fece nessuno. Poiché davvero non c’era alcuna ragione per cui dovesse interessarsi minimamente alla questione, Arthur Clennam proseguì con lo scopo principale della sua visita: far sì che Plornish diventasse l’instrumento per ottenere la liberazione di Tip, causando il minor danno possibile all’autonomia e all’indipendenza di quel giovane, ammesso che ne possedesse ancora qualche traccia. Anche se si trattava di un’ipotesi piuttosto audace. Plornish, essendo stato informato direttamente dal difensore delle ragioni della causa, fece capire ad Arthur che il querelante era un “venditore di cavalli”, e che secondo lui dieci scellini a sterlina sarebbero stati più che sufficienti per concludere l’accordo; di più sarebbe stato solo uno spreco di denaro. Il principale interessato e Plornish si recarono insieme in un stallaggio nel quartiere di High Holborn, dove un bellissimo cavallo grigio, del valore minimo di settantacinque ghinee (senza considerare il costo delle cure mediche a cui era stato sottoposto per migliorare le sue condizioni fisiche), stava per essere venduto in cambio di una banconota da venti sterline, poiché la scorsa settimana era fuggito con la signora Captain Barbary di Cheltenham, che non aveva certo il coraggio di affrontare un simile animale, e insisteva comunque per venderlo a quel prezzo ridicolo. In altre parole, lo regalava. Plornish entrò nel cortile da solo, lasciando il suo compagno all’esterno; lì incontrò un signore dall’aspetto piuttosto trasandato: pantaloni scuri, cappello vecchio, bastone con un gancio e fazzoletto blu. Si trattava del capitano Maroon di Gloucestershire, amico personale della signora Barbary; era lì per informare eventuali interessati riguardo a quel cavallo. Questo signore, che era anche il querelante nel caso di Tip, indirizzò Plornish al proprio avvocato e rifiutò di trattare con lui, o persino di tollerarne la presenza nel cortile, a meno che non presentasse una banconota da venti sterline. Solo in quel caso avrebbe potuto considerarlo seriamente interessato all’affare. Su questo suggerimento, Plornish tornò dal suo compagno e poco dopo tornò con il documento necessario. Allora il capitano Maroon disse: “Bene, quanto tempo hai bisogno per procurarmi le altre venti sterline? Ti do un mese, ” Quando nemmeno questo andava bene, aggiunse: “Allora ascolta: devi farmi avere un bono a quattro mesi, pagabile in una banca, per le altre venti sterline!” E quando nemmeno questo andò bene, concluse: “Dai, ascolta l’ultima proposta che ho da farti: dammi altre dieci sterline e sistemerò tutto, ” Quando nemmeno questa soluzione funzionò, disse: “Bene, allora lascia perdere. Lui mi ha trattato male, ma gli darò un’altra possibilità: altre cinque sterline e una bottiglia di vino. Se vuoi concludere, fallo; altrimenti lascia perdere.” Alla fine, quando nemmeno questo andò bene, esclamò: “Dammelo!” E, accettando la prima proposta, rilasciò il prigioniero.

“Signor Plornish,” disse Arthur, “mi affido a voi: per favore, custodite il mio segreto. Se acconsentirete a comunicare al giovane che è libero, e a dirgli che siete stato incaricato di saldare il debito da parte di qualcuno il cui nome non potete rivelare, non mi farete solo un favore, ma ne farete anche uno a lui e a sua sorella.”

“L’ultima ragione, signore,” disse Plornish, “è più che sufficiente. I vostri desideri saranno ascoltati.”

“Un Amico ha ottenuto il congedo; puoi dirlo, per favore. Un Amico che spera, per il bene di sua sorella, se non per nessun altro motivo, di sfruttare al meglio la propria libertà.”

“I suoi desideri, signore, saranno soddisfatti.”

“E se sarete così gentili da condividere con me le vostre conoscenze sulla famiglia, e da indicarmi eventuali modi in cui potrei essere di qualche aiuto a Little Dorrit, in modo delicato e efficace, mi sentirò in debito con voi.”

“Non lo chiami, signore,” rispose Plornish, “sarà comunque un grande piacere, e anzi, sarà davvero un grande piacere, ” Non riuscendo a completare la frase dopo due tentativi falliti, il signor Plornish decise saggiamente di lasciar perdere. Prese quindi la carta di Clennam e accettò con gratitudine i complimenti in denaro che gli venivano fatti.

I ragazzi erano paralizzati dallo stupore; il giovane ribelle non provava alcuna paura.

CHAPTER 13. Patriarchal

The mention of Mr Casby again revived in Clennam’s memory the smouldering embers of curiosity and interest which Mrs Flintwinch had fanned on the night of his arrival. Flora Casby had been the beloved of his boyhood; and Flora was the daughter and only child of wooden-headed old Christopher (so he was still occasionally spoken of by some irreverent spirits who had had dealings with him, and in whom familiarity had bred its proverbial result perhaps), who was reputed to be rich in weekly tenants, and to get a good quantity of blood out of the stones of several unpromising courts and alleys.

After some days of inquiry and research, Arthur Clennam became convinced that the case of the Father of the Marshalsea was indeed a hopeless one, and sorrowfully resigned the idea of helping him to freedom again. He had no hopeful inquiry to make at present, concerning Little Dorrit either; but he argued with himself that it might—for anything he knew—it might be serviceable to the poor child, if he renewed this acquaintance. It is hardly necessary to add that beyond all doubt he would have presented himself at Mr Casby’s door, if there had been no Little Dorrit in existence; for we all know how we all deceive ourselves—that is to say, how people in general, our profounder selves excepted, deceive themselves—as to motives of action.

With a comfortable impression upon him, and quite an honest one in its way, that he was still patronising Little Dorrit in doing what had no reference to her, he found himself one afternoon at the corner of Mr Casby’s street. Mr Casby lived in a street in the Gray’s Inn Road, which had set off from that thoroughfare with the intention of running at one heat down into the valley, and up again to the top of Pentonville Hill; but which had run itself out of breath in twenty yards, and had stood still ever since. There is no such place in that part now; but it remained there for many years, looking with a baulked countenance at the wilderness patched with unfruitful gardens and pimpled with eruptive summerhouses, that it had meant to run over in no time.

‘The house,’ thought Clennam, as he crossed to the door, ‘is as little changed as my mother’s, and looks almost as gloomy. But the likeness ends outside. I know its staid repose within. The smell of its jars of old rose-leaves and lavender seems to come upon me even here.’

When his knock at the bright brass knocker of obsolete shape brought a woman-servant to the door, those faded scents in truth saluted him like wintry breath that had a faint remembrance in it of the bygone spring. He stepped into the sober, silent, air-tight house—one might have fancied it to have been stifled by Mutes in the Eastern manner—and the door, closing again, seemed to shut out sound and motion. The furniture was formal, grave, and quaker-like, but well-kept; and had as prepossessing an aspect as anything, from a human creature to a wooden stool, that is meant for much use and is preserved for little, can ever wear. There was a grave clock, ticking somewhere up the staircase; and there was a songless bird in the same direction, pecking at his cage, as if he were ticking too. The parlour-fire ticked in the grate. There was only one person on the parlour-hearth, and the loud watch in his pocket ticked audibly.

The servant-maid had ticked the two words ‘Mr Clennam’ so softly that she had not been heard; and he consequently stood, within the door she had closed, unnoticed. The figure of a man advanced in life, whose smooth grey eyebrows seemed to move to the ticking as the fire-light flickered on them, sat in an arm-chair, with his list shoes on the rug, and his thumbs slowly revolving over one another. This was old Christopher Casby—recognisable at a glance—as unchanged in twenty years and upward as his own solid furniture—as little touched by the influence of the varying seasons as the old rose-leaves and old lavender in his porcelain jars.

Perhaps there never was a man, in this troublesome world, so troublesome for the imagination to picture as a boy. And yet he had changed very little in his progress through life. Confronting him, in the room in which he sat, was a boy’s portrait, which anybody seeing him would have identified as Master Christopher Casby, aged ten: though disguised with a haymaking rake, for which he had had, at any time, as much taste or use as for a diving-bell; and sitting (on one of his own legs) upon a bank of violets, moved to precocious contemplation by the spire of a village church. There was the same smooth face and forehead, the same calm blue eye, the same placid air. The shining bald head, which looked so very large because it shone so much; and the long grey hair at its sides and back, like floss silk or spun glass, which looked so very benevolent because it was never cut; were not, of course, to be seen in the boy as in the old man. Nevertheless, in the Seraphic creature with the haymaking rake, were clearly to be discerned the rudiments of the Patriarch with the list shoes.

Patriarch was the name which many people delighted to give him. Various old ladies in the neighbourhood spoke of him as The Last of the Patriarchs. So grey, so slow, so quiet, so impassionate, so very bumpy in the head, Patriarch was the word for him. He had been accosted in the streets, and respectfully solicited to become a Patriarch for painters and for sculptors; with so much importunity, in sooth, that it would appear to be beyond the Fine Arts to remember the points of a Patriarch, or to invent one. Philanthropists of both sexes had asked who he was, and on being informed, ‘Old Christopher Casby, formerly Town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle,’ had cried in a rapture of disappointment, ‘Oh! why, with that head, is he not a benefactor to his species! Oh! why, with that head, is he not a father to the orphan and a friend to the friendless!’ With that head, however, he remained old Christopher Casby, proclaimed by common report rich in house property; and with that head, he now sat in his silent parlour. Indeed it would be the height of unreason to expect him to be sitting there without that head.

CAPITOLO 13. PATRIARCALE

Il ricordo del signor Casby riaccese nuovamente nella memoria di Clennam le braci ancora ardenti della curiosità e dell’interesse che la signora Flintwinch aveva alimentato nella sera del suo arrivo. Flora Casby era stata l’amata della sua infanzia; ed era anche la figlia unica e l’unica figlia di quel vecchio Christopher dal cervello rigido (di cui alcune persone irrispettose che avevano avuto a che fare con lui parlavano ancora, forse a causa della familiarità acquisita nel corso degli anni), considerato un uomo molto ricco grazie ai suoi inquilini settimanali, e che, si diceva, riuscisse a “estrarre” una buona quantità di denaro da quelle strade e vicoli poco promettenti.

Dopo alcuni giorni di indagini e ricerche, Arthur Clennam si convinse che il caso del “Padre della Marshalsea” fosse davvero senza speranza, e con rammarico abbandonò l’idea di aiutarlo a raggiungere di nuovo la libertà. Al momento non aveva nulla di promettente da scoprire riguardo a Little Dorrit; tuttavia si disse che ristabilire quel contatto potesse essere utile per quella povera bambina, anche se non ne sapeva molto. È quasi superfluo aggiungere che, senza alcun dubbio, avrebbe comunque presentato le sue scuse alla porta del signor Casby, perché tutti noi ci inganniamo riguardo ai motivi delle nostre azioni, tranne forse i nostri “veri sé”.

Con l’impressione, piuttosto confortevole e onesta a suo modo, che stesse ancora “patronizzando” Little Dorrit facendo qualcosa che non aveva alcuna rilevanza per lei, un pomeriggio si trovò all’angolo di via Casby. Il signor Casby abitava in una strada situata nella zona di Gray’s Inn Road; quella strada, originariamente progettata per estendersi d’un fiato fino alla valle e poi risalire fino in cima a Pentonville Hill, si era fermata dopo appena venti metri. Oggi quel luogo non esiste più; ma per molti anni è rimasto lì, osservando con un’espressione delusa quella landa desolata, punteggiata da giardini inutili e capanne estive improvvisate, che avrebbe dovuto attraversare in un attimo.

“La casa”, pensò Clennam mentre si avvicinava alla porta, “è cambiata tanto poco quanto quella di mia madre, e sembra quasi altrettanto cupa. Ma la somiglianza finisce qui fuori. So che all’interno regna una tranquillità immutabile. Quel profumo delle sue bottiglie piene di vecchie rose e lavanda sembra raggiungermi anche da qui.”

Quando il suo bussare alla porta, ornata da un campanello di bronzo dal design obsoleto, attirò l’attenzione di una domestica, quegli odori sbiaditi della verità lo salutarono come un respiro invernale che conservava ancora un vago ricordo della passata primavera. Entrò nella casa sobria, silenziosa e hermeticamente chiusa; si sarebbe potuto pensare che fosse stata “soffocata” da persone mute, secondo le usanze orientali. La porta, richiudendosi, sembrava escludere completamente suoni e movimenti. I mobili erano solenni, seri e dall’aspetto dignitoso, ma ben curati; avevano un aspetto tanto imponente quanto qualsiasi altra cosa, da una persona umana a uno sgabello di legno destinato a un uso frequente ma poco mantenuto. C’era un serio orologio che ticchettava da qualche parte sulle scale; in quella stessa direzione c’era anche un uccello silenzioso, che beccava dentro la gabbia, come se anch’esso producesse un suono simile. Nel soggiorno, il fuoco nel camino ticchettava sommessamente. C’era solo una persona sul divano del soggiorno. E l’orologio grosso nella sua tasca faceva sentire distintamente il proprio ticchettio.

La cameriera aveva scritto le due parole “Signor Clennam” così piano che nessuno l’aveva sentita; di conseguenza, lui rimase lì, all’interno della porta che lei aveva chiuso, senza essere notato. La figura di un uomo di mezza età, con sopracciglia grigie e lisce che sembravano muoversi al ritmo del ticchettio, mentre la luce del fuoco le illuminava, sedeva in una poltrona; i suoi stivali erano posati sul tappeto e i pollici gli ruotavano lentamente l’uno sull’altro. Era il vecchio Christopher Casby, riconoscibile a prima vista, immutato negli ultimi vent’anni, proprio come i mobili solidi che possedeva; poco influenzato dai cambiamenti delle stagioni, proprio come le vecchie foglie di rosa e l’antica lavanda nei suoi vasi di porcellana.

Forse non esisteva mai un uomo, in questo mondo pieno di problemi, così difficile da immaginare come un ragazzo. Eppure, nel corso della sua vita, era cambiato molto poco. Di fronte a lui, nella stanza in cui sedeva, c’era il ritratto di un bambino: chiunque lo avesse visto l’avrebbe riconosciuto come Master Christopher Casby, di dieci anni. Anche se mascherato da una falce per raccogliere l’erba, strumento che non aveva mai mostrato alcun interesse né utilizzato in modo appropriato; seduto (su una delle sue gambe) su un banco di viole, assorto nella contemplazione della guglia di una chiesa di villaggio. Lo stesso viso liscio e la stessa fronte, lo stesso calmo sguardo azzurro, lo stesso atteggiamento sereno. La testa calva e lucida, che sembrava così grande proprio perché brillava tanto; i lunghi capelli grigi ai lati e sulla schiena, simili a seta o vetro filato, che apparivano così benevoli perché non venivano mai tagliati. Naturalmente, in quel ragazzo non si vedevano le stesse caratteristiche dell’uomo anziano. Tuttavia, in quella creatura “serafica” mascherata da falce per raccogliere l’erba, era chiaramente possibile riconoscere i tratti del Patriarca con le scarpe a listelli.

“Patriarca” era il nome che molte persone erano felici di dargli. Diverse anziane del quartiere lo chiamavano “L’ultimo dei Patriarchi”. Così grigio, così lento, così silenzioso, così privo di passione, con quella mente così confusa, “Patriarca” era davvero il termine adatto per descriverlo. Lungo le strade veniva avvicinato dalle persone, che lo pregavano rispettosamente di diventare un “Patriarca” per pittori e scultori; con tale insistenza, in verità, che sembrava davvero al di là delle possibilità delle Arti Belle ricordare o inventare i requisiti necessari per essere considerati un “Patriarca”. Filantropi di entrambi i sessi chiedevano chi fosse; e quando venivano informati che si trattava di “il vecchio Christopher Casby, ex agente comunale di Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle”, esclamavano delusi: “Oh! Perché, con quella testa, non diventa un benefattore per la sua specie. Perché, con quella testa, non è un padre per gli orfani e un amico per coloro che non hanno nessuno?” Eppure, con quella stessa testa, rimaneva sempre il vecchio Christopher Casby, riconosciuto dalla gente comune come una persona molto ricca di proprietà immobiliari. E con quella stessa testa, ora sedeva nella sua stanza silenziosa. In effetti, sarebbe stato assolutamente irragionevole aspettarsi che potesse stare lì senza quella testa.

Arthur Clennam moved to attract his attention, and the grey eyebrows turned towards him.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Clennam, ‘I fear you did not hear me announced?’

‘No, sir, I did not. Did you wish to see me, sir?’

‘I wished to pay my respects.’

Mr Casby seemed a feather’s weight disappointed by the last words, having perhaps prepared himself for the visitor’s wishing to pay something else. ‘Have I the pleasure, sir,’ he proceeded—‘take a chair, if you please—have I the pleasure of knowing—? Ah! truly, yes, I think I have! I believe I am not mistaken in supposing that I am acquainted with those features? I think I address a gentleman of whose return to this country I was informed by Mr Flintwinch?’

‘That is your present visitor.’

‘Really! Mr Clennam?’

‘No other, Mr Casby.’

‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. How have you been since we met?’

Without thinking it worth while to explain that in the course of some quarter of a century he had experienced occasional slight fluctuations in his health and spirits, Clennam answered generally that he had never been better, or something equally to the purpose; and shook hands with the possessor of ‘that head’ as it shed its patriarchal light upon him.

‘We are older, Mr Clennam,’ said Christopher Casby.

‘We are—not younger,’ said Clennam. After this wise remark he felt that he was scarcely shining with brilliancy, and became aware that he was nervous.

‘And your respected father,’ said Mr Casby, ‘is no more! I was grieved to hear it, Mr Clennam, I was grieved.’

Arthur replied in the usual way that he felt infinitely obliged to him.

‘There was a time,’ said Mr Casby, ‘when your parents and myself were not on friendly terms. There was a little family misunderstanding among us. Your respected mother was rather jealous of her son, maybe; when I say her son, I mean your worthy self, your worthy self.’

His smooth face had a bloom upon it like ripe wall-fruit. What with his blooming face, and that head, and his blue eyes, he seemed to be delivering sentiments of rare wisdom and virtue. In like manner, his physiognomical expression seemed to teem with benignity. Nobody could have said where the wisdom was, or where the virtue was, or where the benignity was; but they all seemed to be somewhere about him.

‘Those times, however,’ pursued Mr Casby, ‘are past and gone, past and gone. I do myself the pleasure of making a visit to your respected mother occasionally, and of admiring the fortitude and strength of mind with which she bears her trials, bears her trials.’

When he made one of these little repetitions, sitting with his hands crossed before him, he did it with his head on one side, and a gentle smile, as if he had something in his thoughts too sweetly profound to be put into words. As if he denied himself the pleasure of uttering it, lest he should soar too high; and his meekness therefore preferred to be unmeaning.

‘I have heard that you were kind enough on one of those occasions,’ said Arthur, catching at the opportunity as it drifted past him, ‘to mention Little Dorrit to my mother.’

‘Little—? Dorrit? That’s the seamstress who was mentioned to me by a small tenant of mine? Yes, yes. Dorrit? That’s the name. Ah, yes, yes! You call her Little Dorrit?’

No road in that direction. Nothing came of the cross-cut. It led no further.

‘My daughter Flora,’ said Mr Casby, ‘as you may have heard probably, Mr Clennam, was married and established in life, several years ago. She had the misfortune to lose her husband when she had been married a few months. She resides with me again. She will be glad to see you, if you will permit me to let her know that you are here.’

‘By all means,’ returned Clennam. ‘I should have preferred the request, if your kindness had not anticipated me.’

Upon this Mr Casby rose up in his list shoes, and with a slow, heavy step (he was of an elephantine build), made for the door. He had a long wide-skirted bottle-green coat on, and a bottle-green pair of trousers, and a bottle-green waistcoat. The Patriarchs were not dressed in bottle-green broadcloth, and yet his clothes looked patriarchal.

He had scarcely left the room, and allowed the ticking to become audible again, when a quick hand turned a latchkey in the house-door, opened it, and shut it. Immediately afterwards, a quick and eager short dark man came into the room with so much way upon him that he was within a foot of Clennam before he could stop.

‘Halloa!’ he said.

Clennam saw no reason why he should not say ‘Halloa!’ too.

‘What’s the matter?’ said the short dark man.

‘I have not heard that anything is the matter,’ returned Clennam.

‘Where’s Mr Casby?’ asked the short dark man, looking about.

‘He will be here directly, if you want him.’

‘I want him?’ said the short dark man. ‘Don’t you?’

This elicited a word or two of explanation from Clennam, during the delivery of which the short dark man held his breath and looked at him. He was dressed in black and rusty iron grey; had jet black beads of eyes; a scrubby little black chin; wiry black hair striking out from his head in prongs, like forks or hair-pins; and a complexion that was very dingy by nature, or very dirty by art, or a compound of nature and art. He had dirty hands and dirty broken nails, and looked as if he had been in the coals; he was in a perspiration, and snorted and sniffed and puffed and blew, like a little labouring steam-engine.

‘Oh!’ said he, when Arthur told him how he came to be there. ‘Very well. That’s right. If he should ask for Pancks, will you be so good as to say that Pancks is come in?’ And so, with a snort and a puff, he worked out by another door.

Now, in the old days at home, certain audacious doubts respecting the last of the Patriarchs, which were afloat in the air, had, by some forgotten means, come in contact with Arthur’s sensorium. He was aware of motes and specks of suspicion in the atmosphere of that time; seen through which medium, Christopher Casby was a mere Inn signpost, without any Inn—an invitation to rest and be thankful, when there was no place to put up at, and nothing whatever to be thankful for. He knew that some of these specks even represented Christopher as capable of harbouring designs in ‘that head,’ and as being a crafty impostor. Other motes there were which showed him as a heavy, selfish, drifting Booby, who, having stumbled, in the course of his unwieldy jostlings against other men, on the discovery that to get through life with ease and credit, he had but to hold his tongue, keep the bald part of his head well polished, and leave his hair alone, had had just cunning enough to seize the idea and stick to it. It was said that his being town-agent to Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle was referable, not to his having the least business capacity, but to his looking so supremely benignant that nobody could suppose the property screwed or jobbed under such a man; also, that for similar reasons he now got more money out of his own wretched lettings, unquestioned, than anybody with a less nobby and less shining crown could possibly have done. In a word, it was represented (Clennam called to mind, alone in the ticking parlour) that many people select their models, much as the painters, just now mentioned, select theirs; and that, whereas in the Royal Academy some evil old ruffian of a Dog-stealer will annually be found embodying all the cardinal virtues, on account of his eyelashes, or his chin, or his legs (thereby planting thorns of confusion in the breasts of the more observant students of nature), so, in the great social Exhibition, accessories are often accepted in lieu of the internal character.

Arthur Clennam fece un gesto per attirare la sua attenzione, e le sopracciglia grigie si girarono verso di lui.

“Perdonatemi,” disse Clennam, “temo che non mi abbiate sentito annunciare, ”

“No, signore, non l’ho fatto. Voleva vedermi, signore?”

“Volevo rendere omaggio.”

Il signor Casby sembrava profondamente deluso dalle ultime parole dell’ospite; forse si era preparato ad un desiderio da parte di quest’ultimo di pagare in modo diverso. “Posso chiederle di accomodarsi, signore?”, proseguì, “posso conoscere il suo nome. Ah! Sì, credo proprio di conoscerlo. Penso di stare parlando con un gentiluomo il cui ritorno in questo paese mi era stato comunicato dal signor Flintwinch, vero?”

“Quello è il tuo visitatore attuale.”

“Davvero? Signor Clennam?”

“Nessun altro, signor Casby.”

“Signor Clennam, sono felice di rivederla. Come sta da quando ci siamo incontrati?”

Senza ritenere necessario spiegare che, nel corso di circa un quarto di secolo, aveva avuto occasionalmente lievi fluttuazioni nella salute e nello spirito, Clennam rispose in generale che non si era mai sentito meglio, o qualcosa del genere; e strinse la mano al possessore di “quella testa” mentre essa gli irradiava il suo splendore patriarcale.

“Siamo più anziani, signor Clennam,” disse Christopher Casby.

“Non siamo più giovani,” disse Clennam. Dopo questo sagace commento, si rese conto di non essere affatto brillante e si accorse di essere nervoso.

“E vostro rispettabile padre,” disse il signor Casby, “non c’è più! Mi addolorò molto saperlo, signor Clennam, mi addolorò davvero.”

Arthur rispose nel solito modo, dicendo di sentirsi infinitamente in debito con lui.

“C’è stato un tempo,” disse il signor Casby, “in cui i tuoi genitori e io non eravamo in buoni rapporti. C’erano alcuni malintesi familiari tra di noi. Tua madre, per così dire, era un po’ gelosa di suo figlio. Quando dico ‘suo figlio’, intendo te, il tuo prezioso te stesso, il tuo nobile te stesso.”

Il suo viso liscio aveva un rossore simile a quello di un frutto maturo. Con quel viso radioso, quella testa e quegli occhi blu, sembrava esprimere sentimenti di rara saggezza e virtù. Allo stesso modo, la sua espressione facciale trasmetteva una sensazione di benevolenza. Nessuno avrebbe potuto dire dove si trovasse realmente quella saggezza, quella virtù o quella benevolenza; ma sembrava che fossero tutte presenti intorno a lui.

“Tuttavia, quei tempi sono ormai passati,” continuò il signor Casby, “passati per sempre. Ogni tanto mi prendo la libertà di visitare vostra rispettabile madre e ammiro la forza d’animo e la tenacia con cui affronta le sue difficoltà.”

Ogni volta che faceva una di queste piccole ripetizioni, seduto con le mani incrociate davanti a sé, lo faceva con la testa inclinata da un lato e con un sorriso dolce, come se avesse qualcosa nel pensiero così dolce e profondo da non poter essere espresso a parole. Come se si negasse il piacere di dirlo, per non innalzarsi troppo in alto; e per questo motivo, la sua umiltà preferiva rimanere senza significato.

“Ho sentito dire che in una di quelle occasioni siate stato così gentile da menzionare Little Dorrit a mia madre,” disse Arthur, cogliendo l’occasione mentre gli passava accanto.

“Little. Dorrit? Quella è la sarta di cui mi ha parlato uno dei miei inquilini. Sì, sì. Dorrit. È proprio quel nome. Ah, sì! La chiamate Little Dorrit?”

Nessuna strada in quella direzione. Quel tratto di strada che attraversava il campo non portava da nessuna parte.

“Mia figlia Flora,” disse il signor Casby, “come avrete probabilmente sentito, signor Clennam, si è sposata e ha messo su casa alcuni anni fa. Ha avuto la sfortuna di perdere suo marito pochi mesi dopo le nozze. Ora vive di nuovo con me. Sarà felice di vedervi, se mi permettete di farle sapere che siete qui.”

“Certamente,” rispose Clennam. “Avrei preferito accettare quella richiesta, se la tua gentilezza non mi avesse anticipato.”

A questo punto, il signor Casby si alzò in piedi, indossando i suoi stivali con le suole alte, e con passi lenti e pesanti (aveva una corporatura massiccia come quella di un elefante), si diresse verso la porta. Indossava un lungo cappotto verde bottiglia, pantaloni dello stesso colore e anche una giacca verde bottiglia. I patriarchi, però, non indossavano abiti fatti di tessuto verde bottiglia; eppure i vestiti del signor Casby sembravano davvero adatti a un patriarca.

Appena aveva lasciato la stanza, permettendo che il ticchettio ricominciasse ad essere udibile, una mano veloce girò la chiave nella porta di casa, l’aprì e la richiuse subito dopo. Poco dopo, un uomo basso, scuro di pelle e dall’aspetto deciso entrò nella stanza con tale rapidità che si trovò a meno di un piede da Clennam prima di riuscire a fermarsi.

“Salve!”, disse.

Clennam non vide alcun motivo per cui non dovesse anche lui dire “Salve!”.

“Che c’è che non va?” disse l’uomo basso e scuro.

“Non ho sentito dire che ci fossero problemi,” rispose Clennam.

“Dove è il signor Casby?”, chiese l’uomo basso e scuro, guardandosi intorno.

“Arriverà subito qui, se lo desiderate.”

“Lo voglio io?”, disse l’uomo basso e scuro. “Anche tu no?”

Questo indusse Clennam a fornire una o due spiegazioni; durante il suo discorso, l’uomo basso e scuro trattenne il respiro e lo fissò attentamente. Era vestito di nero e di un grigio ferroso arrugginito; aveva occhi neri come il carbone, una piccola barba nera spelacchiata, capelli neri e rigidi che spuntavano dalla testa a forma di forchette o mollette; la sua pelle era o molto scura per natura, o molto sporca a causa delle condizioni in cui viveva, oppure un insieme di entrambi. Aveva mani sporche e unghie rotte; sembrava essere appena stato nei carboni; sudava copiosamente e sbuffava come una piccola macchina a vapore da lavoro.

“Oh!”, disse lui quando Arthur gli raccontò come fosse arrivato lì. “Molto bene. Se dovesse chiedere di Pancks, potresti gentilmente dire che Pancks è già entrato?” E così, con un soffio e un sibilo, se ne andò da un’altra porta.

Un tempo, a casa, alcune audaci dubbi riguardo all’ultimo dei Patriarchi, che aleggiavano nell’aria, per qualche motivo sconosciuto, erano giunti alle orecchie di Arthur. Egli era consapevole dell’esistenza di queste macchie e di questi germi di sospetto nell’atmosfera di quel tempo; attraverso di essi, Christopher Casby appariva soltanto un cartello indicatore di una locanda, un invito a riposare e a essere grati, quando in realtà non c’era alcun posto dove alloggiare e nulla per cui essere grati. Arthur sapeva anche che alcuni di questi dubbi lo rappresentavano addirittura come una persona capace di nascondere oscure intenzioni, o come un astuto impostore. Altri giudizi lo dipingevano invece come un individuo egoista e superficiale, che, dopo aver scoperto, nel corso delle sue goffe interazioni con gli altri, di poter vivere facilmente e senza problemi semplicemente tenendo la bocca chiusa, curando bene la parte calva della testa e lasciandosi crescere i capelli, aveva avuto abbastanza astuzia da afferrare questa idea e attenervisi. Si diceva che il suo ruolo di agente immobiliare per Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle non fosse dovuto a alcuna reale capacità professionale, ma al fatto che appariva così estremamente gentile da far credere a tutti che le proprietà affidate a lui venissero gestite in modo impeccabile; allo stesso modo, per motivi simili, riusciva ad ottenere maggiori guadagni dalle sue misere locazioni, senza alcuna contestazione, di quanto avrebbe potuto fare chiunque altro con una posizione sociale meno prestigiosa. In breve, si diceva che molte persone scegliessero i propri modelli di comportamento proprio come fanno i pittori, e che, mentre all’Accademia Reale ogni anno veniva scelto qualche individuo dall’aspetto “virtuoso” per rappresentare tutte le qualità cardinali, nella grande esibizione sociale gli esteri venivano spesso accettati al posto del vero carattere interiore delle persone.

Calling these things to mind, and ranging Mr Pancks in a row with them, Arthur Clennam leaned this day to the opinion, without quite deciding on it, that the last of the Patriarchs was the drifting Booby aforesaid, with the one idea of keeping the bald part of his head highly polished: and that, much as an unwieldy ship in the Thames river may sometimes be seen heavily driving with the tide, broadside on, stern first, in its own way and in the way of everything else, though making a great show of navigation, when all of a sudden, a little coaly steam-tug will bear down upon it, take it in tow, and bustle off with it; similarly the cumbrous Patriarch had been taken in tow by the snorting Pancks, and was now following in the wake of that dingy little craft.

The return of Mr Casby with his daughter Flora, put an end to these meditations. Clennam’s eyes no sooner fell upon the subject of his old passion than it shivered and broke to pieces.

Most men will be found sufficiently true to themselves to be true to an old idea. It is no proof of an inconstant mind, but exactly the opposite, when the idea will not bear close comparison with the reality, and the contrast is a fatal shock to it. Such was Clennam’s case. In his youth he had ardently loved this woman, and had heaped upon her all the locked-up wealth of his affection and imagination. That wealth had been, in his desert home, like Robinson Crusoe’s money; exchangeable with no one, lying idle in the dark to rust, until he poured it out for her. Ever since that memorable time, though he had, until the night of his arrival, as completely dismissed her from any association with his Present or Future as if she had been dead (which she might easily have been for anything he knew), he had kept the old fancy of the Past unchanged, in its old sacred place. And now, after all, the last of the Patriarchs coolly walked into the parlour, saying in effect, ‘Be good enough to throw it down and dance upon it. This is Flora.’

Flora, always tall, had grown to be very broad too, and short of breath; but that was not much. Flora, whom he had left a lily, had become a peony; but that was not much. Flora, who had seemed enchanting in all she said and thought, was diffuse and silly. That was much. Flora, who had been spoiled and artless long ago, was determined to be spoiled and artless now. That was a fatal blow.

This is Flora!

‘I am sure,’ giggled Flora, tossing her head with a caricature of her girlish manner, such as a mummer might have presented at her own funeral, if she had lived and died in classical antiquity, ‘I am ashamed to see Mr Clennam, I am a mere fright, I know he’ll find me fearfully changed, I am actually an old woman, it’s shocking to be found out, it’s really shocking!’

He assured her that she was just what he had expected and that time had not stood still with himself.

‘Oh! But with a gentleman it’s so different and really you look so amazingly well that you have no right to say anything of the kind, while, as to me, you know—oh!’ cried Flora with a little scream, ‘I am dreadful!’

The Patriarch, apparently not yet understanding his own part in the drama under representation, glowed with vacant serenity.

‘But if we talk of not having changed,’ said Flora, who, whatever she said, never once came to a full stop, ‘look at Papa, is not Papa precisely what he was when you went away, isn’t it cruel and unnatural of Papa to be such a reproach to his own child, if we go on in this way much longer people who don’t know us will begin to suppose that I am Papa’s Mama!’

That must be a long time hence, Arthur considered.

‘Oh Mr Clennam you insincerest of creatures,’ said Flora, ‘I perceive already you have not lost your old way of paying compliments, your old way when you used to pretend to be so sentimentally struck you know—at least I don’t mean that, I—oh I don’t know what I mean!’ Here Flora tittered confusedly, and gave him one of her old glances.

The Patriarch, as if he now began to perceive that his part in the piece was to get off the stage as soon as might be, rose, and went to the door by which Pancks had worked out, hailing that Tug by name. He received an answer from some little Dock beyond, and was towed out of sight directly.

‘You mustn’t think of going yet,’ said Flora—Arthur had looked at his hat, being in a ludicrous dismay, and not knowing what to do: ‘you could never be so unkind as to think of going, Arthur—I mean Mr Arthur—or I suppose Mr Clennam would be far more proper—but I am sure I don’t know what I am saying—without a word about the dear old days gone for ever, when I come to think of it I dare say it would be much better not to speak of them and it’s highly probable that you have some much more agreeable engagement and pray let Me be the last person in the world to interfere with it though there was a time, but I am running into nonsense again.’

Was it possible that Flora could have been such a chatterer in the days she referred to? Could there have been anything like her present disjointed volubility in the fascinations that had captivated him?

‘Indeed I have little doubt,’ said Flora, running on with astonishing speed, and pointing her conversation with nothing but commas, and very few of them, ‘that you are married to some Chinese lady, being in China so long and being in business and naturally desirous to settle and extend your connection nothing was more likely than that you should propose to a Chinese lady and nothing was more natural I am sure than that the Chinese lady should accept you and think herself very well off too, I only hope she’s not a Pagodian dissenter.’

‘I am not,’ returned Arthur, smiling in spite of himself, ‘married to any lady, Flora.’

Ricordando queste cose e mettendo Mr Pancks in relazione con esse, quel giorno Arthur Clennam inclinò a ritenere, senza però esserne del tutto certo, che l’ultimo dei “Patriarchi” fosse proprio quel ridicolo individuo menzionato prima, il cui unico scopo era mantenere la parte calva della testa perfettamente lucida. Proprio come una goffa nave sul fiume Tamigi a volte viene vista muoversi controcorrente, con la prua avanti e la poppa indietro, seguendo il proprio percorso e ostacolando tutto ciò che le si para davanti, pur facendo un grande show di “navigazione”; allo stesso modo, quel goffo “Patriarca” era stato trascinato via da Pancks, e ora seguiva la scia di quella misera imbarcazione.

Il ritorno del signor Casby con sua figlia Flora pose fine a queste riflessioni. Non appena gli occhi di Clennam si posarono su colei che un tempo era stata l’oggetto della sua passione, tutto in lui tremò e andò in frantumi.

La maggior parte degli uomini si rivela abbastanza fedele a se stessi da essere fedeli anche a un’idea vecchia. Questo non è segno di una mente inconstante, ma esattamente il contrario: quando quell’idea non regge al confronto con la realtà e il contrasto rappresenta un colpo fatale per essa. Era proprio il caso di Clennam. Da giovane aveva amato appassionatamente questa donna, riversandole tutto l’amore e l’immaginazione che possedeva. Quel “tesoro” era, nella sua solitaria casa, come i soldi di Robinson Crusoe: inutilizzabile, destinato a marcire nell’oscurità, fino al momento in cui lui lo aveva donato a lei. Da quel memorabile giorno, anche se fino alla notte del suo arrivo l’aveva completamente esclusa dalla sua vita presente e futura, come se fosse morta (e forse lo era davvero, per tutto ciò che lui sapeva), aveva mantenuto intatta quell’antica immagine del passato, nel suo “sacro” posto. E ora, l’ultimo dei “padri fondatori” entrava freddamente nella sala, dicendo in sostanza: “Sii abbastanza gentile da gettarla via e danzare sopra di essa. Questa è Flora.”

Flora, che era sempre stata alta, era diventata anche molto robusta e spesso si trovava senza fiato; ma questo non era poi così grave. Flora, che lui aveva lasciato come un “lillà”, era diventata una “peonia”; ma nemmeno questo rappresentava un grosso problema. Flora, che un tempo sembrava incantevole in tutto ciò che diceva e pensava, ora era diventata prolissa e sciocca. E questo sì, era davvero grave. Flora, che da molto tempo era viziata e priva di grazia naturale, adesso era decisa a continuare a essere così. E questo rappresentava un colpo fatale.

Questa è Flora!

“Ne sono sicura,” ridacchiò Flora, scuotendo la testa con quel suo modo così tipicamente infantile, come se una commediante potesse interpretarlo al proprio funerale, se solo fosse vissuta e morta nell’antichità classica, “Mi vergogno di vedere il signor Clennam. Sono davvero un mostro. So che mi troverà cambiata tantissimo. In realtà sono ormai una vecchia donna. È scioccante che si scopra. Davvero scioccante!”

Le assicurò che era esattamente ciò che si aspettava, e che anche per lui il tempo non si era fermato.

“Oh! Ma con un gentiluomo è tutto diverso. E davvero, tu sembri così incredibilmente bella che non hai alcun diritto di dire cose del genere. Mentre io, sai, oh!” gridò Flora con un piccolo strillo, “sono terribile!”

Il Patriarca, apparentemente ancora ignaro del proprio ruolo in quella situazione drammatica, esprimeva una serenità vuota e assente di significato.

“Ma se parliamo di non essere cambiati,” disse Flora, che, qualunque cosa dicesse, mai metteva punto finale, “guarda papà: non è forse esattamente lo stesso che quando te ne sei andato? Non è crudele e innaturale da parte sua essere una tale vergogna per il proprio bambino? Se continuiamo così, molte persone che non ci conoscono inizieranno a pensare che io sia la mamma di papà, ”

Deve essere trascorso molto tempo da allora, pensò Arthur.

“Oh, signor Clennam, che creatura insincera, ”, disse Flora. “Vedo già che non avete perso quella vecchia abitudine di fare complimenti, quella vecchia maniera in cui fingevate di essere profondamente commossi. Almeno, non intendo dire questo. Oh, non so proprio cosa voglio dire!” Qui Flora ridacchiò confusamente e gli lanciò uno dei suoi soliti sguardi.

Il Patriarca, come se solo ora si rendesse conto che il suo ruolo in quella situazione era quello di lasciare il palco il prima possibile, si alzò e si diresse verso la porta da cui Pancks era uscito, chiamando per nome quel Tug. Ricevette una risposta da qualche parte laggiù, nel porto, e fu immediatamente trascinato via dalla vista degli altri.

“Non dovresti nemmeno pensare di andartene ancora,” disse Flora. Arthur stava fissando il proprio cappello, in preda a un’angoscia ridicola e senza sapere cosa fare: “Non potresti mai essere così crudele da pensare di andartene. Voglio dire, signor Arthur. Anzi, probabilmente sarebbe molto più appropriato se si parlasse di qualcos’altro. Ma sono sicura di non sapere nemmeno cosa sto dicendo. Non si dovrebbe mai menzionare quei giorni meravigliosi che ormai sono per sempre passati. A pensarci bene, forse è meglio non parlarne affatto. E molto probabilmente hai impegni molto più piacevoli. Ti prego, lascia che io sia l’ultima persona al mondo a interferire in queste cose. Anche se c’è stato un momento. Ma sto di nuovo dicendo sciocchezze, ”

Era possibile che Flora fosse stata così loquace nei giorni di cui parlava? Poteva esserci qualcosa di simile alla sua attuale disordinata loquacità nelle attrazioni che l’avevano affascinato?

“Infatti, non ho alcun >dubbio,” disse Flora, continuando a parlare con una velocità sorprendente e utilizzando soltanto virgole nel suo discorso, e pochissime di esse. “Che tu sia sposato con una signora cinese, essendo stato in Cina per così tanto tempo, impegnato negli affari e desideroso naturalmente di stabilirti e rafforzare le tue relazioni. Non c’era nulla di più probabile che tu chiedessi la mano a una signora cinese, e niente di più naturale, ne sono certa, che lei accettasse la tua proposta. Spero soltanto che non sia una dissidente buddista.”

“Non lo sono,” rispose Arthur, sorridendo nonostante se stesso, “sposato con alcuna signora, Flora.”

‘Oh good gracious me I hope you never kept yourself a bachelor so long on my account!’ tittered Flora; ‘but of course you never did why should you, pray don’t answer, I don’t know where I’m running to, oh do tell me something about the Chinese ladies whether their eyes are really so long and narrow always putting me in mind of mother-of-pearl fish at cards and do they really wear tails down their back and plaited too or is it only the men, and when they pull their hair so very tight off their foreheads don’t they hurt themselves, and why do they stick little bells all over their bridges and temples and hats and things or don’t they really do it?’ Flora gave him another of her old glances. Instantly she went on again, as if he had spoken in reply for some time.

‘Then it’s all true and they really do! good gracious Arthur!—pray excuse me—old habit—Mr Clennam far more proper—what a country to live in for so long a time, and with so many lanterns and umbrellas too how very dark and wet the climate ought to be and no doubt actually is, and the sums of money that must be made by those two trades where everybody carries them and hangs them everywhere, the little shoes too and the feet screwed back in infancy is quite surprising, what a traveller you are!’

In his ridiculous distress, Clennam received another of the old glances without in the least knowing what to do with it.

‘Dear dear,’ said Flora, ‘only to think of the changes at home Arthur—cannot overcome it, and seems so natural, Mr Clennam far more proper—since you became familiar with the Chinese customs and language which I am persuaded you speak like a Native if not better for you were always quick and clever though immensely difficult no doubt, I am sure the tea chests alone would kill me if I tried, such changes Arthur—I am doing it again, seems so natural, most improper—as no one could have believed, who could have ever imagined Mrs Finching when I can’t imagine it myself!’

‘Is that your married name?’ asked Arthur, struck, in the midst of all this, by a certain warmth of heart that expressed itself in her tone when she referred, however oddly, to the youthful relation in which they had stood to one another. ‘Finching?’

‘Finching oh yes isn’t it a dreadful name, but as Mr F. said when he proposed to me which he did seven times and handsomely consented I must say to be what he used to call on liking twelve months, after all, he wasn’t answerable for it and couldn’t help it could he, Excellent man, not at all like you but excellent man!’

Flora had at last talked herself out of breath for one moment. One moment; for she recovered breath in the act of raising a minute corner of her pocket-handkerchief to her eye, as a tribute to the ghost of the departed Mr F., and began again.

‘No one could dispute, Arthur—Mr Clennam—that it’s quite right you should be formally friendly to me under the altered circumstances and indeed you couldn’t be anything else, at least I suppose not you ought to know, but I can’t help recalling that there was a time when things were very different.’

‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur began, struck by the good tone again.

‘Oh not that nasty ugly name, say Flora!’

‘Flora. I assure you, Flora, I am happy in seeing you once more, and in finding that, like me, you have not forgotten the old foolish dreams, when we saw all before us in the light of our youth and hope.’

‘You don’t seem so,’ pouted Flora, ‘you take it very coolly, but however I know you are disappointed in me, I suppose the Chinese ladies—Mandarinesses if you call them so—are the cause or perhaps I am the cause myself, it’s just as likely.’

‘No, no,’ Clennam entreated, ‘don’t say that.’

‘Oh I must you know,’ said Flora, in a positive tone, ‘what nonsense not to, I know I am not what you expected, I know that very well.’

In the midst of her rapidity, she had found that out with the quick perception of a cleverer woman. The inconsistent and profoundly unreasonable way in which she instantly went on, nevertheless, to interweave their long-abandoned boy and girl relations with their present interview, made Clennam feel as if he were light-headed.

‘One remark,’ said Flora, giving their conversation, without the slightest notice and to the great terror of Clennam, the tone of a love-quarrel, ‘I wish to make, one explanation I wish to offer, when your Mama came and made a scene of it with my Papa and when I was called down into the little breakfast-room where they were looking at one another with your Mama’s parasol between them seated on two chairs like mad bulls what was I to do?’

‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ urged Clennam—‘all so long ago and so long concluded, is it worth while seriously to—’

‘I can’t Arthur,’ returned Flora, ‘be denounced as heartless by the whole society of China without setting myself right when I have the opportunity of doing so, and you must be very well aware that there was Paul and Virginia which had to be returned and which was returned without note or comment, not that I mean to say you could have written to me watched as I was but if it had only come back with a red wafer on the cover I should have known that it meant Come to Pekin Nankeen and What’s the third place, barefoot.’

‘My dear Mrs Finching, you were not to blame, and I never blamed you. We were both too young, too dependent and helpless, to do anything but accept our separation.—Pray think how long ago,’ gently remonstrated Arthur.

‘One more remark,’ proceeded Flora with unslackened volubility, ‘I wish to make, one more explanation I wish to offer, for five days I had a cold in the head from crying which I passed entirely in the back drawing-room—there is the back drawing-room still on the first floor and still at the back of the house to confirm my words—when that dreary period had passed a lull succeeded years rolled on and Mr F. became acquainted with us at a mutual friend’s, he was all attention he called next day he soon began to call three evenings a week and to send in little things for supper it was not love on Mr F.’s part it was adoration, Mr F. proposed with the full approval of Papa and what could I do?’

“Oh mio Dio, spero davvero che tu non sia rimasto scapolo così a lungo per colpa mia!” ridacchiò Flora; “ma naturalmente non l’hai mai fatto. Perché dovresti? Per favore, non rispondere. Non so nemmeno dove sto andando. Dimmi qualcosa sulle donne cinesi: i loro occhi sono davvero così lunghi e stretti? Mi fanno sempre pensare ai pesci madreperla nei mazzi da gioco. E indossano davvero code lungo la schiena, intrecciate? O è solo per gli uomini? Quando si tirano i capelli così forte sulla fronte, non si fanno male? E perché si attaccano piccole campane dappertutto sui loro ponticelli, tempie, cappelli e cose del genere. O forse non lo fanno davvero?” Flora gli lanciò uno dei suoi soliti sguardi. Subito dopo continuò a parlare, come se lui avesse risposto a qualcosa che aveva detto poco prima.

“Allora è tutto vero, e davvero lo fanno! Mio Dio, Arthur. Scusate, è un vecchio vizio. Il signor Clennam sarebbe molto più appropriato. Che paese strano in cui vivere per così tanto tempo. E con tutte quelle lanterne e ombrelli. Il clima deve essere davvero molto buio e umido. E infatti lo è. Quanti soldi devono guadagnare quelle due attività, in cui tutti ne portano e li appendono ovunque. Anche quei piccoli scarponcini. E i piedi che vengono legati durante l’infanzia. È davvero sorprendente. Che viaggiatore che siete!”

Nella sua ridicola angoscia, Clennam ricevette un altro di quegli sguardi vecchi e familiari, senza nemmeno sapere cosa farne.

“Caro caro,” disse Flora, “pensare solo ai cambiamenti che sono avvenuti a >casa. Arthur non riesce proprio ad accettarlo, eppure sembra così naturale. Per Mr Clennam, invece, è tutto molto più appropriato, visto che conosce bene le usanze e la lingua cinese; sono convinta che parli come un nativo, se non meglio. Comunque, è davvero estremamente difficile. Sono sicura che solo i bauli del tè basterebbero a uccidermi se provassi ad aprirli! Tali cambiamenti. Arthur, lo sto facendo di nuovo, sembra così naturale, ma in realtà è molto improprio. Nessuno avrebbe mai potuto crederci. Nemmeno io riesco a immaginarlo, ”

“È il tuo nome da sposata?” chiese Arthur, colpito, in mezzo a tutto questo, da una certa dolcezza nel suo tono quando lei menzionò, in modo piuttosto strano, quella relazione giovanile che avevano avuto l’uno con l’altra. “Finching?”

“Finching, oh sì, che nome terribile, vero? Ma come disse il signor F. quando mi chiese di sposarlo – e lo fece sette volte, per di più con grande insistenza – devo dire che, dopo dodici mesi, quando iniziò a comportarsi come avrebbe voluto, beh, dopotutto non era lui ad aver scelto quel nome, non poteva farci nulla, giusto? Un uomo eccellente, assolutamente diverso da te, ma comunque un uomo eccellente!”

Flora finalmente parlò fino ad esaurire il fiato per un momento. Solo per un momento, perché riuscì a riprendere respiro nel momento in cui sollevò un angolino del fazzoletto davanti agli occhi, come omaggio allo fantasma del defunto signor F., e poi ricominciò a parlare.

‘Nessuno potrebbe contestare, Arthur – signor Clennam – che sia del tutto giusto che tu mi mostri un atteggiamento formalmente amichevole nelle nuove circostanze; anzi, non potresti comportarti in altro modo, almeno credo. Ma non posso fare a meno di ricordare che c’è stato un momento in cui le cose erano molto diverse.’

“Mia cara signora Finching,” iniziò Arthur, colpito ancora una volta dal suo gentile tono.

“Mai quel nome orribile e brutto, chiamiamola Flora!”

“Flora. Ti assicuro, Flora, sono felice di rivederti e di scoprire che, come me, non hai dimenticato quei vecchi sogni sciocchi. Quei sogni in cui vedevamo tutto davanti a noi, alla luce della nostra giovinezza e della nostra >speranza.”

“Non sembri affatto così,” borbottò Flora, “la prendi con molta calma, ma so che sei deluso con me. Immagino che siano le signore cinesi – quelle mandarine, se vuoi chiamarle così – la causa di tutto questo. O forse sono io stessa la causa. È altrettanto probabile.”

“No, no,” pregò Clennam, “non dirlo.”

“Oh, devo assolutamente che tu sappia,” disse Flora con tono deciso, “quanto sia assurdo non farlo. So bene di non essere ciò che ti aspettavi, lo so molto bene.”

Nonostante la sua rapidità, lei aveva capito tutto grazie alla percezione acuta tipica di una donna intelligente. Tuttavia, il modo in cui, in modo contraddittorio e profondamente irragionevole, aveva immediatamente collegato le loro relazioni da bambini, ormai da tempo abbandonate, con quell’incontro attuale, fece sentire Clennam come se gli girasse la testa.

“Una sola osservazione,” disse Flora, dando alla loro conversazione, senza il minimo preavviso e con grande terrore di Clennam, il tono tipico di una lite d’amore, “vorrei fare. Una spiegazione vorrei fornire. Quando tua madre è venuta a fare scenate con mio padre, e quando mi hanno chiamata nella piccola sala da pranzo dove si guardavano a vicenda, con l’ombrello di tua madre tra loro, seduti su due sedie come tori impazziti. Cosa avrei dovuto fare?”

“Mia cara signora Finching,” insistette Clennam, “una questione che risale a così tanto tempo fa e che ormai è stata definitivamente risolta, vale davvero la pena prendersela seriamente?”

“Non posso, Arthur,” rispose Flora, “far sì che tutta la società cinese mi denunci come senza cuore, senza approfittare dell’opportunità di chiarire le cose quando ne ho l’occasione. Devi essere ben consapevole del fatto che ci furono i libri di Paul e Virginia che dovettero essere restituiti, e che furono restituiti senza alcuna nota o commento. Non voglio dire che avresti potuto scrivermi mentre mi tenevano d’occhio, ma se almeno fossero tornati con un biglietto rosso sulla copertina, avrei capito che significava ‘Vieni a Pechino Nankeen. E qual è il terzo posto? Camminare a piedi nudi’.”

“Mia cara signora Finching, non era colpa sua, e io non l’ho mai incolpata. Eravamo entrambi troppo giovani, troppo dipendenti e impotenti per poter fare altro che accettare la nostra separazione. Per favore, pensi a quanto tempo sia passato,” le disse dolcemente Arthur.

“Un’ultima osservazione,” proseguì Flora con un tono meno vivace, “un’altra spiegazione che desidero fornire: per cinque giorni ho avuto il raffreddore alla testa a causa del pianto; ho trascorso tutto quel tempo nella sala da pranzo posteriore, quella stanza si trova ancora al primo piano, sempre in fondo alla >casa, per confermare quanto dico. Quando quel periodo noioso fu finalmente terminato, arrivò un momento di tregua; gli anni passarono e il signor F. iniziò a conoscerci attraverso un amico comune. Fu molto attento nei suoi modi. Il giorno dopo iniziò già a venire tre sere a settimana e a portare piccoli regali per la cena. Non si trattava di amore da parte sua, ma di vera adorazione. Il signor F. chiese la mia mano con l’approvazione totale di mio padre. Cosa avrei potuto fare?”

‘Nothing whatever,’ said Arthur, with the cheerfulest readiness, ‘but what you did. Let an old friend assure you of his full conviction that you did quite right.’

‘One last remark,’ proceeded Flora, rejecting commonplace life with a wave of her hand, ‘I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer, there was a time ere Mr F. first paid attentions incapable of being mistaken, but that is past and was not to be, dear Mr Clennam you no longer wear a golden chain you are free I trust you may be happy, here is Papa who is always tiresome and putting in his nose everywhere where he is not wanted.’

With these words, and with a hasty gesture fraught with timid caution—such a gesture had Clennam’s eyes been familiar with in the old time—poor Flora left herself at eighteen years of age, a long long way behind again; and came to a full stop at last.

Or rather, she left about half of herself at eighteen years of age behind, and grafted the rest on to the relict of the late Mr F.; thus making a moral mermaid of herself, which her once boy-lover contemplated with feelings wherein his sense of the sorrowful and his sense of the comical were curiously blended.

For example. As if there were a secret understanding between herself and Clennam of the most thrilling nature; as if the first of a train of post-chaises and four, extending all the way to Scotland, were at that moment round the corner; and as if she couldn’t (and wouldn’t) have walked into the Parish Church with him, under the shade of the family umbrella, with the Patriarchal blessing on her head, and the perfect concurrence of all mankind; Flora comforted her soul with agonies of mysterious signalling, expressing dread of discovery. With the sensation of becoming more and more light-headed every minute, Clennam saw the relict of the late Mr F. enjoying herself in the most wonderful manner, by putting herself and him in their old places, and going through all the old performances—now, when the stage was dusty, when the scenery was faded, when the youthful actors were dead, when the orchestra was empty, when the lights were out. And still, through all this grotesque revival of what he remembered as having once been prettily natural to her, he could not but feel that it revived at sight of him, and that there was a tender memory in it.

The Patriarch insisted on his staying to dinner, and Flora signalled ‘Yes!’ Clennam so wished he could have done more than stay to dinner—so heartily wished he could have found the Flora that had been, or that never had been—that he thought the least atonement he could make for the disappointment he almost felt ashamed of, was to give himself up to the family desire. Therefore, he stayed to dinner.

Pancks dined with them. Pancks steamed out of his little dock at a quarter before six, and bore straight down for the Patriarch, who happened to be then driving, in an inane manner, through a stagnant account of Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks instantly made fast to him and hauled him out.

‘Bleeding Heart Yard?’ said Pancks, with a puff and a snort. ‘It’s a troublesome property. Don’t pay you badly, but rents are very hard to get there. You have more trouble with that one place than with all the places belonging to you.’

Just as the big ship in tow gets the credit, with most spectators, of being the powerful object, so the Patriarch usually seemed to have said himself whatever Pancks said for him.

‘Indeed?’ returned Clennam, upon whom this impression was so efficiently made by a mere gleam of the polished head that he spoke the ship instead of the Tug. ‘The people are so poor there?’

‘You can’t say, you know,’ snorted Pancks, taking one of his dirty hands out of his rusty iron-grey pockets to bite his nails, if he could find any, and turning his beads of eyes upon his employer, ‘whether they’re poor or not. They say they are, but they all say that. When a man says he’s rich, you’re generally sure he isn’t. Besides, if they are poor, you can’t help it. You’d be poor yourself if you didn’t get your rents.’

‘True enough,’ said Arthur.

‘You’re not going to keep open house for all the poor of London,’ pursued Pancks. ‘You’re not going to lodge ‘em for nothing. You’re not going to open your gates wide and let ‘em come free. Not if you know it, you ain’t.’

Mr Casby shook his head, in Placid and benignant generality.

‘If a man takes a room of you at half-a-crown a week, and when the week comes round hasn’t got the half-crown, you say to that man, Why have you got the room, then? If you haven’t got the one thing, why have you got the other? What have you been and done with your money? What do you mean by it? What are you up to? That’s what you say to a man of that sort; and if you didn’t say it, more shame for you!’ Mr Pancks here made a singular and startling noise, produced by a strong blowing effort in the region of the nose, unattended by any result but that acoustic one.

‘You have some extent of such property about the east and north-east here, I believe?’ said Clennam, doubtful which of the two to address.

‘Oh, pretty well,’ said Pancks. ‘You’re not particular to east or north-east, any point of the compass will do for you. What you want is a good investment and a quick return. You take it where you can find it. You ain’t nice as to situation—not you.’

There was a fourth and most original figure in the Patriarchal tent, who also appeared before dinner. This was an amazing little old woman, with a face like a staring wooden doll too cheap for expression, and a stiff yellow wig perched unevenly on the top of her head, as if the child who owned the doll had driven a tack through it anywhere, so that it only got fastened on. Another remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that the same child seemed to have damaged her face in two or three places with some blunt instrument in the nature of a spoon; her countenance, and particularly the tip of her nose, presenting the phenomena of several dints, generally answering to the bowl of that article. A further remarkable thing in this little old woman was, that she had no name but Mr F.’s Aunt.

“Niente affatto,” disse Arthur con la massima disponibilità, “tranne ciò che hai fatto tu. Lascia che un vecchio amico ti assicuri della sua piena convinzione che tu abbia agito perfettamente.”

“Un’ultima osservazione,” proseguì Flora, scartando con un gesto della mano la vita banale, “vorrei fare, un’ultima spiegazione che desidero offrire. C’è stato davvero un momento in cui il signor F. ha mostrato un interesse inequivocabile per me, ma quel momento è passato e non deve più essere ricordato. Caro signor Clennam, ormai non indossate più quella catena d’oro. Siete libero, e spero che siate felice. Ecco vostro padre: è sempre noioso e si intromette ovunque non sia desiderato, ”

Con queste parole, e con un gesto affrettato e pieno di timida cautela – un gesto che gli occhi di Clennam avevano già visto in quei lontani tempi – povera Flora, all’età di diciotto anni, si ritrovò ancora molto indietro. E alla fine, tutto ebbe una svolta decisiva.

O meglio, all’età di diciotto anni lasciò metà di sé indietro e “innestò” il resto sulle vestigia del defunto signor F.; così facendo si trasformò in una sorta di sirena morale, che il suo un tempo giovane amante osservava con sentimenti in cui si mescolavano curiosamente tristezza e comicità.

Ad esempio. Come se ci fosse un’intesa segreta tra lei e Clennam riguardo alla natura più straordinaria di tutto questo; come se la prima delle carrozze che avrebbero formato una lunga processione fino in Scozia fosse già all’angolo della strada in quel momento; come se non potesse (e non volesse) entrare nella chiesa parrocchiale con lui, sotto l’ombra dell’ombrello di famiglia, con la benedizione patriarcale sulla testa e con il perfetto consenso di tutta l’umanità. Flora confortava la sua anima con segnali misteriosi, esprimendo paura di essere scoperta. Sentendosi sempre più stordito minuto dopo minuto, Clennam vide quella donna, rimasta sola dopo la morte del marito, godersi in modo meraviglioso tutto ciò che un tempo era stato parte della loro vita: ripetere le vecchie azioni, rivivere i vecchi momenti. Ora che il palcoscenico era polveroso, che le scenografie erano sbiadite, che gli attori giovani erano morti, che l’orchestra non suonava più e che le luci erano spente. Eppure, nonostante tutta questa strana rinascita di ciò che un tempo era stato bello e naturale per lei, lui non poteva fare a meno di sentire che tutto ciò si risvegliava al suo apparire. E che in quel ritorno al passato c’era una tenerezza profonda.

Il Patriarca insistette affinché rimanesse a cena, e Flora fece segno di “Sì!”. Clennam avrebbe voluto tanto poter fare di più che semplicemente restare a cena. Avrebbe voluto tanto trovare quella Flora che un tempo era stata, o che forse non era mai esistita. Pensava che l’unica forma di rimorso possibile per la delusione che provava, e di cui quasi si vergognava, fosse arrendersi completamente al desiderio della famiglia. E così, rimase a cena.

Pancks pranzò con loro. Alle cinque e quarto del pomeriggio uscì dal suo piccolo molo e si diresse direttamente verso il Patriarca, che in quel momento stava guidando, in modo assurdo, attraverso il quartiere di Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks lo afferrò immediatamente e lo trascinò fuori.

“‘Bleeding Heart Yard’?” disse Pancks, con un soffio e uno sbuffo. “È una proprietà problematica. Non vi pagano molto bene, ma gli affitti sono davvero difficili da riscuotere. Avete più problemi con quel posto che con tutte le altre proprietà che possedete.”

Proprio come la grande nave trainata viene riconosciuta, dalla maggior parte degli spettatori, come l’oggetto più potente, così sembrava che fosse il Patriarca stesso a dire ciò che Pancks dichiarava in suo nome.

“Davvero?” rispose Clennam; quell’impressione gli era stata infatti suscitata da un semplice barlume di quella testa lucida, tanto che aveva detto “la nave” invece di “il rimorchiatore”. “La gente là è davvero così povera?”

“Non puoi mica dire così,” sbuffò Pancks, tirando fuori una delle sue mani sporche dalle tasche di colore grigio-ferro arrugginite per mordersi le unghie, se riusciva a trovarne alcune, e fissando il proprio datore di lavoro con i suoi occhi piccoli e rotondi. “Non si può mai sapere se siano poveri o no. Dicono di esserlo, ma tutti lo dicono. Quando un uomo dice di essere ricco, di solito si sa che non lo è. Inoltre, se davvero sono poveri, non ci puoi fare nulla. Anche tu saresti povero se non riuscissi a incassare gli affitti.”

“È vero,” disse Arthur.

“Non puoi certo tenere aperta questa casa per tutti i poveri di Londra,” insistette Pancks. “Non puoi ospitarli senza ricevere nulla in cambio. Non puoi certo aprire le tue porte e lasciarli entrare liberamente. Non lo farai, se ci pensi bene.”

Il signor Casby scosse la testa, con un’espressione serena e benevola.

“Se un uomo prende una stanza da te per mezza corona a settimana, e quando arriva la fine della settimana non ha pagato quella metà, allora gli dici: ‘Perché hai preso la stanza, se non hai pagato?’ Se non hai pagato una cosa, perché l’altra? Cosa hai fatto con i tuoi soldi? A cosa li hai destinati? Che intenzioni hai? È questo che devi dire a un uomo del genere; e se non lo dici, è ancora più vergogna per te!” Qui Mr Pancks fece un rumore strano e sorprendente, prodotto da un forte soffio nella zona del naso, senza alcun risultato concreto, se non quello acustico.

“Credo che voi possediate alcune proprietà in queste zone orientali e nord-orientali, giusto?” disse Clennam, incerto su a quale dei due dovesse rivolgersi.

“Ah, benissimo,” disse Pancks. “Non ti importa se è verso est o nord-est, qualsiasi direzione del compasso va bene per te. Quello che vuoi è un buon investimento e un rapido ritorno. Lo prendi dove puoi trovarlo. Non sei certo schizzinoso riguardo alle condizioni, non tu.”

C’era una quarta e molto originale figura nella tenda patriarcale; anche lei comparve prima di cena. Si trattava di una meravigliosa vecchietta, con un viso simile a quello di una bambola di legno priva di espressione, e una parrucca gialla rigida posizionata in modo irregolare sulla sommità della testa, come se il >bambino che possedeva quella bambola l’avesse fissata con un chiodo in qualche punto, impedendole di stare dritta. Un altro aspetto strano di questa vecchietta era che lo stesso >bambino sembrava averle danneggiato il viso in due o tre punti utilizzando uno strumento appuntito, probabilmente una cucchiaiata; il suo volto, e soprattutto la punta del naso, presentavano diverse incisioni che corrispondevano appunto alla forma di quel utensile. Un ultimo dettaglio insolito riguardava il fatto che quella vecchietta non aveva alcun nome: tutti la chiamavano semplicemente “la zia del signor F.”

She broke upon the visitor’s view under the following circumstances: Flora said when the first dish was being put on the table, perhaps Mr Clennam might not have heard that Mr F. had left her a legacy? Clennam in return implied his hope that Mr F. had endowed the wife whom he adored, with the greater part of his worldly substance, if not with all. Flora said, oh yes, she didn’t mean that, Mr F. had made a beautiful will, but he had left her as a separate legacy, his Aunt. She then went out of the room to fetch the legacy, and, on her return, rather triumphantly presented ‘Mr F.’s Aunt.’

The major characteristics discoverable by the stranger in Mr F.’s Aunt, were extreme severity and grim taciturnity; sometimes interrupted by a propensity to offer remarks in a deep warning voice, which, being totally uncalled for by anything said by anybody, and traceable to no association of ideas, confounded and terrified the Mind. Mr F.’s Aunt may have thrown in these observations on some system of her own, and it may have been ingenious, or even subtle: but the key to it was wanted.

The neatly-served and well-cooked dinner (for everything about the Patriarchal household promoted quiet digestion) began with some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes. The conversation still turned on the receipt of rents. Mr F.’s Aunt, after regarding the company for ten minutes with a malevolent gaze, delivered the following fearful remark:

‘When we lived at Henley, Barnes’s gander was stole by tinkers.’

Mr Pancks courageously nodded his head and said, ‘All right, ma’am.’ But the effect of this mysterious communication upon Clennam was absolutely to frighten him. And another circumstance invested this old lady with peculiar terrors. Though she was always staring, she never acknowledged that she saw any individual. The polite and attentive stranger would desire, say, to consult her inclinations on the subject of potatoes. His expressive action would be hopelessly lost upon her, and what could he do? No man could say, ‘Mr F.’s Aunt, will you permit me?’ Every man retired from the spoon, as Clennam did, cowed and baffled.

There was mutton, a steak, and an apple-pie—nothing in the remotest way connected with ganders—and the dinner went on like a disenchanted feast, as it truly was. Once upon a time Clennam had sat at that table taking no heed of anything but Flora; now the principal heed he took of Flora was to observe, against his will, that she was very fond of porter, that she combined a great deal of sherry with sentiment, and that if she were a little overgrown, it was upon substantial grounds. The last of the Patriarchs had always been a mighty eater, and he disposed of an immense quantity of solid food with the benignity of a good soul who was feeding some one else. Mr Pancks, who was always in a hurry, and who referred at intervals to a little dirty notebook which he kept beside him (perhaps containing the names of the defaulters he meant to look up by way of dessert), took in his victuals much as if he were coaling; with a good deal of noise, a good deal of dropping about, and a puff and a snort occasionally, as if he were nearly ready to steam away.

All through dinner, Flora combined her present appetite for eating and drinking with her past appetite for romantic love, in a way that made Clennam afraid to lift his eyes from his plate; since he could not look towards her without receiving some glance of mysterious meaning or warning, as if they were engaged in a plot. Mr F.’s Aunt sat silently defying him with an aspect of the greatest bitterness, until the removal of the cloth and the appearance of the decanters, when she originated another observation—struck into the conversation like a clock, without consulting anybody.

Flora had just said, ‘Mr Clennam, will you give me a glass of port for Mr F.’s Aunt?’

‘The Monument near London Bridge,’ that lady instantly proclaimed, ‘was put up arter the Great Fire of London; and the Great Fire of London was not the fire in which your uncle George’s workshops was burned down.’

Mr Pancks, with his former courage, said, ‘Indeed, ma’am? All right!’ But appearing to be incensed by imaginary contradiction, or other ill-usage, Mr F.’s Aunt, instead of relapsing into silence, made the following additional proclamation:

‘I hate a fool!’

She imparted to this sentiment, in itself almost Solomonic, so extremely injurious and personal a character by levelling it straight at the visitor’s head, that it became necessary to lead Mr F.’s Aunt from the room. This was quietly done by Flora; Mr F.’s Aunt offering no resistance, but inquiring on her way out, ‘What he come there for, then?’ with implacable animosity.

When Flora returned, she explained that her legacy was a clever old lady, but was sometimes a little singular, and ‘took dislikes’—peculiarities of which Flora seemed to be proud rather than otherwise. As Flora’s good nature shone in the case, Clennam had no fault to find with the old lady for eliciting it, now that he was relieved from the terrors of her presence; and they took a glass or two of wine in peace. Foreseeing then that the Pancks would shortly get under weigh, and that the Patriarch would go to sleep, he pleaded the necessity of visiting his mother, and asked Mr Pancks in which direction he was going?

‘Citywards, sir,’ said Pancks.

‘Shall we walk together?’ said Arthur.

‘Quite agreeable,’ said Pancks.

Meanwhile Flora was murmuring in rapid snatches for his ear, that there was a time and that the past was a yawning gulf however and that a golden chain no longer bound him and that she revered the memory of the late Mr F. and that she should be at home to-morrow at half-past one and that the decrees of Fate were beyond recall and that she considered nothing so improbable as that he ever walked on the north-west side of Gray’s-Inn Gardens at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon. He tried at parting to give his hand in frankness to the existing Flora—not the vanished Flora, or the mermaid—but Flora wouldn’t have it, couldn’t have it, was wholly destitute of the power of separating herself and him from their bygone characters. He left the house miserably enough; and so much more light-headed than ever, that if it had not been his good fortune to be towed away, he might, for the first quarter of an hour, have drifted anywhere.

Apparve davanti agli occhi del visitatore nelle seguenti circostanze:
Flora disse che, quando il primo piatto fu messo in tavola, forse il signor Clennam non aveva sentito che il signor F. le aveva lasciato un testamento. Clennam, a sua volta, esprimeva la sua speranza che il signor F. avesse destinato alla moglie che amava la maggior parte del proprio patrimonio, se non tutto. Flora precisò che no, non intendeva questo; il signor F. aveva redatto un bel testamento, ma le aveva lasciato in eredità anche sua zia. Poi uscì dalla stanza per prendere quel “testamento” e, al suo ritorno, lo presentò con aria trionfale come “la zia del signor F.”

Le principali caratteristiche che uno sconosciuto poteva notare in zia del signor F. erano una severità estrema e un silenzio cupo; a volte queste caratteristiche venivano interrotte da propensioni a fare osservazioni con voce profonda e minacciosa. Tali osservazioni, del tutto prive di motivo e non legate ad alcuna associazione di idee, confondevano e spaventavano chi le ascoltava. Forse zia del signor F. le faceva nel corso di qualche suo ragionamento personale, e forse queste riflessioni erano ingegnose o persino sottili, ma mancava la “chiave” per comprenderle appieno.

La cena, servita con cura e bene cucinata (poiché tutto nella casa patriarcale era pensato per favorire una digestione tranquilla), iniziò con un po’ di zuppa, alcune patate fritte, una ciotola di salsa agli gamberi e un piatto di patate. La conversazione continuava a riguardare l’integrazione degli affitti. La zia del signor F., dopo aver osservato il gruppo per dieci minuti con uno sguardo malvagio, fece la seguente osservazione preoccupante:

“Quando vivevamo a Henley, il gallo di Barnes fu rubato da dei vagabondi.”

Signor Pancks annuì coraggiosamente e disse: “Va bene, signora.” Ma l’effetto di questa misteriosa comunicazione su Clennam fu assolutamente spaventoso. Inoltre, un’altra circostanza conferiva a quella vecchia signora un aspetto particolarmente inquietante: sebbene fissasse sempre qualcuno con lo sguardo, non mostrava mai di riconoscere la presenza delle persone intorno a lei. Un estraneo gentile e attento avrebbe potuto, ad esempio, chiederle il suo parere su qualche argomento. Ma le sue azioni sarebbero rimaste del tutto incomprensibili per lei; cosa avrebbe potuto fare, dunque? Nessuno avrebbe potuto dire: “Zia di Mr F., mi permetterebbe di, ” Ogni uomo, come Clennam, se ne andava intimidito e confuso.

C’era carne d’agnello, bistecca e torta di mele, nulla che avesse anche solo lontanamente a che fare con i galloppi. E la cena proseguì come una festa del tutto priva di gioia, proprio come era in realtà. Un tempo, Clennam sedeva a quel tavolo senza prestare attenzione a nulla se non a Flora; ora, l’unica cosa che gli interessava riguardo a Flora era osservare, contro la sua volontà, che lei aveva una grande passione per il porto, che mescolava abbondantemente lo sherry con i suoi sentimenti. E che, se era un po’ in sovrappeso, ci erano motivi ben fondati. L’ultimo dei “Patriarchi” era sempre stato un gran mangiatore; ingoiava enormi quantità di cibo con la gentilezza di una buona persona che stesse nutrendo qualcun altro. Mr Pancks, che era sempre di fretta e di tanto in tanto consultava un piccolo taccuino sporco che teneva accanto a sé (forse contenente i nomi delle persone che intendeva “controllare” dopo cena), mangiava con grande rumore, spargendo cibo ovunque. E di tanto in tanto emetteva suoni simili a quelli di una locomotiva sul punto di partire.

Per tutta la cena, Flora combinò il suo attuale appetito per mangiare e bere con il suo passato desiderio di amore romantico, in modo tale che Clennam non osava alzare lo sguardo dal proprio piatto; ogni volta che provava a guardarla, lei gli rivolgeva uno sguardo pieno di significati misteriosi o avvertimenti, come se stessero condividendo qualche complotto. La zia del signor F. sedeva in silenzio, sfidandolo con un’espressione di profonda amarezza; solo quando vennero tolti i piatti e apparvero i decanter, lei intervenne nuovamente nella conversazione, come se avesse impostato da sola l’argomento, senza consultare nessuno.

“Flora aveva appena detto: ‘Signor Clennam, potrebbe darmi un bicchiere di Porto per la zia del signor F.?’”

“Il Monumento vicino al Ponte di Londra,” esclamò immediatamente quella signora, “fu eretto dopo il Grande Incendio di Londra; e il Grande Incendio di Londra non fu quello in cui furono distrutti i laboratori di vostro zio George.”

Signor Pancks, con il suo solito coraggio, disse: “Davvero, signora? Va bene!”
Ma, apparentemente offesa da una contraddizione immaginaria o da qualche altro insulto, la zia del signor F., invece di tornare al silenzio, fece la seguente dichiarazione aggiuntiva:

“Odio un idiota!”

Lei attribuì a questo sentimento, di per sé quasi solomonico, un carattere estremamente offensivo e personale, rivolgendolo direttamente contro la testa del visitatore; per questo fu necessario allontanare dalla stanza zia del signor F. Flora lo fece in silenzio; zia del signor F. non oppose alcuna resistenza, ma uscendo chiese con un’animosità implacabile: “Allora, a che scopo è venuto lì?”

Quando Flora tornò, spiegò che il suo “ereditario” era una vecchia signora intelligente, ma a volte un po’ strana, e che aveva delle “antipatie”, peculiarità di cui sembrava andare piuttosto fiera. Poiché la buona natura di Flora emergeva in questi casi, Clennam non trovò nulla da rimproverare alla vecchia signora per averla stimolata; anzi, ora che era libero dai terrori della sua presenza, bevvero insieme un bicchiere o due di vino in pace. Prevedendo poi che i Pancks sarebbero presto partiti e che il “Patriarca” si sarebbe addormentato, Clennam addusse la necessità di andare a trovare sua madre e chiese a Mr Pancks in quale direzione stesse andando.

“Verso la città, signore,” disse Pancks.

“Dovremmo camminare insieme?” disse Arthur.

“Piuttosto gradevole,” disse Pancks.

Nel frattempo, Flora sussurrava rapidamente all’orecchio suo che c’era stato un tempo in cui il passato rappresentava un abisso incolmabile, che una catena d’oro non lo legava più, che lei rispettava la memoria del defunto signor F., e che l’indomani alle due e mezza sarebbe dovuta essere a casa. Che i decreti del destino erano irrevocabili. E che nulla le sembrava più improbabile di lui che camminasse un giorno sul lato nord-ovest dei giardini di Gray’s-Inn esattamente alle quattro del pomeriggio. Alla fine, cercò di stringere la mano a Flora. Non alla Flora scomparsa, né alla “sirena”, ma a quella Flora reale. Ma lei non volle accettarla; non ne era in grado. Era completamente priva della capacità di separare sé stessa da lui e dai loro ruoli passati. Lasciò la casa in uno stato di profonda angoscia. E, più confusa che mai, se non fosse stato per la sua fortuna, avrebbe potuto finire chissà dove nel primo quarto d’ora successivo.

When he began to come to himself, in the cooler air and the absence of Flora, he found Pancks at full speed, cropping such scanty pasturage of nails as he could find, and snorting at intervals. These, in conjunction with one hand in his pocket and his roughened hat hind side before, were evidently the conditions under which he reflected.

‘A fresh night!’ said Arthur.

‘Yes, it’s pretty fresh,’ assented Pancks. ‘As a stranger you feel the climate more than I do, I dare say. Indeed I haven’t got time to feel it.’

‘You lead such a busy life?’

‘Yes, I have always some of ‘em to look up, or something to look after. But I like business,’ said Pancks, getting on a little faster. ‘What’s a man made for?’

‘For nothing else?’ said Clennam.

Pancks put the counter question, ‘What else?’ It packed up, in the smallest compass, a weight that had rested on Clennam’s life; and he made no answer.

‘That’s what I ask our weekly tenants,’ said Pancks. ‘Some of ‘em will pull long faces to me, and say, Poor as you see us, master, we’re always grinding, drudging, toiling, every minute we’re awake. I say to them, What else are you made for? It shuts them up. They haven’t a word to answer. What else are you made for? That clinches it.’

‘Ah dear, dear, dear!’ sighed Clennam.

‘Here am I,’ said Pancks, pursuing his argument with the weekly tenant. ‘What else do you suppose I think I am made for? Nothing. Rattle me out of bed early, set me going, give me as short a time as you like to bolt my meals in, and keep me at it. Keep me always at it, and I’ll keep you always at it, you keep somebody else always at it. There you are with the Whole Duty of Man in a commercial country.’

When they had walked a little further in silence, Clennam said: ‘Have you no taste for anything, Mr Pancks?’

‘What’s taste?’ drily retorted Pancks.

‘Let us say inclination.’

‘I have an inclination to get money, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you will show me how.’ He blew off that sound again, and it occurred to his companion for the first time that it was his way of laughing. He was a singular man in all respects; he might not have been quite in earnest, but that the short, hard, rapid manner in which he shot out these cinders of principles, as if it were done by mechanical revolvency, seemed irreconcilable with banter.

‘You are no great reader, I suppose?’ said Clennam.

‘Never read anything but letters and accounts. Never collect anything but advertisements relative to next of kin. If that’s a taste, I have got that. You’re not of the Clennams of Cornwall, Mr Clennam?’

‘Not that I ever heard of.’

‘I know you’re not. I asked your mother, sir. She has too much character to let a chance escape her.’

‘Supposing I had been of the Clennams of Cornwall?’

‘You’d have heard of something to your advantage.’

‘Indeed! I have heard of little enough to my advantage for some time.’

‘There’s a Cornish property going a begging, sir, and not a Cornish Clennam to have it for the asking,’ said Pancks, taking his note-book from his breast pocket and putting it in again. ‘I turn off here. I wish you good night.’

‘Good night!’ said Clennam. But the Tug, suddenly lightened, and untrammelled by having any weight in tow, was already puffing away into the distance.

They had crossed Smithfield together, and Clennam was left alone at the corner of Barbican. He had no intention of presenting himself in his mother’s dismal room that night, and could not have felt more depressed and cast away if he had been in a wilderness. He turned slowly down Aldersgate Street, and was pondering his way along towards Saint Paul’s, purposing to come into one of the great thoroughfares for the sake of their light and life, when a crowd of people flocked towards him on the same pavement, and he stood aside against a shop to let them pass. As they came up, he made out that they were gathered around a something that was carried on men’s shoulders. He soon saw that it was a litter, hastily made of a shutter or some such thing; and a recumbent figure upon it, and the scraps of conversation in the crowd, and a muddy bundle carried by one man, and a muddy hat carried by another, informed him that an accident had occurred. The litter stopped under a lamp before it had passed him half-a-dozen paces, for some readjustment of the burden; and, the crowd stopping too, he found himself in the midst of the array.

‘An accident going to the Hospital?’ he asked an old man beside him, who stood shaking his head, inviting conversation.

‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘along of them Mails. They ought to be prosecuted and fined, them Mails. They come a racing out of Lad Lane and Wood Street at twelve or fourteen mile a hour, them Mails do. The only wonder is, that people ain’t killed oftener by them Mails.’

‘This person is not killed, I hope?’

‘I don’t know!’ said the man, ‘it an’t for the want of a will in them Mails, if he an’t.’ The speaker having folded his arms, and set in comfortably to address his depreciation of them Mails to any of the bystanders who would listen, several voices, out of pure sympathy with the sufferer, confirmed him; one voice saying to Clennam, ‘They’re a public nuisance, them Mails, sir;’ another, ‘I see one on ‘em pull up within half a inch of a boy, last night;’ another, ‘I see one on ‘em go over a cat, sir—and it might have been your own mother;’ and all representing, by implication, that if he happened to possess any public influence, he could not use it better than against them Mails.

‘Why, a native Englishman is put to it every night of his life, to save his life from them Mails,’ argued the first old man; ‘and he knows when they’re a coming round the corner, to tear him limb from limb. What can you expect from a poor foreigner who don’t know nothing about ‘em!’

‘Is this a foreigner?’ said Clennam, leaning forward to look.

Quando iniziò a riprendersi, nell’aria più fresca e in assenza di Flora, vide Pancks che procedeva a tutta velocità, raccogliendo qua e là quei pochi “pasturaggi” di unghie che riusciva a trovare, e soffiando di tanto in tanto. Queste azioni, insieme al fatto che teneva una mano in tasca e che il retro del suo cappello era logoro, indicavano chiaramente le condizioni in cui rifletteva.

“Una fresca notte!” disse Arthur.

“Sì, è davvero fresco,” convenne Pancks. “Come straniero, probabilmente percepisci il clima meglio di me. Onestamente, non ho avuto il tempo di farlo.”

“Conduce una vita così impegnata?”

“Sì, ho sempre qualcosa di cui occuparmi, o qualcosa che devo curare. Ma mi piacciono gli affari,” disse Pancks, accelerando un po’. “A cosa serve un uomo, dopotutto?”

“Nient’altro?” disse Clennam.

Pancks pose la controdomanda: “Cosa altro?” Quella domanda racchiudeva, in poche parole, tutto il peso che gravava sulla vita di Clennam; e lui non rispose affatto.

“È proprio quello che chiedo ai nostri inquilini settimanali,” disse Pancks. “Alcuni di loro fanno la faccia triste e dicono: ‘Poveri come ci vedete, padrone, lavoriamo sodo ogni minuto in cui siamo svegli.’ Allora io rispondo: ‘Per cosa altro siete stati creati?’ E loro rimangono senza parole. ‘Per cosa altro siete stati creati?’ Questo basta per farli tacere.”

“Ah, caro, caro, caro, ” sospirò Clennam.

“Eccomi qui,” disse Pancks, continuando la sua argomentazione con l’inquilino settimanale.
“Per cosa altro credete che io sia fatto? Per nulla. Fatemi alzare presto dal letto, mettetemi al lavoro, datemi il minor tempo possibile per mangiare e continuate a tenermi occupato. Tenetemi sempre occupato, e io continuerò a tenere occupati voi, o qualcun altro. Ecco così, l’intera ‘dovere umano’ in un paese commerciale.”

Dopo aver camminato ancora un po’ in silenzio, Clennam disse: “Non ha alcun gusto per nulla, Signor Pancks?”

“Che cos’è il gusto?” ribatté secamente Pancks.

“Chiamiamola inclinazione.”

“Ho la tendenza ad accumulare denaro, signore,” disse Pancks, “se solo mi mostraste come farlo.” Emise di nuovo quel suono strano, e per la prima volta al suo compagno venne in mente che quello fosse il suo modo di ridere. Era un uomo davvero singolare sotto tutti i punti di vista; forse non parlava seriamente, ma il modo breve, secco e rapido con cui esponeva queste idee, come se si trattasse semplicemente di frasi prive di significato, sembrava del tutto incompatibile con qualsiasi forma di scherzo o battuta.

“Immagino che tu non sia un grande lettore, vero?” disse Clennam.

“Mai leggere nulla se non lettere e conti. Mai raccogliere nulla se non annunci relativi ai parenti più prossimi. Se questo è il vostro gusto, beh, io lo condivido. Non siete mica dei Clennam del Cornovaglia, vero, signor Clennam?”

“Non che io ne abbia mai sentito parlare.”

“So che non lo sei. Ho chiesto a tua madre, signore. Lei ha troppo carattere per lasciarsi sfuggire un’opportunità del genere.”

“Se solo fossi stato un membro della famiglia Clennam del Cornovaglia, ”

“Avresti sicuramente sentito parlare di qualcosa che potrebbe esserti utile.”

“Certo! Da un po’ di tempo, ho sentito parlare di cose che non mi sono affatto vantaggiose, ”

“C’è una proprietà in Cornovaglia che viene messa in vendita senza successo, signore. E nessun membro della famiglia Clennam sarebbe disposto ad acquistarla al prezzo richiesto,” disse Pancks, estraendo il suo taccuino dalla tasca del petto per poi riporlo subito dopo. “Mi congedo qui; le auguro una buona notte.”

“Buona notte!” disse Clennam. Ma la barca a remi, improvvisamente alleggerita e libera dal peso che trainava, era già lontana nella notte.

Avevano attraversato insieme Smithfield, e Clennam si trovò solo all’angolo di Barbican. Quella notte non aveva alcuna intenzione di recarsi nella triste stanza di sua madre, e si sentiva così depresso e abbandonato come se fosse in mezzo al deserto. Camminò lentamente lungo Aldersgate Street, pensieroso, diretto verso Saint Paul’s, con l’intenzione di imboccare una delle strade principali per godere della loro luce e del loro movimento. Quando all’improvviso una folla si radunò davanti a lui sullo stesso marciapiede; si fece da parte per lasciarli passare. Mentre si avvicinavano, notò che erano tutti riuniti intorno a qualcosa che veniva portato sulle spalle degli uomini. Presto capì che si trattava di una barella, fatta in fretta con una persiana o qualcosa del genere; su di essa c’era una figura sdraiata. I commenti della folla, un fagotto fangoso trasportato da uno e un cappello sporco portato da un altro gli fecero capire che era accaduto un incidente. La barella si fermò sotto una lampada, a meno di sei passi da lui. La folla si fermò anch’essa, e lui si trovò improvvisamente nel mezzo di quella scena.

“Un incidente che lo ha portato in ospedale?” chiese a un anziano accanto a lui, che scuoteva la testa, invitando così a una conversazione.

“Sì,” disse l’uomo, “insieme a loro ci sono anche quei treni postali. Dovrebbero essere perseguiti e multati. Quei treni postali arrivano da Lad Lane e Wood Street a una velocità di dodici o quattordici miglia all’ora. L’unica cosa che mi sorprende è che la gente non venga uccisa più spesso a causa loro.”

“Questa persona non deve essere uccisa. Lo spero, vero?”

“Non lo so!” disse l’uomo, “non è certo per mancanza di volontà da parte loro. Se non fosse così, ” Il parlante, incrociando le braccia e sistemandosi comodamente, continuò a esprimere il proprio disprezzo per quei mezzi di comunicazione davanti a chiunque fosse disposto ad ascoltare. Diverse voci, mosse pura compassione per la situazione del malcapitato, lo confermarono nelle sue opinioni; una disse a Clennam: “Quei mezzi di comunicazione rappresentano un vero fastidio pubblico, signore”; un’altra aggiunse: “L’altro ieri sera ho visto uno di quei mezzi avvicinarsi a meno di mezzo metro da un bambino”; un’altra ancora osservò: “Ho visto uno di quei mezzi investire un gatto. E poteva essere anche la vostra stessa madre, ” Tutte queste osservazioni implicavano chiaramente che, se quell’uomo avesse avuto qualche influenza pubblica, l’avrebbe sicuramente utilizzata contro quei maledetti mezzi di comunicazione.

“Perché, un inglese nativo è costretto a farlo ogni notte della sua vita, per salvare la propria vita da quei Mails,” argomentò il primo vecchio; “e lui sa quando stanno per arrivare, pronti a squartarlo. Cosa si può aspettare da un povero straniero che non ne sa nulla?”

“È uno straniero?” chiese Clennam, chinandosi in avanti per guardare meglio.

In the midst of such replies as ‘Frenchman, sir,’ ‘Porteghee, sir,’ ‘Dutchman, sir,’ ‘Prooshan, sir,’ and other conflicting testimony, he now heard a feeble voice asking, both in Italian and in French, for water. A general remark going round, in reply, of ‘Ah, poor fellow, he says he’ll never get over it; and no wonder!’ Clennam begged to be allowed to pass, as he understood the poor creature. He was immediately handed to the front, to speak to him.

‘First, he wants some water,’ said he, looking round. (A dozen good fellows dispersed to get it.) ‘Are you badly hurt, my friend?’ he asked the man on the litter, in Italian.

‘Yes, sir; yes, yes, yes. It’s my leg, it’s my leg. But it pleases me to hear the old music, though I am very bad.’

‘You are a traveller! Stay! See, the water! Let me give you some.’

They had rested the litter on a pile of paving stones. It was at a convenient height from the ground, and by stooping he could lightly raise the head with one hand and hold the glass to his lips with the other. A little, muscular, brown man, with black hair and white teeth. A lively face, apparently. Earrings in his ears.

‘That’s well. You are a traveller?’

‘Surely, sir.’

‘A stranger in this city?’

‘Surely, surely, altogether. I am arrived this unhappy evening.’

‘From what country?’

‘Marseilles.’

‘Why, see there! I also! Almost as much a stranger here as you, though born here, I came from Marseilles a little while ago. Don’t be cast down.’ The face looked up at him imploringly, as he rose from wiping it, and gently replaced the coat that covered the writhing figure. ‘I won’t leave you till you shall be well taken care of. Courage! You will be very much better half an hour hence.’

‘Ah! Altro, Altro!’ cried the poor little man, in a faintly incredulous tone; and as they took him up, hung out his right hand to give the forefinger a back-handed shake in the air.

Arthur Clennam turned; and walking beside the litter, and saying an encouraging word now and then, accompanied it to the neighbouring hospital of Saint Bartholomew. None of the crowd but the bearers and he being admitted, the disabled man was soon laid on a table in a cool, methodical way, and carefully examined by a surgeon who was as near at hand, and as ready to appear as Calamity herself. ‘He hardly knows an English word,’ said Clennam; ‘is he badly hurt?’

‘Let us know all about it first,’ said the surgeon, continuing his examination with a businesslike delight in it, ‘before we pronounce.’

After trying the leg with a finger, and two fingers, and one hand and two hands, and over and under, and up and down, and in this direction and in that, and approvingly remarking on the points of interest to another gentleman who joined him, the surgeon at last clapped the patient on the shoulder, and said, ‘He won’t hurt. He’ll do very well. It’s difficult enough, but we shall not want him to part with his leg this time.’ Which Clennam interpreted to the patient, who was full of gratitude, and, in his demonstrative way, kissed both the interpreter’s hand and the surgeon’s several times.

‘It’s a serious injury, I suppose?’ said Clennam.

‘Ye-es,’ replied the surgeon, with the thoughtful pleasure of an artist contemplating the work upon his easel. ‘Yes, it’s enough. There’s a compound fracture above the knee, and a dislocation below. They are both of a beautiful kind.’ He gave the patient a friendly clap on the shoulder again, as if he really felt that he was a very good fellow indeed, and worthy of all commendation for having broken his leg in a manner interesting to science.

‘He speaks French?’ said the surgeon.

‘Oh yes, he speaks French.’

‘He’ll be at no loss here, then.—You have only to bear a little pain like a brave fellow, my friend, and to be thankful that all goes as well as it does,’ he added, in that tongue, ‘and you’ll walk again to a marvel. Now, let us see whether there’s anything else the matter, and how our ribs are?’

There was nothing else the matter, and our ribs were sound. Clennam remained until everything possible to be done had been skilfully and promptly done—the poor belated wanderer in a strange land movingly besought that favour of him—and lingered by the bed to which he was in due time removed, until he had fallen into a doze. Even then he wrote a few words for him on his card, with a promise to return to-morrow, and left it to be given to him when he should awake.

All these proceedings occupied so long that it struck eleven o’clock at night as he came out at the Hospital Gate. He had hired a lodging for the present in Covent Garden, and he took the nearest way to that quarter, by Snow Hill and Holborn.

Left to himself again, after the solicitude and compassion of his last adventure, he was naturally in a thoughtful mood. As naturally, he could not walk on thinking for ten minutes without recalling Flora. She necessarily recalled to him his life, with all its misdirection and little happiness.

When he got to his lodging, he sat down before the dying fire, as he had stood at the window of his old room looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys, and turned his gaze back upon the gloomy vista by which he had come to that stage in his existence. So long, so bare, so blank. No childhood; no youth, except for one remembrance; that one remembrance proved, only that day, to be a piece of folly.

It was a misfortune to him, trifle as it might have been to another. For, while all that was hard and stern in his recollection, remained Reality on being proved—was obdurate to the sight and touch, and relaxed nothing of its old indomitable grimness—the one tender recollection of his experience would not bear the same test, and melted away. He had foreseen this, on the former night, when he had dreamed with waking eyes, but he had not felt it then; and he had now.

Tra risposte del tipo “Signore francese”, “Signore portoghese”, “Signore olandese”, “Signore prossiano” e altre testimonianze contraddittorie, sentì improvvisamente una voce debole chiedere, sia in italiano che in francese, dell’acqua. Qualcuno commentò: “Ah, poveretto, dice di non riuscire mai a superare questa situazione; e non c’è da meravigliarsi!” Clennam chiese il permesso di avvicinarsi, poiché capiva le difficoltà della persona in questione. Gli fu immediatamente concesso l’autorizzazione per parlare con lui.

“Prima di tutto, ha bisogno di un po’ d’acqua”, disse, guardandosi intorno. (Una dozzina di bravi ragazzi si dispersero per andarla a prendere.) “Sei gravemente ferito, amico mio?”, chiese all’uomo disteso sulla barella, in italiano.

“Sì, signore; sì, sì, sì. È la mia gamba, è la mia gamba. Ma mi piace molto ascoltare quella vecchia musica, anche se suono molto male.”

“Sei un viaggiatore! Resta! Vedi, quell’acqua. Lascia che te ne dia un po’.”

Avevano adagiato il cucciolo su un mucchio di pietre da pavimentazione. Era a una distanza conveniente dal suolo; chinandosi leggermente, poteva sollevare la testa con una mano e portare il bicchiere alle labbra con l’altra. Un uomo piccolo, muscoloso, di colore, con i capelli neri e i denti bianchi. Un viso vivace, a quanto pare. Portava orecchini alle orecchie.

“Beh, sei un viaggiatore?”

“Certamente, signore.”

“Uno straniero in questa città?”

“Certamente, certamente. Sono arrivato questa triste sera.”

“Da quale paese?”

“Marsiglia.”

“Ehi, guarda! Anch’io! Sono quasi altrettanto estraneo qui quanto te, anche se sono nato in questa città; sono arrivato da Marsiglia poco tempo fa. Non lasciarti abbattere, ” Il viso lo guardò supplicante mentre lui smetteva di pulirlo e riponeva delicatamente il cappotto che copriva quella figura contorta. “Non ti lascerò finché non sarai stato adeguatamente curato. Coraggio! Tra mezz’ora starai molto meglio.”

“Ah! Un altro, un altro ancora!” gridò il povero uomo con un tono leggermente incredulo; e mentre lo sollevavano, tese la mano destra per fare un gesto di saluto con l’indice, agitandolo nell’aria.

Arthur Clennam si girò e, camminando accanto al lettino su cui era adagiato il ferito, gli diceva di tanto in tanto parole di incoraggiamento. Lo accompagnò fino all’ospedale vicino di Saint Bartholomew. Solo i portatori e lui furono ammessi all’interno; il malato fu subito adaggiato su un tavolo in modo ordinato e sistemato, e venne esaminato con cura da un chirurgo che si trovava lì vicino, pronto ad intervenire in qualsiasi momento. “Quasi non conosce una parola d’inglese. È gravemente ferito?” chiese Clennam.

“Ditemoci prima tutto ciò che c’è da sapere,” disse il chirurgo, continuando la sua ispezione con un atteggiamento professionale e piacevole nel farlo, “prima di prendere una decisione.”

Dopo aver provato a muovere la gamba con un dito, due dita, una mano, due mani, in su e in giù, in questa direzione e in quella, e dopo aver espresso approvazione riguardo ai punti interessanti dell’intervento davanti a un altro signore che lo aveva accompagnato, il chirurgo alla fine diede una pacca sulla spalla al paziente e disse: “Non farà male. Andrà molto bene. È già abbastanza difficile, ma non vogliamo che perda la gamba questa volta.” Clennam riferì queste parole al paziente, il quale, pieno di gratitudine, baciò più volte sia la mano dell’interprete che quella del chirurgo, in modo molto espansivo.

“È un’infortunio grave, immagino, ”, disse Clennam.

“Sì,” rispose il chirurgo, con quel piacere riflessivo tipico di un artista che ammira il proprio lavoro sul cavalletto. “Sì, è sufficiente. C’è una frattura composta sopra il ginocchio e una lussazione sotto. Entrambe di tipo molto interessante.” Diede di nuovo al paziente una pacca amichevole sulla spalla, come se davvero ritenesse che fosse un uomo molto bravo, degno di ogni lode per essersi rotto la gamba in un modo così significativo dal punto di vista scientifico.

“Parla francese?”, chiese il chirurgo.

“Ah sì, parla francese.”

“Allora qui non avrà alcun problema. Devi solo sopportare un po’ di dolore, come un vero uomo coraggioso, mio amico. E devi essere grato che le cose stiano andando così >bene,” aggiunse, parlando in quella lingua. “Poi potrai camminare di nuovo. Ora vediamo se c’è qualcos’altro che non va, e come stanno le nostre costole, ”

Non c’era altro da fare; le nostre costole erano intatte. Clennam rimase fino a quando tutto ciò che era possibile fare fu fatto con abilità e tempestività. Quel povero viaggiatore ritardato in una terra straniera gli chiese commosso quel favore. E rimase accanto al letto, dove sarebbe stato trasportato a tempo debito, fino a quando non si addormentò. Anche allora scrisse qualche parola su un biglietto per lui, promettendo di tornare il giorno dopo, e lo lasciò lì affinché gli venisse consegnato al risveglio.

Tutti questi procedimenti durarono così a lungo che quando uscì dal cancello dell’ospedale, erano già le undici di notte. Aveva affittato una stanza temporaneamente a Covent Garden e prese la strada più breve per raggiungere quel quartiere, passando per Snow Hill e Holborn.

Rimasto di nuovo da solo, dopo le attenzioni e la compassione mostrate durante la sua ultima avventura, era naturalmente di umore meditativo. E, come è naturale in queste circostanze, non riusciva a camminare per dieci minuti senza pensare a Flora. Lei gli ricordava inevitabilmente tutta la sua vita, con tutti i suoi errori e le poche gioie che aveva avuto.

Quando arrivò al suo alloggio, si sedette davanti al fuoco morente, proprio come aveva fatto in piedi alla finestra della sua vecchia stanza, guardando il bosco di camini anneriti; poi rivolse lo sguardo verso quella vista cupa che lo aveva portato a quel punto della sua esistenza. Tanto tempo, così desolato, così vuoto. Nessuna infanzia; nessuna giovinezza, se non per un ricordo. Ma quel ricordo, proprio in quel giorno, si rivelò essere solo una follia.

Fu una sfortuna per lui, anche se forse per un altro sarebbe stata solo una piccolezza. Perché, mentre tutto ciò che era duro e spietato nei suoi ricordi rimaneva realtà quando veniva verificato – restava insensibile al tatto e alla vista, non perdendo mai la sua antica ferocia indomabile – l’unica immagine tenera legata a quell’esperienza non resisteva a tale verifica e si scioglieva. L’aveva previsto quella precedente notte, quando aveva sognato con gli occhi aperti, ma allora non se n’era reso conto; ora invece lo sapeva.

He was a dreamer in such wise, because he was a man who had, deep-rooted in his nature, a belief in all the gentle and good things his life had been without. Bred in meanness and hard dealing, this had rescued him to be a man of honourable mind and open hand. Bred in coldness and severity, this had rescued him to have a warm and sympathetic heart. Bred in a creed too darkly audacious to pursue, through its process of reserving the making of man in the image of his Creator to the making of his Creator in the image of an erring man, this had rescued him to judge not, and in humility to be merciful, and have hope and charity.

And this saved him still from the whimpering weakness and cruel selfishness of holding that because such a happiness or such a virtue had not come into his little path, or worked well for him, therefore it was not in the great scheme, but was reducible, when found in appearance, to the basest elements. A disappointed mind he had, but a mind too firm and healthy for such unwholesome air. Leaving himself in the dark, it could rise into the light, seeing it shine on others and hailing it.

Therefore, he sat before his dying fire, sorrowful to think upon the way by which he had come to that night, yet not strewing poison on the way by which other men had come to it. That he should have missed so much, and at his time of life should look so far about him for any staff to bear him company upon his downward journey and cheer it, was a just regret. He looked at the fire from which the blaze departed, from which the afterglow subsided, in which the ashes turned grey, from which they dropped to dust, and thought, ‘How soon I too shall pass through such changes, and be gone!’

To review his life was like descending a green tree in fruit and flower, and seeing all the branches wither and drop off, one by one, as he came down towards them.

‘From the unhappy suppression of my youngest days, through the rigid and unloving home that followed them, through my departure, my long exile, my return, my mother’s welcome, my intercourse with her since, down to the afternoon of this day with poor Flora,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘what have I found!’

His door was softly opened, and these spoken words startled him, and came as if they were an answer:

‘Little Dorrit.’

Era un sognatore nel vero senso della parola, perché era un uomo il cui naturale era profondamente radicato nella fede in tutte le cose gentili e buone che la sua vita gli aveva concesso. Cresciuto in mezzo alla meschinità e alla durezza, questo lo aveva reso un uomo di animo onorevole e generoso. Cresciuto in un ambiente freddo e severo, questo lo aveva dotato di un cuore caldo e compassionevole. Cresciuto in una credenza troppo audace per essere seguita davvero – una credenza che limitava la creazione dell’uomo all’immagine del suo Creatore, piuttosto che permettergli di riconoscere l’immagine di un uomo errante nella sua stessa natura – questo lo aveva salvato dal giudicare con severità, e lo aveva reso umile, misericordioso, pieno di speranza e carità.

E questo lo salvò ancora dalla debolezza lamentosa e dall’egoismo crudele che avrebbero potuto spingerlo a ritenere che, poiché una tale felicità o virtù non era apparsa sulla sua strada o non gli aveva portato benefici concreti, quindi non facevano parte di un disegno più grande e generale. Ma quando queste cose venivano osservate superficialmente, potevano essere ridotte ai loro elementi più banali e meschini. Aveva un cuore deluso, ma anche una mente troppo ferma e sana per lasciarsi influenzare da tali pensieri nocivi. Lasciandosi guidare dall’oscurità, era in grado di raggiungere la luce, di vederla brillare sugli altri e di accoglierla con gioia.

Pertanto, sedette davanti al suo fuoco morente, pieno di tristezza al pensiero del percorso che lo aveva portato fino a quella notte, senza mai aver versato veleno lungo la strada percorsa da altri uomini. Il fatto che avesse perso così tanto, e che nel momento della sua vita dovesse cercare disperatamente qualcosa che potesse accompagnarlo nel suo viaggio verso il basso, rendendolo meno doloroso, era davvero motivo di rimpianto. Guardò il fuoco da cui proveniva la fiamma, da cui si spegneva il bagliore, in cui le ceneri diventavano grigie e poi cadevano trasformandosi in polvere, e pensò: “Quanto presto anche io passerò attraverso tali cambiamenti e scomparirò, ”

Rivedere la sua vita era come scendere un albero verde pieno di frutti e fiori, e vedere tutti i rami appassire e cadere uno dopo l’altro man mano che si scendeva verso di loro.

“Dalla sfortunata repressione dei miei primi anni, attraverso la rigida e priva d’amore casa che ne seguì, fino alla mia partenza, al lungo esilio, al mio ritorno, all’accoglienza di mia madre, ai rapporti che ho avuto con lei da allora, fino al pomeriggio di oggi con la povera Flora,” disse Arthur Clennam, “quanto ho trovato!”

La sua porta fu aperta dolcemente, e quelle parole pronunciate lo sorpresero; sembravano una risposta.

“Little Dorrit”.

CHAPTER 14. Little Dorrit’s Party

Arthur Clennam rose hastily, and saw her standing at the door. This history must sometimes see with Little Dorrit’s eyes, and shall begin that course by seeing him.

Little Dorrit looked into a dim room, which seemed a spacious one to her, and grandly furnished. Courtly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place with famous coffee-houses, where gentlemen wearing gold-laced coats and swords had quarrelled and fought duels; costly ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there were flowers in winter at guineas a-piece, pine-apples at guineas a pound, and peas at guineas a pint; picturesque ideas of Covent Garden, as a place where there was a mighty theatre, showing wonderful and beautiful sights to richly-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and which was for ever far beyond the reach of poor Fanny or poor uncle; desolate ideas of Covent Garden, as having all those arches in it, where the miserable children in rags among whom she had just now passed, like young rats, slunk and hid, fed on offal, huddled together for warmth, and were hunted about (look to the rats young and old, all ye Barnacles, for before God they are eating away our foundations, and will bring the roofs on our heads!); teeming ideas of Covent Garden, as a place of past and present mystery, romance, abundance, want, beauty, ugliness, fair country gardens, and foul street gutters; all confused together,—made the room dimmer than it was in Little Dorrit’s eyes, as they timidly saw it from the door.

At first in the chair before the gone-out fire, and then turned round wondering to see her, was the gentleman whom she sought. The brown, grave gentleman, who smiled so pleasantly, who was so frank and considerate in his manner, and yet in whose earnestness there was something that reminded her of his mother, with the great difference that she was earnest in asperity and he in gentleness. Now he regarded her with that attentive and inquiring look before which Little Dorrit’s eyes had always fallen, and before which they fell still.

‘My poor child! Here at midnight?’

‘I said Little Dorrit, sir, on purpose to prepare you. I knew you must be very much surprised.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘No sir, I have got Maggy with me.’

Considering her entrance sufficiently prepared for by this mention of her name, Maggy appeared from the landing outside, on the broad grin. She instantly suppressed that manifestation, however, and became fixedly solemn.

‘And I have no fire,’ said Clennam. ‘And you are—’ He was going to say so lightly clad, but stopped himself in what would have been a reference to her poverty, saying instead, ‘And it is so cold.’

Putting the chair from which he had risen nearer to the grate, he made her sit down in it; and hurriedly bringing wood and coal, heaped them together and got a blaze.

‘Your foot is like marble, my child;’ he had happened to touch it, while stooping on one knee at his work of kindling the fire; ‘put it nearer the warmth.’ Little Dorrit thanked him hastily. It was quite warm, it was very warm! It smote upon his heart to feel that she hid her thin, worn shoe.

Little Dorrit was not ashamed of her poor shoes. He knew her story, and it was not that. Little Dorrit had a misgiving that he might blame her father, if he saw them; that he might think, ‘why did he dine to-day, and leave this little creature to the mercy of the cold stones!’ She had no belief that it would have been a just reflection; she simply knew, by experience, that such delusions did sometimes present themselves to people. It was a part of her father’s misfortunes that they did.

‘Before I say anything else,’ Little Dorrit began, sitting before the pale fire, and raising her eyes again to the face which in its harmonious look of interest, and pity, and protection, she felt to be a mystery far above her in degree, and almost removed beyond her guessing at; ‘may I tell you something, sir?’

‘Yes, my child.’

A slight shade of distress fell upon her, at his so often calling her a child. She was surprised that he should see it, or think of such a slight thing; but he said directly:

‘I wanted a tender word, and could think of no other. As you just now gave yourself the name they give you at my mother’s, and as that is the name by which I always think of you, let me call you Little Dorrit.’

‘Thank you, sir, I should like it better than any name.’

‘Little Dorrit.’

‘Little mother,’ Maggy (who had been falling asleep) put in, as a correction.

‘It’s all the same, Maggy,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘all the same.’

‘Is it all the same, mother?’

‘Just the same.’

Maggy laughed, and immediately snored. In Little Dorrit’s eyes and ears, the uncouth figure and the uncouth sound were as pleasant as could be. There was a glow of pride in her big child, overspreading her face, when it again met the eyes of the grave brown gentleman. She wondered what he was thinking of, as he looked at Maggy and her. She thought what a good father he would be. How, with some such look, he would counsel and cherish his daughter.

‘What I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘is, that my brother is at large.’

Arthur was rejoiced to hear it, and hoped he would do well.

‘And what I was going to tell you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling in all her little figure and in her voice, ‘is, that I am not to know whose generosity released him—am never to ask, and am never to be told, and am never to thank that gentleman with all my grateful heart!’

He would probably need no thanks, Clennam said. Very likely he would be thankful himself (and with reason), that he had had the means and chance of doing a little service to her, who well deserved a great one.

‘And what I was going to say, sir, is,’ said Little Dorrit, trembling more and more, ‘that if I knew him, and I might, I would tell him that he can never, never know how I feel his goodness, and how my good father would feel it. And what I was going to say, sir, is, that if I knew him, and I might—but I don’t know him and I must not—I know that!—I would tell him that I shall never any more lie down to sleep without having prayed to Heaven to bless him and reward him. And if I knew him, and I might, I would go down on my knees to him, and take his hand and kiss it and ask him not to draw it away, but to leave it—O to leave it for a moment—and let my thankful tears fall on it; for I have no other thanks to give him!’

CAPITOLO 14. La festa di Little Dorrit

Arthur Clennam raccolse frettolosamente la rosa e la vide in piedi alla porta. A volte questa storia deve essere vista con gli occhi di Little Dorrit, e inizierà proprio così, osservando lui.

La piccola Dorrit guardò dentro una stanza buia; a lei sembrava spaziosa e arredata con lusso. Le venivano in mente immagini di Covent Garden come un luogo pieno di famose caffetterie, dove gentiluomini in abiti eleganti si scontravano e duellavano; immagini di fiori costosi venduti a prezzi esorbitanti anche d’inverno, ananas e piselli altrettanto costosi; immagini pittoresche di un grande teatro dove signore e signori ben vestiti assistevano a spettacoli meravigliosi. Tutto ciò sembrava però irraggiungibile per la povera Fanny o il suo povero zio. Le venivano anche immagini desolate di quegli archi dove i bambini in miseria si nascondevano, mangiavano rifiuti e vivevano in condizioni disperate. Immagini confuse che rendevano la stanza ancora più buia ai suoi occhi, mentre lei la osservava timidamente dalla porta.

Inizialmente, seduto sulla sedia di fronte al fuoco spento, poi si girò chiedendosi se fosse lei la persona che cercava. Quel gentiluomo dal viso marrone, serio e dignitoso, che sorrideva in modo così piacevole, che era così franco e premuroso nel suo comportamento. Eppure, nella sua sincerità c’era qualcosa che le ricordava sua madre. Con una grande differenza: lei era sincera in modo aspro, mentre lui lo era con gentilezza. Ora la guardava con quell’espressione attenta e curiosa di cui gli occhi di Little Dorrit erano sempre stati attratti. E ancora una volta, quegli occhi si posarono su di lui.

“Povero mio bambino. Qui, a mezzanotte?”

“Ho detto ‘Little Dorrit’, signore, apposta per prepararvi. Sapevo che sareste sicuramente molto sorpreso.”

“Sei da solo?”

“No, signore, ho Maggy con me.”

Considerando che il suo ingresso era stato adeguatamente preparato da questa menzione del suo nome, Maggy apparve dalla porta d’ingresso esterna, con un ampio sorriso sul viso. Tuttavia, reprimette immediatamente quel sorriso e assunse un’espressione solenne.

“E io non ho nemmeno un po’ di calore,” disse Clennam. “E tu, ” Stava per dire che era vestita così leggermente, ma si trattenne, evitando di fare riferimento alla sua povertà, e invece aggiunse: “E fa davvero molto freddo.”

Avvicinando la sedia su cui si era alzato al parapetto, le fece sedere lì; poi, portando rapidamente legna e carbone, li ammucchiò insieme e accese un fuoco.

“Tuo piede è come il marmo, mio bambino”; l’aveva sfiorato per caso mentre si accovacciava su un ginocchio per accendere il fuoco; “mettilo più vicino al calore.” La piccola Dorrit gli ringraziò in fretta. Era davvero caldo, molto caldo! Gli fece molto piacere sentire che lei nascondeva la sua scarpa sottile e logora.

La piccola Dorrit non si vergognava delle sue scarpe vecchie e logore. Lui conosceva la sua storia, e non era certo per quello che lei si sentiva in imbarazzo. La piccola Dorrit temeva che suo padre potesse biasimarlo se le avesse viste; temeva che potesse pensare: “Perché ha pranzato oggi, lasciando questa povera creatura alla mercede delle fredde pietre?” Non credeva affatto che tale pensiero fosse giusto o equo. Sapeva semplicemente, per esperienza, che a volte le persone possono essere colpite da simili illusioni. Era proprio una conseguenza dei mali fortunati di suo padre.

“Prima di dire altro,” cominciò Little Dorrit, seduta davanti al pallido fuoco, e sollevando di nuovo lo sguardo verso quel volto che, con la sua espressione armoniosa di interesse, pietà e protezione, le sembrava un mistero molto più profondo di lei, quasi irraggiungibile per la sua comprensione; “posso dirvi qualcosa, signore?”

“Sì, mio bambino.”

Un leggero segno di preoccupazione apparve sul suo volto, ogni volta che lui la chiamava bambina. Lei era sorpresa che lui potesse notarlo o pensare a una cosa così insignificante; ma lui disse apertamente:

“Volevo una parola dolce, ma non riuscivo a pensarne nessuna altra. Poiché poco fa ti sei dato il nome che vi danno nella casa di mia madre, e poiché è proprio quel nome con cui penso sempre a te, lascia che ti chiami Little Dorrit.”

“Grazie, signore, mi piacerebbe di più di qualsiasi altro nome.”

“Little Dorrit”.

“Piccola mamma,” intervenne Maggy, che stava cominciando ad addormentarsi, come correzione.

“È lo stesso comunque, Maggy,” rispose Little Dorrit, “lo stesso comunque.”

“È davvero la stessa cosa, mamma?”

“Proprio così.”

Maggy rise e subito iniziò a russare. Ai occhi e alle orecchie di Little Dorrit, quella figura rozza e quel suono sgraziato sembravano invece piacevoli. Un bagliore di orgoglio si diffondeva sul viso della sua grande figlia ogni volta che questi occhi incrociavano di nuovo quelli del gentiluomo dai capelli marroni scuri. Lei si chiedeva a cosa stesse pensando mentre li guardava. Pensò che sarebbe stato un ottimo padre: con uno sguardo del genere, avrebbe sicuramente consigliato e coccolato sua figlia.

“Quello che stavo per dirvi, signore,” disse Little Dorrit, “è che mio fratello è libero.”

Arthur ne fu molto felice e sperava che tutto andasse bene per lui.

“E quello che stavo per dirvi, signore,” disse Little Dorrit, tremando in tutto il suo piccolo corpo e nella sua voce, “è che non devo mai sapere di chi sia stata la generosità che lo ha liberato. Non devo mai chiederlo, né farmelo dire, e non devo mai ringraziare quel gentiluomo con tutto il mio cuore grato!”

Probabilmente non avrebbe bisogno di ringraziamenti, disse Clennam. Molto probabilmente sarebbe stato lui stesso grato (e con ragione) per aver avuto i mezzi e l’opportunità di rendere un piccolo servizio a lei, che davvero meritava molto di più.

‘E quello che volevo dire, signore,’ disse Little Dorrit, tremando sempre di più, ‘è che se lo conoscessi, e forse potrei farlo, gli direi che non potrà mai, mai sapere quanto apprezzo la sua bontà, e quanto mio buon padre l’avrebbe apprezzata. E quello che volevo dire, signore, è che se lo conoscessi, ma non lo conosco e non devo farlo, so che gli direi che non riposerò mai più senza pregare il Cielo di benedirlo e ricompensarlo. E se lo conoscessi, andrei in ginocchio davanti a lui, prenderei la sua mano, la bacerei e gli chiederei di non ritrarla, ma di lasciarla. Oh, solo per un momento, affinché le mie lacrime di gratitudine possano cadervi sopra; perché non ho altro modo per ringraziarlo!’

Little Dorrit had put his hand to her lips, and would have kneeled to him, but he gently prevented her, and replaced her in her chair. Her eyes, and the tones of her voice, had thanked him far better than she thought. He was not able to say, quite as composedly as usual, ‘There, Little Dorrit, there, there, there! We will suppose that you did know this person, and that you might do all this, and that it was all done. And now tell me, Who am quite another person—who am nothing more than the friend who begged you to trust him—why you are out at midnight, and what it is that brings you so far through the streets at this late hour, my slight, delicate,’ child was on his lips again, ‘Little Dorrit!’

‘Maggy and I have been to-night,’ she answered, subduing herself with the quiet effort that had long been natural to her, ‘to the theatre where my sister is engaged.’

‘And oh ain’t it a Ev’nly place,’ suddenly interrupted Maggy, who seemed to have the power of going to sleep and waking up whenever she chose. ‘Almost as good as a hospital. Only there ain’t no Chicking in it.’

Here she shook herself, and fell asleep again.

‘We went there,’ said Little Dorrit, glancing at her charge, ‘because I like sometimes to know, of my own knowledge, that my sister is doing well; and like to see her there, with my own eyes, when neither she nor Uncle is aware. It is very seldom indeed that I can do that, because when I am not out at work, I am with my father, and even when I am out at work, I hurry home to him. But I pretend to-night that I am at a party.’

As she made the confession, timidly hesitating, she raised her eyes to the face, and read its expression so plainly that she answered it.

‘Oh no, certainly! I never was at a party in my life.’

She paused a little under his attentive look, and then said, ‘I hope there is no harm in it. I could never have been of any use, if I had not pretended a little.’

She feared that he was blaming her in his mind for so devising to contrive for them, think for them, and watch over them, without their knowledge or gratitude; perhaps even with their reproaches for supposed neglect. But what was really in his mind, was the weak figure with its strong purpose, the thin worn shoes, the insufficient dress, and the pretence of recreation and enjoyment. He asked where the suppositious party was? At a place where she worked, answered Little Dorrit, blushing. She had said very little about it; only a few words to make her father easy. Her father did not believe it to be a grand party—indeed he might suppose that. And she glanced for an instant at the shawl she wore.

‘It is the first night,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I have ever been away from home. And London looks so large, so barren, and so wild.’ In Little Dorrit’s eyes, its vastness under the black sky was awful; a tremor passed over her as she said the words.

‘But this is not,’ she added, with the quiet effort again, ‘what I have come to trouble you with, sir. My sister’s having found a friend, a lady she has told me of and made me rather anxious about, was the first cause of my coming away from home. And being away, and coming (on purpose) round by where you lived and seeing a light in the window—’

Not for the first time. No, not for the first time. In Little Dorrit’s eyes, the outside of that window had been a distant star on other nights than this. She had toiled out of her way, tired and troubled, to look up at it, and wonder about the grave, brown gentleman from so far off, who had spoken to her as a friend and protector.

‘There were three things,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that I thought I would like to say, if you were alone and I might come up-stairs. First, what I have tried to say, but never can—never shall—’

‘Hush, hush! That is done with, and disposed of. Let us pass to the second,’ said Clennam, smiling her agitation away, making the blaze shine upon her, and putting wine and cake and fruit towards her on the table.

‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit—‘this is the second thing, sir—I think Mrs Clennam must have found out my secret, and must know where I come from and where I go to. Where I live, I mean.’

‘Indeed!’ returned Clennam quickly. He asked her, after short consideration, why she supposed so.

‘I think,’ replied Little Dorrit, ‘that Mr Flintwinch must have watched me.’

And why, Clennam asked, as he turned his eyes upon the fire, bent his brows, and considered again; why did she suppose that?

‘I have met him twice. Both times near home. Both times at night, when I was going back. Both times I thought (though that may easily be my mistake), that he hardly looked as if he had met me by accident.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No; he only nodded and put his head on one side.’

‘The devil take his head!’ mused Clennam, still looking at the fire; ‘it’s always on one side.’

He roused himself to persuade her to put some wine to her lips, and to touch something to eat—it was very difficult, she was so timid and shy—and then said, musing again:

‘Is my mother at all changed to you?’

‘Oh, not at all. She is just the same. I wondered whether I had better tell her my history. I wondered whether I might—I mean, whether you would like me to tell her. I wondered,’ said Little Dorrit, looking at him in a suppliant way, and gradually withdrawing her eyes as he looked at her, ‘whether you would advise me what I ought to do.’

‘Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam; and the phrase had already begun, between these two, to stand for a hundred gentle phrases, according to the varying tone and connection in which it was used; ‘do nothing. I will have some talk with my old friend, Mrs Affery. Do nothing, Little Dorrit—except refresh yourself with such means as there are here. I entreat you to do that.’

‘Thank you, I am not hungry. Nor,’ said Little Dorrit, as he softly put her glass towards her, ‘nor thirsty.—I think Maggy might like something, perhaps.’

La piccola Dorrit aveva portato la mano alle proprie labbra e stava per inginocchiarsi davanti a lui, ma lui la fermò dolcemente e la fece risedere sulla sedia. I suoi occhi e il tono della sua voce gli avevano espresso gratitudine in modo molto più efficace di quanto lei pensasse. Lui non riuscì a dire, con la solita calma, quelle parole: “Ecco, piccola Dorrit. Supponiamo che tu conoscessi davvero questa persona, e che fossi stata capace di fare tutto questo. Ora dimmi: chi sono io, una persona completamente diversa. Chi sono io, se non semplicemente l’amico che ti ha pregato di fidarti di me? Perché sei fuori a mezzanotte. E cosa ti spinge ad attraversare le strade a quest’ora tarda. Mia piccola, delicata, ” La parola “bambina” stava di nuovo per uscire dalle sue labbra, “Piccola Dorrit!”

“Stasera io e Maggy siamo state al teatro,” rispose lei, imponendosi con quel silenzioso sforzo che da tempo era diventato per lei naturale, “dove mia sorella ha un appuntamento.”

“E oh, che posto davvero meraviglioso, ”, interruppe improvvisamente Maggy, che sembrava avere il potere di addormentarsi e svegliarsi quando voleva. “Quasi quanto un ospedale. Solo che lì non ci sono polli.”

Qui si scosse un po’ e poi si addormentò di nuovo.

“Siamo andate lì,” disse Little Dorrit, guardando la sua protetta, “perché a volte mi piace sapere, con certezza, che mia sorella sta bene; e mi piace vederla lì, con i miei occhi, quando né lei né lo zio se ne accorgono. In realtà succede molto raramente, perché quando non sono al lavoro, sono con mio padre, e anche quando sono al lavoro, mi affretto a tornare a casa da lui. Ma di notte fingo di essere a una festa.”

Mentre confessava, esitando timidamente, alzò lo sguardo sul suo viso e lesse l’espressione che vi era dipinta così chiaramente da riuscire a comprenderla perfettamente.

“Oh no, certamente! Non sono mai stato a una festa in vita mia.”

Si fermò per un attimo sotto il suo sguardo attento, poi disse: “Spero che non ci sia alcun danno in questo. Non avrei mai potuto essere di alcuna utilità, se non avessi finto un po’.”

Temeva che lui la incolpasse, nel suo intimo, per aver ideato tutto ciò per loro, per aver pensato e provveduto a loro senza che lo sapessero o gliene fossero grati; forse addirittura per il presunto trascuramento da parte sua. Ma ciò che realmente aveva in mente lui era quella figura fragile ma con uno scopo forte, quei vestiti logori e insufficienti, quella finzione di divertimento e gioia. Chiese dove si svolgesse questa presunta festa; “In un posto dove lavora”, rispose Little Dorrit, arrossendo. Aveva detto molto poco al riguardo; solo poche parole per tranquillizzare suo padre. Suo padre non credeva che si trattasse di una grande festa. Anzi, forse lo pensava davvero. E lei lanciò un’occhiata al scialle che indossava.

“È la prima notte,” disse Little Dorrit, “che trascorro lontano da casa. E )Londra sembra così grande, così desolata e così selvaggia, ” Negli occhi di Little Dorrit, la sua vastità sotto il cielo nero appariva terribile; un brivido la attraversò mentre pronunciava quelle parole.

“Ma non è questo,” aggiunse, con lo stesso sforzo silenzioso di prima, “il motivo per cui sono venuta a disturbarvi, signore. Mia sorella ha trovato un’amica, una signora di cui mi ha parlato e che mi ha reso piuttosto preoccupata; questa è stata la prima ragione per cui me ne sono andata da casa. E dopo essere partita, passando (intenzionalmente) vicino a dove voi vivevate, ho visto una luce alla finestra, ”

Non per la prima volta. No, non per la prima volta. Negli occhi di Little Dorrit, l’esterno di quella finestra era stato soltanto una stella lontana in altre notti, non in questa. Si era sforzata, stanca e preoccupata, di alzarlo lo sguardo verso di essa, e si chiedeva riguardo a quel gentiluomo dall’aspetto grave e dai capelli castani, proveniente da così lontano, che le aveva parlato come un amico e un protettore.

“C’erano tre cose,” disse Little Dorrit, “che avrei voluto dire, se tu fossi stato da solo e io potessi salire le scale. Prima di tutto, quello che ho cercato di dire, ma non riesco mai a farlo, e probabilmente non ci riuscirò mai.”

“Zitta, zitta! È tutto finito e sistemato. Passiamo al secondo argomento,” disse Clennam, sorridendo per alleviare la sua agitazione, facendo brillare la luce sulla sua faccia, e mettendole davanti vino, torta e frutta sul tavolo.

“Penso,” disse Little Dorrit, “che questa sia la seconda cosa. Penso che Signora Clennam debba aver scoperto il mio segreto, e debba sapere da dove vengo e dove vado. Intendo, dove vivo.”

“Certamente!” rispose rapidamente Clennam. Dopo un breve istante di riflessione, le chiese perché pensasse così.

“Penso,” rispose Little Dorrit, “che il signor Flintwinch debba avermi osservata.”

E perché, chiese Clennam, mentre fissava il fuoco, aggrottava la fronte e rifletteva ancora una volta; perché pensava che fosse così?

L’ho incontrato due volte. Entrambe le volte vicino a casa. Entrambe le volte di notte, quando stavo tornando indietro. Entrambe le volte ho pensato (anche se potrebbe essere facilmente un mio errore) che sembrasse quasi impossibile che ci fossimo incontrati per caso.

“Ha detto qualcosa?”

“No; si limitò ad annuire e inclinare la testa da un lato.”

“Che il diavolo si prenda la sua testa!”, pensò Clennam, continuando a fissare il fuoco; “è sempre dallo stesso lato”.

Si sforzò di convincerla a bere un po’ di vino e a mangiare qualcosa; era molto difficile, lei era così timida e schiva. Poi, riflettendo ancora, disse:

“Mia madre è cambiata in qualche modo rispetto a te?”

“Oh, affatto no. È esattamente la stessa di sempre. Mi chiedevo se fosse meglio raccontarle la mia storia. Mi chiedevo se tu volessi che lo facessi,” disse Little Dorrit, guardandolo con aria supplichevole; poi, man mano che lui continuava a fissarla, distolse gradualmente lo sguardo e aggiunse: “Mi chiedevo, se potresti darmi un consiglio su cosa dovrei fare.”

“Little Dorrit,” disse Clennam; e quell’espressione, tra loro due, aveva già iniziato a significare centinaia di altre frasi gentili, a seconda del tono e del contesto in cui veniva utilizzata; “non fare nulla. Parlerò con la mia vecchia amica, la signora Affery. Non fare nulla, Little Dorrit, tranne che riposarti e rinfrescarti con ciò che c’è qui. Te lo prego.”

“Grazie, non ho fame. E nemmeno sete,” disse Little Dorrit mentre gli porgeva dolcemente il bicchiere. “Forse a Maggy potrebbe piacere qualcosa, ”

‘We will make her find pockets presently for all there is here,’ said Clennam: ‘but before we awake her, there was a third thing to say.’

‘Yes. You will not be offended, sir?’

‘I promise that, unreservedly.’

‘It will sound strange. I hardly know how to say it. Don’t think it unreasonable or ungrateful in me,’ said Little Dorrit, with returning and increasing agitation.

‘No, no, no. I am sure it will be natural and right. I am not afraid that I shall put a wrong construction on it, whatever it is.’

‘Thank you. You are coming back to see my father again?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have been so good and thoughtful as to write him a note, saying that you are coming to-morrow?’

‘Oh, that was nothing! Yes.’

‘Can you guess,’ said Little Dorrit, folding her small hands tight in one another, and looking at him with all the earnestness of her soul looking steadily out of her eyes, ‘what I am going to ask you not to do?’

‘I think I can. But I may be wrong.’

‘No, you are not wrong,’ said Little Dorrit, shaking her head. ‘If we should want it so very, very badly that we cannot do without it, let me ask you for it.’

‘I Will,—I Will.’

‘Don’t encourage him to ask. Don’t understand him if he does ask. Don’t give it to him. Save him and spare him that, and you will be able to think better of him!’

Clennam said—not very plainly, seeing those tears glistening in her anxious eyes—that her wish should be sacred with him.

‘You don’t know what he is,’ she said; ‘you don’t know what he really is. How can you, seeing him there all at once, dear love, and not gradually, as I have done! You have been so good to us, so delicately and truly good, that I want him to be better in your eyes than in anybody’s. And I cannot bear to think,’ cried Little Dorrit, covering her tears with her hands, ‘I cannot bear to think that you of all the world should see him in his only moments of degradation.’

‘Pray,’ said Clennam, ‘do not be so distressed. Pray, pray, Little Dorrit! This is quite understood now.’

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you! I have tried very much to keep myself from saying this; I have thought about it, days and nights; but when I knew for certain you were coming again, I made up my mind to speak to you. Not because I am ashamed of him,’ she dried her tears quickly, ‘but because I know him better than any one does, and love him, and am proud of him.’

Relieved of this weight, Little Dorrit was nervously anxious to be gone. Maggy being broad awake, and in the act of distantly gloating over the fruit and cakes with chuckles of anticipation, Clennam made the best diversion in his power by pouring her out a glass of wine, which she drank in a series of loud smacks; putting her hand upon her windpipe after every one, and saying, breathless, with her eyes in a prominent state, ‘Oh, ain’t it d’licious! Ain’t it hospitally!’ When she had finished the wine and these encomiums, he charged her to load her basket (she was never without her basket) with every eatable thing upon the table, and to take especial care to leave no scrap behind. Maggy’s pleasure in doing this and her little mother’s pleasure in seeing Maggy pleased, was as good a turn as circumstances could have given to the late conversation.

‘But the gates will have been locked long ago,’ said Clennam, suddenly remembering it. ‘Where are you going?’

‘I am going to Maggy’s lodging,’ answered Little Dorrit. ‘I shall be quite safe, quite well taken care of.’

‘I must accompany you there,’ said Clennam, ‘I cannot let you go alone.’

‘Yes, pray leave us to go there by ourselves. Pray do!’ begged Little Dorrit.

She was so earnest in the petition, that Clennam felt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon her: the rather, because he could well understand that Maggy’s lodging was of the obscurest sort. ‘Come, Maggy,’ said Little Dorrit cheerily, ‘we shall do very well; we know the way by this time, Maggy?’

‘Yes, yes, little mother; we know the way,’ chuckled Maggy. And away they went. Little Dorrit turned at the door to say, ‘God bless you!’ She said it very softly, but perhaps she may have been as audible above—who knows!—as a whole cathedral choir.

Arthur Clennam suffered them to pass the corner of the street before he followed at a distance; not with any idea of encroaching a second time on Little Dorrit’s privacy, but to satisfy his mind by seeing her secure in the neighbourhood to which she was accustomed. So diminutive she looked, so fragile and defenceless against the bleak damp weather, flitting along in the shuffling shadow of her charge, that he felt, in his compassion, and in his habit of considering her a child apart from the rest of the rough world, as if he would have been glad to take her up in his arms and carry her to her journey’s end.

In course of time she came into the leading thoroughfare where the Marshalsea was, and then he saw them slacken their pace, and soon turn down a by-street. He stopped, felt that he had no right to go further, and slowly left them. He had no suspicion that they ran any risk of being houseless until morning; had no idea of the truth until long, long afterwards.

But, said Little Dorrit, when they stopped at a poor dwelling all in darkness, and heard no sound on listening at the door, ‘Now, this is a good lodging for you, Maggy, and we must not give offence. Consequently, we will only knock twice, and not very loud; and if we cannot wake them so, we must walk about till day.’

Once, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. Twice, Little Dorrit knocked with a careful hand, and listened. All was close and still. ‘Maggy, we must do the best we can, my dear. We must be patient, and wait for day.’

It was a chill dark night, with a damp wind blowing, when they came out into the leading street again, and heard the clocks strike half-past one. ‘In only five hours and a half,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘we shall be able to go home.’ To speak of home, and to go and look at it, it being so near, was a natural sequence. They went to the closed gate, and peeped through into the court-yard. ‘I hope he is sound asleep,’ said Little Dorrit, kissing one of the bars, ‘and does not miss me.’

“Le faremo trovare delle tasche in modo che possa mettere dentro tutto ciò che c’è qui,” disse Clennam; “ma prima di svegliarla, c’è ancora una terza cosa da dire.”

“Sì. Non vi offenderete, signore?”

“Lo prometto, senza riserve.”

“Sarà strano da dire. Non so quasi come pronunciarlo. Per favore, non pensate che sia irragionevole o ingrato da parte mia,” disse Little Dorrit, con un’agitazione sempre crescente.

“No, no, no. Sono sicuro che sarà naturale e giusto. Non ho paura di interpretarlo in modo sbagliato, qualunque cosa sia.”

“Grazie. Tornerai di nuovo a vedere mio padre?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Sei stato così gentile e premuroso da scrivergli una nota, dicendo che verrai domani, ”

“Ah, niente di che. Sì.”

“Riesci a indovinare?” disse Little Dorrit, intrecciando le sue manine e guardandolo con tutta la sincerità della sua ‘anima che traspariva dai suoi occhi, “cosa ti chiederò di non fare?”

“Penso di potercela fare. Ma forse mi sbaglio.”

“No, non ti sbagli,” disse Little Dorrit scuotendo la testa. “Se lo volessimo davvero tanto, così tanto da non poterne fare a meno, allora lascia che te lo chieda.”

“Lo farò, lo farò.”

“Non incoraggiarlo a chiederlo. Non cercare di capirlo se dovesse chiedere. Non darglielo. Salvalo e risparmiagli questa sofferenza, così potrai pensare meglio di lui!”

Clennam disse – non molto chiaramente, vedendo quelle lacrime brillare nei suoi occhi ansiosi – che il suo desiderio doveva essere considerato sacro per lui.

“Non sai chi sia veramente,” disse lei; “non conosci la sua vera natura. Come puoi, vedendolo tutto d’un tratto, caro amore mio, senza averlo conosciuto gradualmente, come ho fatto io? Sei stato così buono con noi, con tanta delicatezza e sincerità. Voglio che lui appaia migliore ai tuoi occhi di quanto non lo sia agli occhi di chiunque altro. E non riesco a sopportare l’idea,” gridò Little Dorrit, coprendosi le lacrime con le mani, “non riesco a sopportare l’idea che proprio tu, tra tutte le persone del mondo, debba vederlo nei suoi momenti di degradazione.”

“Prega,” disse Clennam, “non essere così angosciata. Prega, Little Dorrit. Ora tutto è stato chiarito.”

“Grazie, signore. Grazie davvero! Ho cercato con tutte le mie forze di non dirlo; ci ho pensato giorno e notte. Ma quando ho saputo con certezza che sareste tornato, ho deciso di parlarvi. Non perché mi vergogni di lui,” si asciugò rapidamente le lacrime, “ma perché lo conosco meglio di chiunque altro, lo amo e ne sono orgogliosa.”

Sgravata da questo peso, Little Dorrit era ansiosa di andarsene. Poiché Maggy era completamente sveglia e si stava godendo i frutti e i dolci con risate di anticipazione, Clennam fece del suo meglio per distrarla versandole un bicchiere di vino, che lei bevve con grandi sorsi, mettendosi la mano sulla gola dopo ogni sorso e dicendo, senza fiato e con gli occhi spalancati: “Oh, che delizioso! Che squisito!” Quando finì il vino e questi elogi, le ordinò di riempire il suo cestino (che non le mancava mai) con ogni cosa commestibile sul tavolo, facendo attenzione a non lasciare nulla indietro. La gioia di Maggy nel farlo e la felicità della sua piccola madre nel vederla contenta furono il miglior modo in cui le circostanze potessero rendere più piacevole quella conversazione tardiva.

“Ma i cancelli saranno stati chiusi da molto tempo,” disse Clennam, ricordandoselo all’improvviso. “Dove stai andando?”

“Sto andando a casa di Maggy,” rispose Little Dorrit. “Sarò al sicuro, verrò ben curata.”

“Devo accompagnarti lì,” disse Clennam, “non posso lasciarti andare da solo.”

“Sì, vi prego lasciateci andare lì da soli. Vi prego!” supplicò Little Dorrit.

Era così sincera nella sua richiesta che Clennam si sentì in imbarazzo all’idea di intromettersi: soprattutto perché capiva perfettamente che l’alloggio di Maggy fosse di estrema povertà. “Vieni, Maggy,” disse allegramente Little Dorrit, “andrà tutto molto bene; ormai conosciamo la strada, vero, Maggy?”

“Sì, sì, piccola mamma; conosciamo la strada,” ridacchiò Maggy. E via andarono. La piccola Dorrit si girò alla porta e disse: “Dio vi benedica!” Lo disse molto dolcemente, ma forse fu udita altrettanto chiaramente, chi lo sa, quanto un intero coro di una cattedrale.

Arthur Clennam li lasciò superare l’angolo della strada prima di seguirli a distanza; non con l’intenzione di violare ancora una volta la privacy di Little Dorrit, ma per assicurarsi che fosse al sicuro nel quartiere a cui era abituata. Sembrava così piccola, così fragile e indifesa contro il freddo e umido clima, che, mosso dalla compassione e dal desiderio di proteggerla – considerandola in fondo una “bambina” diversa dal resto del mondo duro e spietato – avrebbe voluto prenderla tra le braccia e portarla fino alla fine del suo “viaggio”.

Nel corso del tempo, lei arrivò nella strada principale dove si trovava la Marshalsea; allora lui vide che rallentavano il passo e presto svoltarono in una stradina laterale. Si fermò, rendendosi conto di non avere il diritto di seguirle oltre, e le lasciò lentamente. Non sospettava affatto che rischiassero di rimanere senza casa fino al mattino; non scoprì la verità se non molto tempo dopo.

“Ma,” disse Little Dorrit, “quando si fermarono in una povera abitazione avvolta nell’oscurità e non si sentì alcun rumore bussando alla porta, ‘Ora, questa è davvero un’ottima sistemazione per te, Maggy. Non dobbiamo offendere nessuno. Quindi basterà bussare solo due volte, e non molto forte; se così non riusciremo a svegliarli, dovremo aspettare fino all’alba.’”

Una volta, Little Dorrit bussò con delicatezza e ascoltò. Due volte ancora, Little Dorrit bussò con delicatezza e ascoltò. Tutto era silenzioso e immobile intorno a lei. “Maggy, dobbiamo fare del nostro meglio, cara. Dobbiamo essere pazienti e aspettare il giorno.”

Era una fredda e buia notte, con un umido >vento che soffiava; quando uscirono di nuovo nella strada principale, sentirono gli orologi suonare le due e mezza. “Tra soltanto cinque ore e mezza”, disse Little Dorrit, “potremo tornare a >casa”. Parlare di >casa e pensare al momento in cui l’avrebbero rivista, essendo così vicina, era del tutto naturale. Si avvicinarono al cancello chiuso e sbirciarono all’interno del cortile. “Spero che stia dormendo profondamente”, disse Little Dorrit, baciando uno dei barre del cancello, “e che non mi manchi”.

The gate was so familiar, and so like a companion, that they put down Maggy’s basket in a corner to serve for a seat, and keeping close together, rested there for some time. While the street was empty and silent, Little Dorrit was not afraid; but when she heard a footstep at a distance, or saw a moving shadow among the street lamps, she was startled, and whispered, ‘Maggy, I see some one. Come away!’ Maggy would then wake up more or less fretfully, and they would wander about a little, and come back again.

As long as eating was a novelty and an amusement, Maggy kept up pretty well. But that period going by, she became querulous about the cold, and shivered and whimpered. ‘It will soon be over, dear,’ said Little Dorrit patiently. ‘Oh it’s all very fine for you, little mother,’ returned Maggy, ‘but I’m a poor thing, only ten years old.’ At last, in the dead of the night, when the street was very still indeed, Little Dorrit laid the heavy head upon her bosom, and soothed her to sleep. And thus she sat at the gate, as it were alone; looking up at the stars, and seeing the clouds pass over them in their wild flight—which was the dance at Little Dorrit’s party.

‘If it really was a party!’ she thought once, as she sat there. ‘If it was light and warm and beautiful, and it was our house, and my poor dear was its master, and had never been inside these walls. And if Mr Clennam was one of our visitors, and we were dancing to delightful music, and were all as gay and light-hearted as ever we could be! I wonder—’ Such a vista of wonder opened out before her, that she sat looking up at the stars, quite lost, until Maggy was querulous again, and wanted to get up and walk.

Three o’clock, and half-past three, and they had passed over London Bridge. They had heard the rush of the tide against obstacles; and looked down, awed, through the dark vapour on the river; had seen little spots of lighted water where the bridge lamps were reflected, shining like demon eyes, with a terrible fascination in them for guilt and misery. They had shrunk past homeless people, lying coiled up in nooks. They had run from drunkards. They had started from slinking men, whistling and signing to one another at bye corners, or running away at full speed. Though everywhere the leader and the guide, Little Dorrit, happy for once in her youthful appearance, feigned to cling to and rely upon Maggy. And more than once some voice, from among a knot of brawling or prowling figures in their path, had called out to the rest to ‘let the woman and the child go by!’

So, the woman and the child had gone by, and gone on, and five had sounded from the steeples. They were walking slowly towards the east, already looking for the first pale streak of day, when a woman came after them.

‘What are you doing with the child?’ she said to Maggy.

She was young—far too young to be there, Heaven knows!—and neither ugly nor wicked-looking. She spoke coarsely, but with no naturally coarse voice; there was even something musical in its sound.

‘What are you doing with yourself?’ retorted Maggy, for want of a better answer.

‘Can’t you see, without my telling you?’

‘I don’t know as I can,’ said Maggy.

‘Killing myself! Now I have answered you, answer me. What are you doing with the child?’

The supposed child kept her head drooped down, and kept her form close at Maggy’s side.

‘Poor thing!’ said the woman. ‘Have you no feeling, that you keep her out in the cruel streets at such a time as this? Have you no eyes, that you don’t see how delicate and slender she is? Have you no sense (you don’t look as if you had much) that you don’t take more pity on this cold and trembling little hand?’

She had stepped across to that side, and held the hand between her own two, chafing it. ‘Kiss a poor lost creature, dear,’ she said, bending her face, ‘and tell me where’s she taking you.’

Little Dorrit turned towards her.

‘Why, my God!’ she said, recoiling, ‘you’re a woman!’

‘Don’t mind that!’ said Little Dorrit, clasping one of her hands that had suddenly released hers. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

‘Then you had better be,’ she answered. ‘Have you no mother?’

‘No.’

‘No father?’

‘Yes, a very dear one.’

‘Go home to him, and be afraid of me. Let me go. Good night!’

‘I must thank you first; let me speak to you as if I really were a child.’

‘You can’t do it,’ said the woman. ‘You are kind and innocent; but you can’t look at me out of a child’s eyes. I never should have touched you, but I thought that you were a child.’ And with a strange, wild cry, she went away.

No day yet in the sky, but there was day in the resounding stones of the streets; in the waggons, carts, and coaches; in the workers going to various occupations; in the opening of early shops; in the traffic at markets; in the stir of the riverside. There was coming day in the flaring lights, with a feebler colour in them than they would have had at another time; coming day in the increased sharpness of the air, and the ghastly dying of the night.

They went back again to the gate, intending to wait there now until it should be opened; but the air was so raw and cold that Little Dorrit, leading Maggy about in her sleep, kept in motion. Going round by the Church, she saw lights there, and the door open; and went up the steps and looked in.

‘Who’s that?’ cried a stout old man, who was putting on a nightcap as if he were going to bed in a vault.

‘It’s no one particular, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Stop!’ cried the man. ‘Let’s have a look at you!’

This caused her to turn back again in the act of going out, and to present herself and her charge before him.

‘I thought so!’ said he. ‘I know you.’

Il cancello era così familiare, e sembrava quasi un compagno di viaggio, che posarono la cesta di Maggy in un angolo per usarla come sedile, poi si tennero vicine l’una all’altra e riposarono lì per un po’. Mentre la strada era deserta e silenziosa, Little Dorrit non aveva paura; ma quando sentiva dei passi in lontananza o vedeva un’ombra muoversi tra i lampioni, si spaventava e sussurrava: “Maggy, c’è qualcuno. Andiamo via!” Allora Maggy si svegliava, più o meno agitata, e loro continuavano a girovagare un po’, per poi tornare indietro.

Finché mangiare rappresentava una novità e un divertimento, Maggy se la cavava abbastanza bene. Ma con il passare del tempo iniziò a lamentarsi del freddo, tremando e piagnucolando. “Passerà presto, cara”, disse Little Dorrit con pazienza. “Oh, per te va tutto bene, piccola mamma”, rispose Maggy, “ma io sono una povera bambina, ho solo dieci anni.” Alla fine, nel cuore della notte, quando la strada era completamente silenziosa, Little Dorrit posò la testa pesante sul suo petto e la consolò fino a farla addormentare. E così lei rimase seduta al cancello, quasi da sola; guardando le stelle e osservando le nuvole che le attraversavano velocemente, quel movimento rappresentava il danzo alla festa di Little Dorrit.

“Se davvero fosse una festa, ”, pensò una volta mentre sedeva lì. “Se fosse luminosa, calda e bella; se fosse la nostra casa, e il mio povero caro ne fosse il padrone, senza mai essere stato dentro queste mura. E se il signor Clennam fosse tra i nostri ospiti, e danzassimo al suono di musica deliziosa, e fossimo tutti felici e spensierati come non lo siamo mai stati! Mi chiedo, ” Un tale scenario di meraviglia si aprì davanti ai suoi occhi; rimase seduta a fissare le stelle, completamente immersa in quei pensieri, fino a quando Maggy non iniziò di nuovo a lamentarsi e volle alzarsi per camminare.

Le tre e mezza del pomeriggio. Avevano già attraversato il Ponte di Londra. Avevano sentito il rumore delle onde che si schiantavano contro gli ostacoli; avevano guardato in basso, attoniti, attraverso la nebbia scura sul fiume. Avevano visto piccole macchie di luce sull’acqua, dove i lampioni del ponte si riflettevano, brillando come occhi demoniaci, con un fascino terribile per chiunque provasse colpa o sofferenza. Si erano tenuti alla larga dalle persone senza fissa dimora, accovacciate negli angoli; avevano evitato i ubriachi e anche quegli uomini che si muovevano furtivamente, sussurrando tra loro agli angoli delle strade o scappando a tutta velocità. Eppure, ovunque, la guida. Little Dorrit, per una volta felice nel suo aspetto giovane, fingeva di appoggiarsi a Maggy e di affidarsi a lei. E più di una volta, da qualche gruppo di persone che litigavano o gironzolavano lungo il loro cammino, qualcuno gridava agli altri: “Lasciate passare quella donna e quel bambino!”

Quindi, la donna e il bambino erano già andati via, e mentre proseguivano, cinque rintocchi risuonarono dalle guglie delle chiese. Camminavano lentamente verso est, cercando già i primi segni dell’alba, quando una donna li inseguì.

“Cosa stai facendo con quel bambino?”, chiese a Maggy.

Era giovane, troppo giovane per essere lì, chissà perché, e né brutta né di aspetto malvagio. Parlava in modo grossolano, ma non aveva una voce naturalmente ruvida; anzi, c’era qualcosa di musicale nel suo tono.

“Cosa stai facendo da solo?” ribatté Maggy, per mancanza di una risposta migliore.

“Non riesci a vedere da solo, senza che te lo dica io?”

“Non so proprio come farlo,” disse Maggy.

“Uccidendomi. Ora ti ho risposto; rispondi tu a me: cosa stai facendo con quel bambino?”

La presunta bambina teneva la testa bassa e si manteneva vicino a Maggy.

“Poverina, ”, disse la donna. “Non provi alcuna compassione, a tenerla fuori per le strade crudeli in un momento del genere? Non hai occhi, forse, per non vedere quanto sia delicata e snella? Non hai alcun senso di pietà (non sembri proprio averne molto), per non provare più compassione per questa piccola mano fredda e tremante?”

Si era avvicinata da quel lato e aveva preso quella mano tra le sue, accarezzandola dolcemente. “Bacia questa povera creatura smarrita, caro,” disse, chinando il viso, “e dimmi dove ti sta portando.”

Little Dorrit si girò verso di lei.

“Mio Dio!”, esclamò lei, indietreggiando, “sei una donna!”

“Non badarci!” disse Little Dorrit, stringendo una delle mani che improvvisamente avevano lasciato andare la sua. “Non ho paura di te.”

“Allora dovresti esserlo,” rispose lei. “Non hai una madre?”

‘No.’

“Nessun padre?”

“Sì, una persona molto cara.”

“Vai a casa da lui, e aver paura di me. Lasciami andare. Buona notte!”

“Devo ringraziarti prima di tutto; lascia che ti parli come se fossi davvero un bambino.”

“Non puoi farlo,” disse la donna. “Sei gentile e innocente; ma non puoi guardarmi con gli occhi di un bambino. Non avrei mai dovuto toccarti, ma pensavo che fossi un bambino, ” E con un grido strano e selvaggio, se ne andò.

Nessun giorno ancora nel cielo, ma c’era già l’alba nelle pietre risuonanti delle strade; nei carri, nelle carrozze e nelle diligenze; nei lavoratori diretti verso le loro varie occupazioni; nell’apertura dei primi negozi; nel traffico dei mercati; nel movimento lungo le rive dei fiumi. C’era l’alba nelle luci che si accendevano, con un colore più debole di quanto avrebbero avuto in un altro momento; c’era l’alba nella maggiore acutezza dell’aria e nel lento spegnersi della notte.

Tornarono di nuovo al cancello, intenzionati ad aspettare lì fino a quando non sarebbe stato aperto; ma l’aria era così fredda e pungente che Little Dorrit, tenendo Maggy per mano mentre lei dormiva, continuò a camminare. Passando davanti alla chiesa, vide delle luci accese e la porta aperta; allora salì i gradini e guardò all’interno.

“Chi è?” gridò un uomo anziano e robusto che si stava mettendo il berretto da notte, come se stesse per andare a letto in una cripta.

“Non è nessuno in particolare, signore,” disse Little Dorrit.

“Fermati!”, gridò l’uomo. “Diamo un’occhiata a te!”

Questo la fece tornare indietro mentre stava per uscire, così da presentarsi lei e il suo affidato davanti a lui.

“Lo pensavo!” disse lui. “Conosco te.”

‘We have often seen each other,’ said Little Dorrit, recognising the sexton, or the beadle, or the verger, or whatever he was, ‘when I have been at church here.’

‘More than that, we’ve got your birth in our Register, you know; you’re one of our curiosities.’

‘Indeed!’ said Little Dorrit.

‘To be sure. As the child of the—by-the-bye, how did you get out so early?’

‘We were shut out last night, and are waiting to get in.’

‘You don’t mean it? And there’s another hour good yet! Come into the vestry. You’ll find a fire in the vestry, on account of the painters. I’m waiting for the painters, or I shouldn’t be here, you may depend upon it. One of our curiosities mustn’t be cold when we have it in our power to warm her up comfortable. Come along.’

He was a very good old fellow, in his familiar way; and having stirred the vestry fire, he looked round the shelves of registers for a particular volume. ‘Here you are, you see,’ he said, taking it down and turning the leaves. ‘Here you’ll find yourself, as large as life. Amy, daughter of William and Fanny Dorrit. Born, Marshalsea Prison, Parish of St George. And we tell people that you have lived there, without so much as a day’s or a night’s absence, ever since. Is it true?’

‘Quite true, till last night.’

‘Lord!’ But his surveying her with an admiring gaze suggested Something else to him, to wit: ‘I am sorry to see, though, that you are faint and tired. Stay a bit. I’ll get some cushions out of the church, and you and your friend shall lie down before the fire. Don’t be afraid of not going in to join your father when the gate opens. I’ll call you.’

He soon brought in the cushions, and strewed them on the ground.

‘There you are, you see. Again as large as life. Oh, never mind thanking. I’ve daughters of my own. And though they weren’t born in the Marshalsea Prison, they might have been, if I had been, in my ways of carrying on, of your father’s breed. Stop a bit. I must put something under the cushion for your head. Here’s a burial volume, just the thing! We have got Mrs Bangham in this book. But what makes these books interesting to most people is—not who’s in ‘em, but who isn’t—who’s coming, you know, and when. That’s the interesting question.’

Commendingly looking back at the pillow he had improvised, he left them to their hour’s repose. Maggy was snoring already, and Little Dorrit was soon fast asleep with her head resting on that sealed book of Fate, untroubled by its mysterious blank leaves.

This was Little Dorrit’s party. The shame, desertion, wretchedness, and exposure of the great capital; the wet, the cold, the slow hours, and the swift clouds of the dismal night. This was the party from which Little Dorrit went home, jaded, in the first grey mist of a rainy morning.

“Ci siamo visti spesso,” disse Little Dorrit, riconoscendo il sacrestano, o il cerimoniere, o chiunque altro fosse, “quando venivo in chiesa qui.”

“Più di questo, abbiamo registrato la tua nascita nel nostro registro. Sai, sei una delle nostre “curiosità”.”

“Certamente!” disse Little Dorrit.

“Certo. Essendo il figlio di, a proposito, come hai fatto ad uscire così presto?”

“Siamo stati esclusi la scorsa notte e stiamo aspettando di poter entrare.”

“Non lo dici sul serio? E manca ancora un’ora! Vieni nella sacrestia. Lì c’è un fuoco, a causa dei pittori. Sto aspettando i pittori; altrimenti non dovrei essere qui, puoi starne certo. Una delle nostre curiosità non dovrebbe rimanere fredda, quando abbiamo la possibilità di riscaldarla comodamente. Vieni con me.”

Era un uomo molto gentile e cordiale, nel suo modo caratteristico; dopo aver ravvivato il fuoco nella sacrestia, guardò intorno sugli scaffali dei registri alla ricerca di un volume specifico. “Eccolo qui,” disse, prendendolo e sfogliandone le pagine. “Qui troverai tutte le tue informazioni, descritte con precisione. Amy, figlia di William e Fanny Dorrit. Nata nella prigione di Marshalsea, nel distretto di St George. E noi diciamo sempre alle persone che hai vissuto lì senza mai assentarti nemmeno per un giorno o una notte. È vero?”

“Assolutamente vero, fino all’ultima notte.”

“Lord!” Ma il modo in cui la guardava con uno sguardo ammirativo suggeriva qualcos’altro, cioè: “Mi dispiace vedere, però, che tu sia debole e stanca. Resta un attimo. Prenderò alcune poltrone dalla chiesa, e tu e la tua amica potrete riposarvi davanti al focolare. Non avere paura di non riuscire ad entrare per raggiungere tuo padre quando si aprirà il cancello, Io ti chiamerò.”

Poco dopo portò dentro i cuscini e li sparpagliò sul pavimento.

“Ecco qua, vedi. Ancora una volta, delle dimensioni originali. Oh, non c’è bisogno di ringraziarmi. Ho anch’io delle figlie. E anche se non sono nate nella prigione di Marshalsea, avrebbero potuto esserlo, se io avessi seguito i vostri stessi metodi. Fermati un attimo: devo mettere qualcosa sotto il cuscino per la tua testa. Ecco, un volume funebre. Proprio quello che ci serve! In questo libro c’è anche la signora Bangham. Ma ciò che rende questi libri interessanti per la maggior parte delle persone non è chi ci è dentro, ma chi non c’è. Chi arriverà, capisci. E quando. Questa è davvero la domanda interessante.”

Guardando con approvazione il cuscino che aveva improvvisato, li lasciò riposare per la loro ora di sonno. Maggy già russava, e Little Dorrit presto si addormentò profondamente, con la testa appoggiata a quel libro sigillato del Destino, indifferente alle sue misteriose pagine vuote.

Questa era la festa di Little Dorrit. La vergogna, l’abbandono, la miseria e l’esposizione della grande città; la pioggia, il freddo, le lunghe ore, e le nuvole rapide di quella triste notte. Questa era la festa dalla quale Little Dorrit tornò a casa, stanca e desolata, nella prima nebbia grigia di una mattina piovosa.

CHAPTER 15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream

The debilitated old house in the city, wrapped in its mantle of soot, and leaning heavily on the crutches that had partaken of its decay and worn out with it, never knew a healthy or a cheerful interval, let what would betide. If the sun ever touched it, it was but with a ray, and that was gone in half an hour; if the moonlight ever fell upon it, it was only to put a few patches on its doleful cloak, and make it look more wretched. The stars, to be sure, coldly watched it when the nights and the smoke were clear enough; and all bad weather stood by it with a rare fidelity. You should alike find rain, hail, frost, and thaw lingering in that dismal enclosure when they had vanished from other places; and as to snow, you should see it there for weeks, long after it had changed from yellow to black, slowly weeping away its grimy life. The place had no other adherents. As to street noises, the rumbling of wheels in the lane merely rushed in at the gateway in going past, and rushed out again: making the listening Mistress Affery feel as if she were deaf, and recovered the sense of hearing by instantaneous flashes. So with whistling, singing, talking, laughing, and all pleasant human sounds. They leaped the gap in a moment, and went upon their way.

The varying light of fire and candle in Mrs Clennam’s room made the greatest change that ever broke the dead monotony of the spot. In her two long narrow windows, the fire shone sullenly all day, and sullenly all night. On rare occasions it flashed up passionately, as she did; but for the most part it was suppressed, like her, and preyed upon itself evenly and slowly. During many hours of the short winter days, however, when it was dusk there early in the afternoon, changing distortions of herself in her wheeled chair, of Mr Flintwinch with his wry neck, of Mistress Affery coming and going, would be thrown upon the house wall that was over the gateway, and would hover there like shadows from a great magic lantern. As the room-ridden invalid settled for the night, these would gradually disappear: Mistress Affery’s magnified shadow always flitting about, last, until it finally glided away into the air, as though she were off upon a witch excursion. Then the solitary light would burn unchangingly, until it burned pale before the dawn, and at last died under the breath of Mrs Affery, as her shadow descended on it from the witch-region of sleep.

Strange, if the little sick-room fire were in effect a beacon fire, summoning some one, and that the most unlikely some one in the world, to the spot that must be come to. Strange, if the little sick-room light were in effect a watch-light, burning in that place every night until an appointed event should be watched out! Which of the vast multitude of travellers, under the sun and the stars, climbing the dusty hills and toiling along the weary plains, journeying by land and journeying by sea, coming and going so strangely, to meet and to act and react on one another; which of the host may, with no suspicion of the journey’s end, be travelling surely hither?

Time shall show us. The post of honour and the post of shame, the general’s station and the drummer’s, a peer’s statue in Westminster Abbey and a seaman’s hammock in the bosom of the deep, the mitre and the workhouse, the woolsack and the gallows, the throne and the guillotine—the travellers to all are on the great high road, but it has wonderful divergencies, and only Time shall show us whither each traveller is bound.

On a wintry afternoon at twilight, Mrs Flintwinch, having been heavy all day, dreamed this dream:

She thought she was in the kitchen getting the kettle ready for tea, and was warming herself with her feet upon the fender and the skirt of her gown tucked up, before the collapsed fire in the middle of the grate, bordered on either hand by a deep cold black ravine. She thought that as she sat thus, musing upon the question whether life was not for some people a rather dull invention, she was frightened by a sudden noise behind her. She thought that she had been similarly frightened once last week, and that the noise was of a mysterious kind—a sound of rustling and of three or four quick beats like a rapid step; while a shock or tremble was communicated to her heart, as if the step had shaken the floor, or even as if she had been touched by some awful hand. She thought that this revived within her certain old fears of hers that the house was haunted; and that she flew up the kitchen stairs without knowing how she got up, to be nearer company.

Mistress Affery thought that on reaching the hall, she saw the door of her liege lord’s office standing open, and the room empty. That she went to the ripped-up window in the little room by the street door to connect her palpitating heart, through the glass, with living things beyond and outside the haunted house. That she then saw, on the wall over the gateway, the shadows of the two clever ones in conversation above. That she then went upstairs with her shoes in her hand, partly to be near the clever ones as a match for most ghosts, and partly to hear what they were talking about.

‘None of your nonsense with me,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘I won’t take it from you.’

Mrs Flintwinch dreamed that she stood behind the door, which was just ajar, and most distinctly heard her husband say these bold words.

‘Flintwinch,’ returned Mrs Clennam, in her usual strong low voice, ‘there is a demon of anger in you. Guard against it.’

‘I don’t care whether there’s one or a dozen,’ said Mr Flintwinch, forcibly suggesting in his tone that the higher number was nearer the mark. ‘If there was fifty, they should all say, None of your nonsense with me, I won’t take it from you—I’d make ‘em say it, whether they liked it or not.’

CAPITOLO 15. La signora Flintwinch ha un altro sogno

La vecchia e malandata casa nella città, avvolta nel suo manto di fuliggine, appoggiandosi pesantemente alle stampelle che avevano condiviso la sua decadenza ed erano ormai logore come lei, non conobbe mai momenti di serenità o gioia, qualunque cosa accadesse. Se il sole la raggiungeva, era solo per un breve istante; se la luce della luna si posava su di essa, non faceva che rendere ancora più desolato quel luogo. Le stelle, quando le notti e il fumo permettevano di vederle, la osservavano con indifferenza; ogni cattivo tempo sembrava sostenerla con fedeltà. Pioggia, grandine, gelo e disgelo si soffermavano in quel luogo desolato anche quando erano scomparsi altrove; la neve, invece, vi rimaneva per settimane, dopo essere passata dal giallo al nero, continuando lentamente a “sciogliersi” nel suo stato di miseria. Quel posto non aveva altri “abitanti”. Per quanto riguarda i rumori della strada, il fruscio delle ruote che passavano davanti all’ingresso svaniva immediatamente; anche i suoni piacevoli umani – fischi, canti, risate – non vi si soffermavano mai.

La luce variabile del fuoco e delle candele nella stanza di Madama Clennam provocava i cambiamenti più significativi, rompendo finalmente la monotonia stagnante di quel luogo. Nei suoi due lunghi e stretti finestri, il fuoco ardeva cupamente tutto il giorno e tutta la notte. Solo in rare occasioni divampava con intensità; per lo più, però, rimaneva spento, proprio come lei, bruciando lentamente e uniformemente. Durante molte ore dei brevi giorni invernali, quando già al tardo pomeriggio calava il crepuscolo, distorsioni del suo volto nella sedia a rotelle, dell’aspetto di Mr Flintwinch con il collo torto, e delle figure di Mistress Affery che andavano avanti e indietro, si proiettavano sul muro della casa situato sopra l’ingresso, rimanendo sospese lì come ombre provenienti da una grande lanterna magica. Quando la malata si ritirava per la notte, queste immagini scomparivano gradualmente; l’ombra ingrandita di Mistress Affery continuava a muoversi intorno, fino a quando finalmente svaniva nell’aria, come se lei stessa fosse partita per un’avventura stregalesca. Allora la luce solitaria continuava ad ardere immutata, fino a quando non si affievoliva davanti all’alba, per poi spegnersi del tutto con il respiro di Mistress Affery, mentre la sua ombra scendeva su di essa dalla regione del sonno, e della stregoneria.

Strano, se quella piccola luce nella stanza malata fosse in realtà un segnale, un faro che chiamasse qualcuno – e per di più qualcuno del tutto inaspettato – verso quel luogo dove deve necessariamente arrivare. Strano, se quella piccola luce nella stanza malata fosse in realtà una lanterna di guardia, che bruciasse ogni notte fino a quando non si verificherebbe un evento prestabilito. Tra la vasta moltitudine di viaggiatori, sotto il sole e le stelle, quelli che scalano colline polverose e faticano lungo le pianure stanche, quelli che viaggiano per terra o per mare, quale di loro, senza alcun sospetto riguardo alla destinazione finale del proprio viaggio, potrebbe essere proprio lui ad arrivare qui?

Il tempo ci lo mostrerà. La posizione di ‘onore e quella di vergogna, il posto del generale e quello del suonatore di tamburo, la statua di un nobile nell’Abbazia di Westminster e la brandina di un marinaio nelle profondità dell’oceano, la mitra e l’ospizio per i poveri, il sacco di lana e la forca, il trono e la ghigliottina. Tutti coloro che viaggiano lungo questa grande e maestosa strada seguono percorsi diversi; solo Il tempo potrà rivelarci verso dove è diretto ciascuno di loro.

In un pomeriggio invernale al crepuscolo, la signora Flintwinch, che aveva passato tutto il giorno in uno stato di stanchezza, sognò questo sogno:

Pensava di essere in cucina, pronta a preparare il bollitore per il tè, e si stava riscaldando i piedi contro la ringhiera del camino, con l’orlo della sua veste raccolto sopra; davanti a lei, il fuoco nel caminetto era spento, circondato su entrambi i lati da una profonda voragine nera e gelida. Mentre sedeva lì, riflettendo sul fatto che per alcune persone la vita potesse essere davvero un’invenzione noiosa, fu improvvisamente spaventata da un rumore alle sue spalle. Pensò di essere stata spaventata allo stesso modo la scorsa settimana; quel suono sembrava misterioso: un fruscio e tre o quattro colpi rapidi, simili al passo di qualcuno che correva velocemente. Un brivido le attraversò il cuore, come se quei passi avessero scosso il pavimento. O forse come se fosse stata toccata da una mano terribile. Quel rumore risvegliò in lei vecchi timori: che quella casa fosse infestata. E senza nemmeno rendersene conto, corse su per le scale della cucina, cercando conforto nella compagnia altrui.

La signora Affery pensò che, arrivata nell’atrio, avesse visto la porta dell’ufficio del suo signore spalancata e la stanza vuota. Si avvicinò alla finestra rotta nella piccola stanza accanto alla porta d’ingresso, per collegare il proprio cuore palpitante, attraverso il vetro, con le cose viventi al di là della casa infestata. Poi vide, sul muro sopra l’ingresso, le ombre delle due persone intelligenti che stavano conversando lassù. Allora salì al piano di sopra, tenendo i propri scarponi in mano: in parte per essere vicina a quelle due persone intelligenti, capaci di affrontare la maggior parte degli fantasmi, e in parte per ascoltare di cosa stessero parlando.

“Niente sciocchezze con me,” disse il signor Flintwinch. “Non le accetterò.”

La signora Flintwinch sognò di trovarsi dietro la porta, che era leggermente aperta, e sentì chiaramente suo marito pronunciare queste parole audaci.

“Flintwinch,” rispose Signora Clennam con la sua solita voce profonda e decisa, “dentro di te c’è un demone dell’ira. Stai attento.”

“Non mi interessa se ce n’è uno o una dozzina,” disse il signor Flintwinch, dando chiaramente a intendere con il tono della sua voce che un numero più alto fosse quello più vicino alla verità. “Anche se ne ci fossero cinquanta, tutti dovrebbero dire: ‘Niente sciocchezze con me, non le accetterò. Li farò dire così, che gli piaccia o no.’”

‘What have I done, you wrathful man?’ her strong voice asked.

‘Done?’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Dropped down upon me.’

‘If you mean, remonstrated with you—’

‘Don’t put words into my mouth that I don’t mean,’ said Jeremiah, sticking to his figurative expression with tenacious and impenetrable obstinacy: ‘I mean dropped down upon me.’

‘I remonstrated with you,’ she began again, ‘because—’

‘I won’t have it!’ cried Jeremiah. ‘You dropped down upon me.’

‘I dropped down upon you, then, you ill-conditioned man,’ (Jeremiah chuckled at having forced her to adopt his phrase,) ‘for having been needlessly significant to Arthur that morning. I have a right to complain of it as almost a breach of confidence. You did not mean it—’

‘I won’t have it!’ interposed the contradictory Jeremiah, flinging back the concession. ‘I did mean it.’

‘I suppose I must leave you to speak in soliloquy if you choose,’ she replied, after a pause that seemed an angry one. ‘It is useless my addressing myself to a rash and headstrong old man who has a set purpose not to hear me.’

‘Now, I won’t take that from you either,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I have no such purpose. I have told you I did mean it. Do you wish to know why I meant it, you rash and headstrong old woman?’

‘After all, you only restore me my own words,’ she said, struggling with her indignation. ‘Yes.’

‘This is why, then. Because you hadn’t cleared his father to him, and you ought to have done it. Because, before you went into any tantrum about yourself, who are—’

‘Hold there, Flintwinch!’ she cried out in a changed voice: ‘you may go a word too far.’

The old man seemed to think so. There was another pause, and he had altered his position in the room, when he spoke again more mildly:

‘I was going to tell you why it was. Because, before you took your own part, I thought you ought to have taken the part of Arthur’s father. Arthur’s father! I had no particular love for Arthur’s father. I served Arthur’s father’s uncle, in this house, when Arthur’s father was not much above me—was poorer as far as his pocket went—and when his uncle might as soon have left me his heir as have left him. He starved in the parlour, and I starved in the kitchen; that was the principal difference in our positions; there was not much more than a flight of breakneck stairs between us. I never took to him in those times; I don’t know that I ever took to him greatly at any time. He was an undecided, irresolute chap, who had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young. And when he brought you home here, the wife his uncle had named for him, I didn’t need to look at you twice (you were a good-looking woman at that time) to know who’d be master. You have stood of your own strength ever since. Stand of your own strength now. Don’t lean against the dead.’

‘I do not—as you call it—lean against the dead.’

‘But you had a mind to do it, if I had submitted,’ growled Jeremiah, ‘and that’s why you drop down upon me. You can’t forget that I didn’t submit. I suppose you are astonished that I should consider it worth my while to have justice done to Arthur’s father? Hey? It doesn’t matter whether you answer or not, because I know you are, and you know you are. Come, then, I’ll tell you how it is. I may be a bit of an oddity in point of temper, but this is my temper—I can’t let anybody have entirely their own way. You are a determined woman, and a clever woman; and when you see your purpose before you, nothing will turn you from it. Who knows that better than I do?’

‘Nothing will turn me from it, Flintwinch, when I have justified it to myself. Add that.’

‘Justified it to yourself? I said you were the most determined woman on the face of the earth (or I meant to say so), and if you are determined to justify any object you entertain, of course you’ll do it.’

‘Man! I justify myself by the authority of these Books,’ she cried, with stern emphasis, and appearing from the sound that followed to strike the dead-weight of her arm upon the table.

‘Never mind that,’ returned Jeremiah calmly, ‘we won’t enter into that question at present. However that may be, you carry out your purposes, and you make everything go down before them. Now, I won’t go down before them. I have been faithful to you, and useful to you, and I am attached to you. But I can’t consent, and I won’t consent, and I never did consent, and I never will consent to be lost in you. Swallow up everybody else, and welcome. The peculiarity of my temper is, ma’am, that I won’t be swallowed up alive.’

Perhaps this had originally been the mainspring of the understanding between them. Descrying thus much of force of character in Mr Flintwinch, perhaps Mrs Clennam had deemed alliance with him worth her while.

‘Enough and more than enough of the subject,’ said she gloomily.

‘Unless you drop down upon me again,’ returned the persistent Flintwinch, ‘and then you must expect to hear of it again.’

Mistress Affery dreamed that the figure of her lord here began walking up and down the room, as if to cool his spleen, and that she ran away; but that, as he did not issue forth when she had stood listening and trembling in the shadowy hall a little time, she crept up-stairs again, impelled as before by ghosts and curiosity, and once more cowered outside the door.

‘Please to light the candle, Flintwinch,’ Mrs Clennam was saying, apparently wishing to draw him back into their usual tone. ‘It is nearly time for tea. Little Dorrit is coming, and will find me in the dark.’

Mr Flintwinch lighted the candle briskly, and said as he put it down upon the table:

‘What are you going to do with Little Dorrit? Is she to come to work here for ever? To come to tea here for ever? To come backwards and forwards here, in the same way, for ever?’

‘How can you talk about “for ever” to a maimed creature like me? Are we not all cut down like the grass of the field, and was not I shorn by the scythe many years ago: since when I have been lying here, waiting to be gathered into the barn?’

“Cosa ho fatto, o uomo irato?”, chiese con voce forte.

“Finito?”, disse il signor Flintwinch. “Mi è piombato addosso all’improvviso.”

“Se intendi dire che ho discusso con te, ”

“Non mettete parole nella mia bocca che non intendo dire,” disse Geremia, attaccandosi con tenacia e ostinazione inespugnabile alla sua espressione figurata: “Intendo dire che mi sono semplicemente presentate davanti.”

“Ti ho rimproverato,” iniziò di nuovo, “perché, ”

“Non lo accetterò!” gridò Jeremiah. “Mi sei caduto addosso.”

“Quindi mi sono abbassato su di te, tu povero uomo malandato,” (Jeremiah rise al pensiero di averla costretta ad usare la sua stessa espressione), “perché quella mattina eri stato così importante per Arthur. Ho il diritto di lamentarmene, quasi come se si fosse trattato di una violazione della fiducia. Non lo intendevi davvero, ”

“Non lo accetterò!” intervenne Jeremiah, contraddicendosi stesso e rifiutando quella concessione. “Intendevo davvero dire quello che ho detto.”

“Suppongo di dovervi lasciare a parlare da soli, se lo desiderate,” rispose lei, dopo una pausa che sembrava piena di rabbia. “È inutile che io mi rivolga a un vecchio impulsivo e testardo che ha deciso di non ascoltarmi.”

“Ora, nemmeno io lo accetterò da te,” disse Jeremiah. “Non ho alcun tale scopo. Ti ho detto che parlavo sul serio. Vuoi davvero sapere perché l’ho fatto, tu vecchia donna impulsiva e testarda?”

“Dopotutto, mi stai semplicemente restituendo le mie stesse parole,” disse lei, lottando con la propria indignazione. “Sì.”

“Ecco quindi il motivo. Perché non gli avevi spiegato la situazione riguardo a suo padre, e avresti dovuto farlo. Perché, prima di metterti a piangere per te stessa, che poi sei, ”

“Fermati un attimo, Flintwinch!”, gridò lei con voce cambiata: “forse stai esagerando”.

Sembrava che l’uomo anziano la pensasse così. Ci fu un’altra pausa; dopo essersi spostato nella stanza, parlò di nuovo con tono più gentile:

“Stavo per dirti il motivo. Perché, prima che tu prendessi la tua decisione, ho pensato che avresti dovuto assumere il ruolo del padre di Arthur.” Il padre di Arthur! Non provavo alcun particolare affetto per lui. Ho servito lo zio di Arthur in questa casa, quando Arthur’s father non era molto più ricco di me. Anzi, era persino più povero; il suo zio avrebbe potuto lasciargli l’eredità tanto quanto a me. Lui moriva di fame nel salotto, e io nella cucina. Quella era la principale differenza tra le nostre posizioni. Non c’era quasi alcuna distanza tra noi. In quei tempi non mi sono mai affezionato a lui. E non credo che mi sia mai davvero affezionato molto, in nessun momento. Era un uomo indeciso, incerto. Da giovane, tutto tranne la sua condizione di orfano lo spaventava. E quando ti ha portata qui, la moglie che suo zio gli aveva scelto. Non ho avuto bisogno di guardarti due volte (eri una donna bellissima, a quel tempo) per capire chi avrebbe avuto il controllo della situazione. Da allora hai sempre fatto le cose con le tue forze. Continua così. Non appoggiarti mai agli “morti”.”

“Non mi appoggio, come dite voi, ai morti.”

“Ma se avessi ceduto, avresti comunque fatto ciò che volevi,” ringhiò Jeremiah, “e per questo vieni ora da me. Non riesci a dimenticare che non ho ceduto. Immagino tu sia sorpresa dal fatto che ritenga valga la pena far giustizia al padre di Arthur. Ebbene? Non importa se rispondi o no, perché so che lo sai. Allora, ascolta: forse sono un po’ strano per quanto riguarda il mio temperamento, ma questa è la mia natura. Non posso permettere a nessuno di avere sempre la meglio. Sei una donna decisa e intelligente. E quando hai un obiettivo chiaro davanti agli occhi, nulla può farti desistere. Chi lo sa meglio di me?”

“Niente mi farà desistere, Flintwinch, una volta che ne avrò giustificato la necessità dentro di me. Aggiungi anche questo.”

“Te l’hai giustificato da sola? Ho detto che sei la donna più determinata della faccia della terra. E se sei decisa a giustificare qualsiasi idea tu abbia in mente, naturalmente lo farai.”

“Dio mio! Mi giustifico con l’autorità di questi Libri,” gridò, con enfasi decisa; e dal suono che seguì si capì che aveva appoggiato con forza il braccio sul tavolo.

“Lasciamo perdere,” rispose Jeremiah con calma, “non discuteremo di questo argomento per il momento. Comunque sia, tu porti a termine i tuoi piani e fai sì che tutto avvenga secondo le tue intenzioni. Ma io non intendo subire la stessa sorte. Sono stato fedele a te, ti sono stato utile, e mi sento legato a te. Tuttavia, non posso acconsentire, non lo farò mai, e non ho mai acconsentito né acconsentirò mai a ‘perdere’ me stesso in te. Che tu inghiotta tutti gli altri, va bene. Ma la particolarità del mio carattere è proprio questa: non intendo essere inghiottito vivo.”

Forse questo era originariamente il fondamento della comprensione che esisteva tra loro. Notando la grande forza di carattere del signor Flintwinch, forse mrs Clennam aveva ritenuto che un’alleanza con lui valesse la pena.

“Basta, anzi, più che basta parlare di questo argomento,” disse lei con tono cupo.

“Tranne che tu non torni di nuovo da me,” rispose con insistenza Flintwinch, “in quel caso dovrai aspettarti di sentirne parlare ancora.”

La signora Affery sognò che la figura del suo padrone cominciasse a camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, come se volesse “raffreddarsi lo stomaco”, e che lei scappasse via; ma poiché lui non usciva dopo che lei era rimasta in ascolto, tremando nel corridoio buio per un po’, lei tornò di sopra, spinta ancora una volta dai fantasmi e dalla curiosità, e si nascose di nuovo fuori dalla porta.

“Per favore, accendi la candela, Flintwinch,” diceva Mrs Clennam, apparentemente desiderando tornare al loro solito tono di conversazione. “È quasi l’ora del tè. Little Dorrit sta per arrivare e mi troverà al buio.”

“Mr Flintwinch accese rapidamente la candela e, posandola sul tavolo, disse, ”

“Cosa farai con Little Dorrit? Dovrà lavorare qui per sempre? Dovrà venire a prendere il tè qui per sempre? Dovrà continuare ad andare avanti e indietro qui, allo stesso modo, per sempre?”

“Come puoi parlare di ‘per sempre’ a una creatura mutilata come me? Non siamo forse tutti destinati ad essere tagliati via come l’erba dei campi? E non sono stato anch’io reciso dalla falce molti anni fa? Da allora, non faccio altro che giacere qui, in attesa di essere raccolto nel fienile, ”

‘Ay, ay! But since you have been lying here—not near dead—nothing like it—numbers of children and young people, blooming women, strong men, and what not, have been cut down and carried; and still here are you, you see, not much changed after all. Your time and mine may be a long one yet. When I say for ever, I mean (though I am not poetical) through all our time.’ Mr Flintwinch gave this explanation with great calmness, and calmly waited for an answer.

‘So long as Little Dorrit is quiet and industrious, and stands in need of the slight help I can give her, and deserves it; so long, I suppose, unless she withdraws of her own act, she will continue to come here, I being spared.’

‘Nothing more than that?’ said Flintwinch, stroking his mouth and chin.

‘What should there be more than that! What could there be more than that!’ she ejaculated in her sternly wondering way.

Mrs Flintwinch dreamed, that, for the space of a minute or two, they remained looking at each other with the candle between them, and that she somehow derived an impression that they looked at each other fixedly.

‘Do you happen to know, Mrs Clennam,’ Affery’s liege lord then demanded in a much lower voice, and with an amount of expression that seemed quite out of proportion to the simple purpose of his words, ‘where she lives?’

‘No.’

‘Would you—now, would you like to know?’ said Jeremiah with a pounce as if he had sprung upon her.

‘If I cared to know, I should know already. Could I not have asked her any day?’

‘Then you don’t care to know?’

‘I do not.’

Mr Flintwinch, having expelled a long significant breath said, with his former emphasis, ‘For I have accidentally—mind!—found out.’

‘Wherever she lives,’ said Mrs Clennam, speaking in one unmodulated hard voice, and separating her words as distinctly as if she were reading them off from separate bits of metal that she took up one by one, ‘she has made a secret of it, and she shall always keep her secret from me.’

‘After all, perhaps you would rather not have known the fact, any how?’ said Jeremiah; and he said it with a twist, as if his words had come out of him in his own wry shape.

‘Flintwinch,’ said his mistress and partner, flashing into a sudden energy that made Affery start, ‘why do you goad me? Look round this room. If it is any compensation for my long confinement within these narrow limits—not that I complain of being afflicted; you know I never complain of that—if it is any compensation to me for long confinement to this room, that while I am shut up from all pleasant change I am also shut up from the knowledge of some things that I may prefer to avoid knowing, why should you, of all men, grudge me that belief?’

‘I don’t grudge it to you,’ returned Jeremiah.

‘Then say no more. Say no more. Let Little Dorrit keep her secret from me, and do you keep it from me also. Let her come and go, unobserved and unquestioned. Let me suffer, and let me have what alleviation belongs to my condition. Is it so much, that you torment me like an evil spirit?’

‘I asked you a question. That’s all.’

‘I have answered it. So, say no more. Say no more.’ Here the sound of the wheeled chair was heard upon the floor, and Affery’s bell rang with a hasty jerk.

More afraid of her husband at the moment than of the mysterious sound in the kitchen, Affery crept away as lightly and as quickly as she could, descended the kitchen stairs almost as rapidly as she had ascended them, resumed her seat before the fire, tucked up her skirt again, and finally threw her apron over her head. Then the bell rang once more, and then once more, and then kept on ringing; in despite of which importunate summons, Affery still sat behind her apron, recovering her breath.

At last Mr Flintwinch came shuffling down the staircase into the hall, muttering and calling ‘Affery woman!’ all the way. Affery still remaining behind her apron, he came stumbling down the kitchen stairs, candle in hand, sidled up to her, twitched her apron off, and roused her.

‘Oh Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, waking. ‘What a start you gave me!’

‘What have you been doing, woman?’ inquired Jeremiah. ‘You’ve been rung for fifty times.’

‘Oh Jeremiah,’ said Mistress Affery, ‘I have been a-dreaming!’

Reminded of her former achievement in that way, Mr Flintwinch held the candle to her head, as if he had some idea of lighting her up for the illumination of the kitchen.

‘Don’t you know it’s her tea-time?’ he demanded with a vicious grin, and giving one of the legs of Mistress Affery’s chair a kick.

‘Jeremiah? Tea-time? I don’t know what’s come to me. But I got such a dreadful turn, Jeremiah, before I went—off a-dreaming, that I think it must be that.’

‘Yoogh! Sleepy-Head!’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘what are you talking about?’

‘Such a strange noise, Jeremiah, and such a curious movement. In the kitchen here—just here.’

Jeremiah held up his light and looked at the blackened ceiling, held down his light and looked at the damp stone floor, turned round with his light and looked about at the spotted and blotched walls.

‘Rats, cats, water, drains,’ said Jeremiah.

Mistress Affery negatived each with a shake of her head. ‘No, Jeremiah; I have felt it before. I have felt it up-stairs, and once on the staircase as I was going from her room to ours in the night—a rustle and a sort of trembling touch behind me.’

‘Affery, my woman,’ said Mr Flintwinch grimly, after advancing his nose to that lady’s lips as a test for the detection of spirituous liquors, ‘if you don’t get tea pretty quick, old woman, you’ll become sensible of a rustle and a touch that’ll send you flying to the other end of the kitchen.’

This prediction stimulated Mrs Flintwinch to bestir herself, and to hasten up-stairs to Mrs Clennam’s chamber. But, for all that, she now began to entertain a settled conviction that there was something wrong in the gloomy house. Henceforth, she was never at peace in it after daylight departed; and never went up or down stairs in the dark without having her apron over her head, lest she should see something.

‘Ah, ah! Ma visto che sei rimasto qui sdraiato – non nemmeno vicino alla morte – tante altre persone, bambini, giovani donne, uomini forti e così via sono state uccise e portate via; eppure tu sei ancora qui, praticamente immutato. Il nostro tempo potrebbe ancora durare a lungo. Quando dico “per sempre”, intendo, (anche se non sono un poeta), per tutta la nostra esistenza.’ Il signor Flintwinch diede questa spiegazione con grande calma, aspettando tranquillamente una risposta.

“Finché Little Dorrit rimarrà tranquilla e laboriosa, finché avrà bisogno dell’aiuto modesto che posso darle e lo meriterà; credo che continuerà a venire qui, a meno che non decida lei stessa di smettere.”

“Nient’altro che questo?” disse Flintwinch, accarezzandosi la bocca e il mento.

“Cosa potrebbe esserci di più di questo? Che cosa potrebbe esserci oltre a questo?” esclamò lei con quel suo tono deciso e pieno di domande.

La signora Flintwinch sognò che, per un minuto o due, rimasero a fissarsi a vicenda con la candela tra loro, e che in qualche modo ebbe l’impressione che si guardassero con intensità.

“Per caso sa dove abita, Signora Clennam?”, chiese allora il signore feudale di Affery, a voce molto più bassa e con un tono che sembrava del tutto sproporzionato allo scopo semplice delle sue parole.

‘No.’

“Vuoi davvero saperlo ora?” disse Jeremiah con un tono deciso, come se fosse pronto ad attaccarla all’improvviso.

“Se mi fosse importato saperlo, ormai lo saprei. Non avrei potuto chiederglielo in qualsiasi momento?”

“Allora non ti interessa saperlo?”

“Non lo faccio.”

Il signor Flintwinch, dopo aver esalato un lungo e significativo sospiro, disse con lo stesso tono enfatico di prima: “Perché ho scoperto per caso, attenzione, che, ”

“Ovunque viva,” disse Signora Clennam con una voce monotona e dura, articolando le parole con chiarezza, come se le stesse leggendo da pezzi di metallo separati che prendeva uno per uno, “l’ha tenuto segreto, e lo terrà sempre segreto da me.”

“Dopotutto, forse sarebbe stato meglio non sapere quella verità, no?” disse Jeremiah; e lo disse con un tono ironico, come se quelle parole fossero uscite da lui sotto una forma particolarmente sarcastica.

“Flintwinch,” disse la sua padrona e compagna, improvvisamente piena di energia, tanto da far sobbalzare Affery, “perché mi provoci? Guardati intorno in questa stanza. Se questo rappresenta qualche compensazione per il mio lungo confinamento in questi angusti spazi, non che mi lamenti di essere costretta qui; tu sai che non lo faccio mai, se questo è un modo per compensare la mia reclusione in questa stanza, il fatto che, mentre sono isolata da qualsiasi cambiamento piacevole, sia anche allontanata dalla conoscenza di alcune cose che preferirei ignorare, perché proprio tu, tra tutte le persone, dovresti negarmi questo diritto?”

“Non te lo rimprovero,” rispose Jeremiah.

“Allora non dire altro. Lasciate che Little Dorrit tenga il suo segreto per sé, e lasciate che lo tenga anche voi per me. Lasciate che vada e venga senza essere osservata o interrogata. Lasciate che soffra, ma concedetemi almeno quel po’ di sollievo che mi spetta nella mia condizione. È davvero così grave da dovermi tormentare come un demone malvagio?”

“Ti ho fatto una domanda. Nient’altro.”

“L’ho risposto. Quindi, non dire altro. Non dire altro.” In quel momento si sentì il rumore della sedia a rotelle che strisciava sul pavimento, e la campanella di Affery suonò con un movimento rapido e improvviso.

In quel momento, più spaventata dal marito che dal misterioso suono in cucina, Affery si allontanò il più silenziosamente e rapidamente possibile; scese le scale della cucina quasi altrettanto velocemente di come le aveva salite, tornò a sedersi davanti al focolare, si rimboccò di nuovo la gonna e infine si mise il grembiule in testa. Poi il campanello suonò ancora una volta, e poi un’altra, continuando a suonare senza sosta; nonostante quell’insistente richiamo, Affery rimase seduta dietro al suo grembiule, cercando di riprendere fiato.

Finalmente, il signor Flintwinch scese barcollando le scale e entrò nell’atrio, mormorando e chiamando “Donna Affery!” lungo la strada. Affery, ancora con lo strofinaccio addosso, lo seguì mentre lui scendeva a tastoni le scale della cucina, con una candela in mano; si avvicinò a lei, le tolse lo strofinaccio e la svegliò.

“Oh Jeremiah!”, esclamò Affery svegliandosi. “Che modo strano di iniziare la giornata, ”

“Cosa hai fatto tutto questo tempo, donna?”, chiese Jeremiah. “Hanno suonato il campanello cinquanta volte.”

“Ah, Jeremiah, ”, disse la signora Affery, “stavo sognando!”

Ricordandosi così del suo precedente successo, il signor Flintwinch tenne la candela sopra la sua testa, come se avesse intenzione di “illuminarla” per illuminare la cucina.

“Non sai che è l’ora del suo tè?”, chiese con un sorriso malvagio, dando un calcio a una delle gambe della sedia di Mistress Affery.

“Geremia? Ore di tè? Non so cosa mi stia succedendo. Ma prima di perdere i sensi, ho avuto un attacco terribile. Deve essere per questo.”

“Ehi, testa di sonno!” disse il signor Flintwinch, “di cosa stai parlando?”

“Un rumore così strano, Jeremiah. E un movimento davvero curioso. Qui in cucina, proprio qui.”

Geremia alzò la sua lampada e guardò il soffitto annerito; poi abbassò la lampada e osservò il pavimento di pietra umido; infine girò su se stesso con la lampada in mano e guardò intorno alle pareti macchiate e sporche.

“Ratti, gatti, acqua,] canali di scolo,” disse Jeremiah.

La signora Affery scosse la testa per negare ogni cosa. “No, Jeremiah; l’ho già sentito prima. L’ho sentito al piano di sopra, e una volta anche sulle scale, mentre andavo dalla sua stanza alla nostra. Un fruscio, e una sorta di tocco tremolante alle mie spalle.”

“Affery, mia donna,” disse il signor Flintwinch con un tono cupo, dopo essersi avvicinato alle labbra di quella signora per verificare la presenza di alcolici, “se non prepari in fretta il tè, vecchia mia, sentirai qualcosa che ti farà volare dall’altra parte della cucina.”

Questa previsione spinse la signora Flintwinch ad agire immediatamente e a salire di fretta nella stanza della signora Clennam. Tuttavia, nonostante ciò, iniziò a nutrire una convinzione ferma che qualcosa non andasse in quella casa cupa e tenebrosa. Da quel momento in poi, non fu mai tranquilla lì dentro dopo il calar del sole; e non saliva o scendeva le scale al buio senza indossare un grembiule sulla testa, per paura di vedere qualcosa di inquietante.

What with these ghostly apprehensions and her singular dreams, Mrs Flintwinch fell that evening into a haunted state of mind, from which it may be long before this present narrative descries any trace of her recovery. In the vagueness and indistinctness of all her new experiences and perceptions, as everything about her was mysterious to herself she began to be mysterious to others: and became as difficult to be made out to anybody’s satisfaction as she found the house and everything in it difficult to make out to her own.

She had not yet finished preparing Mrs Clennam’s tea, when the soft knock came to the door which always announced Little Dorrit. Mistress Affery looked on at Little Dorrit taking off her homely bonnet in the hall, and at Mr Flintwinch scraping his jaws and contemplating her in silence, as expecting some wonderful consequence to ensue which would frighten her out of her five wits or blow them all three to pieces.

After tea there came another knock at the door, announcing Arthur. Mistress Affery went down to let him in, and he said on entering, ‘Affery, I am glad it’s you. I want to ask you a question.’ Affery immediately replied, ‘For goodness sake don’t ask me nothing, Arthur! I am frightened out of one half of my life, and dreamed out of the other. Don’t ask me nothing! I don’t know which is which, or what is what!’—and immediately started away from him, and came near him no more.

Mistress Affery having no taste for reading, and no sufficient light for needlework in the subdued room, supposing her to have the inclination, now sat every night in the dimness from which she had momentarily emerged on the evening of Arthur Clennam’s return, occupied with crowds of wild speculations and suspicions respecting her mistress and her husband and the noises in the house. When the ferocious devotional exercises were engaged in, these speculations would distract Mistress Affery’s eyes towards the door, as if she expected some dark form to appear at those propitious moments, and make the party one too many.

Otherwise, Affery never said or did anything to attract the attention of the two clever ones towards her in any marked degree, except on certain occasions, generally at about the quiet hour towards bed-time, when she would suddenly dart out of her dim corner, and whisper with a face of terror to Mr Flintwinch, reading the paper near Mrs Clennam’s little table:

‘There, Jeremiah! Now! What’s that noise?’

Then the noise, if there were any, would have ceased, and Mr Flintwinch would snarl, turning upon her as if she had cut him down that moment against his will, ‘Affery, old woman, you shall have a dose, old woman, such a dose! You have been dreaming again!’

A causa di queste paure strane e dei suoi sogni singolari, quella sera la signora Flintwinch cadde in uno stato mentale turbato; potrebbe trascorrere molto tempo prima che questa narrazione descriva anche solo segni del suo recupero. A causa dell’ambiguità e della confusione di tutte le nuove esperienze e percezioni che viveva, poiché tutto intorno a lei le risultava misterioso, iniziò anche ad apparire misteriosa agli occhi degli altri: divenne quindi altrettanto difficile da comprendere per chiunque, proprio come la >casa e tutto ciò che vi si trovava erano difficili da interpretare per lei stessa.

Non aveva ancora finito di preparare il tè per Mrs Clennam quando si sentì bussare delicatamente alla porta: era sempre Little Dorrit. Mistress Affery osservò mentre Little Dorrit si toglieva il suo semplice cappello nell’ingresso, e vide anche Mr Flintwinch grattarsi la barba e guardarla in silenzio, come se aspettasse che accadesse qualcosa di meraviglioso che l’avrebbe spaventata a morte o distrutto tutti loro.

Dopo il tè, ci fu un altro colpo alla porta: era Arthur. La signora Affery scese ad aprirgli, e lui, entrando, disse: “Affery, sono contento che sia tu. Vorrei farti una domanda.” Affery rispose immediatamente: “Per l’amor del cielo, non chiedermi nulla, Arthur! Sono terrorizzata. Non so più cosa sia reale e cosa no. Non chiedermi nulla!” E subito si allontanò da lui, senza più avvicinarsi.

Poiché la signora Affery non aveva alcun interesse per la lettura e, nella stanza scarsamente illuminata, non le era possibile lavorare a maglia, supponendo che avesse tale desiderio, ora sedeva ogni notte nell’oscurità da cui si era momentaneamente distolta la sera del ritorno di Arthur Clennam, immersa in una serie di folli congetture e sospetti riguardo alla sua padrona, a suo marito e ai rumori che provenivano dalla casa. Durante quelle intense pratiche devote, queste speculazioni distoglievano lo sguardo della signora Affery dalla porta, come se si aspettasse che in quei momenti particolari apparisse qualche figura oscura e rendesse la situazione ancora più complicata.

Altrimenti, Affery non disse mai né fece nulla per attirare in modo evidente l’attenzione di quei due individui astuti su di sé, se non in alcune occasioni, generalmente durante le ore tranquille della sera, quando improvvisamente usciva dal suo angolo buio e sussurrava con un viso terrorizzato al signor Flintwinch, mentre questi leggeva il giornale vicino al piccolo tavolo di mrs Clennam.

“Ecco, Jeremiah! Ora. Che rumore è quello?”

Allora il rumore, se mai c’era stato, sarebbe cessato, e il signor Flintwinch si sarebbe rivoltato contro di lei con rabbia, come se lei lo avesse ucciso in quel momento contro la sua volontà: “Affery, vecchia donna, riceverai una dose, una dose forte! Stai di nuovo sognando!”

CHAPTER 16. Nobody’s Weakness

The time being come for the renewal of his acquaintance with the Meagles family, Clennam, pursuant to contract made between himself and Mr Meagles within the precincts of Bleeding Heart Yard, turned his face on a certain Saturday towards Twickenham, where Mr Meagles had a cottage-residence of his own. The weather being fine and dry, and any English road abounding in interest for him who had been so long away, he sent his valise on by the coach, and set out to walk. A walk was in itself a new enjoyment to him, and one that had rarely diversified his life afar off.

He went by Fulham and Putney, for the pleasure of strolling over the heath. It was bright and shining there; and when he found himself so far on his road to Twickenham, he found himself a long way on his road to a number of airier and less substantial destinations. They had risen before him fast, in the healthful exercise and the pleasant road. It is not easy to walk alone in the country without musing upon something. And he had plenty of unsettled subjects to meditate upon, though he had been walking to the Land’s End.

First, there was the subject seldom absent from his mind, the question, what he was to do henceforth in life; to what occupation he should devote himself, and in what direction he had best seek it. He was far from rich, and every day of indecision and inaction made his inheritance a source of greater anxiety to him. As often as he began to consider how to increase this inheritance, or to lay it by, so often his misgiving that there was some one with an unsatisfied claim upon his justice, returned; and that alone was a subject to outlast the longest walk. Again, there was the subject of his relations with his mother, which were now upon an equable and peaceful but never confidential footing, and whom he saw several times a week. Little Dorrit was a leading and a constant subject: for the circumstances of his life, united to those of her own story, presented the little creature to him as the only person between whom and himself there were ties of innocent reliance on one hand, and affectionate protection on the other; ties of compassion, respect, unselfish interest, gratitude, and pity. Thinking of her, and of the possibility of her father’s release from prison by the unbarring hand of death—the only change of circumstance he could foresee that might enable him to be such a friend to her as he wished to be, by altering her whole manner of life, smoothing her rough road, and giving her a home—he regarded her, in that perspective, as his adopted daughter, his poor child of the Marshalsea hushed to rest. If there were a last subject in his thoughts, and it lay towards Twickenham, its form was so indefinite that it was little more than the pervading atmosphere in which these other subjects floated before him.

He had crossed the heath and was leaving it behind when he gained upon a figure which had been in advance of him for some time, and which, as he gained upon it, he thought he knew. He derived this impression from something in the turn of the head, and in the figure’s action of consideration, as it went on at a sufficiently sturdy walk. But when the man—for it was a man’s figure—pushed his hat up at the back of his head, and stopped to consider some object before him, he knew it to be Daniel Doyce.

‘How do you do, Mr Doyce?’ said Clennam, overtaking him. ‘I am glad to see you again, and in a healthier place than the Circumlocution Office.’

‘Ha! Mr Meagles’s friend!’ exclaimed that public criminal, coming out of some mental combinations he had been making, and offering his hand. ‘I am glad to see you, sir. Will you excuse me if I forget your name?’

‘Readily. It’s not a celebrated name. It’s not Barnacle.’

‘No, no,’ said Daniel, laughing. ‘And now I know what it is. It’s Clennam. How do you do, Mr Clennam?’

‘I have some hope,’ said Arthur, as they walked on together, ‘that we may be going to the same place, Mr Doyce.’

‘Meaning Twickenham?’ returned Daniel. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

They were soon quite intimate, and lightened the way with a variety of conversation. The ingenious culprit was a man of great modesty and good sense; and, though a plain man, had been too much accustomed to combine what was original and daring in conception with what was patient and minute in execution, to be by any means an ordinary man. It was at first difficult to lead him to speak about himself, and he put off Arthur’s advances in that direction by admitting slightly, oh yes, he had done this, and he had done that, and such a thing was of his making, and such another thing was his discovery, but it was his trade, you see, his trade; until, as he gradually became assured that his companion had a real interest in his account of himself, he frankly yielded to it. Then it appeared that he was the son of a north-country blacksmith, and had originally been apprenticed by his widowed mother to a lock-maker; that he had ‘struck out a few little things’ at the lock-maker’s, which had led to his being released from his indentures with a present, which present had enabled him to gratify his ardent wish to bind himself to a working engineer, under whom he had laboured hard, learned hard, and lived hard, seven years. His time being out, he had ‘worked in the shop’ at weekly wages seven or eight years more; and had then betaken himself to the banks of the Clyde, where he had studied, and filed, and hammered, and improved his knowledge, theoretical and practical, for six or seven years more. There he had had an offer to go to Lyons, which he had accepted; and from Lyons had been engaged to go to Germany, and in Germany had had an offer to go to St Petersburg, and there had done very well indeed—never better. However, he had naturally felt a preference for his own country, and a wish to gain distinction there, and to do whatever service he could do, there rather than elsewhere. And so he had come home. And so at home he had established himself in business, and had invented and executed, and worked his way on, until, after a dozen years of constant suit and service, he had been enrolled in the Great British Legion of Honour, the Legion of the Rebuffed of the Circumlocution Office, and had been decorated with the Great British Order of Merit, the Order of the Disorder of the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings.

CAPITOLO 16. La debolezza di nessuno

Quando arrivò il momento di rinnovare la sua conoscenza con la famiglia Meagles, Clennam, in base al contratto stipulato con il signor Meagles nei pressi di Bleeding Heart Yard, si diresse un certo sabato verso Twickenham, dove il signor Meagles possedeva una piccola casa. Poiché il tempo era bello e asciutto, e ogni strada inglese rappresentava per lui un interesse particolare dopo tanto tempo lontano da casa, fece spedire la sua valigia con la carrozza e decise di proseguire a piedi. Camminare rappresentava per lui una nuova fonte di piacere, qualcosa che raramente aveva arricchito la sua vita durante i lunghi periodi trascorsi lontano da casa.

Passò per Fulham e Putney, godendosi il piacere di passeggiare tra i campi aperti. Lì tutto era luminoso e splendente; e quando si rese conto di essere arrivato così lontano sulla sua strada verso Twickenham, si accorse anche di essersi spinto molto oltre lungo la sua strada verso destinazioni più leggere e meno concrete. Queste destinazioni gli erano apparse davanti rapidamente, grazie all’attività fisica e al piacevole percorso che stava seguendo. Non è facile camminare da solo in campagna senza lasciarsi trasportare dai pensieri. E lui aveva molte questioni irrisolte su cui riflettere, anche se in realtà stava dirigendosi verso il Land’s End.

Prima di tutto, c’era quell’argomento che raramente lasciava la sua mente: la domanda su cosa dovesse fare da quel momento in poi nella vita, a quale occupazione dovesse dedicarsi e in quale direzione fosse meglio cercare di progredire. Non era affatto ricco, e ogni giorno trascorso nell’incertezza e nell’inazione rendeva la sua eredità una fonte ancora maggiore di ansia per lui. Ogni volta che iniziava a pensare a come aumentarla o a investirla, ritornava sempre il timore che qualcuno avesse diritti non soddisfatti nei suoi confronti; e questo pensiero lo assillava costantemente. Inoltre, c’era la questione dei suoi rapporti con sua madre: i loro rapporti erano ora equilibrati e pacifici, ma mai davvero confidenziali; la vedeva diverse volte a settimana. La piccola Dorrit rappresentava un argomento costante nelle sue riflessioni: le circostanze della sua vita, unite a quelle della storia di lei, facevano di quella bambina l’unica persona con cui potesse instaurare legami basati sull’innocente fiducia da una parte e sulla protettiva affetto dall’altra; legami di compassione, rispetto, interesse disinteressato, gratitudine e pietà. Pensandoci, e considerando la possibilità che il padre di lei venisse liberato dalla prigione dalla mano inesorabile della morte – l’unica situazione che potesse immaginare in grado di renderlo un vero amico per lei, cambiando completamente il suo modo di vivere, rendendo più facile la sua esistenza e dandole una casa stabile – la considerava, sotto questo punto di vista, come sua figlia adottiva, la sua povera bambina, quella che riposava in pace nel luogo dove era morta. Se c’era un ultimo argomento nei suoi pensieri, esso riguardava Twickenham; ma la sua forma era così vaga da essere poco più di quell’atmosfera generale nella quale tutti questi altri temi fluttuavano davanti ai suoi occhi.

Aveva attraversato la brughiera e stava per lasciarla alle spalle quando raggiunse una figura che lo precedeva da un po’ di tempo; man mano che si avvicinava, gli sembrò di riconoscerla. Questa impressione derivava dal modo in cui quella persona inclinava la testa e dal suo atteggiamento, mentre camminava con passo deciso. Ma quando quell’uomo – poiché si trattava di un uomo – si sistemò il cappello sulla nuca e si fermò per osservare qualcosa davanti a sé, capì che era Daniel Doyce.

“Come sta, signor Doyce?” disse Clennam, superandolo. “Sono felice di rivederla, e in un posto molto più salutare rispetto all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni.”

“Eccolo! L’amico del signor Meagles!” esclamò quel criminale, uscendo da qualche riflessione che aveva fatto e porgendogli la mano. “Mi fa piacere rivedervi, signore. Mi scuserete se dimentico il vostro nome, vero?”

“Prontamente. Non è un nome famoso. Non è ‘Barnacle’.”

“No, no,” disse Daniel ridendo. “E ora so di cosa si tratta. È Clennam. Come sta, signor Clennam?”

“Ho ancora un po’ di speranza”, disse Arthur mentre camminavano insieme, “che forse stiamo andando nello stesso posto, signor Doyce.”

“Che significato ha Twickenham?”, rispose Daniel. “Sono felice di saperlo.”

Erano presto diventati molto intimi e si intrattenevano a vicenda con varie conversazioni. Quell’uomo ingegnoso era in realtà una persona di grande modestia e buon senso; e, sebbene semplice nel modo di vivere, era abituato da tempo a combinare idee originali e audaci con un metodo paziente e meticoloso nell’esecuzione dei propri progetti, tanto da non poter essere considerato una persona ordinaria. All’inizio fu difficile farlo parlare di sé; lui evitava sempre di rispondere direttamente alle domande di Arthur, ammettendo solo occasionalmente di aver fatto questo o quello, che certe cose fossero frutto delle sue idee o delle sue scoperte, ma che si trattasse comunque del suo lavoro. Solo quando iniziò a sentirsi sicuro che il suo interlocutore fosse davvero interessato alle sue storie, iniziò a raccontare liberamente. Scoprì di essere figlio di un fabbro del nord e che, all’inizio, sua madre vedova lo aveva messo come apprendista presso un fabbricante di serrature; lì aveva creato alcuni piccoli prototipi che gli permisero di liberarsi dal contratto di apprendistato ricevendo in cambio del denaro necessario per realizzare il suo desiderio di lavorare sotto la guida di un ingegnere. Dopo sette anni di duro lavoro e studio, terminò il periodo di apprendistato e continuò a lavorare in diversi laboratori; successivamente si recò sulle rive del fiume Clyde, dove per altri sei o sette anni approfondì le sue conoscenze teoriche e pratiche. Lì ricevette un’offerta per andare a Lione, che accettò; da Lione fu poi invitato a recarsi in Germania, dove gli fu offerta l’opportunità di andare a San Pietroburgo, dove ottenne grandi successi. Tuttavia, provava una naturale preferenza per il proprio paese e desiderava contribuire al suo sviluppo, piuttosto che altrove. Così tornò in casa e lì iniziò la propria attività imprenditoriale. Dopo dodici anni di duro lavoro e dedizione, fu ammesso nella Grande Legione Britannica dell’Onore e insignito della Gran Croce del Merito Britannico.

‘It is much to be regretted,’ said Clennam, ‘that you ever turned your thoughts that way, Mr Doyce.’

‘True, sir, true to a certain extent. But what is a man to do? if he has the misfortune to strike out something serviceable to the nation, he must follow where it leads him.’

‘Hadn’t he better let it go?’ said Clennam.

‘He can’t do it,’ said Doyce, shaking his head with a thoughtful smile. ‘It’s not put into his head to be buried. It’s put into his head to be made useful. You hold your life on the condition that to the last you shall struggle hard for it. Every man holds a discovery on the same terms.’

‘That is to say,’ said Arthur, with a growing admiration of his quiet companion, ‘you are not finally discouraged even now?’

‘I have no right to be, if I am,’ returned the other. ‘The thing is as true as it ever was.’

When they had walked a little way in silence, Clennam, at once to change the direct point of their conversation and not to change it too abruptly, asked Mr Doyce if he had any partner in his business to relieve him of a portion of its anxieties?

‘No,’ he returned, ‘not at present. I had when I first entered on it, and a good man he was. But he has been dead some years; and as I could not easily take to the notion of another when I lost him, I bought his share for myself and have gone on by myself ever since. And here’s another thing,’ he said, stopping for a moment with a good-humoured laugh in his eyes, and laying his closed right hand, with its peculiar suppleness of thumb, on Clennam’s arm, ‘no inventor can be a man of business, you know.’

‘No?’ said Clennam.

‘Why, so the men of business say,’ he answered, resuming the walk and laughing outright. ‘I don’t know why we unfortunate creatures should be supposed to want common sense, but it is generally taken for granted that we do. Even the best friend I have in the world, our excellent friend over yonder,’ said Doyce, nodding towards Twickenham, ‘extends a sort of protection to me, don’t you know, as a man not quite able to take care of himself?’

Arthur Clennam could not help joining in the good-humoured laugh, for he recognised the truth of the description.

‘So I find that I must have a partner who is a man of business and not guilty of any inventions,’ said Daniel Doyce, taking off his hat to pass his hand over his forehead, ‘if it’s only in deference to the current opinion, and to uphold the credit of the Works. I don’t think he’ll find that I have been very remiss or confused in my way of conducting them; but that’s for him to say—whoever he is—not for me.’

‘You have not chosen him yet, then?’

‘No, sir, no. I have only just come to a decision to take one. The fact is, there’s more to do than there used to be, and the Works are enough for me as I grow older. What with the books and correspondence, and foreign journeys for which a Principal is necessary, I can’t do all. I am going to talk over the best way of negotiating the matter, if I find a spare half-hour between this and Monday morning, with my—my Nurse and protector,’ said Doyce, with laughing eyes again. ‘He is a sagacious man in business, and has had a good apprenticeship to it.’

After this, they conversed on different subjects until they arrived at their journey’s end. A composed and unobtrusive self-sustainment was noticeable in Daniel Doyce—a calm knowledge that what was true must remain true, in spite of all the Barnacles in the family ocean, and would be just the truth, and neither more nor less when even that sea had run dry—which had a kind of greatness in it, though not of the official quality.

As he knew the house well, he conducted Arthur to it by the way that showed it to the best advantage. It was a charming place (none the worse for being a little eccentric), on the road by the river, and just what the residence of the Meagles family ought to be. It stood in a garden, no doubt as fresh and beautiful in the May of the Year as Pet now was in the May of her life; and it was defended by a goodly show of handsome trees and spreading evergreens, as Pet was by Mr and Mrs Meagles. It was made out of an old brick house, of which a part had been altogether pulled down, and another part had been changed into the present cottage; so there was a hale elderly portion, to represent Mr and Mrs Meagles, and a young picturesque, very pretty portion to represent Pet. There was even the later addition of a conservatory sheltering itself against it, uncertain of hue in its deep-stained glass, and in its more transparent portions flashing to the sun’s rays, now like fire and now like harmless water drops; which might have stood for Tattycoram. Within view was the peaceful river and the ferry-boat, to moralise to all the inmates saying: Young or old, passionate or tranquil, chafing or content, you, thus runs the current always. Let the heart swell into what discord it will, thus plays the rippling water on the prow of the ferry-boat ever the same tune. Year after year, so much allowance for the drifting of the boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet, upon this road that steadily runs away; while you, upon your flowing road of time, are so capricious and distracted.

The bell at the gate had scarcely sounded when Mr Meagles came out to receive them. Mr Meagles had scarcely come out, when Mrs Meagles came out. Mrs Meagles had scarcely come out, when Pet came out. Pet scarcely had come out, when Tattycoram came out. Never had visitors a more hospitable reception.

‘Here we are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘boxed up, Mr Clennam, within our own home-limits, as if we were never going to expand—that is, travel—again. Not like Marseilles, eh? No allonging and marshonging here!’

“È davvero molto spiacevole,” disse Clennam, “che abbiate mai rivolto i vostri pensieri in quella direzione, signor Doyce.”

“Vero, signore, vero in un certo senso. Ma che cosa può fare un uomo se ha la sfortuna di ideare qualcosa di utile per la nazione? Deve seguire la strada che tale idea gli indica.”

“Non sarebbe stato meglio per lui lasciar perdere?” disse Clennam.

“Non ce la farà,” disse Doyce, scuotendo la testa con un sorriso pensieroso.
“Non gli è stato messo in mente di essere sepolto. Gli è stato messo in mente di essere utilizzato. Tu mantieni la tua vita a condizione che fino all’ultimo momento lotti duramente per essa. Ogni uomo tiene una scoperta nello stesso modo.”

“In altre parole,” disse Arthur, provando sempre più ammirazione per il suo tranquillo compagno, “anche ora non sei del tutto scoraggiato?”

“Non ho alcun diritto di esistere, se proprio devo esistere,” rispose l’altro. “La cosa è vera, proprio come lo è sempre stata.”

Dopo aver camminato per un po’ in silenzio, Clennam, nel tentativo di cambiare argomento della conversazione in modo graduale, chiese al signor Doyce se avesse qualche socio nell’affare che potesse condividere con lui alcune delle responsabilità e delle preoccupazioni legate a esso.

“No,” rispose, “almeno per il momento. Lo ero quando ho iniziato questo lavoro; era davvero un bravo uomo. Ma è morto alcuni anni fa. E poiché non riuscivo facilmente ad abituarmi all’idea di trovarne un altro dopo la sua scomparsa, ho comprato la sua parte e da allora ho proseguito da solo. E c’è un’altra cosa, ” aggiunse, fermandosi per un momento con un sorriso cordiale negli occhi, e posando la sua mano destra chiusa, con il pollice particolarmente flessibile, sul braccio di Clennam, “Un inventore, sai, non può certo essere un uomo d’affari.”

“Non è vero?”, disse Clennam.

“Beh, così dicono gli uomini d’affari,” rispose, riprendendo a camminare e ridendo apertamente. “Non so perché noi poveri esseri dovremmo essere considerati capaci di usare il buon senso, ma generalmente si dà per scontato che lo abbiamo. Anche il mio migliore amico al mondo, quel nostro eccellente amico laggiù,” disse Doyce, indicando verso Twickenham, “mi offre una sorta di protezione, capite, come a qualcuno che non è del tutto in grado di prendersi cura di sé.”

Arthur Clennam non poté fare a meno di unirsi alle risate cordiali, perché riconobbe la verità di quella descrizione.

“Quindi ho capito che devo trovare un partner che sia un uomo d’affari e che non abbia inventato nulla,” disse Daniel Doyce, togliendosi il cappello per passarsi la mano sulla fronte, “solo per rispetto dell’opinione comune attuale e per mantenere l’onore delle mie opere. Non credo di essere stato molto negligente o confuso nel modo in cui le ho gestite; ma questa è una questione da lasciare a lui decidere, chiunque egli sia, non a me.”

“Non l’hai ancora scelto, quindi?”

“No, signore, no. Ho appena deciso di prenderne uno. Il fatto è che ci sono molte più cose da fare rispetto a prima, e il lavoro attuale mi basta ormai con l’avanzare dell’età. Con i libri, la corrispondenza e i viaggi all’estero per cui è necessario un assistente principale, non riesco a farcela tutto. Discuterò del modo migliore per affrontare la questione, se riesco a trovare mezz’ora libero tra ora e lunedì mattina, con la mia, la mia Infermiera e protettrice,” disse Doyce, con gli occhi che ridevano di nuovo. “È un uomo saggio in affari, e ha avuto una buona formazione nel settore.”

Dopo questo, continuarono a conversare su vari argomenti fino a quando non raggiunsero la fine del loro Viaggio. In Daniel Doyce si notava una compostezza e un autocontrollo discreti: una tranquilla consapevolezza che ciò che è vero deve rimanere vero, nonostante tutte le difficoltà presenti nella “famiglia” in cui viveva; era convinto che quella fosse proprio la .verità, né più né meno, anche se tutto il mare intorno si fosse prosciugato. Una sorta di grandezza in lui, sebbene non del tipo ufficiale o riconosciuto.

Essendo ben conoscitore di quella casa, guidò Arthur verso di essa in modo da farle risaltare al meglio i pregi. Era un luogo incantevole (niente affatto peggiore per questo motivo se un po’ eccentrico), situato sulla strada vicino al fiume, e proprio ciò che una residenza della famiglia Meagles avrebbe dovuto essere. Si trovava in un giardino; non c’era alcun dubbio che, a maggio di quell’anno, fosse fresco e bellissimo tanto quanto Pet lo era a maggio della sua vita. Era circondata da alberi maestosi e piante sempreverdi rigogliose, proprio come Pet era protetta dal signor e dalla signora Meagles. La casa era stata costruita con vecchi mattoni; una parte era stata completamente demolita, mentre un’altra era stata trasformata nell’attuale cottage. C’era quindi una parte più antica che rappresentava il signor e la signora Meagles, e una parte più giovane, pittoresca e molto bella che rappresentava Pet. Era stata aggiunta anche una serra che si affacciava su di essa; i vetri scuri le conferivano un aspetto incerto, mentre nelle parti più trasparenti riflettevano i raggi del sole, ora come fuoco, ora come inoffensive gocce d’acqua; questa parte della serra poteva simboleggiare Tattycoram. Davanti agli occhi si estendeva il tranquillo fiume e la barca traghetto, che sembravano dire a tutti gli abitanti di quella casa: giovani o anziani, appassionati o sereni, turbolenti o soddisfatti, così scorre sempre il corso del tempo. Che il cuore si gonfi di ciò che vuole; l’acqua ondulante sulla prua della barca traghetto suona sempre la stessa melodia. Anno dopo anno, il fiume scorre incessantemente a una certa velocità; qui le rapide, là i lillà, nulla di incerto o inquieto su questa strada che procede senza sosta, mentre voi, sulla vostra strada del tempo, siete così capricciosi e distratti.

Appena suonò la campanella al cancello, il signor Meagles uscì per accoglierli. Appena il signor Meagles fu uscito, anche la signora Meagles uscì. Appena la signora Meagles fu uscita, uscì anche Pet. Appena Pet fu uscita, uscì anche Tattycoram. Gli ospiti non avevano mai ricevuto un’accoglienza così calorosa.

“Eccoci qui,” disse il signor Meagles, “chiusi dentro i confini della nostra stessa casa, come se mai più dovessimo espanderci, cioè viaggiare. Non è come Marsiglia, eh? Nessun lungo viaggio o spostamento in questo posto!”

‘A different kind of beauty, indeed!’ said Clennam, looking about him.

‘But, Lord bless me!’ cried Mr Meagles, rubbing his hands with a relish, ‘it was an uncommonly pleasant thing being in quarantine, wasn’t it? Do you know, I have often wished myself back again? We were a capital party.’

This was Mr Meagles’s invariable habit. Always to object to everything while he was travelling, and always to want to get back to it when he was not travelling.

‘If it was summer-time,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘which I wish it was on your account, and in order that you might see the place at its best, you would hardly be able to hear yourself speak for birds. Being practical people, we never allow anybody to scare the birds; and the birds, being practical people too, come about us in myriads. We are delighted to see you, Clennam (if you’ll allow me, I shall drop the Mister); I heartily assure you, we are delighted.’

‘I have not had so pleasant a greeting,’ said Clennam—then he recalled what Little Dorrit had said to him in his own room, and faithfully added ‘except once—since we last walked to and fro, looking down at the Mediterranean.’

‘Ah!’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘Something like a look out, that was, wasn’t it? I don’t want a military government, but I shouldn’t mind a little allonging and marshonging—just a dash of it—in this neighbourhood sometimes. It’s Devilish still.’

Bestowing this eulogium on the retired character of his retreat with a dubious shake of the head, Mr Meagles led the way into the house. It was just large enough, and no more; was as pretty within as it was without, and was perfectly well-arranged and comfortable. Some traces of the migratory habits of the family were to be observed in the covered frames and furniture, and wrapped-up hangings; but it was easy to see that it was one of Mr Meagles’s whims to have the cottage always kept, in their absence, as if they were always coming back the day after to-morrow. Of articles collected on his various expeditions, there was such a vast miscellany that it was like the dwelling of an amiable Corsair. There were antiquities from Central Italy, made by the best modern houses in that department of industry; bits of mummy from Egypt (and perhaps Birmingham); model gondolas from Venice; model villages from Switzerland; morsels of tesselated pavement from Herculaneum and Pompeii, like petrified minced veal; ashes out of tombs, and lava out of Vesuvius; Spanish fans, Spezzian straw hats, Moorish slippers, Tuscan hairpins, Carrara sculpture, Trastaverini scarves, Genoese velvets and filigree, Neapolitan coral, Roman cameos, Geneva jewellery, Arab lanterns, rosaries blest all round by the Pope himself, and an infinite variety of lumber. There were views, like and unlike, of a multitude of places; and there was one little picture-room devoted to a few of the regular sticky old Saints, with sinews like whipcord, hair like Neptune’s, wrinkles like tattooing, and such coats of varnish that every holy personage served for a fly-trap, and became what is now called in the vulgar tongue a Catch-em-alive O. Of these pictorial acquisitions Mr Meagles spoke in the usual manner. He was no judge, he said, except of what pleased himself; he had picked them up, dirt-cheap, and people had considered them rather fine. One man, who at any rate ought to know something of the subject, had declared that ‘Sage, Reading’ (a specially oily old gentleman in a blanket, with a swan’s-down tippet for a beard, and a web of cracks all over him like rich pie-crust), to be a fine Guercino. As for Sebastian del Piombo there, you would judge for yourself; if it were not his later manner, the question was, Who was it? Titian, that might or might not be—perhaps he had only touched it. Daniel Doyce said perhaps he hadn’t touched it, but Mr Meagles rather declined to overhear the remark.

When he had shown all his spoils, Mr Meagles took them into his own snug room overlooking the lawn, which was fitted up in part like a dressing-room and in part like an office, and in which, upon a kind of counter-desk, were a pair of brass scales for weighing gold, and a scoop for shovelling out money.

‘Here they are, you see,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘I stood behind these two articles five-and-thirty years running, when I no more thought of gadding about than I now think of—staying at home. When I left the Bank for good, I asked for them, and brought them away with me. I mention it at once, or you might suppose that I sit in my counting-house (as Pet says I do), like the king in the poem of the four-and-twenty blackbirds, counting out my money.’

Clennam’s eyes had strayed to a natural picture on the wall, of two pretty little girls with their arms entwined. ‘Yes, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, in a lower voice. ‘There they both are. It was taken some seventeen years ago. As I often say to Mother, they were babies then.’

‘Their names?’ said Arthur.

‘Ah, to be sure! You have never heard any name but Pet. Pet’s name is Minnie; her sister’s Lillie.’

‘Should you have known, Mr Clennam, that one of them was meant for me?’ asked Pet herself, now standing in the doorway.

‘I might have thought that both of them were meant for you, both are still so like you. Indeed,’ said Clennam, glancing from the fair original to the picture and back, ‘I cannot even now say which is not your portrait.’

‘D’ye hear that, Mother?’ cried Mr Meagles to his wife, who had followed her daughter. ‘It’s always the same, Clennam; nobody can decide. The child to your left is Pet.’

The picture happened to be near a looking-glass. As Arthur looked at it again, he saw, by the reflection of the mirror, Tattycoram stop in passing outside the door, listen to what was going on, and pass away with an angry and contemptuous frown upon her face, that changed its beauty into ugliness.

“Un tipo diverso di bellezza, davvero!”, disse Clennam guardandosi intorno.

“Ma, Signore, beneditemi!”, esclamò il signor Meagles strofinandosi le mani con piacere. “Essere in quarantena è stato davvero qualcosa di straordinariamente piacevole, non credete? Sapete, molte volte ho desiderato tornarci! Eravamo davvero una compagnia fantastica.”

Questo era l’abitudine immutabile del signor Meagles: opporsi sempre a tutto quando viaggiava, e desiderare sempre tornare indietro quando non viaggiava più.

“Se fosse periodo estivo,” disse il signor Meagles, “il che spero accada per il tuo bene, e affinché tu possa vedere questo posto nel suo aspetto migliore, a malapena riusciresti a sentirti parlare a causa dei uccelli. Noi, essendo persone pratiche, non permettiamo mai a nessuno di spaventare gli uccelli; e gli uccelli, essendo anch’essi persone pratiche, arrivano da noi in gran numero. Siamo molto felici di vederti, Clennam, (se mi permetti, ometterò il “signore”); ti assicuro sinceramente che siamo davvero felici.”

“Non ho mai ricevuto un saluto così piacevole,” disse Clennam; poi ricordò ciò che Little Dorrit gli aveva detto nella sua stanza, e aggiunse sinceramente: “Tranne una volta, da quando abbiamo camminato insieme l’ultima volta, guardando il Mediterraneo.”

“Ah!” rispose il signor Meagles. “Qualcosa del genere, una sorta di sorveglianza, giusto? Non voglio un governo militare, ma non mi dispiacerebbe se, di tanto in tanto, in questa zona ci fossero qualche controlllo e qualche ispezione. Solo un po’, ogni tanto. È ancora molto pericoloso.”

Dedicando questo elogio alla dimora ritirata del signor Meagles, scosse la testa in modo dubbioso e lo precedette all’interno della casa. Era appena sufficientemente grande, né più né meno; era bella sia all’esterno che all’interno, ed era perfettamente arredata e confortevole. Si potevano notare alcune tracce delle abitudini nomadi della famiglia nelle cornici e nei mobili coperti, nonché nelle tende avvolte; ma era evidente che per il signor Meagles fosse una sorta di capriccio mantenere sempre la casa in ordine, come se loro dovessero tornare il giorno dopo. Tra gli oggetti raccolti durante le sue varie spedizioni, c’era un’immensa varietà di cose: sembrava davvero l’abitazione di un affabile corsaro. C’erano antichità provenienti dall’Italia centrale, realizzate dalle migliori botteghe artigianali di quel settore; pezzi di mummia dall’Egitto (e forse anche da Birmingham); modellini di gondole da Venezia; modellini di villaggi svizzeri; frammenti di pavimentazione a mosaico provenienti da Ercolano e Pompei; ceneri di tombe, lava del Vesuvio; ventagli spagnoli, cappelli di paglia spezziana, pantofole moresche, mollette toscane, sculture in Carrara, sciarpe di Trastaverini, velluti e intagli genovesi, corallo napoletano, cammei romani, gioielli svizzeri, lanterne arabe, rosari benedetti dal Papa stesso, e un’infinità di altri oggetti. C’erano anche dipinti raffiguranti molti luoghi, alcuni simili ad altri; inoltre, c’era una piccola sala dedicata a qualche santo antico: personaggi con muscoli rigidi come corde, capelli simili a quelli di Nettuno, rughe profonde come tatuaggi, e vernici così spesse che ogni “santo” sembrava un trappolo per mosche. Insomma, una vera e propria collezione eterogenea. Il signor Meagles parlava di queste sue acquisizioni nel solito modo: non si considerava un esperto, diceva, ma solo qualcuno che apprezzava ciò che gli piaceva; li aveva comprati a prezzi molto bassi, e alcune persone li ritenevano addirittura di ottima qualità. Un uomo che sicuramente conosceva bene l’argomento aveva dichiarato che il dipinto “Saggio, Lettore” fosse in realtà un bell’opera di Guercino. Per quanto riguardava il dipinto di Sebastian del Piombo, be’, ci si poteva fare un’idea da soli. Se non fosse stato per lo stile artistico caratteristico dell’autore, la domanda sarebbe stata: “Di chi è davvero questo dipinto?” Forse di Tiziano, o forse no. Forse l’autore aveva semplicemente dato un tocco personale all’opera originale. Daniel Doyce aveva suggerito che forse non l’avesse nemmeno modificata, ma il signor Meagles preferì ignorare quel commento.

Dopo aver mostrato tutti i suoi tesori, il signor Meagles li portò nella sua stanza confortevole, affacciata sul prato. Quella stanza era arredata in parte come un bagno e in parte come un ufficio; su un piccolo banco c’erano una coppia di bilance di bronzo per pesare l’oro e una cucchiaiata per distribuire i soldi.

“Ecco qui, vedete,” disse il signor Meagles. “Ho tenuto questi due oggetti per cinquantatré anni; in quel periodo non pensavo affatto a girovagare, proprio come ora non penso a stare a casa. Quando ho lasciato la banca per sempre, li ho chiesti e me li sono portati via con me. Vi parlo subito di questo, altrimenti potreste pensare che io stia seduto nella mia stanza dei conti (come dice Pet), come il re nel poema dei ventiquattro passeri neri, a contare i miei soldi, ”

Gli occhi di Clennam si erano posati su un dipinto appeso al muro: raffigurava due bellissime bambine con le braccia intrecciate. “Sì, Clennam,” disse il signor Meagles a voce più bassa. “Lì sono entrambe. È stato scattato circa diciassette anni fa. Come dico spesso a mia madre, all’epoca erano ancora bambine.”

“I loro nomi?” chiese Arthur.

“Ah, certo! Non avete mai sentito altro nome se non Pet. Il vero nome di Pet è Minnie; quello di sua sorella è Lillie.”

“Se solo lo aveste saputo, signor Clennam, che uno di quei fiori era destinato a me, ” si chiese Pet, ora ferma sulla soglia.

“Forse avrei dovuto pensare che entrambi fossero fatti per te. Entrambi ti assomigliano ancora così tanto. Infatti,” disse Clennam, guardando alternativamente l’originale e il ritratto, “non riesco nemmeno ora a dire quale dei due non sia il tuo ritratto.”

“L’hai sentito, mamma?” gridò il signor Meagles alla moglie, che aveva seguito la figlia. “È sempre la stessa cosa, Clennam; nessuno riesce a decidere. Il bambino a sinistra di te è Pet.”

Quel dipinto si trovava proprio vicino a uno specchio. Quando Arthur lo guardò di nuovo, attraverso il riflesso dello specchio, vide Tattycoram fermarsi mentre passava fuori dalla porta, ascoltare ciò che stava accadendo, e poi andarsene con un’espressione di rabbia e disprezzo sul viso, che trasformò la sua bellezza in bruttezza.

‘But come!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘You have had a long walk, and will be glad to get your boots off. As to Daniel here, I suppose he’d never think of taking his boots off, unless we showed him a boot-jack.’

‘Why not?’ asked Daniel, with a significant smile at Clennam.

‘Oh! You have so many things to think about,’ returned Mr Meagles, clapping him on the shoulder, as if his weakness must not be left to itself on any account. ‘Figures, and wheels, and cogs, and levers, and screws, and cylinders, and a thousand things.’

‘In my calling,’ said Daniel, amused, ‘the greater usually includes the less. But never mind, never mind! Whatever pleases you, pleases me.’

Clennam could not help speculating, as he seated himself in his room by the fire, whether there might be in the breast of this honest, affectionate, and cordial Mr Meagles, any microscopic portion of the mustard-seed that had sprung up into the great tree of the Circumlocution Office. His curious sense of a general superiority to Daniel Doyce, which seemed to be founded, not so much on anything in Doyce’s personal character as on the mere fact of his being an originator and a man out of the beaten track of other men, suggested the idea. It might have occupied him until he went down to dinner an hour afterwards, if he had not had another question to consider, which had been in his mind so long ago as before he was in quarantine at Marseilles, and which had now returned to it, and was very urgent with it. No less a question than this: Whether he should allow himself to fall in love with Pet?

He was twice her age. (He changed the leg he had crossed over the other, and tried the calculation again, but could not bring out the total at less.) He was twice her age. Well! He was young in appearance, young in health and strength, young in heart. A man was certainly not old at forty; and many men were not in circumstances to marry, or did not marry, until they had attained that time of life. On the other hand, the question was, not what he thought of the point, but what she thought of it.

He believed that Mr Meagles was disposed to entertain a ripe regard for him, and he knew that he had a sincere regard for Mr Meagles and his good wife. He could foresee that to relinquish this beautiful only child, of whom they were so fond, to any husband, would be a trial of their love which perhaps they never yet had had the fortitude to contemplate. But the more beautiful and winning and charming she, the nearer they must always be to the necessity of approaching it. And why not in his favour, as well as in another’s?

When he had got so far, it came again into his head that the question was, not what they thought of it, but what she thought of it.

Arthur Clennam was a retiring man, with a sense of many deficiencies; and he so exalted the merits of the beautiful Minnie in his mind, and depressed his own, that when he pinned himself to this point, his hopes began to fail him. He came to the final resolution, as he made himself ready for dinner, that he would not allow himself to fall in love with Pet.

There were only five, at a round table, and it was very pleasant indeed. They had so many places and people to recall, and they were all so easy and cheerful together (Daniel Doyce either sitting out like an amused spectator at cards, or coming in with some shrewd little experiences of his own, when it happened to be to the purpose), that they might have been together twenty times, and not have known so much of one another.

‘And Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, after they had recalled a number of fellow-travellers. ‘Has anybody seen Miss Wade?’

‘I have,’ said Tattycoram.

She had brought a little mantle which her young mistress had sent for, and was bending over her, putting it on, when she lifted up her dark eyes and made this unexpected answer.

‘Tatty!’ her young mistress exclaimed. ‘You seen Miss Wade?—where?’

‘Here, miss,’ said Tattycoram.

‘How?’

An impatient glance from Tattycoram seemed, as Clennam saw it, to answer ‘With my eyes!’ But her only answer in words was: ‘I met her near the church.’

‘What was she doing there I wonder!’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Not going to it, I should think.’

‘She had written to me first,’ said Tattycoram.

‘Oh, Tatty!’ murmured her mistress, ‘take your hands away. I feel as if some one else was touching me!’

She said it in a quick involuntary way, but half playfully, and not more petulantly or disagreeably than a favourite child might have done, who laughed next moment. Tattycoram set her full red lips together, and crossed her arms upon her bosom.

‘Did you wish to know, sir,’ she said, looking at Mr Meagles, ‘what Miss Wade wrote to me about?’

‘Well, Tattycoram,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘since you ask the question, and we are all friends here, perhaps you may as well mention it, if you are so inclined.’

‘She knew, when we were travelling, where you lived,’ said Tattycoram, ‘and she had seen me not quite—not quite—’

‘Not quite in a good temper, Tattycoram?’ suggested Mr Meagles, shaking his head at the dark eyes with a quiet caution. ‘Take a little time—count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

She pressed her lips together again, and took a long deep breath.

‘So she wrote to me to say that if I ever felt myself hurt,’ she looked down at her young mistress, ‘or found myself worried,’ she looked down at her again, ‘I might go to her, and be considerately treated. I was to think of it, and could speak to her by the church. So I went there to thank her.’

‘Tatty,’ said her young mistress, putting her hand up over her shoulder that the other might take it, ‘Miss Wade almost frightened me when we parted, and I scarcely like to think of her just now as having been so near me without my knowing it. Tatty dear!’

Tatty stood for a moment, immovable.

‘Hey?’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Count another five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

“Ma come!” disse il signor Meagles. “Avete fatto una lunga camminata e sicuramente vi farà piacere togliervi le scarpe. Per quanto riguarda Daniel, credo che non penserebbe mai nemmeno di togliersi le sue scarpe, a meno che non gli mostriamo uno strumento per slacciarle.”

“Perché no?”, chiese Daniel, sorridendo significativamente a Clennam.

“Oh! Hai così tante cose di cui preoccuparti,” rispose il signor Meagles, dandogli una pacca sulla spalla, come se la sua debolezza non dovesse assolutamente essere lasciata da sola. “Figure, ruote, ingranaggi, leve, viti, cilindri, e mille altre cose ancora.”

“Nel mio compito,” disse Daniel, divertito, “di solito ciò che è più importante include anche ciò che è meno importante. Ma non importa, davvero! Quello che ti piace, mi piace anch’io.”

Clennam non poté fare a meno di riflettere, mentre si sedeva nella sua stanza accanto al focolare, se nel cuore di questo onesto, affettuoso e cordiale signor Meagles potesse esserci anche solo una piccolissima traccia di quella “semi di senape” che aveva poi germogliato nell’immensa “albero” dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. La sua strana sensazione di superiorità rispetto a Daniel Doyce, che sembrava basarsi non tanto sul carattere personale di Doyce, quanto piuttosto sul semplice fatto che quest’ultimo fosse un innovatore e una persona che si discostava dal percorso tradizionale degli altri, gli suggeriva questa idea. Quella questione avrebbe potuto occupargli la mente per tutta l’ora successiva, se non ci fosse stata un’altra questione ancora più urgente da considerare. Una questione che gli era già venuta in mente molto tempo prima, quando si trovava in quarantena a Marsiglia, e che ora tornava ad assillarlo con ancora maggiore insistenza. La domanda era questa: doveva permettersi di innamorarsi di Pet?

Aveva il doppio dei suoi anni. Cambiò la gamba che aveva incrociato sull’altra e provò a calcolare di nuovo, ma non riuscì comunque ad ottenere un risultato diverso. Aveva il doppio dei suoi anni. Beh! Sembrava giovane nell’aspetto, giovane in salute e forza, giovane nel cuore. Un uomo a quarant’anni di certo non era vecchio; inoltre, molti uomini non avevano le condizioni per sposarsi, o semplicemente non lo facevano fino a raggiungere quell’età. D’altra parte, la questione non era ciò che lui pensava al riguardo, ma ciò che lei ne pensava.

Credeva che il signor Meagles fosse disposto a provare per lui un sincero affetto, e sapeva di ricambiare con sincerità i sentimenti del signor Meagles e di sua moglie gentile. Poteva prevedere che rinunciare a questo adorabile bambino, di cui erano così affezionati, a favore di qualsiasi altro marito, sarebbe stato una prova per il loro amore, una prova forse di fronte alla quale non avrebbero mai avuto la forza di resistere. Ma più bella, attraente e incantevole era lei, più inevitabile diventava per loro l’idea di rinunciarvi. E perché non a favore suo, tanto quanto di un altro?

Quando arrivò a quel punto, gli tornò in mente che la domanda non era quella che loro ne pensavano, ma quella che lei ne pensava.

Arthur Clennam era un uomo ormai prossimo alla fine della sua vita, convinto di avere molte carenze; esaltava così tanto i meriti della bella Minnie nella sua mente e sminuiva i propri, che quando si attenne fermamente a questa convinzione, le sue speranze iniziarono ad andare deluse. Mentre si preparava per la cena, giunse alla decisione finale: non avrebbe permesso a se stesso di innamorarsi di Pet.

C’erano solo cinque persone attorno a un tavolo rotondo, e l’atmosfera era davvero molto piacevole. Avevano così tanti ricordi legati a luoghi e persone diverse da condividere; inoltre, tutti erano così gentili e allegri insieme – Daniel Doyce o sedeva fuori come uno spettatore divertito che osservava le partite a carte, oppure interveniva con qualche aneddoto personale interessante, quando era il caso – che avrebbero potuto passare venti ore insieme senza conoscersi davvero meglio.

“E la signorina Wade,” disse il signor Meagles, dopo che avevano ricordato alcuni altri compagni di viaggio. “Qualcuno l’ha vista, la signorina Wade?”

“L’ho fatto,” disse Tattycoram.

Aveva portato con sé un piccolo mantello che la sua giovane padrona le aveva chiesto di prendere; mentre se lo metteva, alzò i suoi occhi scuri e diede questa risposta inaspettata.

“Orribile!” esclamò la sua giovane padrona. “L’hai vista, la signorina Wade?. Dove?”

“Ecco qui, signorina,” disse Tattycoram.

“Come?”

Uno sguardo impaziente da parte di Tattycoram sembrava, secondo Clennam, rispondere con i suoi occhi. Ma la sua unica risposta a parole fu: “L’ho incontrata vicino alla chiesa.”

“Che ci faceva lì? Mi chiedo, ” disse il signor Meagles. “Non credo che avesse intenzione di partecipare, vero?”

“È stata lei ad scrivere per prima,” disse Tattycoram.

“Oh, Tatty!” mormorò la sua padrona, “togliete le vostre mani. Mi sembra che qualcun altro mi stia toccando!”

Lo disse in modo rapido e involontario, ma con un pizzico di scherzo; non in modo petulante o sgradevole, proprio come avrebbe potuto fare un suo bambino preferito, che subito dopo scoppiò a ridere. Tattycoram serrò le sue labbra rosse e incrociò le braccia sul petto.

“Volevate saperlo, signore,” disse lei, guardando il signor Meagles, “di cosa mi ha scritto la signorina Wade?”

“Beh, Tattycoram,” rispose il signor Meagles, “poiché me lo chiedi e siamo tutti amici qui, forse potresti benissimo menzionarlo, se ti senti in vena di farlo.”

“Sapeva, quando viaggiavamo, dove vivevi,” disse Tattycoram, “e mi aveva visto, non proprio, ”

“Non sei proprio di buon umore, Tattycoram?” suggerì il signor Meagles, scuotendo la testa davanti a quegli occhi scuri con una certa cautela. “Prenditi un po’ di tempo, conta fino a venticinque, Tattycoram.”

Si chiuse di nuovo le labbra e fece un lungo respiro profondo.

“So che mi ha scritto dicendo che, se mai mi sentissi ferita,” guardò la sua giovane padrona, “o mi trovassi preoccupata,” la guardò di nuovo, “potevo andare da lei e sarei stata trattata con gentilezza. Dovevo pensarci bene e potevo parlarle vicino alla chiesa. Così ci sono andata per ringraziarla.”

“Tatty,” disse la sua giovane padrona, mettendo la mano sulla spalla dell’altra affinché potesse prenderla, “Miss Wade mi ha quasi spaventata quando ci siamo separate. E non riesco proprio a sopportare l’idea che fosse così vicina a me senza che io lo sapessi. Cara Tatty!”

Tatty rimase fermo per un momento, immobile.

“Ehi?” gridò il signor Meagles. “Conta altri venticinque, Tattycoram.”

She might have counted a dozen, when she bent and put her lips to the caressing hand. It patted her cheek, as it touched the owner’s beautiful curls, and Tattycoram went away.

‘Now there,’ said Mr Meagles softly, as he gave a turn to the dumb-waiter on his right hand to twirl the sugar towards himself. ‘There’s a girl who might be lost and ruined, if she wasn’t among practical people. Mother and I know, solely from being practical, that there are times when that girl’s whole nature seems to roughen itself against seeing us so bound up in Pet. No father and mother were bound up in her, poor soul. I don’t like to think of the way in which that unfortunate child, with all that passion and protest in her, feels when she hears the Fifth Commandment on a Sunday. I am always inclined to call out, Church, Count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

Besides his dumb-waiter, Mr Meagles had two other not dumb waiters in the persons of two parlour-maids with rosy faces and bright eyes, who were a highly ornamental part of the table decoration. ‘And why not, you see?’ said Mr Meagles on this head. ‘As I always say to Mother, why not have something pretty to look at, if you have anything at all?’

A certain Mrs Tickit, who was Cook and Housekeeper when the family were at home, and Housekeeper only when the family were away, completed the establishment. Mr Meagles regretted that the nature of the duties in which she was engaged, rendered Mrs Tickit unpresentable at present, but hoped to introduce her to the new visitor to-morrow. She was an important part of the Cottage, he said, and all his friends knew her. That was her picture up in the corner. When they went away, she always put on the silk-gown and the jet-black row of curls represented in that portrait (her hair was reddish-grey in the kitchen), established herself in the breakfast-room, put her spectacles between two particular leaves of Doctor Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, and sat looking over the blind all day until they came back again. It was supposed that no persuasion could be invented which would induce Mrs Tickit to abandon her post at the blind, however long their absence, or to dispense with the attendance of Dr Buchan; the lucubrations of which learned practitioner, Mr Meagles implicitly believed she had never yet consulted to the extent of one word in her life.

In the evening they played an old-fashioned rubber; and Pet sat looking over her father’s hand, or singing to herself by fits and starts at the piano. She was a spoilt child; but how could she be otherwise? Who could be much with so pliable and beautiful a creature, and not yield to her endearing influence? Who could pass an evening in the house, and not love her for the grace and charm of her very presence in the room? This was Clennam’s reflection, notwithstanding the final conclusion at which he had arrived up-stairs.

In making it, he revoked. ‘Why, what are you thinking of, my good sir?’ asked the astonished Mr Meagles, who was his partner. ‘I beg your pardon. Nothing,’ returned Clennam. ‘Think of something, next time; that’s a dear fellow,’ said Mr Meagles. Pet laughingly believed he had been thinking of Miss Wade. ‘Why of Miss Wade, Pet?’ asked her father. ‘Why, indeed!’ said Arthur Clennam. Pet coloured a little, and went to the piano again.

As they broke up for the night, Arthur overheard Doyce ask his host if he could give him half an hour’s conversation before breakfast in the morning? The host replying willingly, Arthur lingered behind a moment, having his own word to add to that topic.

‘Mr Meagles,’ he said, on their being left alone, ‘do you remember when you advised me to go straight to London?’

‘Perfectly well.’

‘And when you gave me some other good advice which I needed at that time?’

‘I won’t say what it was worth,’ answered Mr Meagles: ‘but of course I remember our being very pleasant and confidential together.’

‘I have acted on your advice; and having disembarrassed myself of an occupation that was painful to me for many reasons, wish to devote myself and what means I have, to another pursuit.’

‘Right! You can’t do it too soon,’ said Mr Meagles.

‘Now, as I came down to-day, I found that your friend, Mr Doyce, is looking for a partner in his business—not a partner in his mechanical knowledge, but in the ways and means of turning the business arising from it to the best account.’

‘Just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with his hands in his pockets, and with the old business expression of face that had belonged to the scales and scoop.

‘Mr Doyce mentioned incidentally, in the course of our conversation, that he was going to take your valuable advice on the subject of finding such a partner. If you should think our views and opportunities at all likely to coincide, perhaps you will let him know my available position. I speak, of course, in ignorance of the details, and they may be unsuitable on both sides.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Meagles, with the caution belonging to the scales and scoop.

‘But they will be a question of figures and accounts—’

‘Just so, just so,’ said Mr Meagles, with arithmetical solidity belonging to the scales and scoop.

‘—And I shall be glad to enter into the subject, provided Mr Doyce responds, and you think well of it. If you will at present, therefore, allow me to place it in your hands, you will much oblige me.’

‘Clennam, I accept the trust with readiness,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And without anticipating any of the points which you, as a man of business, have of course reserved, I am free to say to you that I think something may come of this. Of one thing you may be perfectly certain. Daniel is an honest man.’

‘I am so sure of it that I have promptly made up my mind to speak to you.’

‘You must guide him, you know; you must steer him; you must direct him; he is one of a crotchety sort,’ said Mr Meagles, evidently meaning nothing more than that he did new things and went new ways; ‘but he is as honest as the sun, and so good night!’

Clennam went back to his room, sat down again before his fire, and made up his mind that he was glad he had resolved not to fall in love with Pet. She was so beautiful, so amiable, so apt to receive any true impression given to her gentle nature and her innocent heart, and make the man who should be so happy as to communicate it, the most fortunate and enviable of all men, that he was very glad indeed he had come to that conclusion.

But, as this might have been a reason for coming to the opposite conclusion, he followed out the theme again a little way in his mind; to justify himself, perhaps.

‘Suppose that a man,’ so his thoughts ran, ‘who had been of age some twenty years or so; who was a diffident man, from the circumstances of his youth; who was rather a grave man, from the tenor of his life; who knew himself to be deficient in many little engaging qualities which he admired in others, from having been long in a distant region, with nothing softening near him; who had no kind sisters to present to her; who had no congenial home to make her known in; who was a stranger in the land; who had not a fortune to compensate, in any measure, for these defects; who had nothing in his favour but his honest love and his general wish to do right—suppose such a man were to come to this house, and were to yield to the captivation of this charming girl, and were to persuade himself that he could hope to win her; what a weakness it would be!’

He softly opened his window, and looked out upon the serene river. Year after year so much allowance for the drifting of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet.

Why should he be vexed or sore at heart? It was not his weakness that he had imagined. It was nobody’s, nobody’s within his knowledge; why should it trouble him? And yet it did trouble him. And he thought—who has not thought for a moment, sometimes?—that it might be better to flow away monotonously, like the river, and to compound for its insensibility to happiness with its insensibility to pain.

Forse ne aveva contate una dozzina, quando si chinò e posò le labbra sulla mano che la accarezzava. Quella mano le diede una pacca sul viso, mentre toccava i bellissimi riccioli del suo proprietario. E così Tattycoram se ne andò.

“Ecco fatto,” disse gentilmente il signor Meagles, mentre faceva segno al cameriere alla sua destra di avvicinare lo zucchero verso di lui. “C’è una ragazza che potrebbe finire persa e rovinata, se non fosse circondata da persone pratiche. Mia madre ed io sappiamo, solo grazie a questo modo di pensare pratico, che ci sono momenti in cui tutta la sua natura sembra ribellarsi al fatto che noi siamo così assorbiti da Pet. Povera anima. Nessun genitore dovrebbe essere così coinvolto nella vita di una figlia. Non mi piace nemmeno pensare a come quella sfortunata ragazza, con tutta la sua passione e il suo spirito di protesta, si senta quando ascolta il Quinto Comandamento la domenica. Io ho sempre l’impulso di gridare: ‘Chiesa, conta cinquantadue. Tattycoram!’”

Oltre al suo servitore stupido, il signor Meagles aveva altri due servitori non stupidi: si trattava di due cameriere con visi rossi e occhi luminosi, che rappresentavano una parte davvero decorativa dell’arredamento della tavola. “E perché no, vedete?” disse il signor Meagles a questo proposito. “Come dico sempre a mia madre: perché non avere qualcosa di bello da guardare, se si ha qualcosa in assoluto?”

Una certa signora Tickit, che quando la famiglia era a casa svolgeva le funzioni di cuoca e domestica, e quando erano assenti si occupava soltanto delle faccende domestiche, completò l’organizzazione della casa. Il signor Meagles rimpiangeva che la natura dei compiti che svolgeva rendesse attualmente la signora Tickit inadatta a ricevere ospiti, ma sperava di presentarla al nuovo visitatore il giorno seguente. Disse che lei rappresentava una parte fondamentale della vita quotidiana nella loro casa e che tutti i suoi amici la conoscevano; quella era la sua foto appesa nell’angolo. Quando loro se ne andavano, lei indossava sempre l’abito di seta e si sistemava nella sala da pranzo, posizionando gli occhiali tra due specifiche pagine del libro “Medicina domestica” del dottor Buchan; poi sedeva lì tutto il giorno, guardando fuori dalla finestra oscurata, fino al loro ritorno. Si riteneva che nessuna persuasione al mondo potesse convincere la signora Tickit ad abbandonare il suo posto accanto alla finestra, per quanto lunga potesse essere la loro assenza, né a rinunciare all’assistenza del dottor Buchan; il signor Meagles credeva inoltre che quella studiosa professionista non avesse mai consultato nemmeno una parola di quel libro in tutta la sua vita.

La sera giocarono a un vecchio gioco con la gomma; Pet sedeva e osservava le mani di suo padre, o cantava di tanto in tanto al pianoforte. Era una bambina viziata. Ma come avrebbe potuto essere diversa? Chi, trovandosi costantemente in compagnia di una creatura così dolce e bella, non sarebbe stato influenzato dalla sua affascinante personalità? Chi, trascorrendo le serate in quella casa, non l’avrebbe amata per la grazia e il fascino della sua stessa presenza nella stanza? Questi erano i pensieri di Clennam. Nonostante la conclusione a cui era giunto al piano di sopra.

Mentre lo faceva, revocò la sua decisione. “Ma cosa sta pensando, mio caro signore?”, chiese il sorpreso signor Meagles, suo socio. “La prego di scusarmi. Niente”, rispose Clennam. “La prossima volta pensi a qualcos’altro. È davvero un bravo ragazzo”, disse il signor Meagles, ridendo e credendo che Clennam stesse pensando alla signorina Wade. “Perché proprio la signorina Wade, Pet?”, chiese suo padre. “Beh, davvero!”, rispose Arthur Clennam. Pet arrossì leggermente e tornò al pianoforte.

Mentre si separavano per la notte, Arthur sentì Doyce chiedere al suo ospite se potesse avere mezz’ora di conversazione prima della colazione del mattino seguente. L’ospite acconsentì volentieri, così Arthur rimase indietro per un momento, desideroso di aggiungere qualcosa a quel argomento.

“Signor Meagles,” disse quando rimasero soli, “si ricorda quando mi consigliò di andare direttamente a )Londra?”

‘Perfettamente bene.’

“E quando mi hai dato altri ottimi consigli di cui avevo bisogno in quel momento?”

“Non dirò quanto valeva,” rispose il signor Meagles: “ma naturalmente ricordo che abbiamo trascorso del tempo molto piacevole e in modo confidenziale insieme.”

Ho seguito il tuo consiglio; e dopo essermi liberato di un’occupazione che per molti motivi mi causava dolore, desidero dedicare me stesso e tutto ciò che ho a un’altra attività.

“Esatto! Non si può farlo troppo presto,” disse il signor Meagles.

Oggi, scendendo, ho scoperto che il vostro amico, il signor Doyce, sta cercando un socio per la sua attività commerciale, non uno che condivida le sue conoscenze tecniche, ma qualcuno che possa aiutarlo a gestire al meglio gli affari che ne derivano.

“Solo per essere sicuri,” disse il signor Meagles, con le mani in tasca e quell’espressione tipica del suo viso, quella che aveva sempre avuto quando lavorava con bilance e cucchiai.

‘Durante la nostra conversazione, il signor Doyce menzionò incidentalmente che avrebbe tenuto conto del vostro prezioso consiglio riguardo alla ricerca di un tale partner. Se riteneste che le nostre opinioni e opportunità potessero coincidere in qualche modo, forse potreste fargli sapere la mia disponibilità. Naturalmente, parlo senza conoscere i dettagli, e questi potrebbero risultare inadatti per entrambe le parti.’

“Nessun dubbio, nessun dubbio,” disse il signor Meagles, con la cautela tipica di chi si occupa di bilanci e misurazioni.

“Ma si tratterà soltanto di numeri e conti, ”

“Proprio così, proprio così,” disse il signor Meagles, con una sicurezza matematica tipica di chi utilizza bilance e cucchiai per misurare.

‘–E sarò felice di discutere l’argomento, a condizione che il signor Doyce risponda e che voi lo riteniate opportuno. Quindi, se ora mi permettete di affidarvelo, vi sarei molto grato.’

“Clennam, accetto con piacere questa fiducia,” disse il signor Meagles. “E senza anticipare nessuno dei punti che voi, essendo un uomo d’affari, avrete sicuramente tenuto per voi, posso dirvi liberamente che credo che da tutto questo possano derivare buoni risultati. Di una cosa potete essere assolutamente certi: Daniel è un uomo onesto.”

“Ne sono così sicuro che ho deciso immediatamente di parlarti.”

“Dovete guidarlo, capite; dovete dirigerlo, dovete orientarlo; è un tipo testardo,” disse il signor Meagles, intendendo chiaramente solo che faceva cose nuove e percorreva strade inedite; “ma è onesto come il sole, ed è davvero una brava persona.”

Clennam tornò nella sua stanza, si sedette di nuovo davanti al suo focolare e decise che era contento di essersi imposto di non innamorarsi di Pet. Era così bella, così affabile, così propensa ad accogliere qualsiasi vero sentimento potesse toccare la sua gentile natura e il suo innocente cuore, rendendo l’uomo che avesse la fortuna di condividerla il più fortunato ed invidiabile tra tutti gli uomini. Per questo era davvero molto contento di aver raggiunto quella conclusione.

Ma poiché questo avrebbe potuto essere un motivo per giungere a una conclusione opposta, continuò a riflettere su quel tema nella sua mente; forse, per giustificarsi.

“Supponiamo che un uomo,” pensò, “di circa vent’anni; un uomo timido, a causa delle circostanze della sua giovinezza; un uomo piuttosto serio, data la natura della sua vita; un uomo che si rendeva conto di mancare di molte qualità affascinanti che ammirava negli altri, essendo stato a lungo in una regione lontana senza nulla che potesse addolcirgli il carattere; un uomo che non aveva sorelle da presentarle; un uomo che non possedeva un ambiente familiare congeniale in cui farla conoscere; uno straniero in quella terra; un uomo che non disponeva di una fortuna sufficiente a compensare queste mancanze; un uomo il cui unico vantaggio era la sua onesta amore e il suo desiderio sincero di comportarsi rettamente. Supponiamo che un tale uomo arrivasse in questa casa, si lasciasse affascinare da questa ragazza incantevole e si convincesse di poterla conquistare. Che debolezza sarebbe!”

Aprì dolcemente la sua finestra e guardò fuori verso il sereno fiume. Anno dopo anno, si era abituato al movimento lento della barca a vapore, alle migliaia di chilometri che il fiume scorreva ogni ora; qui i giunchi, là i lillà. Niente di incerto o inquietante.

Perché dovrebbe essere infastidito o addolorato? Non era la sua debolezza quella che aveva immaginato. Non era la debolezza di nessuno, almeno per quanto ne sapeva lui; quindi, perché dovrebbe disturbarlo? Eppure lo disturbava. E pensò, chi non ci ha mai pensato, almeno per un momento?, che forse sarebbe stato meglio lasciare che tutto scorresse monotonicamente, come il fiume, e che l’indifferenza verso la felicità compensasse, in qualche modo, l’indifferenza verso il )dolore.

CHAPTER 17. Nobody’s Rival

Before breakfast in the morning, Arthur walked out to look about him. As the morning was fine and he had an hour on his hands, he crossed the river by the ferry, and strolled along a footpath through some meadows. When he came back to the towing-path, he found the ferry-boat on the opposite side, and a gentleman hailing it and waiting to be taken over.

This gentleman looked barely thirty. He was well dressed, of a sprightly and gay appearance, a well-knit figure, and a rich dark complexion. As Arthur came over the stile and down to the water’s edge, the lounger glanced at him for a moment, and then resumed his occupation of idly tossing stones into the water with his foot. There was something in his way of spurning them out of their places with his heel, and getting them into the required position, that Clennam thought had an air of cruelty in it. Most of us have more or less frequently derived a similar impression from a man’s manner of doing some very little thing: plucking a flower, clearing away an obstacle, or even destroying an insentient object.

The gentleman’s thoughts were preoccupied, as his face showed, and he took no notice of a fine Newfoundland dog, who watched him attentively, and watched every stone too, in its turn, eager to spring into the river on receiving his master’s sign. The ferry-boat came over, however, without his receiving any sign, and when it grounded his master took him by the collar and walked him into it.

‘Not this morning,’ he said to the dog. ‘You won’t do for ladies’ company, dripping wet. Lie down.’

Clennam followed the man and the dog into the boat, and took his seat. The dog did as he was ordered. The man remained standing, with his hands in his pockets, and towered between Clennam and the prospect. Man and dog both jumped lightly out as soon as they touched the other side, and went away. Clennam was glad to be rid of them.

The church clock struck the breakfast hour as he walked up the little lane by which the garden-gate was approached. The moment he pulled the bell a deep loud barking assailed him from within the wall.

‘I heard no dog last night,’ thought Clennam. The gate was opened by one of the rosy maids, and on the lawn were the Newfoundland dog and the man.

‘Miss Minnie is not down yet, gentlemen,’ said the blushing portress, as they all came together in the garden. Then she said to the master of the dog, ‘Mr Clennam, sir,’ and tripped away.

‘Odd enough, Mr Clennam, that we should have met just now,’ said the man. Upon which the dog became mute. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—Henry Gowan. A pretty place this, and looks wonderfully well this morning!’

The manner was easy, and the voice agreeable; but still Clennam thought, that if he had not made that decided resolution to avoid falling in love with Pet, he would have taken a dislike to this Henry Gowan.

‘It’s new to you, I believe?’ said this Gowan, when Arthur had extolled the place.

‘Quite new. I made acquaintance with it only yesterday afternoon.’

‘Ah! Of course this is not its best aspect. It used to look charming in the spring, before they went away last time. I should like you to have seen it then.’

But for that resolution so often recalled, Clennam might have wished him in the crater of Mount Etna, in return for this civility.

‘I have had the pleasure of seeing it under many circumstances during the last three years, and it’s—a Paradise.’

It was (at least it might have been, always excepting for that wise resolution) like his dexterous impudence to call it a Paradise. He only called it a Paradise because he first saw her coming, and so made her out within her hearing to be an angel, Confusion to him!

And ah! how beaming she looked, and how glad! How she caressed the dog, and how the dog knew her! How expressive that heightened colour in her face, that fluttered manner, her downcast eyes, her irresolute happiness! When had Clennam seen her look like this? Not that there was any reason why he might, could, would, or should have ever seen her look like this, or that he had ever hoped for himself to see her look like this; but still—when had he ever known her do it!

He stood at a little distance from them. This Gowan when he had talked about a Paradise, had gone up to her and taken her hand. The dog had put his great paws on her arm and laid his head against her dear bosom. She had laughed and welcomed them, and made far too much of the dog, far, far, too much—that is to say, supposing there had been any third person looking on who loved her.

She disengaged herself now, and came to Clennam, and put her hand in his and wished him good morning, and gracefully made as if she would take his arm and be escorted into the house. To this Gowan had no objection. No, he knew he was too safe.

There was a passing cloud on Mr Meagles’s good-humoured face when they all three (four, counting the dog, and he was the most objectionable but one of the party) came in to breakfast. Neither it, nor the touch of uneasiness on Mrs Meagles as she directed her eyes towards it, was unobserved by Clennam.

‘Well, Gowan,’ said Mr Meagles, even suppressing a sigh; ‘how goes the world with you this morning?’

‘Much as usual, sir. Lion and I being determined not to waste anything of our weekly visit, turned out early, and came over from Kingston, my present headquarters, where I am making a sketch or two.’ Then he told how he had met Mr Clennam at the ferry, and they had come over together.

‘Mrs Gowan is well, Henry?’ said Mrs Meagles. (Clennam became attentive.)

‘My mother is quite well, thank you.’ (Clennam became inattentive.) ‘I have taken the liberty of making an addition to your family dinner-party to-day, which I hope will not be inconvenient to you or to Mr Meagles. I couldn’t very well get out of it,’ he explained, turning to the latter. ‘The young fellow wrote to propose himself to me; and as he is well connected, I thought you would not object to my transferring him here.’

CAPITOLO 17. Nessuno è un rivale per lui

Prima di colazione, quella mattina, Arthur uscì per guardarsi intorno. Poiché il tempo era bello e aveva un’ora a disposizione, attraversò il fiume con la barca traghetto e si incamminò lungo un sentiero che attraversava alcuni prati. Quando tornò sul sentiero principale, trovò la barca traghetto dall’altra parte del fiume; c’era un signore che la stava chiamando per essere trasportato.

Questo signore sembrava avere appena trent’anni. Era vestito con cura, aveva un aspetto vivace e allegra, una corporatura snella e una pelle scura e liscia. Mentre Arthur attraversava il ponticello e si avvicinava alla riva dell’acqua, l’uomo sdraiato lo osservò per un momento, poi riprese a lanciare pietre nell’acqua con il piede. Il modo in cui le scagliava via con la suola del piede e le sistemava nella posizione desiderata aveva qualcosa di crudele, secondo Clennam. La maggior parte di noi, più o meno spesso, ha avuto questa stessa impressione osservando il modo in cui un uomo esegue azioni apparentemente semplici: raccogliere un fiore, rimuovere un ostacolo o addirittura distruggere un oggetto inanimato.

I pensieri del gentiluomo erano altrove, come si poteva vedere dal suo viso; non prestò alcuna attenzione a un bellissimo cane di Terranova che lo osservava attentamente, e che seguiva ogni singola pietra sul ciglio del fiume, pronto a saltare dentro l’acqua non appena il suo padrone gli avesse dato il segnale. Tuttavia, la barca traghetto arrivò senza che lui desse alcun segnale, e quando attraccò, il suo padrone lo prese per il collare e lo portò a bordo.

“Non stamattina,” disse al cane. “Con quel aspetto bagnato fradicio non sei adatto a stare in compagnia delle signore. Mettiti giù.”

Clennam seguì l’uomo e il cane sulla barca e si sedette al suo posto. Il cane fece ciò che gli era stato ordinato; l’uomo invece rimase in piedi, con le mani in tasca, e si ergeva tra Clennam e la riva opposta. Non appena toccarono l’altra sponda, sia l’uomo che il cane saltarono giù leggermente e se ne andarono. Clennam fu felice di liberarsi di loro.

L’orologio della chiesa suonò l’ora di colazione mentre lui percorreva il sentiero stretto che conduceva al cancello del giardino. Non appena tirò la corda del campanello, un forte abbaiare lo assalì dall’interno del muro.

“Non ho sentito alcun cane ieri notte,” pensò Clennam. La porta fu aperta da una delle cameriere con il viso rossiccio, e sul prato c’erano il cane di razza Newfoundland e l’uomo.

“La signorina Minnie non è ancora scesa, signori,” disse la cameriera arrossendo, mentre si riunivano tutti nel giardino. Poi aggiunse: “Signor Clennam, ”, e si allontanò di corsa.

“Stranamente, signor Clennam, che ci siamo incontrati proprio adesso,” disse l’uomo. Allora il cane rimase in silenzio. “Permettetemi di presentarmi: Henry Gowan. Che bel posto, e questa mattina sembra davvero meravigliosamente bello!”

Il modo di fare era disinvolto, la voce piacevole; ma comunque Clennam pensò che, se non avesse preso quella decisione ferma di evitare di innamorarsi di Pet, avrebbe provato antipatia per questo Henry Gowan.

“Dev’essere nuovo per te, vero?” disse questo Gowan, quando Arthur aveva lodato quel posto.

“Del tutto nuovo. L’ho conosciuto soltanto ieri pomeriggio.”

‘Ah! Certo, questa non è la sua parte migliore. In primavera, prima che se ne andassero l’ultima volta, aveva un aspetto davvero incantevole. Avrei voluto che la vedeste allora.’

Se non fosse stato per quella risoluzione che veniva spesso ricordata, Clennam avrebbe forse preferito che lui si trovasse nel cratere dell’Etna, in cambio di tutta questa cortesia.

“Ho avuto il piacere di vederlo in molte circostanze negli ultimi tre anni, ed è, un paradiso.”

Era (almeno avrebbe potuto esserlo, se non fosse stato per quella saggia decisione) come la sua audacia e abilità nel chiamarla Paradiso. La chiamava Paradiso soltanto perché la vide arrivare per la prima volta, e così la presentò davanti ai suoi occhi, facendola sembrare un angelo. Confusione per lui!

Ah! Quanto era radiosa, quanto felice. Come accarezzava il cane, e come il cane la riconosceva subito! Quella tonalità più intensa sul suo viso, quel modo incerto di muoversi, quegli occhi abbassati. Quella felicità indecisa. Quando mai Clennam l’aveva vista così? Non che ci fosse alcun motivo per cui dovesse vederla in questo modo, né che avesse mai sperato di vederla così. Ma comunque, quando mai l’aveva vista comportarsi in questo modo?

Stava a una certa distanza da loro. Quel Gowan, quando aveva parlato di un Paradiso, si era avvicinato a lei e le aveva preso la mano; il cane aveva posato le sue grandi zampe sul suo braccio e appoggiato la testa contro il suo dolce petto. Lei aveva riso e li aveva accolti con gioia, dando al cane un’importanza eccessiva, cioè, supponendo che ci fosse stata una terza persona a osservarli e ad amarla.

Si staccò da lui e si avvicinò a Clennam; gli mise la mano sul braccio, gli augurò buongiorno e, con grazia, fece finta di voler prendere il suo braccio per essere accompagnata all’interno della casa. Gowan non ebbe obiezioni. No, sapeva di essere troppo al sicuro.

Quando i tre (quattro, se si conta anche il cane; lui era senz’altro il più sgradevole del gruppo) entrarono per colazione, apparve un velo di preoccupazione sul volto bonario del signor Meagles. Né quel segno di ansia, né l’espressione di disagio della signora Meagles quando lo notò, sfuggirono all’attenzione di Clennam.

“Beh, Gowan,” disse il signor Meagles, reprimendo persino un sospiro, “come va la tua giornata stamattina?”

“Come al solito, signore. Io e Lion, decisi a non sprecare nemmeno un minuto della nostra visita settimanale, siamo arrivati presto, partendo da Kingston, che è attualmente la mia sede principale, dove sto realizzando uno o due schizzi.” Poi raccontò di come avesse incontrato il signor Clennam al traghetto e di come fossero venuti insieme.

“La signora Gowan sta bene, Henry?” chiese la signora Meagles. (Clennam divenne attento.)

“Mia madre sta molto bene, grazie.” (Clennam iniziò ad essere distratto.) “Ho preso l’iniziativa di aggiungere una persona alla vostra cena di famiglia oggi; spero che non vi causi alcun disturbo né a voi né al signor Meagles. Non avrei potuto fare altrimenti,” spiegò, rivolgendosi a quest’ultimo. “Il giovane mi ha scritto per chiedermi la mano; e poiché ha buone connessioni sociali, ho pensato che non vi sareste opposti se lo invitassi qui.”

‘Who is the young fellow?’ asked Mr Meagles with peculiar complacency.

‘He is one of the Barnacles. Tite Barnacle’s son, Clarence Barnacle, who is in his father’s Department. I can at least guarantee that the river shall not suffer from his visit. He won’t set it on fire.’

‘Aye, aye?’ said Meagles. ‘A Barnacle is he? We know something of that family, eh, Dan? By George, they are at the top of the tree, though! Let me see. What relation will this young fellow be to Lord Decimus now? His Lordship married, in seventeen ninety-seven, Lady Jemima Bilberry, who was the second daughter by the third marriage—no! There I am wrong! That was Lady Seraphina—Lady Jemima was the first daughter by the second marriage of the fifteenth Earl of Stiltstalking with the Honourable Clementina Toozellem. Very well. Now this young fellow’s father married a Stiltstalking and his father married his cousin who was a Barnacle. The father of that father who married a Barnacle, married a Joddleby.—I am getting a little too far back, Gowan; I want to make out what relation this young fellow is to Lord Decimus.’

‘That’s easily stated. His father is nephew to Lord Decimus.’

‘Nephew—to—Lord—Decimus,’ Mr Meagles luxuriously repeated with his eyes shut, that he might have nothing to distract him from the full flavour of the genealogical tree. ‘By George, you are right, Gowan. So he is.’

‘Consequently, Lord Decimus is his great uncle.’

‘But stop a bit!’ said Mr Meagles, opening his eyes with a fresh discovery. ‘Then on the mother’s side, Lady Stiltstalking is his great aunt.’

‘Of course she is.’

‘Aye, aye, aye?’ said Mr Meagles with much interest. ‘Indeed, indeed? We shall be glad to see him. We’ll entertain him as well as we can, in our humble way; and we shall not starve him, I hope, at all events.’

In the beginning of this dialogue, Clennam had expected some great harmless outburst from Mr Meagles, like that which had made him burst out of the Circumlocution Office, holding Doyce by the collar. But his good friend had a weakness which none of us need go into the next street to find, and which no amount of Circumlocution experience could long subdue in him. Clennam looked at Doyce; but Doyce knew all about it beforehand, and looked at his plate, and made no sign, and said no word.

‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Gowan, to conclude the subject. ‘Clarence is a great ass, but he is one of the dearest and best fellows that ever lived!’

It appeared, before the breakfast was over, that everybody whom this Gowan knew was either more or less of an ass, or more or less of a knave; but was, notwithstanding, the most lovable, the most engaging, the simplest, truest, kindest, dearest, best fellow that ever lived. The process by which this unvarying result was attained, whatever the premises, might have been stated by Mr Henry Gowan thus: ‘I claim to be always book-keeping, with a peculiar nicety, in every man’s case, and posting up a careful little account of Good and Evil with him. I do this so conscientiously, that I am happy to tell you I find the most worthless of men to be the dearest old fellow too: and am in a condition to make the gratifying report, that there is much less difference than you are inclined to suppose between an honest man and a scoundrel.’ The effect of this cheering discovery happened to be, that while he seemed to be scrupulously finding good in most men, he did in reality lower it where it was, and set it up where it was not; but that was its only disagreeable or dangerous feature.

It scarcely seemed, however, to afford Mr Meagles as much satisfaction as the Barnacle genealogy had done. The cloud that Clennam had never seen upon his face before that morning, frequently overcast it again; and there was the same shadow of uneasy observation of him on the comely face of his wife. More than once or twice when Pet caressed the dog, it appeared to Clennam that her father was unhappy in seeing her do it; and, in one particular instance when Gowan stood on the other side of the dog, and bent his head at the same time, Arthur fancied that he saw tears rise to Mr Meagles’s eyes as he hurried out of the room. It was either the fact too, or he fancied further, that Pet herself was not insensible to these little incidents; that she tried, with a more delicate affection than usual, to express to her good father how much she loved him; that it was on this account that she fell behind the rest, both as they went to church and as they returned from it, and took his arm. He could not have sworn but that as he walked alone in the garden afterwards, he had an instantaneous glimpse of her in her father’s room, clinging to both her parents with the greatest tenderness, and weeping on her father’s shoulder.

The latter part of the day turning out wet, they were fain to keep the house, look over Mr Meagles’s collection, and beguile the time with conversation. This Gowan had plenty to say for himself, and said it in an off-hand and amusing manner. He appeared to be an artist by profession, and to have been at Rome some time; yet he had a slight, careless, amateur way with him—a perceptible limp, both in his devotion to art and his attainments—which Clennam could scarcely understand.

He applied to Daniel Doyce for help, as they stood together, looking out of window.

‘You know Mr Gowan?’ he said in a low voice.

‘I have seen him here. Comes here every Sunday when they are at home.’

‘An artist, I infer from what he says?’

‘A sort of a one,’ said Daniel Doyce, in a surly tone.

‘What sort of a one?’ asked Clennam, with a smile.

‘Why, he has sauntered into the Arts at a leisurely Pall-Mall pace,’ said Doyce, ‘and I doubt if they care to be taken quite so coolly.’

Pursuing his inquiries, Clennam found that the Gowan family were a very distant ramification of the Barnacles; and that the paternal Gowan, originally attached to a legation abroad, had been pensioned off as a Commissioner of nothing particular somewhere or other, and had died at his post with his drawn salary in his hand, nobly defending it to the last extremity. In consideration of this eminent public service, the Barnacle then in power had recommended the Crown to bestow a pension of two or three hundred a-year on his widow; to which the next Barnacle in power had added certain shady and sedate apartments in the Palaces at Hampton Court, where the old lady still lived, deploring the degeneracy of the times in company with several other old ladies of both sexes. Her son, Mr Henry Gowan, inheriting from his father, the Commissioner, that very questionable help in life, a very small independence, had been difficult to settle; the rather, as public appointments chanced to be scarce, and his genius, during his earlier manhood, was of that exclusively agricultural character which applies itself to the cultivation of wild oats. At last he had declared that he would become a Painter; partly because he had always had an idle knack that way, and partly to grieve the souls of the Barnacles-in-chief who had not provided for him. So it had come to pass successively, first, that several distinguished ladies had been frightfully shocked; then, that portfolios of his performances had been handed about o’ nights, and declared with ecstasy to be perfect Claudes, perfect Cuyps, perfect phaenomena; then, that Lord Decimus had bought his picture, and had asked the President and Council to dinner at a blow, and had said, with his own magnificent gravity, ‘Do you know, there appears to me to be really immense merit in that work?’ and, in short, that people of condition had absolutely taken pains to bring him into fashion. But, somehow, it had all failed. The prejudiced public had stood out against it obstinately. They had determined not to admire Lord Decimus’s picture. They had determined to believe that in every service, except their own, a man must qualify himself, by striving early and late, and by working heart and soul, might and main. So now Mr Gowan, like that worn-out old coffin which never was Mahomet’s nor anybody else’s, hung midway between two points: jaundiced and jealous as to the one he had left: jaundiced and jealous as to the other that he couldn’t reach.

“Chi è questo giovane?” chiese il signor Meagles con un’insolita soddisfazione.

“È uno dei Barnacles. Il figlio di Tite Barnacle, Clarence Barnacle, che lavora nel dipartimento di suo padre. Posso almeno garantire che il fiume non subirà danni a causa della sua visita. Non lo farà bruciare.”

“Ah, ah?” disse Meagles. “Un Barnacle, dunque? Noi conosciamo qualcosa di quella famiglia, eh, Dan? Per George, sono davvero in posizione di potere! Lasciami pensare. Qual è ora il rapporto di questo giovane con Lord Decimus? Nel 1797, Sua Signoria sposò Lady Jemima Bilberry, che era la seconda figlia del quindicesimo Conte di Stiltstalking dal suo secondo matrimonio. No! Mi sbaglio: era Lady Seraphina. Lady Jemima era invece la prima figlia del secondo matrimonio del quindicesimo Conte di Stiltstalking con l’onorevole Clementina Toozellem. Molto interessante. Ora, il padre di questo giovane sposò una donna della famiglia Stiltstalking; suo padre a sua volta sposò una cugina appartenente alla famiglia Barnacle. Il nonno di quel padre, che sposò una donna dei Joddleby. Mi sto allontanando troppo dal tema, Gowan; voglio capire esattamente quale sia il rapporto di questo giovane con Lord Decimus.”

“È facile da dire: suo padre è nipote di Lord Decimus.”

“Nipote di Lord Decimus, ”, ripeté Mr Meagles con piacere, chiudendo gli occhi per non essere distratto da nulla e poter assaporare appieno il significato di quella parentela. “Dio mio, hai ragione, Gowan. È proprio così.”

“Di conseguenza, Lord Decimus è suo prozio.”

“Ma aspettate un attimo!”, disse il signor Meagles, aprendo gli occhi dopo una nuova scoperta. “Quindi, dal lato della madre, Lady Stiltstalking è sua prozia.”

“Certo che lo è.”

“Sì, sì, sì?” disse il signor Meagles con grande interesse. “Davvero, davvero? Sarà un piacere vederlo. Lo tratteremo nel miglior modo possibile, con i nostri mezzi modesti; e spero proprio che non muoia di fame.”

All’inizio di questo dialogo, Clennam si aspettava qualche violenta ma innocua reazione da parte del signor Meagles, simile a quella che lo aveva fatto uscire dall’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni trascinando Doyce per il colletto. Ma il suo buon amico aveva una debolezza che nessuno di noi avrebbe dovuto cercare lontano, e che nessuna esperienza nel campo delle circonlocuzioni avrebbe mai potuto sconfiggere del tutto in lui. Clennam guardò Doyce; ma Doyce ne era già a conoscenza in anticipo, fissò il proprio piatto senza fare alcun segno né pronunciare una parola.

“Sono molto grato a te,” disse Gowan per concludere l’argomento. “Clarence è un vero idiota, ma è uno dei ragazzi più cari e migliori che siano mai esistiti!”

Prima ancora che la colazione finisse, sembrò evidente che tutte le persone che questo Gowan conosceva fossero, più o meno, degli idioti o dei furfanti; eppure era, nonostante ciò, l’uomo più adorabile, affascinante, semplice, sincero, gentile, caro e meraviglioso che fosse mai esistito. Il processo con cui si raggiungeva questo risultato costante, indipendentemente dalle premesse iniziali, potrebbe essere descritto così da Mr Henry Gowan: “Affermo di tenere sempre un conto preciso e meticoloso delle azioni positive e negative di ogni persona; lo faccio con tale coscienza che sono felice di dirvi che anche gli uomini più insignificanti possono rivelarsi le persone più adorabili. Posso quindi confermare con soddisfazione che esiste molto meno differenza tra un uomo onesto e uno scellerato di quanto si possa pensare”. L’effetto di questa “rivelazione incoraggiante” fu che, sebbene Gowan sembrasse cercare sempre il lato positivo nella maggior parte delle persone, in realtà tendeva ad esagerarlo quando c’era e a negarlo quando non esisteva; ma questo era l’unico aspetto sgradevole o pericoloso del suo modo di vedere le cose.

Tuttavia, sembrava che tutto ciò non desse al signor Meagles la stessa soddisfazione che gli aveva procurato l’albero genealogico dei Barnacle. Quella nuvola di preoccupazione che Clennam non aveva mai visto sul suo volto prima di quella mattina compariva spesso di nuovo; e sul bel viso di sua moglie si leggeva sempre lo stesso sguardo di ansiosa attenzione nei suoi confronti. Più volte, quando Pet accarezzava il cane, a Clennam sembrava che suo padre fosse infelice nel vederla farlo; e in un particolare momento, quando Gowan si trovava dall’altra parte del cane e chinò la testa nello stesso istante, Arthur credette di vedere delle lacrime salire agli occhi del signor Meagles mentre questi usciva in fretta dalla stanza. Forse era davvero così, oppure lui se lo immaginava soltanto. Comunque fosse, sembrava che anche Pet non fosse insensibile a questi piccoli episodi; cercava, con un affetto più delicato del solito, di esprimere al suo buon padre quanto lo amasse. Forse era proprio per questo motivo che rimaneva indietro rispetto agli altri, sia andando in chiesa che tornandone, e che gli prendeva il braccio. Non avrebbe potuto giurarlo, ma mentre camminava da solo nel giardino dopo quella giornata, gli sembrò di intravederla per un istante nella stanza di suo padre: abbracciava entrambi i genitori con grande tenerezza e piangeva sulle loro spalle.

La seconda metà della giornata si rivelò piovosa, quindi decisero di rimanere in casa, ammirare la collezione del signor Meagles e passare il tempo chiacchierando. Questo Gowan aveva molto da dire e lo faceva in modo disinvolto e divertente. Sembrava essere un artista di professione e aver trascorso del tempo a Roma; tuttavia, nel suo approccio all’arte e nelle sue capacità c’era una certa superficialità, una mancanza di profondità che Clennam faticava a comprendere.

Chiese aiuto a Daniel Doyce, mentre stavano insieme a guardare fuori dalla finestra.

“Conosci il signor Gowan?” disse a bassa voce.

“L’ho visto qui. Viene ogni )domenica quando sono a casa.”

“Un artista, deduco dal suo modo di parlare, ”

“Una specie di uno,” disse Daniel Doyce con tono burbero.

“Che tipo di persona è?” chiese Clennam, sorridendo.

“Diamine, si è avvicinato al mondo delle arti con quella sua tranquilla andatura tipica di Pall-Mall,” disse Doyce, “e dubito che a loro piaccia essere trattati in modo così distaccato.”

Proseguendo le sue indagini, Clennam scoprì che la famiglia Gowan era un ramo molto lontano della stirpe dei Barnacles; inoltre, il padre di Gowan, originariamente impiegato in una legazione all’estero, aveva ricevuto una pensione come commissario senza incarichi specifici e era morto sul posto di lavoro, con lo stipendio che gli spettava ancora in mano, difendendolo fino all’ultimo momento. In riconoscimento di questo importante servizio pubblico, il Barnacle al potere aveva raccomandato alla Corona di concedere alla vedova una pensione di due o trecento sterline all’anno; successivamente, un altro Barnacle al potere le aveva assegnato alcune stanze nelle residenze reali di Hampton Court, dove la vecchia signora viveva ancora, deplorando insieme ad altre anziane donne della degenerazione dei tempi. Suo figlio, il signor Henry Gowan, ereditando da suo padre quella misera indipendenza economica e nessun incarico ufficiale, aveva avuto difficoltà a stabilirsi; inoltre, poiché le opportunità di lavoro pubblico erano scarse e il suo talento, nella giovinezza, era orientato esclusivamente all’agricoltura, alla coltivazione di grano selvatico, aveva infine deciso di diventare pittore: in parte perché aveva sempre avuto un certo talento in questo campo, e in parte per offendere i Barnacles che non si erano presi cura di lui. Così era successo che alcune signore distinte fossero rimaste profondamente scioccate dalle sue opere; poi queste venivano distribuite di nascosto durante la notte e descritte con entusiasmo come capolavori di arte; in seguito, Lord Decimus aveva acquistato uno dei suoi dipinti e aveva invitato il Presidente del Consiglio a cena, dichiarando con grande serietà: “Vedete, a mio parere quest’opera possiede davvero un enorme valore, ”. In breve, persone di rango si erano impegnate attivamente per farlo diventare popolare. Ma, in qualche modo, tutto era fallito: il pubblico prevenuto si era ostinatamente opposto alle sue opere, rifiutando di ammirarle e insistendo sul fatto che, in ogni ambito tranne quello del proprio interesse personale, un uomo dovesse qualificarsi attraverso duro lavoro e impegno totale. Così il signor Gowan, come quel vecchio ferrovecchio ormai inutilizzabile che non apparteneva né a Maometto né a nessun altro, rimaneva bloccato a metà strada tra due possibilità: geloso e invidioso di entrambe le vie che avrebbe potuto percorrere.

Such was the substance of Clennam’s discoveries concerning him, made that rainy Sunday afternoon and afterwards.

About an hour or so after dinner time, Young Barnacle appeared, attended by his eye-glass; in honour of whose family connections, Mr Meagles had cashiered the pretty parlour-maids for the day, and had placed on duty in their stead two dingy men. Young Barnacle was in the last degree amazed and disconcerted at sight of Arthur, and had murmured involuntarily, ‘Look here! upon my soul, you know!’ before his presence of mind returned.

Even then, he was obliged to embrace the earliest opportunity of taking his friend into a window, and saying, in a nasal way that was a part of his general debility:

‘I want to speak to you, Gowan. I say. Look here. Who is that fellow?’

‘A friend of our host’s. None of mine.’

‘He’s a most ferocious Radical, you know,’ said Young Barnacle.

‘Is he? How do you know?’

‘Ecod, sir, he was Pitching into our people the other day in the most tremendous manner. Went up to our place and Pitched into my father to that extent that it was necessary to order him out. Came back to our Department, and Pitched into me. Look here. You never saw such a fellow.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Ecod, sir,’ returned Young Barnacle, ‘he said he wanted to know, you know! Pervaded our Department—without an appointment—and said he wanted to know!’

The stare of indignant wonder with which Young Barnacle accompanied this disclosure, would have strained his eyes injuriously but for the opportune relief of dinner. Mr Meagles (who had been extremely solicitous to know how his uncle and aunt were) begged him to conduct Mrs Meagles to the dining-room. And when he sat on Mrs Meagles’s right hand, Mr Meagles looked as gratified as if his whole family were there.

All the natural charm of the previous day was gone. The eaters of the dinner, like the dinner itself, were lukewarm, insipid, overdone—and all owing to this poor little dull Young Barnacle. Conversationless at any time, he was now the victim of a weakness special to the occasion, and solely referable to Clennam. He was under a pressing and continual necessity of looking at that gentleman, which occasioned his eye-glass to get into his soup, into his wine-glass, into Mrs Meagles’s plate, to hang down his back like a bell-rope, and be several times disgracefully restored to his bosom by one of the dingy men. Weakened in mind by his frequent losses of this instrument, and its determination not to stick in his eye, and more and more enfeebled in intellect every time he looked at the mysterious Clennam, he applied spoons to his eyes, forks, and other foreign matters connected with the furniture of the dinner-table. His discovery of these mistakes greatly increased his difficulties, but never released him from the necessity of looking at Clennam. And whenever Clennam spoke, this ill-starred young man was clearly seized with a dread that he was coming, by some artful device, round to that point of wanting to know, you know.

It may be questioned, therefore, whether any one but Mr Meagles had much enjoyment of the time. Mr Meagles, however, thoroughly enjoyed Young Barnacle. As a mere flask of the golden water in the tale became a full fountain when it was poured out, so Mr Meagles seemed to feel that this small spice of Barnacle imparted to his table the flavour of the whole family-tree. In its presence, his frank, fine, genuine qualities paled; he was not so easy, he was not so natural, he was striving after something that did not belong to him, he was not himself. What a strange peculiarity on the part of Mr Meagles, and where should we find another such case!

At last the wet Sunday wore itself out in a wet night; and Young Barnacle went home in a cab, feebly smoking; and the objectionable Gowan went away on foot, accompanied by the objectionable dog. Pet had taken the most amiable pains all day to be friendly with Clennam, but Clennam had been a little reserved since breakfast—that is to say, would have been, if he had loved her.

When he had gone to his own room, and had again thrown himself into the chair by the fire, Mr Doyce knocked at the door, candle in hand, to ask him how and at what hour he proposed returning on the morrow? After settling this question, he said a word to Mr Doyce about this Gowan—who would have run in his head a good deal, if he had been his rival.

‘Those are not good prospects for a painter,’ said Clennam.

‘No,’ returned Doyce.

Mr Doyce stood, chamber-candlestick in hand, the other hand in his pocket, looking hard at the flame of his candle, with a certain quiet perception in his face that they were going to say something more.

‘I thought our good friend a little changed, and out of spirits, after he came this morning?’ said Clennam.

‘Yes,’ returned Doyce.

‘But not his daughter?’ said Clennam.

‘No,’ said Doyce.

There was a pause on both sides. Mr Doyce, still looking at the flame of his candle, slowly resumed:

‘The truth is, he has twice taken his daughter abroad in the hope of separating her from Mr Gowan. He rather thinks she is disposed to like him, and he has painful doubts (I quite agree with him, as I dare say you do) of the hopefulness of such a marriage.’

‘There—’ Clennam choked, and coughed, and stopped.

‘Yes, you have taken cold,’ said Daniel Doyce. But without looking at him.

‘—There is an engagement between them, of course?’ said Clennam airily.

‘No. As I am told, certainly not. It has been solicited on the gentleman’s part, but none has been made. Since their recent return, our friend has yielded to a weekly visit, but that is the utmost. Minnie would not deceive her father and mother. You have travelled with them, and I believe you know what a bond there is among them, extending even beyond this present life. All that there is between Miss Minnie and Mr Gowan, I have no doubt we see.’

‘Ah! We see enough!’ cried Arthur.

Mr Doyce wished him Good Night in the tone of a man who had heard a mournful, not to say despairing, exclamation, and who sought to infuse some encouragement and hope into the mind of the person by whom it had been uttered. Such tone was probably a part of his oddity, as one of a crotchety band; for how could he have heard anything of that kind, without Clennam’s hearing it too?

The rain fell heavily on the roof, and pattered on the ground, and dripped among the evergreens and the leafless branches of the trees. The rain fell heavily, drearily. It was a night of tears.

If Clennam had not decided against falling in love with Pet; if he had had the weakness to do it; if he had, little by little, persuaded himself to set all the earnestness of his nature, all the might of his hope, and all the wealth of his matured character, on that cast; if he had done this and found that all was lost; he would have been, that night, unutterably miserable. As it was—

As it was, the rain fell heavily, drearily.

Ecco in sostanza ciò che Clennam scoprì su di lui, quel piovoso pomeriggio di )domenica e nei giorni successivi.

Circa un’ora dopo cena, apparve Young Barnacle, accompagnato dal suo occhialino; in onore delle connessioni familiari di quest’ultimo, il signor Meagles aveva pagato le belle cameriere di quella giornata e le aveva sostituite con due uomini dall’aspetto trasandato. Young Barnacle rimase estremamente sorpreso e sconcertato alla vista di Arthur, e mormorò involontariamente: “Guarda qui! Per la mia ‘anima, lo riconosci!” prima che riacquistasse il controllo di sé.

Anche allora, fu costretto ad approfittare della prima occasione possibile per portare il suo amico vicino alla finestra e dire, con quel tono nasale tipico della sua debolezza generale:

“Voglio parlarti, Gowan. Guarda qui: chi è quell’uomo?”

“Un amico del nostro ospite. Non il mio.”

“È un Radicale davvero feroce, sai,” disse Young Barnacle.

“Davvero? Come fai a saperlo?”

“Ecod, signore. L’altro giorno ha aggredito brutalmente la nostra gente. È andato da noi e ha attaccato mio padre con tale violenza che è stato necessario farlo allontanare. Poi è tornato nel nostro ufficio ed è ricominciato ad aggredirmi. Guardate un po’. Non avete mai visto una persona del genere.”

“Cosa voleva?”

“Ecod, signore,” rispose il giovane Barnacle, “ha detto che voleva sapere, insomma, capisce! È entrato nel nostro ufficio senza alcuna prenotazione e ha insistito per sapere!”

Lo sguardo pieno di stupore e indignazione con cui il giovane Barnacle accompagnò questa rivelazione avrebbe potuto danneggiare i suoi occhi, se non fosse stato per il tempestivo intervento della cena. Il signor Meagles (che era stato estremamente ansioso di sapere come stessero suo zio e sua zia) lo pregò di accompagnare la signora Meagles in sala da pranzo. E quando si sedette alla destra della signora Meagles, il signor Meagles sembrava estremamente soddisfatto, come se tutta la sua famiglia fosse lì con lui.

Tutto il fascino naturale del giorno precedente era scomparso. I commensali della cena, così come la cena stessa, erano insipidi, poco appetitosi e cotti troppo a lungo. E tutto questo per colpa di quel povero giovane noioso. Di solito silenzioso in qualsiasi momento, ora era vittima di una debolezza particolare legata a quella circostanza, e tale debolezza riguardava esclusivamente Clennam. Sentiva un bisogno costante e irresistibile di guardare quel signore; per questo motivo i suoi occhiali finivano nella zuppa, nel bicchiere del vino, nel piatto della signora Meagles, oppure pendevano dal suo collo come una corda, per poi essere più volte riportati sul suo petto da uno dei camerieri. Il suo intelletto si indeboliva sempre di più ogni volta che guardava quel misterioso Clennam; a causa delle frequenti perdite degli occhiali e del loro rifiuto ostinato di rimanere fissi davanti ai suoi occhi, finiva per usare cucchiai, forchette, e altri oggetti estranei presenti sul tavolo da pranzo. Scoprire questi errori non faceva che aumentare le sue difficoltà, ma non lo liberava mai dalla necessità di guardare Clennam. E ogni volta che Clennam parlava, quel giovane sfortunato provava un terrore evidente: temeva che quell’uomo, con qualche stratagemma astuto, riuscisse finalmente a farlo scoprire, capite?

Si può quindi chiedersi se qualcun altro, oltre al signor Meagles, abbia davvero tratto grande piacere da quel periodo. Il signor Meagles, invece, si divertiva moltissimo con il giovane Barnacle. Proprio come una semplice fiaschetta di quell’“oro liquido” della storia si trasformava in una fontana quando veniva versata, così il signor Meagles sembrava credere che quel piccolo tocco di “Barnacle” aggiungesse al suo pasto il sapore dell’intera famiglia. In sua presenza, le sue qualità franche, gentili e genuine sembravano svanire; non era più così naturale, non era più se stesso. Che strana peculiarità da parte del signor Meagles. E dove potremmo trovare un altro caso simile?

Finalmente, quella umida domenica si concluse in una notte ancora più piovosa; Young Barnacle tornò a casa in taxi, fumando debolmente; Gowan, invece, se ne andò a piedi, accompagnato dal suo fastidioso cane. Pet aveva fatto di tutto per essere gentile con Clennam durante la giornata, ma lei era stata un po’ riservata da quando avevano fatto colazione, cioè, lo sarebbe stata, se lui l’amasse davvero.

Quando si fu ritirato nella sua stanza e si gettò di nuovo sulla sedia accanto al focolare, il signor Doyce bussò alla porta, con una candela in mano, per chiedergli come e a che ora intendesse tornare il giorno seguente. Dopo aver risolto questa questione, gli disse qualcosa riguardo a questo Gowan, un nome che sicuramente gli sarebbe venuto in mente se Gowan fosse stato suo rivale.

“Non sono certo buone prospettive per un pittore,” disse Clennam.

“No,” rispose Doyce.

Il signor Doyce si alzò, con il candelabro da camera in mano e l’altra mano nella tasca; fissava attentamente la fiamma della candela, e sul suo viso si leggeva una certa tranquilla attesa, come se si aspettasse che qualcuno dicesse ancora qualcosa.

“Pensavo che il nostro caro amico fosse un po’ cambiato, e che non avesse molta voglia di parlare, dopo essere arrivato stamattina, ” disse Clennam.

“Sì,” rispose Doyce.

“Ma non sua figlia?” disse Clennam.

“No,” disse Doyce.

Ci fu un momento di silenzio da entrambe le parti. Il signor Doyce, ancora intento a fissare la fiamma della sua candela, riprese lentamente a parlare:

‘La verità è che ha portato sua figlia all’estero due volte nella speranza di separarla dal signor Gowan. Crede addirittura che lei possa provare simpatia per lui, e nutre dubbi profondi (sono completamente d’accordo con lui, proprio come credo lo siate anche voi) riguardo alle possibilità di un matrimonio del genere.’

“Lì, ” Clennam si strozzò, tossì e poi tacque.

“Sì, hai preso freddo,” disse Daniel Doyce. Ma senza guardarlo.

“–Certo che c’è un impegno tra loro, no?” disse Clennam con noncuranza.

“No. Secondo quanto mi è stato detto, certamente no. È stata fatta una richiesta da parte del gentiluomo, ma non è stata accettata. Da quando sono tornati di recente, il nostro amico ha acconsentito a visite settimanali, ma nient’altro. Minnie non vorrebbe ingannare i suoi genitori. Avete viaggiato con loro e credo che sappiate quale sia il legame che esiste tra loro, un legame che va oltre questa vita terrena. Per quanto riguarda il rapporto tra Miss Minnie e Mr Gowan, non ho alcun dubbio al riguardo.”

“Ah! Basta così!” gridò Arthur.

Il signor Doyce gli augurò una buona notte con un tono che denotava chi aveva sentito un’esclamazione triste, per non dire disperata, e cercava di infondere un po’ di incoraggiamento e speranza nella mente della persona che l’aveva pronunciata. Un tale tono faceva probabilmente parte della sua stranezza; come avrebbe potuto sentir parlare in quel modo senza che anche Clennam lo sentisse?

La pioggia cadeva intensamente sul tetto, tamburellava sul terreno e gocciolava tra gli alberi sempreverdi e i rami spogli. La pioggia cadeva con forza, in modo monotono. Era una notte di lacrime.

Se Clennam non avesse deciso di non innamorarsi di Pet; se avesse avuto la debolezza di farlo; se si fosse gradualmente convinto a mettere tutta la sincerità della sua natura, tutta la forza della sua speranza e tutto il valore del suo carattere maturo in quell’impresa; se avesse fatto questo e scoperto che tutto era andato perduto, quella notte sarebbe stata per lui indescrivibilmente miserabile. Ma così come è andata.

Pioveva forte, in modo monotono.

CHAPTER 18. Little Dorrit’s Lover

Little Dorrit had not attained her twenty-second birthday without finding a lover. Even in the shallow Marshalsea, the ever young Archer shot off a few featherless arrows now and then from a mouldy bow, and winged a Collegian or two.

Little Dorrit’s lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the sentimental son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of time, to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had from his early youth familiarised him with the duties of his office, and with an ambition to retain the prison-lock in the family. While the succession was yet in abeyance, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a snug tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane (his father being a non-resident turnkey), which could usually command a neat connection within the College walls.

Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont to sit in her little arm-chair by the high Lodge-fender, Young John (family name, Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with admiring wonder. When he had played with her in the yard, his favourite game had been to counterfeit locking her up in corners, and to counterfeit letting her out for real kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through the keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he had divers times set down his father’s dinner, or supper, to get on as it might on the outer side thereof, while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint of peeping at her through that airy perspective.

If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less penetrable days of his boyhood, when youth is prone to wear its boots unlaced and is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung it up again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his hand had inscribed in chalk on that part of the wall which fronted her lodgings, on the occasion of her birthday, ‘Welcome sweet nursling of the Fairies!’ At twenty-three, the same hand falteringly presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of the Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul.

Young John was small of stature, with rather weak legs and very weak light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep through the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the other, as if it couldn’t collect itself. Young John was gentle likewise. But he was great of soul. Poetical, expansive, faithful.

Though too humble before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine, Young John had considered the object of his attachment in all its lights and shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had descried, without self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things prospered, and they were united. She, the child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There was a fitness in that. Say he became a resident turnkey. She would officially succeed to the chamber she had rented so long. There was a beautiful propriety in that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on tip-toe; and, with a trellis-work of scarlet beans and a canary or so, would become a very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then, being all in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in the lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances only known to them by hearsay, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying with them on their way to the Insolvent Shrine; with the Arbour above, and the Lodge below; they would glide down the stream of time, in pastoral domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes by finishing the picture with a tombstone in the adjoining churchyard, close against the prison wall, bearing the following touching inscription: ‘Sacred to the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring Marshalsea, Who departed this life, universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged eighty-three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden name was DORRIT, Who survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There she died.’

The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son’s attachment—indeed it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a state of mind that had impelled him to conduct himself with irascibility towards the customers, and damage the business—but they, in their turns, had worked it out to desirable conclusions. Mrs Chivery, a prudent woman, had desired her husband to take notice that their John’s prospects of the Lock would certainly be strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, who had herself a kind of claim upon the College and was much respected there. Mrs Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on the one hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other hand, Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery’s) sentiment was, that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother and not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, desired her husband to recollect that their John had never been strong, and that his love had fretted and worrited him enough as it was, without his being driven to do himself a mischief, as nobody couldn’t say he wouldn’t be if he was crossed. These arguments had so powerfully influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of few words, that he had on sundry Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed ‘a lucky touch,’ signifying that he considered such commendation of him to Good Fortune, preparatory to his that day declaring his passion and becoming triumphant. But Young John had never taken courage to make the declaration; and it was principally on these occasions that he had returned excited to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers.

CAPITOLO 18. L’Amante di Little Dorrit

La piccola Dorrit non aveva ancora compiuto ventidue anni senza aver trovato un amante. Anche nel banale quartiere di Marshalsea, l’eternamente giovane Archer ogni tanto scoccava qualche freccia senza piume da un arco ammuffito, riuscendo a “colpire” uno o due studenti universitari.

Tuttavia, l’amante di Little Dorrit non era un studente dell’università. Era il figlio sentimentale di un carceriere. Suo padre sperava, col passare del tempo, di potergli lasciare in eredità una chiave immacolata; fin da giovane lo aveva abituato alle mansioni del suo lavoro e gli aveva inculcato l’ambizione di far sì che la chiave della prigione rimanesse nella famiglia. Finché la successione non era ancora stata decisa, aiutava sua madre a gestire un piccolo negozio di tabacco all’angolo di Horsemonger Lane (poiché suo padre lavorava come carceriere fuori città), il quale gli permetteva di mantenere buone relazioni all’interno dell’università.

Anni fa, quando la ragazza dei suoi sogni aveva l’abitudine di sedersi nella sua piccola poltrona accanto al parapetto del portone principale, il giovane John (cognome Chivery), di un anno più grande di lei, la guardava con ammirazione e meraviglia. Quando giocavano nel cortile, il suo gioco preferito era fingere di chiuderla in angoli o di lasciarla uscire per darle dei baci veri. Quando divenne abbastanza alto da poter spiare attraverso la serratura del portone principale, più volte interruppe la cena o la colazione di suo padre per andare a guardare fuori da quella fessura, rischiando di prendersi un raffreddore.

Se Young John avesse mai allentato nella sua verità nei giorni meno difficili della sua infanzia, quando la giovinezza tende a comportarsi con noncuranza e non si preoccupa ancora degli organi digestivi, avrebbe presto ripreso il controllo su se stesso. A diciannove anni, con la sua mano scrisse su quella parte del muro di fronte al suo alloggio, in occasione del suo compleanno: “Benvenuta, dolce creatura delle fate!” A ventitré anni, sempre quella stessa mano, timidamente, offrì sigari il domenico al Padre della Marshalsea, e al Padre dell’regina del suo ‘anima.

Il giovane John era di statura bassa, con gambe piuttosto deboli e capelli molto biondi e sottili. Uno dei suoi occhi (forse quello che un tempo spiava attraverso la fessura della serratura) era anch’esso debole; sembrava più grande dell’altro, come se non riuscisse a stare fermo nella sua posizione. Il giovane John era anche molto gentile. Ma possedeva una ‘anima straordinaria: poetica, generosa, fedele.

Sebbene troppo umile di fronte al “sovrano” del proprio cuore per essere ottimista, il giovane John aveva analizzato attentamente tutte le caratteristiche della persona che amava. Immaginando che tutto andasse per il meglio, aveva descritto, senza alcuna autocompiacenza, i punti di forza che quella relazione presentava. Supponiamo che le cose vadano bene e che i due si uniscano: lei, figlia del direttore della prigione; lui, il custode dello stesso luogo. C’era davvero qualcosa di appropriato in tutto ciò. Se si pensa anche al pergolato fatto di fagioli rossi e a qualche canarino, l’immagine diventa ancora più incantevole. Tutto insieme, formava un quadro perfetto di felicità domestica. Il giovane John, però, concluse il suo pensiero con l’immagine di una lapide nel cimitero adiacente alla prigione, su cui era scritto: “Dedicato alla memoria di John Chivery, sessant’anni custode della prigione del Marshalsea, e cinquanta anni direttore dello stesso luogo. È morto il 31 dicembre 1886, all’età di ottantatré anni, rispettato da tutti. E anche alla sua amata moglie, Amy, il cui nome da nubile era Dorrit. Lei è sopravvissuta alla sua perdita per soli quarantotto ore e è morta nella stessa prigione. Lì è nata, lì ha vissuto, lì è morta.”

I genitori Chivery erano ben consapevoli dell’affetto che il loro figlio provava per Miss Dorrit; anzi, in alcune occasioni particolari, tale affetto lo portava a comportarsi con irascibilità verso i clienti, danneggiando così l’attività familiare. Tuttavia, essi avevano sempre cercato di trovare soluzioni per risolvere questi problemi. La signora Chivery, donna prudente, aveva suggerito al marito che le prospettive future di loro John sarebbero sicuramente migliorate se avesse stretto un legame con Miss Dorrit: quest’ultima, infatti, aveva una certa influenza presso il College e godeva di grande rispetto lì. La signora Chivery riteneva che, da un lato, John avesse i mezzi necessari e una posizione di fiducia; dall’altro, Miss Dorrit appartenesse a una famiglia influente. E che insieme potessero formare una coppia perfetta. Parlando da madre, e non da diplomatica, la signora Chivery aveva anche sottolineato come John fosse già abbastanza tormentato dal proprio amore, e che non si poteva permettere che questo lo portasse a compiere azioni dannose. Nessuno poteva escludere, infatti, che potesse fare qualcosa di irreparabile se le sue speranze venivano deluse. Questi argomenti avevano avuto un forte ascendente sul signor Chivery, uomo di poche parole; per questo, in alcune domeniche mattine, dava al figlio quello che chiamava “un tocco fortunato”, intendendo con ciò lodarlo davanti alla Fortuna, come preparazione a dichiarare il proprio amore e ottenere successo. Ma John non aveva mai trovato il coraggio di farlo. Ed era proprio in quelle occasioni che tornava eccitato nel negozio di tabacco e si scagliava contro i clienti.

In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the last person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it, and attained a sort of station by making a peg of it on which to air the miserably ragged old fiction of the family gentility. Her sister asserted the family gentility by flouting the poor swain as he loitered about the prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and his own, by coming out in the character of the aristocratic brother, and loftily swaggering in the little skittle ground respecting seizures by the scruff of the neck, which there were looming probabilities of some gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account. No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low. But he took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and sometimes even condescended to walk up and down the yard with the donor (who was proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society. With no less readiness and condescension did he receive attentions from Chivery Senior, who always relinquished his arm-chair and newspaper to him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his spells of duty; and who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would like at any time after dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and take a look at the street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself of this latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish for it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at times, ‘Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive man and very respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate perception of one’s position here. A very well conducted family indeed, the Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.’

The devoted Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence. He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions, but did homage to the miserable Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront from her brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most pacific disposition, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not incompatible with its nobility, and sought to propitiate and conciliate that gallant soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune—a gentleman of a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him—he deeply honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young lady of infinite accomplishments, who could not forget the past. It was an instinctive testimony to Little Dorrit’s worth and difference from all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for being simply what she was.

The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a retired walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander, but it maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like a fallen Cherub that had found it necessary to take to a kilt.

From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands, Young John issued forth on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly attired in a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet as his figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste neckerchief much in vogue at that day, representing a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute; and a hat of state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane like a little finger-post, surmounted by an ivory hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which way the wind blew.

The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little Dorrit’s lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at the Father’s door.

‘Come in, come in!’ said a gracious voice. The Father’s voice, her father’s, the Marshalsea’s father’s. He was seated in his black velvet cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his Court.

‘Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!’

‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.’

‘Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.’

‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of—’

‘Eh?’ The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows at this point, and became amiably distraught and smilingly absent in mind.

‘—A few cigars, sir.’

‘Oh!’ (For the moment, excessively surprised.) ‘Thank you, Young John, thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too—No? Well then, I will say no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.’

‘Thank you, sir, I am sure—Miss;’ here Young John turned the great hat round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage; ‘Miss Amy quite well, sir?’

In questa faccenda, come in tutte le altre, la piccola Dorrit stessa era l’ultima persona a cui veniva pensato. Suo fratello e sua sorella ne erano consapevoli, e ne approfittavano per alimentare quella misera e ridicola finzione riguardante il loro nobile lignaggio familiare. Sua sorella sosteneva la nobiltà della famiglia ignorando completamente quel povero giovane che gironzolava intorno alla prigione nella speranza di intravedere la sua amata. Tip, a sua volta, si proclamava fratello aristocratico e camminava con aria sprezzante per il cortile, come se avesse diritto di intervenire nelle questioni private della famiglia. Anche altri membri della famiglia Dorrit approfittavano di questa situazione a proprio vantaggio. Naturalmente, si supponeva che il padre della famiglia non sapesse nulla di tutto ciò: la sua povera dignità non avrebbe mai potuto tollerare una cosa del genere. Ma accettava volentieri i sigari offertigli nei giorni domenicali e, a volte, si degnava persino di fumarne uno in compagnia del donatore. Altrettanto disponibile era nei confronti di Chivery Senior: ogni volta che questi entrava nella Lodge durante il suo turno di servizio, Chivery Senior gli cedeva immediatamente la poltrona e il giornale. E aveva persino suggerito a lui che, se voleva, poteva uscire tranquillamente nel cortile per dare un’occhiata in strada. Se non approfittava di questa gentilezza, era solo perché aveva perso interesse ad essa. Prendeva comunque tutto ciò che gli veniva offerto e, a volte, diceva: “Uomo davvero molto cortese, Chivery. Molto attento e rispettoso. Anche il giovane Chivery. Ha davvero una buona comprensione della propria posizione in questa famiglia. Davvero una famiglia ben educata, i Chiveries. Il loro comportamento mi soddisfa molto.”

Il devoto giovane John, per tutto questo tempo, considerava la famiglia con reverenza. Non avrebbe mai pensato di mettere in discussione le loro pretese, ma rispettava profondamente quelle sciocchezze e superstizioni che ostentavano. Quanto a provare rancore per eventuali offese da parte del fratello di quella ragazza, anche se naturalmente era di indole molto pacifica, avrebbe considerato un atto sacrilego pronunciare parole offensive o alzare una mano contro quel “nobile signore”. Gli dispiaceva che il suo nobile animo potesse essere offeso; tuttavia riteneva che ciò non fosse incompatibile con la sua nobiltà d’animo, e cercava quindi di compiacere e conciliarsi con quella gentile ‘anima. Il padre di lei, un gentiluomo sfortunato, dal carattere nobile e dai modi cortesi, lo rispettava profondamente. Sua sorella, invece, la considerava un po’ vanitosa e orgogliosa, ma una giovane donna di infinite qualità, che non riusciva a dimenticare il passato. Era proprio questo istinto innato a dimostrare il valore di Little Dorrit e la sua differenza rispetto alle altre, quel povero giovane la rispettava e l’amava proprio per ciò che era.

L’attività legata al tabacco, situata all’angolo di Horsemonger Lane, si svolgeva in un piccolo locale di un piano solo, che aveva il vantaggio dell’aria fresca proveniente dai cortili della prigione di Horsemonger Lane, nonché l’opportunità di fare una piacevole passeggiata sotto le mura di quell’edificio. L’attività era troppo modesta per permettersi la presenza di un manichino a grandezza naturale rappresentante un abitante delle Highlands, ma c’era comunque un piccolo manichino appeso al palo della porta, che sembrava un cherubino caduto che aveva deciso di indossare un kilt.

Dall’ingresso così decorato, un )domenica, dopo una cena anticipata a base di piatti arrostiti, il giovane John uscì per svolgere la sua solita commissione del domenica; non tornò a mani vuote, ma con i suoi sigari da offrire. Era vestito con cura: indossava un cappotto di colore prugna, con un colletto di velluto nero grande abbastanza da adattarsi alla sua corporatura; una giacca di seta adornata con rametti d’oro; un fazzoletto da collo molto in voga a quel tempo, raffigurante delle fagiane ripiene disposte su uno sfondo giallo paglierino; pantaloni decorati con strisce laterali così elaborate che ogni gamba sembrava una lira a tre corde; e un cappello molto alto e rigido. Quando la prudente signora Chivery notò che, oltre a questi abiti, John portava anche un paio di guanti di pelliccia bianca e un bastone simile a un piccolo palo indicatore, sormontato da una mano d’avorio che gli indicava la direzione da prendere; e quando lo vide svoltare a destra in quella solenne processione, disse al signor Chivery, che era a >casa in quel momento, che pensava di sapere finalmente in quale direzione soffiava il >vento.

Quel pomeriggio di )domenica, i membri del Collegio stavano intrattenendo un numero considerevole di visitatori; il loro Padre aveva riservato la propria stanza appositamente per ricevere le presentazioni. Dopo aver fatto il giro del cortile, l’innamorato di Little Dorrit, con il cuore in affanno, salì le scale e bussò alla porta del Padre con i pollici.

“Entra, entra!” disse una voce gentile. La voce del Padre, la voce di suo padre, il padre del Marshalsea. Era seduto con il suo cappello di velluto nero, con il giornale davanti a sé; tre penny e sei pence erano accidentalmente rimasti sul tavolo, e due sedie erano state disposte accanto a lui. Tutto era pronto per ospitare la sua Corte.

“Ah, giovane John! Come stai, come stai!”

“Molto bene, grazie signore. Spero che anche lei stia bene.”

“Sì, John Chivery; sì, non c’è nulla di cui lamentarsi.”

“Ho preso la libertà, signore, di, ”

“Eh?” A questo punto, il Padre di Marshalsea alzava sempre le sopracciglia, diventando gentilmente distratto e assorto nei suoi pensieri con un sorriso.

“Alcuni sigari, signore.”

‘Oh!’ (Per il momento, eccessivamente sorpreso.) ‘Grazie, giovane John, grazie. Ma davvero, temo di essere troppo. No? Allora, non ne parlerò più. Mettile sul caminetto, per favore, giovane John. E siediti, siediti. Non sei uno straniero, vero, John?’

“Grazie, signore. Signorina,” disse Young John, girando continuamente il grande cappello intorno al suo braccio sinistro, come una gabbia per topi che ruotasse lentamente; “La signorina Amy sta molto bene, vero, signore?”

‘Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a good deal. But at their time of life, it’s natural, John.’

‘Very much so, I am sure, sir.’

‘An airing. An airing. Yes.’ He was blandly tapping his fingers on the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. ‘Amy has gone for an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.’ He returned to conversation. ‘Your father is not on duty at present, I think, John?’

‘No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.’ Another twirl of the great hat, and then Young John said, rising, ‘I am afraid I must wish you good day, sir.’

‘So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay, nay,’ with the utmost condescension, ‘never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You are no stranger here, you know.’

Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call over the banisters with particular distinctness, ‘Much obliged to you for your little testimonial, John!’

Little Dorrit’s lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing still, looking at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them.

Little Dorrit mused so long, and was so entirely preoccupied, that although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem to come upon her casually in passing, and speak to her. The place was quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her.

He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was close upon her. When he said ‘Miss Dorrit!’ she started and fell back from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him before—always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and glided off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary look had said, ‘You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on earth than you!’

It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her soft little voice, ‘Oh, Mr John! Is it you?’ But she felt what it had been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another equally confused.

‘Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.’

‘Yes, rather. I—I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.’

‘Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you—’

She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, ‘O father, father!’ in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.

‘Miss Amy, I hope I don’t give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit. I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very much.’

To the inexpressible consternation of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her hands to her averted face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she were in pain, murmured, ‘O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how can you, can you, do it!’

The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing with sympathy, but not knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he remained stock still; then hurried after her.

‘Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy, if it comes to that, let me go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have to think that I have driven you away like this.’

His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to a stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do,’ she cried, ‘I don’t know what to do!’

To Young John, who had never seen her bereft of her quiet self-command, who had seen her from her infancy ever so reliable and self-suppressed, there was a shock in her distress, and in having to associate himself with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be misunderstood—supposed to mean something, or to have done something, that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.

‘Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were vain to conceal it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false representation on a subject so momentous. Miss Amy, I know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence on which they are placed from my lowlier station—for, whether viewed as tobacco or viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly—and ever wish them well and happy.’

“Sì, John, sì; molto bene. È uscita.”

“Davvero, signore?”

“Sì, John. La signorina Amy è uscita a fare una passeggiata. I miei giovani vanno spesso fuori. Ma alla loro età, è naturale, John.”

“Certamente, signore, è proprio così.”

“Un po’ d’aria fresca. Sì.” Batteva pigramente le dita sul tavolo, alzando lo sguardo verso la finestra. “Amy è andata a fare una passeggiata sul Ponte di Ferro. Ultimamente le piace molto quel posto; sembra che le piaccia camminarci più di qualsiasi altro luogo.” Riprese poi la conversazione: “Tuo padre, al momento, non è di servizio, vero, John?”

“No, signore, arriverà più tardi nel pomeriggio.” Un altro giro del grande cappello, e poi Young John si alzò e disse: “Temo di dovervi augurare buon giorno, signore.”

“Così presto? Buongiorno, giovane John. No, no,” disse con la massima condiscendenza, “lascia stare quel guanto, John. Stringigli la mano così com’è. Non sei uno straniero qui, lo sai.”

Profondamente grato per la gentilezza con cui era stato accolto, il giovane John scese le scale. Lungo il cammino incontrò alcuni studenti che portavano con sé dei visitatori da presentare; in quel momento, il signor Dorrit chiamò particolarmente ad alta voce: “Grazie mille per la tua piccola testimonianza, John!”

Il amante di Little Dorrit presto depose la sua moneta sulla tassa di pedaggio del Ponte di Ferro e si guardò intorno alla ricerca della figura ben nota e amatissima. All’inizio temette che lei non fosse lì; ma proseguendo verso il lato di Middlesex, la vide ferma, a fissare l’acqua. Era immersa nei suoi pensieri, e lui si chiese su cosa potesse stare riflettendo. Lì c’erano i cumuli di tetti e camini della città, meno avvolti da fumo rispetto ai giorni feriali; e lì c’erano anche gli alberi maestri e le guglie in lontananza. Forse stava pensando a loro.

Little Dorrit rimase a riflettere per molto tempo, completamente assorta nei suoi pensieri; così, anche se il suo amante stava fermo in silenzio per quello che lui riteneva fosse un lungo periodo di tempo, e si allontanò due o tre volte per poi tornare nello stesso punto, lei non si mosse affatto. Alla fine, lui decise di procedere e fingere di incontrarla casualmente mentre passava, per parlare con lei. Il posto era tranquillo. Era l’occasione perfetta per parlarle.

Proseguì il suo cammino, e lei sembrava non sentire i suoi passi finché non fu vicinissimo a lei. Quando le disse “Signorina Dorrit!”, lei sussultò e indietreggiò, con un’espressione di paura e anche di avversione sul viso, che lo lasciò profondamente scoraggiato. In passato lei gli aveva spesso evitato la compagnia – anzi, per molto tempo. Molte volte si allontanava non appena lo vedeva avvicinarsi, tanto che il povero giovane John non poteva credere che fosse una coincidenza. Ma lui aveva sperato che si trattasse semplicemente di timidezza, del suo carattere riservato, o forse della consapevolezza riguardo allo stato del suo cuore, qualcosa, insomma, diverso dall’avversione. Ora, quel breve sguardo aveva detto chiaramente: “Tu, tra tutte le persone! Preferirei vedere chiunque altro al mondo piuttosto che te!”

Fu solo uno sguardo fugace: dopo averlo notato, disse con la sua voce dolce e bassa: “Oh, signor John! È davvero lei?” Ma entrambi capirono cosa era accaduto; rimasero lì a guardarsi, entrambi altrettanto confusi.

“Signorina Amy, temo di averla disturbata parlandole.”

“Sì, proprio. Sono venuto qui per stare da solo, e pensavo di esserlo.”

“Signorina Amy, ho preso l’iniziativa di venire da questa parte perché il signor Dorrit, quando sono andato a trovarlo poco fa, ha menzionato che voi, ”

Gli causò ancora più disperazione di prima quando improvvisamente mormorò: “Oh padre, padre!”, con un tono straziante, e poi girò il viso dall’altra parte.

‘Signorina Amy, spero di non causarvi alcun disagio menzionando il signor Dorrit. Vi assicuro che lo ho trovato molto bene e di ottimo umore; anzi, mi ha dimostrato ancora più gentile del solito, tanto da dire che non ero una sconosciuta per lui e da trattarmi in modo davvero molto cortese.’

Alla costernazione inesprimibile del suo amante, Little Dorrit, con le mani sul viso girato dall’altra parte e dondolandosi nel punto in cui si trovava come se provasse dolore, mormorò: “Oh padre, come puoi farlo! Oh caro, caro padre, come puoi, davvero!”

Povero ragazzo. Stava lì fermo a guardarla, pieno di compassione, ma non sapeva cosa pensare di quella situazione. Fino a quando lei non tirò fuori il fazzoletto e se lo premette sul viso ancora girato dall’altra parte, poi se ne andò in fretta. All’inizio rimase immobile; poi la seguì di corsa.

“Signorina Amy, per favore. Potreste fermarvi un attimo? Signorina Amy, se proprio deve succedere, lasciate che sia io ad andarmene. Diventerò pazza, se devo pensare di avervi allontanato in questo modo.”

La sua voce tremante e la sua sincera sincerità fecero fermare Little Dorrit. “Oh, non so cosa fare,” gridò, “non so davvero cosa fare!”

Per il giovane John, che non l’aveva mai vista priva della sua solita calma e autocontrollo,
che l’aveva sempre vista, fin dall’infanzia, così affidabile e capace di reprimere i propri sentimenti,
quella sua sofferenza fu un vero shock; il fatto di doverne essere considerato la causa lo sconvolse completamente.
Sentì la necessità di spiegarsi: temeva di essere frainteso, che si potesse pensare che avesse inteso o fatto qualcosa che non aveva mai nemmeno immaginato. Le chiese, con insistenza, di ascoltare le sue spiegazioni, considerandolo il più grande favore che lei potesse fargli.

‘Miss Amy, so ben so io che la vostra famiglia è di gran lunga superiore alla mia. Sarebbe vano nasconderlo. Non ho mai sentito parlare di alcun gentiluomo di nome Chivery, e non intendo certo compiere l’ignominia di fornire informazioni false su una questione così importante. Miss Amy, so molto bene che vostro fratello, dal cuore nobile, e anche vostra sorella, piena di spirito, mi disprezzano profondamente. Quello che devo fare è rispettarli, desiderare essere ammesso nella loro amicizia, e considerare con umiltà la posizione elevata in cui si trovano rispetto alla mia condizione più modesta. Poiché, sia che lo si consideri il tabacco o la serratura, so benissimo che è una posizione umile. E desidero sempre per loro il meglio e la felicità.’

There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit, perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated him to disparage neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to divest himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This gave him a little comfort.

‘Miss Amy,’ he then stammered, ‘I have had for a long time—ages they seem to me—Revolving ages—a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. May I say it?’

Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at great speed half across the Bridge without replying!

‘May I—Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly—may I say it? I have been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment’s joy to! Not that that’s much to do, for I’d do it for twopence.’

The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance, might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy made him respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.

‘If you please, John Chivery,’ she returned, trembling, but in a quiet way, ‘since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more—if you please, no.’

‘Never, Miss Amy?’

‘No, if you please. Never.’

‘O Lord!’ gasped Young John.

‘But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to express. When you think of us, John—I mean my brother, and sister, and me—don’t think of us as being any different from the rest; for, whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing now.’

Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and would be heartily glad to do anything she wished.

‘As to me,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘think as little of me as you can; the less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented, unprotected girl. I particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I am unprotected and solitary.’

He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much want him to remember that?

‘Because,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘I know I can then quite trust you not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I am going to show you, at once, that I fully trust you. I like this place where we are speaking better than any place I know;’ her slight colour had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; ‘and I may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I am—quite sure!’

She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch, but her word was more than a law for him.

‘And good-bye, John,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.’

As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was under the waistcoat of sprigs—mere slop-work, if the truth must be known—swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears.

‘Oh, don’t cry,’ said Little Dorrit piteously. ‘Don’t, don’t! Good-bye, John. God bless you!’

‘Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!’

And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were sad.

It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects, to behold her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription for a tombstone in St George’s Churchyard:

‘Here lie the mortal remains Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted Parents.’

In quel povero ragazzo c’era davvero una sincerenità profonda; il contrasto tra la durezza del suo aspetto esteriore e la dolcezza del suo cuore (anche se, forse, anche della sua mente) era commovente. La piccola Dorrit lo pregò di non sottovalutare né sé stesso né la propria condizione sociale, e soprattutto di abbandonare qualsiasi idea potesse fargli credere che la sua posizione fosse superiore alla sua. Questo gli diede un po’ di conforto.

“Signorina Amy,” balbettò allora, “da molto tempo, anzi, da anni che mi sembrano eterni, ho il desiderio ardentissimo di dirvi qualcosa. Posso farlo?”

Little Dorrit, involontariamente, ricominciò a muoversi al suo fianco, con la più tenue traccia dell’aspetto che aveva un tempo; una volta superata quella sensazione, proseguì ad alta velocità, attraversando metà del ponte senza rispondere!

“Posso. Signorina Amy, la pongo questa domanda con umiltà. Posso dirlo? Sono stato così sfortunato finora nel causarvi dolore senza alcuna intenzione del genere. Per l’amore del cielo! Non ho alcuna paura di dirlo, a meno che non mi concediate il permesso. Posso essere infelice da solo, posso soffrire da solo. Perché dovrei rendere infelice anche qualcuno per cui sarei disposto a sacrificare tutto pur di farlo felice anche solo per un momento? Anche se in realtà non significherebbe molto. Lo farei anche per due penny.”

La tristezza del suo spirito e la magnificenza del suo aspetto avrebbero potuto renderlo ridicolo, ma la sua delicatezza lo rendeva rispettabile. La piccola Dorrit imparò da questo come comportarsi.

“Se vuoi, John Chivery,” rispose lei, tremando, ma in modo tranquillo, “poiché sei così premuroso da chiedermi se intenderai dire qualcos’altro. Se vuoi, no.”

“Mai, signorina Amy?”

“No, per favore. Mai.”

“O Signore!” esclamò ansimando il giovane John.

“Ma forse mi permetterete invece di dirvi qualcosa. Voglio dirlo con sincerità e in modo il più chiaro possibile. Quando pensate a noi, John, intendo mio fratello, mia sorella e me, non pensateci come diversi dagli altri; perché, qualunque cosa fossimo un tempo (di cui quasi non ricordo), abbiamo smesso di esserlo da molto tempo, e non potremo mai più esserlo. Sarà molto meglio per voi, e anche per gli altri, se farete così invece di quello che state facendo adesso.”

Il giovane John protestò con tristezza, dicendo che avrebbe cercato di ricordarselo e che sarebbe stato felicissimo di fare qualsiasi cosa lei desiderasse.

“Per quanto mi riguarda,” disse Little Dorrit, “pensa il meno possibile a me; meno, meglio ancora. Quando penserai a me, John, che sia solo come alla bambina che hai visto crescere nella prigione, con un unico compito che le occupava sempre la mente; come a una ragazza debole, ritirata, soddisfatta e senza protezioni. Voglio soprattutto che tu ricordi che, quando esco da quella prigione, sono sola e senza difese.”

Avrebbe fatto di tutto ciò che lei desiderava. Ma perché la signorina Amy voleva così tanto che se ne ricordasse?

“Perché,” rispose Little Dorrit, “so di potermi fidare completamente di te: non dimenticherai oggi, e non mi dirai più nulla. Sei così generoso che so di poter contare su di te in questo; e lo faccio, e lo farò sempre. Ora ti dimostrerò subito quanto mi fidi di te. Mi piace questo posto dove stiamo parlando più di qualsiasi altro conosca, ” Il suo leggero rossore era svanito, ma il suo amante pensò di vederlo riapparire in quel momento; “e forse verrò spesso qui. So che basta che te lo dica per essere sicura che non tornerai mai più a cercarmi. E ne sono, completamente sicura!”

“Potrebbe fidarsi di esso”, disse Young John. Era un povero disgraziato, ma per lui la sua parola aveva più valore di una legge.

“Addio, John,” disse Little Dorrit. “Spero che un giorno tu possa trovare una buona moglie e diventare un uomo felice. Sono sicura che meriterai di essere felice, e lo sarai, John.”

Mentre gli tendeva la mano dicendo queste parole, il cuore che si trovava sotto quel gilet fatto di rametti – nient’altro che un lavoro approssimativo, se proprio bisogna dire la verità – si gonfiò fino a raggiungere le dimensioni del cuore di un gentiluomo; e quel povero ragazzo, non avendo spazio sufficiente per contenerlo, scoppiò in lacrime.

“Oh, non piangere,” disse Little Dorrit con compassione. “Per favore, non farlo. Addio, John. Che Dio ti benedica!”

Addio, signorina Amy. Addio!

E così la lasciò: prima osservò che si era seduta in un angolo del sedile, e non solo aveva appoggiato la sua piccola mano contro il muro ruvido, ma vi aveva anche premuto il viso, come se la testa le pesasse molto e il suo cuore fosse triste.

Era un’efficace illustrazione dell’errore intrinseco ai progetti umani: vedere il suo amante con il grande cappello che gli copriva gli occhi, il colletto di velluto rialzato come se piovesse, il cappotto di colore prugna abbottonato per nascondere la giacca di seta decorata con rametti d’oro, e quel piccolo “punto di direzione” che lo guidava inesorabilmente verso casa, serpeggiando lungo le peggiori strade secondarie. Mentre camminava, componeva anche la seguente nuova iscrizione per una lapide nel cimitero di St George’s:

‘Qui giacciono i resti mortali di JOHN CHIVERE, una persona mai davvero degna di essere menzionata. Morì verso la fine dell’anno milleottocentoventisei a causa di un cuore spezzato. Con il suo ultimo respiro chiese che sulla sua cenere venisse scritto il nome AMY; ciò fu eseguito secondo i suoi desideri dai suoi genitori addolorati.’

CHAPTER 19. The Father of the Marshalsea in two or three Relations

The brothers William and Frederick Dorrit, walking up and down the College-yard—of course on the aristocratic or Pump side, for the Father made it a point of his state to be chary of going among his children on the Poor side, except on Sunday mornings, Christmas Days, and other occasions of ceremony, in the observance whereof he was very punctual, and at which times he laid his hand upon the heads of their infants, and blessed those young insolvents with a benignity that was highly edifying—the brothers, walking up and down the College-yard together, were a memorable sight. Frederick the free, was so humbled, bowed, withered, and faded; William the bond, was so courtly, condescending, and benevolently conscious of a position; that in this regard only, if in no other, the brothers were a spectacle to wonder at.

They walked up and down the yard on the evening of Little Dorrit’s Sunday interview with her lover on the Iron Bridge. The cares of state were over for that day, the Drawing Room had been well attended, several new presentations had taken place, the three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table had accidentally increased to twelve shillings, and the Father of the Marshalsea refreshed himself with a whiff of cigar. As he walked up and down, affably accommodating his step to the shuffle of his brother, not proud in his superiority, but considerate of that poor creature, bearing with him, and breathing toleration of his infirmities in every little puff of smoke that issued from his lips and aspired to get over the spiked wall, he was a sight to wonder at.

His brother Frederick of the dim eye, palsied hand, bent form, and groping mind, submissively shuffled at his side, accepting his patronage as he accepted every incident of the labyrinthian world in which he had got lost. He held the usual screwed bit of whitey-brown paper in his hand, from which he ever and again unscrewed a spare pinch of snuff. That falteringly taken, he would glance at his brother not unadmiringly, put his hands behind him, and shuffle on so at his side until he took another pinch, or stood still to look about him—perchance suddenly missing his clarionet.

The College visitors were melting away as the shades of night drew on, but the yard was still pretty full, the Collegians being mostly out, seeing their friends to the Lodge. As the brothers paced the yard, William the bond looked about him to receive salutes, returned them by graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible, but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at.

‘You are a little low this evening, Frederick,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea. ‘Anything the matter?’

‘The matter?’ He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes again. ‘No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.’

‘If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick—’

‘Aye, aye!’ said the old man hurriedly. ‘But I can’t be. I can’t be. Don’t talk so. That’s all over.’

The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he was on friendly terms, as who should say, ‘An enfeebled old man, this; but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is potent!’ and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.

‘I think, William,’ said the object of his affectionate consideration, ‘that I am tired, and will go home to bed.’

‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the other, ‘don’t let me detain you; don’t sacrifice your inclination to me.’

‘Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,’ said Frederick, ‘weaken me.’

‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘do you think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits are as precise and methodical as—shall I say as mine are? Not to revert again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?’

‘Hah!’ sighed the other. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’

‘But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,’ the Father of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, ‘unless you act on that assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day, you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually. Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and you know what a good girl she is.’

The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, ‘Hah! Yes, yes, yes, yes.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him—mildly, because of his weakness, poor dear soul; ‘you said that before, and it does not express much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my good Frederick; you want to be roused.’

‘Yes, William, yes. No doubt,’ returned the other, lifting his dim eyes to his face. ‘But I am not like you.’

The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest self-depreciation, ‘Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick; you might be, if you chose!’ and forbore, in the magnanimity of his strength, to press his fallen brother further.

CAPITOLO 19. Il padre di Marshalsea: due o tre prospettive

I fratelli William e Frederick Dorrit, camminando avanti e indietro nel cortile del college – naturalmente dal lato aristocratico, poiché il padre si impegnava sempre a non frequentare mai i figli che vivevano nel “lato povero”, tranne nelle domeniche mattine, nei giorni di Natale e in altre occasioni solenni, alle quali partecipava con grande puntualità – posavano le mani sul capo dei loro bambini e li benedicevano con una benevolenza davvero edificante. I due fratelli, insieme, mentre camminavano nel cortile del college, offrivano uno spettacolo davvero memorabile. Frederick, il libero, era così umile, deferente e sottomesso; William, invece, così cortese, condiscendente e consapevole della propria posizione sociale. Solo in questo aspetto, se non in altri, i fratelli Dorrit rappresentavano davvero un motivo di meraviglia per tutti.

Quella sera, durante l’intervista di Little Dorrit con il suo amante sul Ponte di Ferro, camminavano avanti e indietro nel cortile. Le preoccupazioni di stato erano finite per quel giorno; la Sala da Pranzo aveva ricevuto un’ottima partecipazione; si erano tenute alcune nuove presentazioni; i tre penny lasciati accidentalmente sul tavolo erano aumentati, senza che nessuno se ne accorgesse, a dodici scellini. Il padre di Little Dorrit si rinfrescava con una boccata di sigaro. Mentre camminava avanti e indietro, adattando gentilmente il proprio passo al modo incerto di camminare di suo fratello – senza provare orgoglio per la propria superiorità, ma mostrando comprensione verso quella povera creatura, sopportandone le debolezze e respirando tolleranza ogni volta che una boccata di fumo usciva dalle sue labbra – costituiva davvero uno spettacolo degno di ammirazione.

Suo fratello Frederick, con quel suo occhio offuscato, quella mano paralizzata, quella postura curva e quella mente confusa, lo seguiva docilmente, accettando la sua protezione proprio come accettava ogni singolo aspetto di quel mondo labirintico in cui si era perso. Teneva sempre in mano quel pezzo di carta bianco-marrone, da cui di tanto in tanto estraeva un pizzico di tabacco da fiuto. Dopo averlo preso con incertezza, guardava suo fratello con una certa ammirazione, poi si metteva le mani dietro la schiena e continuava a camminare al suo fianco, finché non ne prendeva un altro pizzico o si fermava per guardarsi intorno, forse, all’improvviso, rendendosi conto di aver perso il suo clarinetto.

I visitatori del college si scioglievano nel calore della notte, ma il cortile era ancora piuttosto affollato: la maggior parte degli studenti era fuori, a salutare i propri amici presso la Lodge. Mentre i due fratelli camminavano avanti e indietro nel cortile, William, il più rispettabile dei due, osservava intorno a sé per ricevere i saluti; li ricambiava togliendosi gentilmente il cappello e, con un atteggiamento affabile, impediva a Frederick di correre contro il gruppo o di essere spinto contro il muro. Gli studenti, nel loro insieme, non erano facilmente impressionabili, ma anche loro, a seconda dei loro diversi modi di pensare, sembravano trovare nei due fratelli qualcosa che li faceva meravigliare.

“Stasera sei un po’ giù di morale, Frederick,” disse il Padre di Marshalsea. “C’è qualche problema?”

“Qual è il problema?” Rimase a fissare per un momento, poi abbassò di nuovo la testa e lo sguardo. “No, William, no. Non c’è nessun problema.”

“Se solo riuscissimo a convincerti a curare un po’ di più il tuo aspetto, Frederick, ”

“Sì, sì!” disse l’uomo anziano in fretta. “Ma non posso. Non posso farlo. Non parlate così. È finita.”

Il Padre di Marshalsea gettò uno sguardo verso un collega che passava, con il quale aveva rapporti amichevoli; sembrava voler dire: “Un vecchio debole, questo, ma è mio fratello, signore, la voce della Natura è potente!” E guidò il proprio “fratello” lontano dal manico della pompa, tenendolo per la manica logora. Niente sarebbe mancato alla perfezione del suo ruolo di guida fraterna, filosofo e amico, se solo avesse evitato di portare il proprio “fratello” verso la rovina, invece di spingerlo proprio lì.

“Penso, William,” disse la persona oggetto delle sue affettuose attenzioni,
“che sia stanca e che andrò a casa a dormire.”

“Mio caro Frederick,” rispose l’altro, “non lasciare che ti trattiene; non sacrificare la tua simpatia per me.”

“Le ore tarde, l’atmosfera tesa, e suppongo anche gli anni,” disse Frederick, “mi indeboliscono.”

“Mio caro Frederick,” rispose il Padre di Marshalsea, “pensi davvero di prenderti abbastanza cura di te stesso? Pensi che le tue abitudini siano così precise e meticolose, come, diciamo, le mie? Senza tornare di nuovo su quella piccola eccentricità di cui ho parlato poco fa, [L01] dubito che tu faccia abbastanza aria fresca e esercizio fisico, Frederick. Ecco qui la parata: è sempre a tua disposizione. Perché non la utilizzi più regolarmente?”

“Ahah!” esclamò l’altro. “Sì, sì, sì, sì.”

“Ma non serve dire ‘sì, sì’, caro Frederick”, insisteva con la sua mite saggezza il Padre di Marshalsea, “se non si agisce secondo tale consenso. Considera il mio caso, Frederick: sono una sorta di esempio. La necessità e il tempo mi hanno insegnato cosa fare. In determinate ore della giornata, mi troverai in parata, nella mia stanza, nella Loggia, a leggere i giornali, a ricevere visite, a mangiare e bere. Negli anni ho insegnato ad Amy l’importanza di rispettare queste abitudini; sai quanto sia una brava ragazza.”

“Ah. Sì, sì, sì, ” mormorò il fratello, camminando con lo sguardo assente.

“Mio caro amico,” disse il Padre di Marshalsea, mettendogli una mano sulla spalla e incoraggiandolo dolcemente, dolcemente, a causa della sua debolezza, povero caro ‘anima; “l’hai già detto prima, e questo non significa molto, Frederick, anche se forse significasse molto. Vorrei riuscire a risvegliarti, mio buon Frederick; hai bisogno di essere risvegliato.”

“Sì, William, sì. Nessun dubbio”, rispose l’altro, alzando i suoi occhi pallidi verso il suo viso. “Ma io non sono come te.”

Il Padre di Marshalsea disse, con un gesto di modesta autodeprecazione: “Oh! Potresti essere come me, mio caro Frederick; potresti esserlo, se lo volessi!” E, nella magnanimità della sua forza, si astenne dal pressare ulteriormente suo fratello caduto in disgrazia.

There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn’t get on without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually withdrew if they were aware of him.

On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge, several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.

‘Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?’

Mr Chivery said in a low growl, ‘Oh! he was all right.’ Which was his general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little sullen.

‘I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he looked, I assure you.’

So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish was that the boy didn’t lay out so much money upon it. For what did it bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that anywhere for nothing.

‘How vexation, Chivery?’ asked the benignant father.

‘No odds,’ returned Mr Chivery. ‘Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?’

‘Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear Frederick!’

Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.

‘Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful how you cross, Frederick. (I really don’t like the notion of his going wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)’

With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect went round among the Collegians assembled.

But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities—he did not say high qualities, but qualities—moral qualities. Now, had his brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said, Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough, not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman. Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see in any delicate little attentions and—and—Testimonials that he might under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!

Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again, and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby staircase to his own poor shabby room.

There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her little prayer-book in her pocket—had she been praying for pity on all prisoners and captives!—and rose to welcome him.

Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel quite well?

C’erano molte scene di addio negli angoli, come era solito nelle serate di domenica; e qua e là, nell’oscurità, qualche povera donna, moglie o madre, piangeva con un nuovo studente dell’università. C’era stato un tempo in cui anche il padre stesso aveva pianto, all’ombra di quel cortile, proprio come sua povera moglie. Ma era passato molti anni; ora lui era come un passeggero a bordo di una nave in viaggio lungo: si era ripreso dal mal di mare e non sopportava più quella debolezza dei nuovi passeggeri imbarcati all’ultimo porto. Aveva l’impulso di rimproverare chi non riusciva a trattenersi dal piangere, pensando che tali persone non avessero alcun diritto di essere lì. Con i suoi modi, se non con le parole, esprimeva sempre il proprio disappunto per queste interruzioni dell’armonia generale; e questo veniva così chiaramente compreso che i trasgressori, di solito, si allontanavano non appena lo notavano.

Quella sera di domenica, accompagnò suo fratello fino al cancello con un atteggiamento di pazienza e clemenza; essendo di umore mite, era disposto ad ignorare le lacrime. Alla luce intensa delle lampade a gas della Loggia, alcuni studenti si rilassavano: alcuni salutavano gli ospiti, altri, che non ne avevano, osservavano il continuo girare della chiave e chiacchieravano tra loro e con il signor Chivery. L’arrivo di quel padre generoso suscitò naturalmente grande interesse; il signor Chivery, toccandosi il cappello (sebbene in modo rapido), sperava di essere stato tollerabile.

“Grazie, Chivery, molto bene. E tu?”

Il signor Chivery disse con un basso ringhio: “Oh! Lui stava bene.” Era il suo modo abituale di rispondere alle domande sulla sua salute, quando era un po’ malinconico.

“Oggi è venuto a trovarmi Young John, Chivery. E devo dire che sembrava davvero molto in forma.”

So che il signor Chivery aveva sentito. Tuttavia, il signor Chivery deve ammettere che il suo desiderio era che quel ragazzo non spendesse così tanti soldi per quella cosa. A cosa gli servivano? Gli causavano solo preoccupazioni. E lui poteva ottenerle ovunque, gratuitamente.

“Che fastidio, Chivery, ”, chiese il benevolo padre.

“Nessun problema,” rispose il signor Chivery. “Lasciamo perdere. Il signor Frederick esce?”

“Sì, Chivery, mio fratello sta andando a casa a dormire. È stanco e non si sente del tutto bene. Stai attento, Frederick. Buona notte, caro Frederick!”

Stringendo la mano a suo fratello e salutando con il suo cappello unti i presenti nella Loggia, Frederick uscì lentamente dalla porta che il signor Chivery gli aveva aperto. Il “Padre di Marshalsea” dimostrò quella premura affabile tipica di una persona superiore, desiderosa che non gli accadesse nulla di male.

“Per favore, tieni la porta aperta un attimo, Chivery, così posso vederlo andare lungo il corridoio e giù per le scale. Fa’ attenzione, Frederick! (È molto debole, ) Stai attento alle scale, (È davvero molto distratto, ) Prenditi cura quando attraversi, Frederick. Non mi piace affatto l’idea che vada in giro da solo; rischia davvero di essere investito.”

Con queste parole, e con un’espressione del viso che rivelava molte dubbi e una grande preoccupazione per la sicurezza di qualcuno, rivolse lo sguardo verso l’intera compagnia riunita nella Loggia: in modo così chiaro da far intendere che il suo fratello meritasse davvero compassione per non essere tenuto sotto chiave. Un’opinione del genere iniziò a diffondersi tra i presenti.

Ma non lo accettò con un assenso incondizionato; al contrario, disse: “No, signori, no; non lasciate che lo fraintendano”. Suo fratello Frederick era profondamente sconvolto, senza alcun dubbio, e forse per lui stesso (il Padre della Marshalsea) sarebbe stato più confortante sapere che era al sicuro all’interno di quelle mura. Tuttavia, bisogna ricordare che per sostenere una vita lì per molti anni era necessaria una certa combinazione di qualità. Non diceva qualità elevate, ma semplicemente qualità. Qualità morali. Ora, suo fratello Frederick possedeva quella particolare combinazione di qualità? Signori, era un uomo eccellente, molto gentile, tenero e stimabile, con la semplicità di un bambino; ma sarebbe stato adatto a quel luogo? No. Disse con certezza: “No!”. E aggiunse: “Dio non voglia che Frederick si trovi lì in un ruolo diverso da quello che attualmente desidera assumere volontariamente!”. Signori, chiunque entri in quel College e vi rimanga per un certo periodo deve avere la forza di carattere necessaria per affrontare molte difficoltà e uscirne indenne. Ma suo fratello Frederick possedeva tale forza? No. Lo vedevano così com’era: distrutto dalla sfortuna. Non aveva abbastanza forza per riprendersi, né sufficiente elasticità per rimanere in quel luogo a lungo, pur conservando il proprio rispetto di sé e la consapevolezza di essere un gentiluomo. Frederick non possedeva (se si può usare questo termine) l’energia necessaria per vedere, nelle piccole attenzioni o nei gesti di affetto che poteva ricevere in quelle circostanze, la bontà della natura umana, lo spirito nobile che animava i membri del College. E al contempo evitare di subire umiliazioni o di vedere diminuire il proprio status di gentiluomo. Signori, che Dio vi benedica!

Ecco il sermone con cui egli approfittò dell’occasione per istruire e guidare i compagni nella Loggia, prima di tornare nuovamente nel cortile pallido; poi, con la sua stessa dignità povera e logora, passò accanto al collega in pigiama che non aveva cappotto, accanto al collega con le pantofole da spiaggia che non aveva scarpe, accanto al robusto collega mercante di verdure con i pantaloni di velluto a coste che non aveva preoccupazioni, e accanto al magro impiegato in nero senza bottoni che non aveva speranze. Salì poi la sua stessa povera e logora scala, fino alla sua stessa povera e logora stanza.

Lì, la tavola era pronta per la sua cena; il suo vecchio abito grigio era già pronto sullo schienale della sedia vicino al focolare. Sua figlia mise nel proprio taschino il suo piccolo libro di preghiere. Chissà se stava pregando per la misericordia di tutti i prigionieri e i captivi. E c’era anche una rosa ad accoglierlo al suo ritorno.

“Zio era già tornato a casa, allora?” gli chiese mentre gli cambiava il cappotto e gli dava il suo cappello di velluto nero. “Sì, zio era già tornato a casa.” “A tuo padre è piaciuta la passeggiata?” “Beh, non molto, Amy. Non molto.” “No! Non si sentiva affatto bene?”

As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in an unconnected and embarrassed manner.

‘Something, I—hem!—I don’t know what, has gone wrong with Chivery. He is not—ha!—not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night. It—hem!—it’s a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It’s impossible to forget,’ turning his hands over and over and looking closely at them, ‘that—hem!—that in such a life as mine, I am unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the day.’

Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he spoke. Bending her head she looked another way.

‘I—hem!—I can’t think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is generally so—so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was quite—quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven! if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother officers, I might starve to death here.’ While he spoke, he was opening and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning.

‘I—ha!—I can’t think what it’s owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don’t think you can remember him, my dear, you were very young), and—hem!—and he had a—brother, and this—young brother paid his addresses to—at least, did not go so far as to pay his addresses to—but admired—respectfully admired—the—not daughter, the sister—of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his daughter—sister—should hazard offending the turnkey brother by being too—ha!—too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me his—his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his—hem!—sister was not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that she might lead him on—I am doubtful whether “lead him on” was Captain Martin’s exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him—on her father’s—I should say, brother’s—account. I hardly know how I have strayed into this story. I suppose it has been through being unable to account for Chivery; but as to the connection between the two, I don’t see—’

His voice died away, as if she could not bear the pain of hearing him, and her hand had gradually crept to his lips. For a little while there was a dead silence and stillness; and he remained shrunk in his chair, and she remained with her arm round his neck and her head bowed down upon his shoulder.

His supper was cooking in a saucepan on the fire, and, when she moved, it was to make it ready for him on the table. He took his usual seat, she took hers, and he began his meal. They did not, as yet, look at one another. By little and little he began; laying down his knife and fork with a noise, taking things up sharply, biting at his bread as if he were offended with it, and in other similar ways showing that he was out of sorts. At length he pushed his plate from him, and spoke aloud; with the strangest inconsistency.

‘What does it matter whether I eat or starve? What does it matter whether such a blighted life as mine comes to an end, now, next week, or next year? What am I worth to anyone? A poor prisoner, fed on alms and broken victuals; a squalid, disgraced wretch!’

‘Father, father!’ As he rose she went on her knees to him, and held up her hands to him.

‘Amy,’ he went on in a suppressed voice, trembling violently, and looking at her as wildly as if he had gone mad. ‘I tell you, if you could see me as your mother saw me, you wouldn’t believe it to be the creature you have only looked at through the bars of this cage. I was young, I was accomplished, I was good-looking, I was independent—by God I was, child!—and people sought me out, and envied me. Envied me!’

‘Dear father!’ She tried to take down the shaking arm that he flourished in the air, but he resisted, and put her hand away.

‘If I had but a picture of myself in those days, though it was ever so ill done, you would be proud of it, you would be proud of it. But I have no such thing. Now, let me be a warning! Let no man,’ he cried, looking haggardly about, ‘fail to preserve at least that little of the times of his prosperity and respect. Let his children have that clue to what he was. Unless my face, when I am dead, subsides into the long departed look—they say such things happen, I don’t know—my children will have never seen me.’

‘Father, father!’

‘O despise me, despise me! Look away from me, don’t listen to me, stop me, blush for me, cry for me—even you, Amy! Do it, do it! I do it to myself! I am hardened now, I have sunk too low to care long even for that.’

‘Dear father, loved father, darling of my heart!’ She was clinging to him with her arms, and she got him to drop into his chair again, and caught at the raised arm, and tried to put it round her neck.

‘Let it lie there, father. Look at me, father, kiss me, father! Only think of me, father, for one little moment!’

Still he went on in the same wild way, though it was gradually breaking down into a miserable whining.

‘And yet I have some respect here. I have made some stand against it. I am not quite trodden down. Go out and ask who is the chief person in the place. They’ll tell you it’s your father. Go out and ask who is never trifled with, and who is always treated with some delicacy. They’ll say, your father. Go out and ask what funeral here (it must be here, I know it can be nowhere else) will make more talk, and perhaps more grief, than any that has ever gone out at the gate. They’ll say your father’s. Well then. Amy! Amy! Is your father so universally despised? Is there nothing to redeem him? Will you have nothing to remember him by but his ruin and decay? Will you be able to have no affection for him when he is gone, poor castaway, gone?’

Mentre stava dietro di lui, appoggiandosi con tanta tenerezza alla sua sedia, lui guardò con gli occhi bassi il fuoco. Un senso di disagio lo invase, simile a un pizzico di vergogna; e quando parlò, come fece poco dopo, lo fece in modo confuso ed imbarazzato.

‘Qualcosa, ehm, non so cosa esattamente, ma c’è qualcosa che non va con Chivery. Non è più così premuroso e attento come al solito, di notte. È una cosa piccola, ma mi dà fastidio, mio amore. È impossibile dimenticarlo,’ disse, girando e rigirando le mani e osservandole attentamente. ‘In una vita come la mia, purtroppo dipendo da questi uomini per molte cose, ogni ora della giornata.’

Il suo braccio era sulle sue spalle, ma non guardò il suo viso mentre parlava. Inclinando la testa, guardò altrove.

“Non riesco a capire, Amy. Cosa può aver offeso Chivery. Di solito è così attento e rispettoso. E stasera è stato davvero molto scortese con me. Anche gli altri lì presenti! Per Dio. Se perdessi il sostegno di Chivery e degli altri ufficiali, potrei morire di fame qui.” Mentre parlava, apriva e chiudeva le mani come se fossero valvole; era costantemente consapevole di quel senso di vergogna che lo assaliva, al punto di ritrarsi davanti alla propria stessa consapevolezza.

“Non riesco proprio a capire quale ne sia la ragione. Sono sicuro di non riuscire a immaginare quale possa essere la causa. C’era una volta qui un certo Jackson, un carceriere di nome Jackson (non credo tu te lo ricordi, cara, eri molto giovane allora); lui aveva un fratello. E questo fratello minore, beh, non arrivava a corteggiare apertamente la sorella di uno di noi, ma la ammirava, con rispetto, sì. Il nome di quel giovane era Capitano Martin; mi chiese se fosse necessario che sua sorella rischiasse di offendere il fratello carceriere comportandosi in modo troppo, ehm, troppo affettuoso con l’altro fratello. Il Capitano Martin era un gentiluomo e una persona d’onore; gli chiesi prima di tutto la sua opinione personale. Lui, molto rispettato nell’esercito, rispose senza esitazione che, a suo parere, sua sorella non doveva comprendere troppo chiaramente i sentimenti di quel giovane, e che poteva lasciare che lui, beh, forse “lasciarlo fare” non era proprio l’espressione che usò. In realtà credo abbia detto che poteva permettergli di comportarsi così, per conto di suo padre, o meglio, del fratello di lei. Non so proprio come sia finito a parlare di queste cose. Immagino sia perché non riesco a spiegare il comportamento di Chivery. Ma per quanto riguarda il legame tra le due cose, beh, non capisco, ”

La sua voce si affievolì, come se non potesse sopportare il )dolore di sentirlo parlare, e la sua mano gli si avvicinò lentamente alle labbra. Per un momento regnò un silenzio e una quiete assoluti; lui rimase rannicchiato nella sedia, mentre lei teneva il braccio intorno al suo collo e aveva il capo chino sul suo petto.

La sua cena stava cuocendo in una pentola sul fuoco, e quando lei si mosse, fu solo per prepararla sul tavolo per lui. Lui prese il suo solito posto, lei il suo, e iniziò a mangiare. Per il momento non si guardavano nemmeno. Poco a poco, cominciò ad comportarsi in modo strano: posava coltello e forchetta con rumore, afferrava gli oggetti bruscamente, mordeva il pane come se fosse offeso da esso. Insomma, mostrava chiaramente di essere di cattivo umore. Alla fine spinse via il piatto e parlò ad alta voce, in modo davvero strano e contraddittorio.

‘Che importanza ha se mangio o muoio di fame? Che differenza fa se una vita così distrutta come la mia finisca ora, la prossima settimana o l’anno prossimo? Quanto valgo per qualcuno? Un povero prigioniero, nutrito di elemosine e cibo scadente; un essere spregevole e disonorato!’

“Padre, padre!” Non appena si alzò in piedi, lei si inginocchiò davanti a lui e gli tese le mani.

“Amy,” continuò lui con voce soffocata, tremando violentemente e guardandola in modo folle, come se fosse impazzito. “Ti dico, se solo potessi vedermi come mia madre mi vedeva. Non crederesti mai che io fossi la stessa persona che hai visto soltanto attraverso le sbarre di questa gabbia. Ero giovane, colta, attraente, indipendente. Per Dio, lo ero davvero, bambino. Le persone mi cercavano, mi invidiavano. Mi invidiavano!”

“Caro padre!” Tentò di allontanare il braccio che lui agitava freneticamente in aria, ma lui resistette e le scostò la mano.

“Se solo avessi una foto di me in quei tempi, anche se fatta male, saresti orgoglioso di essa. Ma non ne ho alcuna. Ora, lasciate che vi faccia un avvertimento: nessuno,” gridò, guardandosi intorno con espressione affranta, “dovrebbe permettersi di perdere anche solo quel poco che rimane dei tempi della propria prosperità e del proprio rispetto. Che i propri figli abbiano almeno un ricordo di ciò che siamo stati. A meno che il mio volto, quando morirò, non assomigli a quelli che sono ormai da tempo scomparsi. Si dice che queste cose possano accadere, ma non lo so. I miei figli non mi avranno mai conosciuto davvero.”

“Padre, padre!”

“O disprezzami pure, disprezzami! Allontanati da me, non ascoltarmi, fermami, arrossisci per me, piangi per me. Anche tu, Amy! Fallo, fallo! Io lo faccio a me stesso. Ora sono diventato indifferente, sono caduto troppo in basso per curarmene ancora.”

“Caro padre, adorato padre, tesoro del mio cuore!” Lo abbracciava con forza, riuscendo a farlo sedere di nuovo sulla sedia; poi afferrò il suo braccio e cercò di metterglielo intorno al collo.

“Lascialo lì, padre. Guardami, padre, baciami, padre! Pensa solo a me, per un momento soltanto, ”

Tuttavia continuò nel suo stesso modo selvaggio, anche se gradualmente tutto si trasformava in un lamento miserabile.

‘Eppure provo ancora un certo rispetto per lui. Ho fatto qualcosa per oppormi a questa situazione. Non sono del tutto schiacciato. Vai e chiedi chi sia la persona più importante in questo posto: ti diranno che è tuo padre. Vai e chiedi chi non venga mai preso alla leggera, ma sempre trattato con rispetto. Ti diranno ancora tuo padre. Vai e chiedi quale funerale, qui (deve essere proprio qui, so che non può essercene un altro), susciti più commenti e forse anche più dolore di qualsiasi altro mai tenutosi in questo luogo. Ti diranno ancora quello di tuo padre. Beh. Allora, Amy! Amy! Tuo padre è davvero così disprezzato da tutti? Non c’è nulla che possa redimerlo? Non avrai nient’altro a cui ricordarlo se non la sua rovina e il suo declino? Riuscirai davvero a non provare alcun affetto per lui, ora che è morto, povero naufrago, scomparso per sempre?’

He burst into tears of maudlin pity for himself, and at length suffering her to embrace him and take charge of him, let his grey head rest against her cheek, and bewailed his wretchedness. Presently he changed the subject of his lamentations, and clasping his hands about her as she embraced him, cried, O Amy, his motherless, forlorn child! O the days that he had seen her careful and laborious for him! Then he reverted to himself, and weakly told her how much better she would have loved him if she had known him in his vanished character, and how he would have married her to a gentleman who should have been proud of her as his daughter, and how (at which he cried again) she should first have ridden at his fatherly side on her own horse, and how the crowd (by which he meant in effect the people who had given him the twelve shillings he then had in his pocket) should have trudged the dusty roads respectfully.

Thus, now boasting, now despairing, in either fit a captive with the jail-rot upon him, and the impurity of his prison worn into the grain of his soul, he revealed his degenerate state to his affectionate child. No one else ever beheld him in the details of his humiliation. Little recked the Collegians who were laughing in their rooms over his late address in the Lodge, what a serious picture they had in their obscure gallery of the Marshalsea that Sunday night.

There was a classical daughter once—perhaps—who ministered to her father in his prison as her mother had ministered to her. Little Dorrit, though of the unheroic modern stock and mere English, did much more, in comforting her father’s wasted heart upon her innocent breast, and turning to it a fountain of love and fidelity that never ran dry or waned through all his years of famine.

She soothed him; asked him for his forgiveness if she had been, or seemed to have been, undutiful; told him, Heaven knows truly, that she could not honour him more if he were the favourite of Fortune and the whole world acknowledged him. When his tears were dried, and he sobbed in his weakness no longer, and was free from that touch of shame, and had recovered his usual bearing, she prepared the remains of his supper afresh, and, sitting by his side, rejoiced to see him eat and drink. For now he sat in his black velvet cap and old grey gown, magnanimous again; and would have comported himself towards any Collegian who might have looked in to ask his advice, like a great moral Lord Chesterfield, or Master of the ethical ceremonies of the Marshalsea.

To keep his attention engaged, she talked with him about his wardrobe; when he was pleased to say, that Yes, indeed, those shirts she proposed would be exceedingly acceptable, for those he had were worn out, and, being ready-made, had never fitted him. Being conversational, and in a reasonable flow of spirits, he then invited her attention to his coat as it hung behind the door: remarking that the Father of the place would set an indifferent example to his children, already disposed to be slovenly, if he went among them out at elbows. He was jocular, too, as to the heeling of his shoes; but became grave on the subject of his cravat, and promised her that, when she could afford it, she should buy him a new one.

While he smoked out his cigar in peace, she made his bed, and put the small room in order for his repose. Being weary then, owing to the advanced hour and his emotions, he came out of his chair to bless her and wish her Good night. All this time he had never once thought of her dress, her shoes, her need of anything. No other person upon earth, save herself, could have been so unmindful of her wants.

He kissed her many times with ‘Bless you, my love. Good night, my dear!’

But her gentle breast had been so deeply wounded by what she had seen of him that she was unwilling to leave him alone, lest he should lament and despair again. ‘Father, dear, I am not tired; let me come back presently, when you are in bed, and sit by you.’

He asked her, with an air of protection, if she felt solitary?

‘Yes, father.’

‘Then come back by all means, my love.’

‘I shall be very quiet, father.’

‘Don’t think of me, my dear,’ he said, giving her his kind permission fully. ‘Come back by all means.’

He seemed to be dozing when she returned, and she put the low fire together very softly lest she should awake him. But he overheard her, and called out who was that?

‘Only Amy, father.’

‘Amy, my child, come here. I want to say a word to you.’

He raised himself a little in his low bed, as she kneeled beside it to bring her face near him; and put his hand between hers. O! Both the private father and the Father of the Marshalsea were strong within him then.

‘My love, you have had a life of hardship here. No companions, no recreations, many cares I am afraid?’

‘Don’t think of that, dear. I never do.’

‘You know my position, Amy. I have not been able to do much for you; but all I have been able to do, I have done.’

‘Yes, my dear father,’ she rejoined, kissing him. ‘I know, I know.’

‘I am in the twenty-third year of my life here,’ he said, with a catch in his breath that was not so much a sob as an irrepressible sound of self-approval, the momentary outburst of a noble consciousness. ‘It is all I could do for my children—I have done it. Amy, my love, you are by far the best loved of the three; I have had you principally in my mind—whatever I have done for your sake, my dear child, I have done freely and without murmuring.’

Only the wisdom that holds the clue to all hearts and all mysteries, can surely know to what extent a man, especially a man brought down as this man had been, can impose upon himself. Enough, for the present place, that he lay down with wet eyelashes, serene, in a manner majestic, after bestowing his life of degradation as a sort of portion on the devoted child upon whom its miseries had fallen so heavily, and whose love alone had saved him to be even what he was.

That child had no doubts, asked herself no question, for she was but too content to see him with a lustre round his head. Poor dear, good dear, truest, kindest, dearest, were the only words she had for him, as she hushed him to rest.

She never left him all that night. As if she had done him a wrong which her tenderness could hardly repair, she sat by him in his sleep, at times softly kissing him with suspended breath, and calling him in a whisper by some endearing name. At times she stood aside so as not to intercept the low fire-light, and, watching him when it fell upon his sleeping face, wondered did he look now at all as he had looked when he was prosperous and happy; as he had so touched her by imagining that he might look once more in that awful time. At the thought of that time, she kneeled beside his bed again, and prayed, ‘O spare his life! O save him to me! O look down upon my dear, long-suffering, unfortunate, much-changed, dear dear father!’

Not until the morning came to protect him and encourage him, did she give him a last kiss and leave the small room. When she had stolen down-stairs, and along the empty yard, and had crept up to her own high garret, the smokeless housetops and the distant country hills were discernible over the wall in the clear morning. As she gently opened the window, and looked eastward down the prison yard, the spikes upon the wall were tipped with red, then made a sullen purple pattern on the sun as it came flaming up into the heavens. The spikes had never looked so sharp and cruel, nor the bars so heavy, nor the prison space so gloomy and contracted. She thought of the sunrise on rolling rivers, of the sunrise on wide seas, of the sunrise on rich landscapes, of the sunrise on great forests where the birds were waking and the trees were rustling; and she looked down into the living grave on which the sun had risen, with her father in it three-and-twenty years, and said, in a burst of sorrow and compassion, ‘No, no, I have never seen him in my life!’

Cominciò a versare lacrime di commiserazione per se stesso; alla fine, desideroso che lei lo abbracciasse e si prendesse cura di lui, le permise che la sua testa grigia riposasse sulla sua guancia e continuò a lamentare la propria miseria. Poi cambiò argomento delle sue lamentele e, stringendola tra le braccia mentre lei lo abbracciava, esclamò: “Oh Amy, mio povero bambino orfano e abbandonato! Oh quei giorni in cui la vedevo prendersi cura di me con tanta dedizione!” Poi tornò a parlare di sé stesso e le spiegò, con voce debole, quanto di più lei lo avrebbe amato se lo avesse conosciuto nella sua vera natura; le disse anche che avrebbe voluto sposarla con un gentiluomo che l’avrebbe considerata sua figlia con orgoglio. E aggiunse (e in quel momento pianse di nuovo) che lei avrebbe dovuto cavalcare al suo fianco sul proprio cavallo, e che la gente (intendendo con questo coloro che gli avevano dato i dodici scellini che all’epoca aveva in tasca) avrebbe dovuto camminare rispettosamente lungo le strade polverose.

Così, ora esultando, ora disperando, in un momento o nell’altro, quel prigioniero, infestato dalla decomposizione della prigione e con l’impurità del suo carcere penetrata fino nelle profondità della sua ‘anima, rivelava il proprio stato degenerato al proprio affezionato figlio. Nessun altro mai lo vide nella completa misura della sua umiliazione. I membri del Collegio, che ridevano nelle loro stanze delle sue ultime parole pronunciate nella Loggia, non avevano la minima idea di quale grave immagine stessero osservando nella loro oscura “galleria” di Marshalsea, quella )domenica sera.

C’era una volta una figlia classica, forse, che si prendeva cura di suo padre in prigione, proprio come sua madre aveva fatto con lei. La piccola Dorrit, sebbene appartenesse alla generazione moderna e comune degli inglesi, fece molto di più: con il suo petto innocente consolò il cuore spezzato di suo padre, trasformandolo in una sorgente inesauribile di amore e fedeltà che non mai si prosciugò né diminuì durante tutti gli anni di sofferenza del padre.

Lo consolò; gli chiese perdono se fosse stata, o sembrasse essere stata, negligente nei suoi doveri; gli disse che, per quanto ne sapesse lei, non avrebbe potuto onorarlo di più nemmeno se fosse stato il favorito della Fortuna e tutto il mondo lo riconoscesse. Quando le sue lacrime si asciugarono, smise di singhiozzare per debolezza, superò quel senso di vergogna e riprese il suo solito comportamento, lei preparò di nuovo i resti della sua cena e, sedendosi al suo fianco, fu felice di vederlo mangiare e bere. Ora indossava il suo cappello di velluto nero e l’antico abito grigio; era di nuovo magnanimo e si sarebbe comportato con qualsiasi studente venisse a chiedergli consiglio come un grande maestro morale, come Lord Chesterfield o un esperto delle cerimonie etiche.

Per mantenere la sua attenzione, parlò con lui del suo guardaroba; quando fu felice di rispondere che sì, certamente quelle camicie che gli aveva proposto sarebbero state estremamente adatte, poiché quelle che aveva erano ormai logore e, essendo pronte all’uso, non gli andavano mai bene. Essendo loquace e di buon umore, le fece notare il suo cappotto appeso dietro la porta, osservando che se il “Padre di quella casa” si comportasse in modo trasandato davanti ai suoi figli, già inclini a essere disordinati, avrebbe dato loro un cattivo esempio. Scherzò anche riguardo alle suole delle sue scarpe; ma divenne serio quando parlò della sua cravatta e le promise che, non appena lei ne avesse avuto i mezzi, gliene avrebbe comprata una nuova.

Mentre lui fumava tranquillamente il suo sigaro, lei sistemò il letto e riordinò la piccola stanza per il suo riposo. Essendo stanco, a causa dell’ora tarda e delle sue emozioni, si alzò dalla sedia per ringraziarla e augurarle una buona notte. In tutto quel tempo, non aveva mai pensato nemmeno una volta al suo vestito, ai suoi scarpi, o alle sue eventuali necessità. Nessun’altra persona al mondo, tranne lei stessa, avrebbe potuto essere così indifferente ai suoi bisogni.

La baciò molte volte dicendo: “Che tu sia benedetta, mio amore. Buona notte, cara!”

Ma il suo tenero cuore era stato profondamente ferito da ciò che aveva visto di lui, tanto che non voleva lasciarlo solo, per paura che potesse nuovamente lamentarsi e disperare. “Padre caro, non sono stanca; lasciami tornare subito, quando sarai a letto, e sedermi accanto a te.”

Le chiese, con un tono protettivo, se si sentisse sola.

‘Sì, padre.’

“Allora torna pure, il mio amore.”

“Starò molto tranquillo, padre.”

“Non pensare a me, cara,” le disse, concedendole pienamente il proprio permesso. “Torna pure, se vuoi.”

Sembrava che stesse sonnecchiando quando lei tornò; così accese il piccolo fuoco molto delicatamente, per non svegliarlo. Ma lui la sentì e chiese: “Chi è?”

“Solo Amy, padre.”

“Amy, mia figlia, vieni qui. Voglio dirti qualcosa.”

Si sollevò un po’ sul suo letto basso, mentre lei si inginocchiava accanto a lui per avvicinare il viso al suo; poi mise la sua mano tra le sue. Oh! In quel momento, sia il padre privato che il Padre della Marshalsea erano forti dentro di lui.

“Mio amore, la tua vita qui è stata piena di difficoltà. Nessun compagno, nessuna distrazione, molte preoccupazioni, temo, ”

“Non pensarci, caro. Io non lo faccio mai.”

“Conosci la mia posizione, Amy. Non sono riuscito a fare molto per te; ma tutto ciò che ho potuto fare, l’ho fatto.”

“Sì, mio caro padre,” rispose lei baciandolo. “Lo so, lo so.”

“Sono nel ventitreesimo anno della mia vita qui,” disse, con un respiro affannoso che non era tanto un singhiozzo quanto un suono incontenibile di autocompiacimento, l’esplosione momentanea di una nobile coscienza. “È tutto ciò che potevo fare per i miei figli. L’ho fatto. Amy, il mio amore, sei di gran lunga la più amata dei tre; hai sempre occupato un posto importante nei miei pensieri. Tutto ciò che ho fatto per te, mia cara bambina, l’ho fatto liberamente e senza rimpianti.”

Solo la saggezza che possiede la chiave di tutti i cuori e di tutti i misteri può davvero comprendere fino a che punto un uomo, soprattutto un uomo ridotto in condizioni così disperate come quest’uomo, possa imporsi determinazioni personali. Per il momento basta dire che, con le palpebre umide, con serenità e maestosità, egli ha dato la propria vita, una vita di degradazione, a quel devoto bambino sul quale tali miserie sono cadute così pesantemente, e il cui amore è stato l’unico ad averlo salvato, permettendogli di diventare ciò che è oggi.

Quel bambino non aveva dubbi, non si poneva domande: era semplicemente troppo felice di vederlo con uno splendore negli occhi. Povero caro, buon caro, “Il più sincero, il più gentile, il più amato” erano le uniche parole che aveva per lui mentre lo consolava perché si addormentasse.

Quella notte, non lo lasciò mai. Come se gli avesse fatto un torto che la sua tenerezza non riuscisse nemmeno a rimediare, rimase seduta accanto a lui mentre dormiva; a volte lo baciava dolcemente, trattenendo il respiro, e lo chiamava sottovoce con un nome affettuoso. Altre volte si allontanava per non ostacolare la debole luce della lampada; osservandolo mentre quella luce illuminava il suo viso addormentato, si chiedeva se ora assomigliasse ancora a come era stato quando era ricco e felice. Se potesse ancora toccarle il cuore pensando che un giorno avrebbe potuto guardarlo di nuovo in quel terribile momento. Al solo pensarci, si inginocchiò di nuovo accanto al suo letto e pregò: “Oh, risparmia la sua vita! Oh, salvamelo per me! Oh, guarda con pietà il mio caro padre, che ha sofferto così tanto, che è diventato così diverso, il mio adorato, infelice padre!”

Solo quando arrivò la mattina, per proteggerlo e incoraggiarlo, gli diede un ultimo bacio e lasciò quella piccola stanza. Quando scese le scale, attraversò il cortile deserto e si diresse verso il suo alto solaio, i tetti senza fumo e le lontane colline del paesaggio erano visibili oltre il muro, nella chiara luce del mattino. Mentre apriva dolcemente la finestra e guardava a est, verso il cortile della prigione, le punte delle sbarre sul muro erano colorate di rosso; poi, man mano che il sole si alzava nel cielo, formarono un motivo viola scuro. Le sbarre non avevano mai avuto quell’aspetto così affilato e crudele, le barriere non sembravano mai così pesanti, e lo spazio della prigione non appariva mai così cupo e angusto. Pensò al sorgere del sole sui fiumi che scorrono, sulle vaste distese marine, su paesaggi rigogliosi, su grandi foreste dove gli uccelli si svegliavano e gli alberi frusciavano. E guardò giù in quel “viva Gravetomba”” in cui suo padre riposava da trentadue anni; con un impeto di dolore e compassione, disse: “No. Non l’ho mai visto in tutta la mia vita.”

CHAPTER 20. Moving in Society

If Young John Chivery had had the inclination and the power to write a satire on family pride, he would have had no need to go for an avenging illustration out of the family of his beloved. He would have found it amply in that gallant brother and that dainty sister, so steeped in mean experiences, and so loftily conscious of the family name; so ready to beg or borrow from the poorest, to eat of anybody’s bread, spend anybody’s money, drink from anybody’s cup and break it afterwards. To have painted the sordid facts of their lives, and they throughout invoking the death’s head apparition of the family gentility to come and scare their benefactors, would have made Young John a satirist of the first water.

Tip had turned his liberty to hopeful account by becoming a billiard-marker. He had troubled himself so little as to the means of his release, that Clennam scarcely needed to have been at the pains of impressing the mind of Mr Plornish on that subject. Whoever had paid him the compliment, he very readily accepted the compliment with his compliments, and there was an end of it. Issuing forth from the gate on these easy terms, he became a billiard-marker; and now occasionally looked in at the little skittle-ground in a green Newmarket coat (second-hand), with a shining collar and bright buttons (new), and drank the beer of the Collegians.

One solid stationary point in the looseness of this gentleman’s character was, that he respected and admired his sister Amy. The feeling had never induced him to spare her a moment’s uneasiness, or to put himself to any restraint or inconvenience on her account; but with that Marshalsea taint upon his love, he loved her. The same rank Marshalsea flavour was to be recognised in his distinctly perceiving that she sacrificed her life to her father, and in his having no idea that she had done anything for himself.

When this spirited young man and his sister had begun systematically to produce the family skeleton for the overawing of the College, this narrative cannot precisely state. Probably at about the period when they began to dine on the College charity. It is certain that the more reduced and necessitous they were, the more pompously the skeleton emerged from its tomb; and that when there was anything particularly shabby in the wind, the skeleton always came out with the ghastliest flourish.

Little Dorrit was late on the Monday morning, for her father slept late, and afterwards there was his breakfast to prepare and his room to arrange. She had no engagement to go out to work, however, and therefore stayed with him until, with Maggy’s help, she had put everything right about him, and had seen him off upon his morning walk (of twenty yards or so) to the coffee-house to read the paper. She then got on her bonnet and went out, having been anxious to get out much sooner. There was, as usual, a cessation of the small-talk in the Lodge as she passed through it; and a Collegian who had come in on Saturday night, received the intimation from the elbow of a more seasoned Collegian, ‘Look out. Here she is!’

She wanted to see her sister, but when she got round to Mr Cripples’s, she found that both her sister and her uncle had gone to the theatre where they were engaged. Having taken thought of this probability by the way, and having settled that in such case she would follow them, she set off afresh for the theatre, which was on that side of the river, and not very far away.

Little Dorrit was almost as ignorant of the ways of theatres as of the ways of gold mines, and when she was directed to a furtive sort of door, with a curious up-all-night air about it, that appeared to be ashamed of itself and to be hiding in an alley, she hesitated to approach it; being further deterred by the sight of some half-dozen close-shaved gentlemen with their hats very strangely on, who were lounging about the door, looking not at all unlike Collegians. On her applying to them, reassured by this resemblance, for a direction to Miss Dorrit, they made way for her to enter a dark hall—it was more like a great grim lamp gone out than anything else—where she could hear the distant playing of music and the sound of dancing feet. A man so much in want of airing that he had a blue mould upon him, sat watching this dark place from a hole in a corner, like a spider; and he told her that he would send a message up to Miss Dorrit by the first lady or gentleman who went through. The first lady who went through had a roll of music, half in her muff and half out of it, and was in such a tumbled condition altogether, that it seemed as if it would be an act of kindness to iron her. But as she was very good-natured, and said, ‘Come with me; I’ll soon find Miss Dorrit for you,’ Miss Dorrit’s sister went with her, drawing nearer and nearer at every step she took in the darkness to the sound of music and the sound of dancing feet.

At last they came into a maze of dust, where a quantity of people were tumbling over one another, and where there was such a confusion of unaccountable shapes of beams, bulkheads, brick walls, ropes, and rollers, and such a mixing of gaslight and daylight, that they seemed to have got on the wrong side of the pattern of the universe. Little Dorrit, left to herself, and knocked against by somebody every moment, was quite bewildered, when she heard her sister’s voice.

‘Why, good gracious, Amy, what ever brought you here?’

‘I wanted to see you, Fanny dear; and as I am going out all day to-morrow, and knew you might be engaged all day to-day, I thought—’

‘But the idea, Amy, of you coming behind! I never did!’ As her sister said this in no very cordial tone of welcome, she conducted her to a more open part of the maze, where various golden chairs and tables were heaped together, and where a number of young ladies were sitting on anything they could find, chattering. All these young ladies wanted ironing, and all had a curious way of looking everywhere while they chattered.

CAPITOLO 20. Integrazione nella società

Se il giovane John Chivery avesse avuto l’inclinazione e la capacità di scrivere una satira sull’orgoglio familiare, non avrebbe avuto bisogno di ricorrere a illustrazioni vendicative tratte proprio dalla sua stessa famiglia. Avrebbe trovato abbondanti esempi in quel nobile fratello e in quella delicata sorella, così immersi in esperienze meschine eppure così consapevoli del prestigio del loro nome di famiglia; pronti a chiedere in prestito o a rubare anche dal più povero, disposti a mangiare il pane di chiunque, spendere i soldi di chiunque, bere dalla coppa di chiunque. Per aver ritratto con crudezza le realtà squallide delle loro vite, e per aver fatto sì che essi stessi invocassero continuamente l’apparizione della “gentilezza familiare” come minaccia contro i loro benefattori, il giovane John sarebbe diventato uno dei più grandi satirici di tutti i tempi.

Tip aveva sfruttato al meglio la sua libertà diventando un addetto ai biliardi. Non si era nemmeno preoccupato di trovare i mezzi per essere rilasciato, tanto che a Clennam non fu quasi necessario sforzarsi di far capire a Mr Plornish l’importanza della questione. Chiunque gli avesse fatto questo complimento, lui lo accettava volentieri, ricambiandolo con i suoi complimenti, e la faccenda finiva lì. Uscendo da quella situazione in modo così agevole, divenne un addetto ai biliardi; e ora, di tanto in tanto, si presentava nel piccolo locale dove si giocava a biliardo, indossando un cappotto verde di seconda mano, con colletto lucido e bottoni brillanti (nuovi), e beveva la birra offerta dai clienti.

Un punto fermo e stabile nella natura incostante di questo signore era il fatto che rispettasse e ammirasse sua sorella Amy. Questo sentimento non lo spinse mai a farla soffrire nemmeno per un momento, né ad assumersi alcuna restrizione o incomodità a causa sua; ma, con quella “macchia” tipica della famiglia Marshalsea nel suo amore, la amava davvero. Lo stesso carattere distintivo della famiglia Marshalsea si riscontrava anche nel fatto che lui riconosceva chiaramente che lei aveva sacrificato la sua vita per il padre, e nel fatto che non aveva la minima idea che lei avesse mai fatto qualcosa per lui.

Quando questo giovane pieno di spirito e sua sorella iniziarono sistematicamente a preparare il “scheletro” della famiglia per impressionare tutti all’Università, non è possibile indicare con precisione quando ciò avvenne. Probabilmente intorno al periodo in cui iniziarono a ricevere aiuti alimentari dall’Università stessa. È certo che più si trovavano in condizioni di povertà e difficoltà, più pomposamente quel “scheletro” veniva “esposto”; e quando c’era qualcosa di particolarmente trasandato nell’aspetto esteriore della famiglia, il “scheletro” emergeva sempre con i dettagli più spaventosi.

Little Dorrit arrivò in ritardo quella mattina di lunedì: suo padre si era alzato tardi, e poi c’era stato da preparargli la colazione e sistemare la sua stanza. Tuttavia, non aveva nessun impegno lavorativo, quindi rimase con lui fino a quando, con l’aiuto di Maggy, ebbe sistemato tutto per bene e lo accompagnò nella sua passeggiata mattutina (di circa venti metri) fino al caffè per leggere il giornale. Poi si mise il cappello e uscì, desiderosa di farlo molto prima. Come al solito, quando passava attraverso la locanda, le chiacchiere cessavano; un collega arrivato sabato sera ricevette da un altro, più esperto, un segnale con il gomito: “Fai attenzione. Ecco che arriva!”

Voleva vedere sua sorella, ma quando arrivò a casa del signor Cripples, scoprì che sia lei che suo zio erano andati al teatro dove avevano un appuntamento. Dopo averci pensato su e deciso che in tal caso li avrebbe seguiti, partì di nuovo verso il teatro, che si trovava dall’altra parte del >fiume e non molto lontano.

La piccola Dorrit conosceva quasi altrettanto poco i segreti dei teatri quanto quelli delle miniere d’oro; quando le fu indicato un portone dall’aspetto furtivo, avvolto in una sorta di atmosfera misteriosa e “notturna”, esitò ad avvicinarsi: la vista di alcuni signori con i capelli rasati cortissimi e i cappelli posizionati in modo strano la dissuase ulteriormente; sembravano proprio studenti universitari. Quando chiese loro indicazioni per trovare la signorina Dorrit, essi le fecero strada verso un corridoio buio e oscuro, sembrava più una grande lampada spenta che altro; da lì poteva sentire il suono di musica in lontananza e il rumore dei piedi che ballavano. C’era anche un uomo talmente trasandato da avere addosso una sorta di “muschio blu”; seduto in un angolo, osservava quel luogo buio come uno scarafaggio. Le disse che avrebbe inviato un messaggio alla signorina Dorrit al primo signore o signora che fosse passati di lì. La prima persona ad arrivare aveva con sé un rotolo di musica, metà nascosto nella muffola e metà no; era in uno stato talmente disordinato che sembrava davvero gentile stirarla. Ma poiché quella donna era molto gentile e le disse: “Vieni con me, troverò subito la signorina Dorrit per te”, la sorella di Miss Dorrit la seguì, avanzando sempre di più nel buio, verso il suono della musica e dei passi che ballavano.

Finalmente entrarono in un labirinto di polvere, dove molte persone si urtavano a vicenda; c’era una tale confusione di forme strane di travi, paratie, muri di mattoni, corde e rotoli, e un misto così caotico di luce artificiale e luce naturale, che sembrava fossero finiti sul lato sbagliato del “disegno” dell’universo. La piccola Dorrit, lasciata sola e urtata continuamente da qualcuno, era completamente smarrita quando sentì la voce di sua sorella.

“Ma per l’amor del cielo, Amy, cosa ti ha portato qui?”

“Volevo vederti, cara Fanny; e poiché domani passerò tutto il giorno fuori, e sapevo che forse anche oggi saresti stata impegnata tutto il giorno, ho pensato, ”

“Ma l’idea che tu venga dietro di me. Non l’avevo mai fatto prima!” Mentre sua sorella diceva queste parole con un tono tutt’altro che cordiale, la guidò verso una parte più aperta del labirinto, dove vari sedie e tavoli d’oro erano ammucchiati insieme; lì alcune giovani donne sedevano su qualsiasi cosa riuscissero a trovare, chiacchierando senza sosta. Tutte queste ragazze avevano bisogno che qualcuno stirasse i loro vestiti, e tutte avevano un modo curioso di guardarsi intorno mentre parlavano.

Just as the sisters arrived here, a monotonous boy in a Scotch cap put his head round a beam on the left, and said, ‘Less noise there, ladies!’ and disappeared. Immediately after which, a sprightly gentleman with a quantity of long black hair looked round a beam on the right, and said, ‘Less noise there, darlings!’ and also disappeared.

‘The notion of you among professionals, Amy, is really the last thing I could have conceived!’ said her sister. ‘Why, how did you ever get here?’

‘I don’t know. The lady who told you I was here, was so good as to bring me in.’

‘Like you quiet little things! You can make your way anywhere, I believe. I couldn’t have managed it, Amy, though I know so much more of the world.’

It was the family custom to lay it down as family law, that she was a plain domestic little creature, without the great and sage experience of the rest. This family fiction was the family assertion of itself against her services. Not to make too much of them.

‘Well! And what have you got on your mind, Amy? Of course you have got something on your mind about me?’ said Fanny. She spoke as if her sister, between two and three years her junior, were her prejudiced grandmother.

‘It is not much; but since you told me of the lady who gave you the bracelet, Fanny—’

The monotonous boy put his head round the beam on the left, and said, ‘Look out there, ladies!’ and disappeared. The sprightly gentleman with the black hair as suddenly put his head round the beam on the right, and said, ‘Look out there, darlings!’ and also disappeared. Thereupon all the young ladies rose and began shaking their skirts out behind.

‘Well, Amy?’ said Fanny, doing as the rest did; ‘what were you going to say?’

‘Since you told me a lady had given you the bracelet you showed me, Fanny, I have not been quite easy on your account, and indeed want to know a little more if you will confide more to me.’

‘Now, ladies!’ said the boy in the Scotch cap. ‘Now, darlings!’ said the gentleman with the black hair. They were every one gone in a moment, and the music and the dancing feet were heard again.

Little Dorrit sat down in a golden chair, made quite giddy by these rapid interruptions. Her sister and the rest were a long time gone; and during their absence a voice (it appeared to be that of the gentleman with the black hair) was continually calling out through the music, ‘One, two, three, four, five, six—go! One, two, three, four, five, six—go! Steady, darlings! One, two, three, four, five, six—go!’ Ultimately the voice stopped, and they all came back again, more or less out of breath, folding themselves in their shawls, and making ready for the streets. ‘Stop a moment, Amy, and let them get away before us,’ whispered Fanny. They were soon left alone; nothing more important happening, in the meantime, than the boy looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, ladies!’ and the gentleman with the black hair looking round his old beam, and saying, ‘Everybody at eleven to-morrow, darlings!’ each in his own accustomed manner.

When they were alone, something was rolled up or by other means got out of the way, and there was a great empty well before them, looking down into the depths of which Fanny said, ‘Now, uncle!’ Little Dorrit, as her eyes became used to the darkness, faintly made him out at the bottom of the well, in an obscure corner by himself, with his instrument in its ragged case under his arm.

The old man looked as if the remote high gallery windows, with their little strip of sky, might have been the point of his better fortunes, from which he had descended, until he had gradually sunk down below there to the bottom. He had been in that place six nights a week for many years, but had never been observed to raise his eyes above his music-book, and was confidently believed to have never seen a play. There were legends in the place that he did not so much as know the popular heroes and heroines by sight, and that the low comedian had ‘mugged’ at him in his richest manner fifty nights for a wager, and he had shown no trace of consciousness. The carpenters had a joke to the effect that he was dead without being aware of it; and the frequenters of the pit supposed him to pass his whole life, night and day, and Sunday and all, in the orchestra. They had tried him a few times with pinches of snuff offered over the rails, and he had always responded to this attention with a momentary waking up of manner that had the pale phantom of a gentleman in it: beyond this he never, on any occasion, had any other part in what was going on than the part written out for the clarionet; in private life, where there was no part for the clarionet, he had no part at all. Some said he was poor, some said he was a wealthy miser; but he said nothing, never lifted up his bowed head, never varied his shuffling gait by getting his springless foot from the ground. Though expecting now to be summoned by his niece, he did not hear her until she had spoken to him three or four times; nor was he at all surprised by the presence of two nieces instead of one, but merely said in his tremulous voice, ‘I am coming, I am coming!’ and crept forth by some underground way which emitted a cellarous smell.

‘And so, Amy,’ said her sister, when the three together passed out at the door that had such a shame-faced consciousness of being different from other doors: the uncle instinctively taking Amy’s arm as the arm to be relied on: ‘so, Amy, you are curious about me?’

She was pretty, and conscious, and rather flaunting; and the condescension with which she put aside the superiority of her charms, and of her worldly experience, and addressed her sister on almost equal terms, had a vast deal of the family in it.

‘I am interested, Fanny, and concerned in anything that concerns you.’

‘So you are, so you are, and you are the best of Amys. If I am ever a little provoking, I am sure you’ll consider what a thing it is to occupy my position and feel a consciousness of being superior to it. I shouldn’t care,’ said the Daughter of the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘if the others were not so common. None of them have come down in the world as we have. They are all on their own level. Common.’

Appena le sorelle arrivarono qui, un ragazzo dal viso monotono, con un berretto scozzese, sporse la testa da dietro una trave a sinistra e disse: “Più silenzio lì, signore!” Poi scomparve. Subito dopo, un gentiluomo vivace, con molti capelli neri lunghi, spuntò da dietro una trave a destra e disse: “Più silenzio lì, care!” E anche lui scomparve.

“L’idea che tu possa far parte del mondo dei professionisti, Amy, è davvero l’ultima cosa che avrei potuto immaginare!” disse sua sorella. “Come diavolo sei riuscita a finire qui?”

“Non lo so. La signora che vi ha detto che ero qui è stata molto gentile nel portarmi dentro.”

“Come voi, piccole creature silenziose. Credo che possiate arrivare ovunque. Io, invece, non ce l’avrei fatta, Amy, anche se conosco molto meglio il mondo.”

Era una consuetudine familiare considerarla semplicemente una creatura domestica, priva delle grandi e sagge esperienze degli altri membri della famiglia. Questa “finzione familiare” in realtà rappresentava l’affermazione della famiglia stessa contro i suoi contributi. Anche se non bisogna sopravvalutarli.

“Beh! E a cosa stai pensando, Amy? Sicuramente hai qualcosa in mente riguardo a me, vero?” disse Fanny. Parlava come se sua sorella, che era più giovane di lei di due o tre anni, fosse una nonna prevenuta nei suoi confronti.

“Non è molto, ma visto che mi hai parlato di quella signora che ti ha regalato il braccialetto, Fanny, ”

Il ragazzo monotono mise la testa fuori dalla trave a sinistra e disse: “Guardate là fuori, signore!” Poi scomparve. Il gentiluomo vivace dai capelli neri fece lo stesso, mettendo la testa fuori dalla trave a destra e dicendo: “Guardate là fuori, care!” Anche lui scomparve subito dopo. Allora tutte le giovani signore si alzarono in piedi e iniziarono a scuotere le loro gonne dietro di sé.

“Beh, Amy?” disse Fanny, facendo come facevano tutti gli altri; “cosa volevi dire?”

“Poiché mi hai detto che una signora ti aveva dato il braccialetto che mi hai mostrato, Fanny, non sono stato molto indulgente con te. E in effetti voglio sapere di più, se sei disposta a confidarmi qualcos’altro.”

“Ora, signore!” disse il ragazzo con il cappello scozzese. “Ora, mie care!” disse l’uomo dai capelli neri. In un attimo tutti se ne furono andati, e di nuovo si udirono la musica e i passi danzanti.

Little Dorrit si sedette su una sedia d’oro; quelle interruzioni rapide la lasciavano un po’ stordita. Sua sorella e gli altri se n’erano andati da molto tempo; durante la loro assenza, una voce – sembrava quella del gentiluomo dai capelli neri – continuava a gridare tra le note della musica: “Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, via! Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, via! Tenete il passo, cari miei!” Alla fine quella voce tacque, e tutti tornarono indietro, più o meno senza fiato, avvolgendosi nei loro scialli e preparandosi a uscire in strada. “Aspetta un attimo, Amy, lasciali andare prima di noi,” sussurrò Fanny. Presto rimasero soli; nient’altro accadde, in quel momento, se non che il ragazzo guardò intorno e disse: “Tutti alle undici di domani, signore!” e il gentiluomo dai capelli neri fece lo stesso, ognuno a modo suo.

Quando erano soli, qualcosa venne spostato di lato e davanti a loro apparve un grande pozzo vuoto; guardando nelle sue profondità, Fanny disse: “Ora, zio!” Little Dorrit, quando i suoi occhi si abituarono all’oscurità, riuscì a intravederlo in un angolo lontano, al fondo del pozzo: seduto da solo, con lo strumento nella sua custodia logora sotto il braccio.

L’uomo anziano sembrava pensare che quelle lontane finestre della galleria superiore, con quel piccolo pezzo di cielo visibile al di là di esse, potessero rappresentare il punto da cui erano derivati i suoi migliori momenti di fortuna, fino a quando non era gradualmente sceso sempre più in basso, verso il fondo. Da molti anni trascorreva lì sei notti su sette, ma nessuno lo aveva mai visto alzare lo sguardo al di sopra del suo libro di musica; si credeva con certezza che non avesse mai assistito a un’opera teatrale. C’erano voci nel posto che lui non riconoscesse nemmeno i più famosi eroi e eroine popolari. Si diceva persino che, per una scommessa, il comico di basso livello gli avesse “fatto uno scherzo” cinquanta notti di fila, ma lui non aveva mostrato alcun segno di essersene accorto. I carpentieri scherzavano dicendo che fosse morto senza nemmeno saperlo. Gli spettatori abituali pensavano che trascorresse tutta la sua vita lì, giorno e notte, domenica compresa. Avevano provato a svegliarlo offrendogli un pizzico di tabacco attraverso le ringhiere, ma lui reagiva sempre con un breve attimo di coscienza. Nella vita privata, però, non aveva alcun ruolo. Alcuni dicevano che fosse povero, altri che fosse un ricco avaro. Ma lui non diceva nulla, non alzava mai la testa bassa, non cambiava mai il suo passo incerto. Anche se ora si aspettava di essere chiamato dalla sua nipote, non la sentì fino a quando lei non gli parlò tre o quattro volte. Non fu affatto sorpreso nel vedere due nipoti invece di una. Disse solo con voce tremante: “Vengo, vengo!”, e uscì da qualche passaggio segreto che emanava un odore di cantina.

“E così, Amy,” disse sua sorella, quando le tre si trovarono davanti alla porta che sembrava avere una sorta di imbarazzo nel rendersi conto di essere diversa dalle altre porte; lo zio, per istinto, prese il braccio di Amy, come se fosse quello su cui poter fare affidamento: “Quindi, Amy, sei curiosa riguardo a me?”

Era bella, consapevole di sé e piuttosto vanitosa; il modo in cui metteva da parte la superiorità dei suoi fascini e della sua esperienza mondana, parlando con sua sorella su quasi un piano di parità, rifletteva molto lo spirito della famiglia.

“Sono interessato e preoccupato per qualsiasi cosa ti riguardi, Fanny.”

“So che lo sei, sì, e che sei la migliore tra tutte le Amys. Se mai dovesse capitarmi di provocarti un po’, sono sicura che capirai quanto sia difficile occupare la mia posizione e sentirsi superiori a essa. Non dovrebbe importarmi nulla,” disse la Figlia del Padre della Marshalsea, “se solo le altre non fossero così comuni. Nessuna di loro è nata in condizioni simili alle nostre; tutte sono rimaste al proprio livello. Comuni.”

Little Dorrit mildly looked at the speaker, but did not interrupt her. Fanny took out her handkerchief, and rather angrily wiped her eyes. ‘I was not born where you were, you know, Amy, and perhaps that makes a difference. My dear child, when we get rid of Uncle, you shall know all about it. We’ll drop him at the cook’s shop where he is going to dine.’

They walked on with him until they came to a dirty shop window in a dirty street, which was made almost opaque by the steam of hot meats, vegetables, and puddings. But glimpses were to be caught of a roast leg of pork bursting into tears of sage and onion in a metal reservoir full of gravy, of an unctuous piece of roast beef and blisterous Yorkshire pudding, bubbling hot in a similar receptacle, of a stuffed fillet of veal in rapid cut, of a ham in a perspiration with the pace it was going at, of a shallow tank of baked potatoes glued together by their own richness, of a truss or two of boiled greens, and other substantial delicacies. Within, were a few wooden partitions, behind which such customers as found it more convenient to take away their dinners in stomachs than in their hands, Packed their purchases in solitude. Fanny opening her reticule, as they surveyed these things, produced from that repository a shilling and handed it to Uncle. Uncle, after not looking at it a little while, divined its object, and muttering ‘Dinner? Ha! Yes, yes, yes!’ slowly vanished from them into the mist.

‘Now, Amy,’ said her sister, ‘come with me, if you are not too tired to walk to Harley Street, Cavendish Square.’

The air with which she threw off this distinguished address and the toss she gave to her new bonnet (which was more gauzy than serviceable), made her sister wonder; however, she expressed her readiness to go to Harley Street, and thither they directed their steps. Arrived at that grand destination, Fanny singled out the handsomest house, and knocking at the door, inquired for Mrs Merdle. The footman who opened the door, although he had powder on his head and was backed up by two other footmen likewise powdered, not only admitted Mrs Merdle to be at home, but asked Fanny to walk in. Fanny walked in, taking her sister with her; and they went up-stairs with powder going before and powder stopping behind, and were left in a spacious semicircular drawing-room, one of several drawing-rooms, where there was a parrot on the outside of a golden cage holding on by its beak, with its scaly legs in the air, and putting itself into many strange upside-down postures. This peculiarity has been observed in birds of quite another feather, climbing upon golden wires.

The room was far more splendid than anything Little Dorrit had ever imagined, and would have been splendid and costly in any eyes. She looked in amazement at her sister and would have asked a question, but that Fanny with a warning frown pointed to a curtained doorway of communication with another room. The curtain shook next moment, and a lady, raising it with a heavily ringed hand, dropped it behind her again as she entered.

The lady was not young and fresh from the hand of Nature, but was young and fresh from the hand of her maid. She had large unfeeling handsome eyes, and dark unfeeling handsome hair, and a broad unfeeling handsome bosom, and was made the most of in every particular. Either because she had a cold, or because it suited her face, she wore a rich white fillet tied over her head and under her chin. And if ever there were an unfeeling handsome chin that looked as if, for certain, it had never been, in familiar parlance, ‘chucked’ by the hand of man, it was the chin curbed up so tight and close by that laced bridle.

‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny. ‘My sister, ma’am.’

‘I am glad to see your sister, Miss Dorrit. I did not remember that you had a sister.’

‘I did not mention that I had,’ said Fanny.

‘Ah!’ Mrs Merdle curled the little finger of her left hand as who should say, ‘I have caught you. I know you didn’t!’ All her action was usually with her left hand because her hands were not a pair; and left being much the whiter and plumper of the two. Then she added: ‘Sit down,’ and composed herself voluptuously, in a nest of crimson and gold cushions, on an ottoman near the parrot.

‘Also professional?’ said Mrs Merdle, looking at Little Dorrit through an eye-glass.

Fanny answered No. ‘No,’ said Mrs Merdle, dropping her glass. ‘Has not a professional air. Very pleasant; but not professional.’

‘My sister, ma’am,’ said Fanny, in whom there was a singular mixture of deference and hardihood, ‘has been asking me to tell her, as between sisters, how I came to have the honour of knowing you. And as I had engaged to call upon you once more, I thought I might take the liberty of bringing her with me, when perhaps you would tell her. I wish her to know, and perhaps you will tell her?’

‘Do you think, at your sister’s age—’ hinted Mrs Merdle.

‘She is much older than she looks,’ said Fanny; ‘almost as old as I am.’

‘Society,’ said Mrs Merdle, with another curve of her little finger, ‘is so difficult to explain to young persons (indeed is so difficult to explain to most persons), that I am glad to hear that. I wish Society was not so arbitrary, I wish it was not so exacting—Bird, be quiet!’

The parrot had given a most piercing shriek, as if its name were Society and it asserted its right to its exactions.

‘But,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘we must take it as we find it. We know it is hollow and conventional and worldly and very shocking, but unless we are Savages in the Tropical seas (I should have been charmed to be one myself—most delightful life and perfect climate, I am told), we must consult it. It is the common lot. Mr Merdle is a most extensive merchant, his transactions are on the vastest scale, his wealth and influence are very great, but even he—Bird, be quiet!’

The parrot had shrieked another shriek; and it filled up the sentence so expressively that Mrs Merdle was under no necessity to end it.

Little Dorrit guardò dolcemente la persona che stava parlando, ma non la interruppe.
Fanny tirò fuori il fazzoletto e si asciugò gli occhi con aria piuttosto arrabbiata. “Non sono nata nel posto dove sei tu, sai, Amy. Forse questo fa differenza. Mio caro bambino, quando ci sbarazzeremo di zio, ti dirò tutto. Lo lasceremo nella bottega della cuoca, dove andrà a mangiare.”

Proseguirono il loro cammino insieme a lui fino a quando non arrivarono davanti alla vetrina di un negozio sporco, situato in una strada lurida; la vetrina era quasi completamente oscurata dal vapore prodotto da carni calde, verdure e budini. Tuttavia si riuscivano comunque a intravedere dettagli di alcuni piatti: una gamba di maiale arrostita circondata da foglie di salvia e cipolle in un contenitore metallico pieno di sugo; un pezzo di manzo arrosto lucido e un budino di Yorkshire che sobbolliva in un altro recipiente simile; un filetto di vitello farcito tagliato a fette sottili; una lonza di prosciutto che “sudava” per via del calore generato dal movimento. Inoltre, c’erano anche patate arrosto tenute insieme dalla loro stessa umidità, alcune verdure bollite e altre prelibatezze simili. All’interno del negozio, alcune pareti di legno separavano gli spazi; clienti che preferivano portarsi a casa i propri acquisti nello stomaco piuttosto che nelle mani li impacchettavano in solitudine. Mentre osservavano tutto ciò, Fanny tirò fuori una sterlina dal proprio reticolo e la diede allo zio. Dopo averla guardata per un po’, lo zio capì a cosa servisse e, mormorando “Cena? Ah. Sì, sì!”, scomparve lentamente nella nebbia.

“Ora, Amy,” disse sua sorella, “vieni con me, se non sei troppo stanca per camminare fino a Harley Street, in Cavendish Square.”

L’aria con cui pronunciò quel discorso così elegante, e il modo in cui sistemò il suo nuovo cappello (che era più decorativo che pratico), suscitarono lo stupore di sua sorella; tuttavia, lei manifestò la propria disponibilità ad andare in Harley Street, e così si diressero verso quella destinazione. Arrivate lì, Fanny individuò la casa più bella della zona, bussò alla porta e chiese di parlare con la signora Merdle. Il maggiordomo che aprì la porta, nonostante avesse la testa piena di polvere e fosse affiancato da altri due maggiordomi altrettanto truccati, non solo confermò che la signora Merdle era in casa, ma le invitò anche ad entrare. Fanny entrò insieme a sua sorella; salirono al piano di sopra, seguite da servitori sempre truccati, e furono introdotte in un ampio salotto semicircolare, uno dei tanti presenti nella casa. Lì c’era un pappagallo dentro una gabbia d’oro: si aggrappava al bordo con il becco, tenendo le zampe squamose in aria e assumendo pose strane e capovolte. Questa particolarità è stata osservata anche in uccelli di specie completamente diverse, che si arrampicano su fili d’oro.

La stanza era molto più splendida di quanto Little Dorrit avesse mai potuto immaginare, e sarebbe stata certamente splendida e costosa agli occhi di chiunque. Guardò sua sorella con stupore e stava per porre una domanda, ma Fanny, con un cipiglio ammonitore, le indicò una porta coperta da tende che conduceva in un’altra stanza. Un attimo dopo la tenda si mosse, e una signora, sollevandola con una mano adornata di pesanti anelli, la riabbassò subito dopo essere entrata.

La signora non era più giovane e fresca come quando era stata creata dalla Natura, ma aveva ancora un aspetto giovane e fresco grazie alle cure della sua cameriera. Aveva occhi grandi, belli, ma privi di espressione; capelli neri, altrettanto belli ma privi di calore umano; e un seno ampio, anch’esso privo di vita. In ogni dettaglio del suo aspetto veniva messo in risalto il suo fascino “bello ma freddo”. Forse a causa della sua freddezza, o forse perché si addiceva al suo viso, indossava un ricco velo bianco legato intorno alla testa e sotto il mento. E se mai esisteva un mento così rigido e “imprigionato” da un simile ornamento, beh, quello era sicuramente il suo mento.

“La signora Merdle,” disse Fanny. “Mia sorella, signora.”

“Sono felice di incontrare sua sorella, signorina Dorrit. Non ricordavo che avesse una sorella.”

“Non ho menzionato che l’avevo,” disse Fanny.

‘Ah!’ La signora Merdle si torse il mignolo della mano sinistra, come per dire: “Ti ho beccato. So che non l’hai fatto!” Di solito faceva tutto con la mano sinistra, perché le sue mani non erano simmetriche; inoltre, la sinistra era molto più bianca e rotonda dell’altra. Poi aggiunse: “Siediti,” e si sistemò con comodità su un divanetto color cremisi e oro, vicino al pappagallo.

“Anche professionista?” disse la signora Merdle, guardando Little Dorrit attraverso un occhialino.

Fanny rispose di no. “No,” disse la signora Merdle, lasciando cadere il suo bicchiere. “Non ha l’aspetto tipico di una professionista. Molto piacevole, ma non professionale.”

“Mia sorella, signora,” disse Fanny, in cui si mescolavano in modo straordinario rispetto e coraggio, “mi ha chiesto di dirle, come tra sorelle, come abbia avuto l’onore di conoscervi. E poiché avevo promesso di venire a trovarvi ancora una volta, ho pensato di portarla con me; forse voi potrete raccontarglielo. Vorrei che lei sapesse, e forse lo farete.”

“Pensa davvero che, all’età di tua sorella, ” insinuò la signora Merdle.

“È molto più anziana di quanto sembri,” disse Fanny; “quasi tanto vecchia quanto me.”

“La società,” disse la signora Merdle, facendo un altro movimento con il mignolo, “è così difficile da spiegare ai giovani (infatti è davvero difficile da spiegare alla maggior parte delle persone), che sono contenta di sentirlo dire. Vorrei che la società non fosse così arbitraria, vorrei che non fosse così esigente. Bird, sta zitta!”

Il pappagallo emise un grido stridulo e penetrante, come se il suo nome fosse “Society”, e rivendicò il proprio diritto alle sue richieste esorbitanti.

“Ma,” riprese la signora Merdle, “dobbiamo accettare le cose così come sono. Sappiamo che sono vuote, convenzionali, mondane e molto scioccanti, ma a meno che non siamo selvaggi nelle acque tropicali (mi sarebbe piaciuto moltissimo esserlo, una vita deliziosa e un clima perfetto, mi dicono), dobbiamo comunque attenerci a esse. È la sorte comune. Il signor Merdle è un commerciante molto importante; le sue transazioni si svolgono su scala enorme, la sua ricchezza e il suo potere sono davvero grandi. Ma anche lui, ” “Bird, sta zitta!”

Il pappagallo emise un altro strillo; quel suono era così espressivo che la signora Merdle non ebbe affatto bisogno di concludere la frase.

‘Since your sister begs that I would terminate our personal acquaintance,’ she began again, addressing Little Dorrit, ‘by relating the circumstances that are much to her credit, I cannot object to comply with her request, I am sure. I have a son (I was first married extremely young) of two or three-and-twenty.’

Fanny set her lips, and her eyes looked half triumphantly at her sister.

‘A son of two or three-and-twenty. He is a little gay, a thing Society is accustomed to in young men, and he is very impressible. Perhaps he inherits that misfortune. I am very impressible myself, by nature. The weakest of creatures—my feelings are touched in a moment.’

She said all this, and everything else, as coldly as a woman of snow; quite forgetting the sisters except at odd times, and apparently addressing some abstraction of Society; for whose behoof, too, she occasionally arranged her dress, or the composition of her figure upon the ottoman.

‘So he is very impressible. Not a misfortune in our natural state I dare say, but we are not in a natural state. Much to be lamented, no doubt, particularly by myself, who am a child of nature if I could but show it; but so it is. Society suppresses us and dominates us—Bird, be quiet!’

The parrot had broken into a violent fit of laughter, after twisting divers bars of his cage with his crooked bill, and licking them with his black tongue.

‘It is quite unnecessary to say to a person of your good sense, wide range of experience, and cultivated feeling,’ said Mrs Merdle from her nest of crimson and gold—and there put up her glass to refresh her memory as to whom she was addressing,—‘that the stage sometimes has a fascination for young men of that class of character. In saying the stage, I mean the people on it of the female sex. Therefore, when I heard that my son was supposed to be fascinated by a dancer, I knew what that usually meant in Society, and confided in her being a dancer at the Opera, where young men moving in Society are usually fascinated.’

She passed her white hands over one another, observant of the sisters now; and the rings upon her fingers grated against each other with a hard sound.

‘As your sister will tell you, when I found what the theatre was I was much surprised and much distressed. But when I found that your sister, by rejecting my son’s advances (I must add, in an unexpected manner), had brought him to the point of proposing marriage, my feelings were of the profoundest anguish—acute.’

She traced the outline of her left eyebrow, and put it right.

‘In a distracted condition, which only a mother—moving in Society—can be susceptible of, I determined to go myself to the theatre, and represent my state of mind to the dancer. I made myself known to your sister. I found her, to my surprise, in many respects different from my expectations; and certainly in none more so, than in meeting me with—what shall I say—a sort of family assertion on her own part?’ Mrs Merdle smiled.

‘I told you, ma’am,’ said Fanny, with a heightening colour, ‘that although you found me in that situation, I was so far above the rest, that I considered my family as good as your son’s; and that I had a brother who, knowing the circumstances, would be of the same opinion, and would not consider such a connection any honour.’

‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, after frostily looking at her through her glass, ‘precisely what I was on the point of telling your sister, in pursuance of your request. Much obliged to you for recalling it so accurately and anticipating me. I immediately,’ addressing Little Dorrit, ‘(for I am the creature of impulse), took a bracelet from my arm, and begged your sister to let me clasp it on hers, in token of the delight I had in our being able to approach the subject so far on a common footing.’ (This was perfectly true, the lady having bought a cheap and showy article on her way to the interview, with a general eye to bribery.)

‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that we might be unfortunate, but we are not common.’

‘I think, the very words, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle.

‘And I told you, Mrs Merdle,’ said Fanny, ‘that if you spoke to me of the superiority of your son’s standing in Society, it was barely possible that you rather deceived yourself in your suppositions about my origin; and that my father’s standing, even in the Society in which he now moved (what that was, was best known to myself), was eminently superior, and was acknowledged by every one.’

‘Quite accurate,’ rejoined Mrs Merdle. ‘A most admirable memory.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell my sister the rest.’

‘There is very little to tell,’ said Mrs Merdle, reviewing the breadth of bosom which seemed essential to her having room enough to be unfeeling in, ‘but it is to your sister’s credit. I pointed out to your sister the plain state of the case; the impossibility of the Society in which we moved recognising the Society in which she moved—though charming, I have no doubt; the immense disadvantage at which she would consequently place the family she had so high an opinion of, upon which we should find ourselves compelled to look down with contempt, and from which (socially speaking) we should feel obliged to recoil with abhorrence. In short, I made an appeal to that laudable pride in your sister.’

‘Let my sister know, if you please, Mrs Merdle,’ Fanny pouted, with a toss of her gauzy bonnet, ‘that I had already had the honour of telling your son that I wished to have nothing whatever to say to him.’

‘Well, Miss Dorrit,’ assented Mrs Merdle, ‘perhaps I might have mentioned that before. If I did not think of it, perhaps it was because my mind reverted to the apprehensions I had at the time that he might persevere and you might have something to say to him. I also mentioned to your sister—I again address the non-professional Miss Dorrit—that my son would have nothing in the event of such a marriage, and would be an absolute beggar. (I mention that merely as a fact which is part of the narrative, and not as supposing it to have influenced your sister, except in the prudent and legitimate way in which, constituted as our artificial system is, we must all be influenced by such considerations.) Finally, after some high words and high spirit on the part of your sister, we came to the complete understanding that there was no danger; and your sister was so obliging as to allow me to present her with a mark or two of my appreciation at my dressmaker’s.’

“Poiché tua sorella insiste affinché interrompa la nostra conoscenza personale,” riprese, rivolgendosi a Little Dorrit, “raccontando le circostanze che sono molto a suo onore, non posso certo oppormi alla sua richiesta. Ho un figlio. Sono stata sposata per la prima volta molto giovane; ha ora due o trent’anni.”

Fanny serrò le labbra, e i suoi occhi guardarono sua sorella con un certo trionfo.

“Un figlio di ventidue o ventitré anni. È un po’ effeminato, una cosa a cui la Società è abituata nei giovani uomini, e inoltre è molto influenzabile. Forse eredita questa sfortuna. Anch’io sono molto influenzabile, per natura. Sono la creatura più debole: i miei sentimenti vengono facilmente toccati.”

Disse tutto questo, e molto altro ancora, con la stessa freddezza di una donna del inverno; dimenticando completamente le sue sorelle, tranne che in alcune occasioni particolari, e parlando apparentemente a qualche astrazione rappresentativa della Società; forse anche per il bene di questa “astrazione”, di tanto in tanto sistemava il proprio abito o la propria posizione sul divano.

“So che è molto influenzabile. Non direi che sia una sfortuna nel nostro stato naturale, ma in realtà non ci troviamo in uno stato naturale. È davvero deplorevole. Nessun >dubbio, soprattutto da parte mia, che sono un figlio della >natura; se solo potessi dimostrarlo. Ma è così. La società ci sopprime e ci domina. Bird, taci!”

Il pappagallo scoppiò in una risata violenta dopo aver torcuto diverse sbarre della sua gabbia con il becco storto e leccatele con la lingua nera.

“È del tutto inutile dire a una persona con il vostro buon senso, la vostra vasta esperienza e i vostri raffinati sentimenti,” disse la signora Merdle dal suo nido di colori cremisi e oro. E alzò il bicchiere per ravvivare la sua memoria riguardo a chi stesse parlando, “che a volte il teatro esercita una certa fascinazione sui giovani di quel tipo. Con ‘teatro’ intendo le donne che vi recitano. Quindi, quando ho saputo che mio figlio era preso da un’attrice di balletto, ho subito capito cosa ciò significasse nella società. E ho dedotto che si trattasse proprio di un’attrice dell’Opera, dove spesso i giovani della buona società perdono la testa, ”

Si strofinò le mani bianche l’una contro l’altra, osservando attentamente le sorelle in quel momento; gli anelli che portava alle dita si sfregavano tra loro emettendo un suono metallico.

“Come tua sorella ti dirà, quando scoprii cosa fosse realmente quel teatro fui molto sorpreso e molto angosciato. Ma quando capii che tua sorella, rifiutando in modo inaspettato le avance di mio figlio, lo aveva portato al punto di chiedergli il matrimonio, i miei sentimenti furono di una profonda angoscia, acuta.”

Tracciò i contorni della sua sopracciglia sinistra e li sistemò correttamente.

“In uno stato di distrazione, a cui solo una madre – che vive nella società – può essere soggetta, decisi di andare personalmente al teatro e spiegare alla ballerina il mio stato d’animo. Mi feci conoscere da tua sorella. E la trovai, per mia sorpresa, in molti aspetti diversa dalle mie aspettative; soprattutto però nel modo in cui mi accolse. Come dovrei dire, con una sorta di autorità familiare da parte sua.” La signora Merdle sorrise.

“Ve l’avevo detto, signora,” disse Fanny, con il viso che si arrossava sempre di più, “che anche se mi avete trovata in quella situazione, ero così superiore alle altre persone, che consideravo la mia famiglia alla stessa stregua di quella di vostro figlio; e che avevo un fratello che, conoscendo le circostanze, avrebbe avuto lo stesso punto di vista e non avrebbe ritenuto tale legame alcuna onore.”

“Miss Dorrit,” disse la signora Merdle, dopo averla guardata freddamente attraverso il suo bicchiere, “esattamente quello che stavo per dire a sua sorella, in risposta alla sua richiesta. Le sono molto grata per avermelo ricordato con tanta precisione e anticipando le mie intenzioni. Subito dopo,” continuò rivolgendosi a Little Dorrit, “(poiché sono una persona impulsiva), presi un braccialetto dal mio polso e chiesi a sua sorella di permettermi di metterglielo al polso, come segno della gioia che provavo nel poter affrontare questo argomento su basi così condivise.” (Questo era del tutto vero: la signora aveva infatti comprato un oggetto economico e vistoso lungo la strada per l’incontro, con l’intenzione di usarlo come mezzo per influenzarla.)

“E vi ho detto, signora Merdle,” disse Fanny, “che forse siamo sfortunate, ma non siamo comuni.”

“Penso proprio che siano quelle le parole giuste, signorina Dorrit,” concordò la signora Merdle.

“E vi ho detto, signora Merdle,” disse Fanny, “che se aveste parlato con me della superiorità dello status sociale di vostro figlio, era quasi impossibile che non vi foste illuse riguardo alle mie origini; inoltre, lo status di mio padre, anche nella società in cui ora si muoveva (e cosa fosse questa società, solo io la conoscevo veramente), era decisamente superiore, e veniva riconosciuto da tutti.”

“Piuttosto accurato,” ribatté la signora Merdle. “Un’esemplare capacità di ricordare.”

“Grazie mille, signora. Forse potrebbe avere la gentilezza di raccontare il resto a mia sorella.”

“Non c’è molto da dire,” disse la signora Merdle, osservando l’ampio seno che sembrava essenziale per poter essere completamente insensibili, “ma è un merito per vostra sorella. Ho fatto notare a vostra sorella la situazione reale; l’impossibilità che la società in cui noi viviamo riconoscesse quella in cui lei vive. Anche se incantevole, non ho alcun >dubbio al riguardo; l’enorme svantaggio che ciò avrebbe comportato per la famiglia di cui lei ha una così alta stima. Di fronte a cui saremmo costretti a provare disprezzo, e da cui (dal punto di vista sociale) dovremmo sentirci obbligati a ritrarci con orrore. In breve, ho fatto appello a quella lodevole orgoglio che caratterizza vostra sorella.”

“Per favore, dica alla signora Merdle che mia sorella ha già avuto l’onore di comunicare a suo figlio che non desidera avere nulla a che fare con lui,” disse Fanny, facendo il broncio e scuotendo leggermente il suo cappellino di garza.

“Beh, signorina Dorrit,” acconsentì la signora Merdle, “forse avrei potuto menzionarlo prima. Se non ci ho pensato, forse è perché i miei timori riguardo al fatto che lui potesse insistere e che lei potesse aver qualcosa da dirgli mi sono riemersi in quel momento. Ho anche detto a sua sorella, rivolgo ancora una volta la parola alla signorina Dorrit, che non è un’esperta in queste questioni, che mio figlio non avrebbe nulla in caso di un simile matrimonio e sarebbe completamente rovinato. Menziono questo semplicemente come un fatto che fa parte della narrazione, e non perché ritenga che abbia influenzato sua sorella, se non nel modo prudente e legittimo in cui, data la nostra struttura sociale artificiale, tutti noi dobbiamo essere influenzati da tali considerazioni. Alla fine, dopo alcune parole e atteggiamenti decisi da parte di sua sorella, siamo giunte alla conclusione che non esistesse alcun pericolo; e lei è stata così gentile da permettermi di ringraziarla con un piccolo regalo presso il mio sarto.”

Little Dorrit looked sorry, and glanced at Fanny with a troubled face.

‘Also,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘as to promise to give me the present pleasure of a closing interview, and of parting with her on the best of terms. On which occasion,’ added Mrs Merdle, quitting her nest, and putting something in Fanny’s hand, ‘Miss Dorrit will permit me to say Farewell with best wishes in my own dull manner.’

The sisters rose at the same time, and they all stood near the cage of the parrot, as he tore at a claw-full of biscuit and spat it out, seemed to mock them with a pompous dance of his body without moving his feet, and suddenly turned himself upside down and trailed himself all over the outside of his golden cage, with the aid of his cruel beak and black tongue.

‘Adieu, Miss Dorrit, with best wishes,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘If we could only come to a Millennium, or something of that sort, I for one might have the pleasure of knowing a number of charming and talented persons from whom I am at present excluded. A more primitive state of society would be delicious to me. There used to be a poem when I learnt lessons, something about Lo the poor Indians whose something mind! If a few thousand persons moving in Society, could only go and be Indians, I would put my name down directly; but as, moving in Society, we can’t be Indians, unfortunately—Good morning!’

They came down-stairs with powder before them and powder behind, the elder sister haughty and the younger sister humbled, and were shut out into unpowdered Harley Street, Cavendish Square.

‘Well?’ said Fanny, when they had gone a little way without speaking. ‘Have you nothing to say, Amy?’

‘Oh, I don’t know what to say!’ she answered, distressed. ‘You didn’t like this young man, Fanny?’

‘Like him? He is almost an idiot.’

‘I am so sorry—don’t be hurt—but, since you ask me what I have to say, I am so very sorry, Fanny, that you suffered this lady to give you anything.’

‘You little Fool!’ returned her sister, shaking her with the sharp pull she gave her arm. ‘Have you no spirit at all? But that’s just the way! You have no self-respect, you have no becoming pride, just as you allow yourself to be followed about by a contemptible little Chivery of a thing,’ with the scornfullest emphasis, ‘you would let your family be trodden on, and never turn.’

‘Don’t say that, dear Fanny. I do what I can for them.’

‘You do what you can for them!’ repeated Fanny, walking her on very fast. ‘Would you let a woman like this, whom you could see, if you had any experience of anything, to be as false and insolent as a woman can be—would you let her put her foot upon your family, and thank her for it?’

‘No, Fanny, I am sure.’

‘Then make her pay for it, you mean little thing. What else can you make her do? Make her pay for it, you stupid child; and do your family some credit with the money!’

They spoke no more all the way back to the lodging where Fanny and her uncle lived. When they arrived there, they found the old man practising his clarionet in the dolefullest manner in a corner of the room. Fanny had a composite meal to make, of chops, and porter, and tea; and indignantly pretended to prepare it for herself, though her sister did all that in quiet reality. When at last Fanny sat down to eat and drink, she threw the table implements about and was angry with her bread, much as her father had been last night.

‘If you despise me,’ she said, bursting into vehement tears, ‘because I am a dancer, why did you put me in the way of being one? It was your doing. You would have me stoop as low as the ground before this Mrs Merdle, and let her say what she liked and do what she liked, and hold us all in contempt, and tell me so to my face. Because I am a dancer!’

‘O Fanny!’

‘And Tip, too, poor fellow. She is to disparage him just as much as she likes, without any check—I suppose because he has been in the law, and the docks, and different things. Why, it was your doing, Amy. You might at least approve of his being defended.’

All this time the uncle was dolefully blowing his clarionet in the corner, sometimes taking it an inch or so from his mouth for a moment while he stopped to gaze at them, with a vague impression that somebody had said something.

‘And your father, your poor father, Amy. Because he is not free to show himself and to speak for himself, you would let such people insult him with impunity. If you don’t feel for yourself because you go out to work, you might at least feel for him, I should think, knowing what he has undergone so long.’

Poor Little Dorrit felt the injustice of this taunt rather sharply. The remembrance of last night added a barbed point to it. She said nothing in reply, but turned her chair from the table towards the fire. Uncle, after making one more pause, blew a dismal wail and went on again.

Fanny was passionate with the tea-cups and the bread as long as her passion lasted, and then protested that she was the wretchedest girl in the world, and she wished she was dead. After that, her crying became remorseful, and she got up and put her arms round her sister. Little Dorrit tried to stop her from saying anything, but she answered that she would, she must! Thereupon she said again, and again, ‘I beg your pardon, Amy,’ and ‘Forgive me, Amy,’ almost as passionately as she had said what she regretted.

‘But indeed, indeed, Amy,’ she resumed when they were seated in sisterly accord side by side, ‘I hope and I think you would have seen this differently, if you had known a little more of Society.’

‘Perhaps I might, Fanny,’ said the mild Little Dorrit.

‘You see, while you have been domestic and resignedly shut up there, Amy,’ pursued her sister, gradually beginning to patronise, ‘I have been out, moving more in Society, and may have been getting proud and spirited—more than I ought to be, perhaps?’

Little Dorrit answered ‘Yes. O yes!’

‘And while you have been thinking of the dinner or the clothes, I may have been thinking, you know, of the family. Now, may it not be so, Amy?’

Little Dorrit again nodded ‘Yes,’ with a more cheerful face than heart.

‘Especially as we know,’ said Fanny, ‘that there certainly is a tone in the place to which you have been so true, which does belong to it, and which does make it different from other aspects of Society. So kiss me once again, Amy dear, and we will agree that we may both be right, and that you are a tranquil, domestic, home-loving, good girl.’

The clarionet had been lamenting most pathetically during this dialogue, but was cut short now by Fanny’s announcement that it was time to go; which she conveyed to her uncle by shutting up his scrap of music, and taking the clarionet out of his mouth.

Little Dorrit parted from them at the door, and hastened back to the Marshalsea. It fell dark there sooner than elsewhere, and going into it that evening was like going into a deep trench. The shadow of the wall was on every object. Not least upon the figure in the old grey gown and the black velvet cap, as it turned towards her when she opened the door of the dim room.

‘Why not upon me too!’ thought Little Dorrit, with the door yet in her hand. ‘It was not unreasonable in Fanny.’

Little Dorrit sembrava dispiaciuta e guardò Fanny con un’espressione preoccupata.

“Inoltre,” disse la signora Merdle, “per quanto riguarda l’impegno di concedermi il piacere di un ultimo incontro e di separarmi da lei in ottimi termini. In questa occasione,” aggiunse la signora Merdle, uscendo dal suo “nido” e mettendo qualcosa nella mano di Fanny, “la signorina Dorrit mi permetterà di dire addio, esprimendo i miei migliori auguri nel mio modo un po’ noioso.”

Le sorelle fiorirono nello stesso momento, e tutte si fermarono vicino alla gabbia del pappagallo. Mentre lui strappava un boccone di biscotti con il becco e lo sputava fuori, sembrava deriderle con una pomposa danza del suo corpo, senza muovere nemmeno i piedi. Poi, all’improvviso, si girò a testa in giù e si trascinò lungo tutta la superficie esterna della sua gabbia dorata, utilizzando il proprio becco crudele e la lingua nera.

“Addio, signorina Dorrit, con i migliori auguri,” disse la signora Merdle. “Se solo potessimo arrivare a un’epoca del Millennio o qualcosa del genere. Io, personalmente, avrei il piacere di conoscere molte persone affascinanti e talentuose, dalle quali al momento sono esclusa. Uno stato sociale più primitivo mi sembrerebbe delizioso. Una volta, quando studiavo, c’era una poesia che parlava degli indiani poveri. Se solo qualche migliaio di persone che vivono nella società attuale potessero trasformarsi in indiani. Mi iscriverei subito! Ma purtroppo, vivendo nella società attuale, non possiamo diventare indiani. Buongiorno!”

Scesero le scale con la polvere davanti a loro e dietro di loro; la sorella maggiore era arrogante, mentre la minore umile. Furono poi fatte entrare nell’abitazione di Harley Street, in Cavendish Square, dove non c’era traccia di polvere.

“‘Beh?’” disse Fanny, dopo che avevano camminato per un po’ in silenzio.
“Non hai nulla da dire, Amy?”

“Oh, non so cosa dire!” rispose lei, angosciata. “Non ti piaceva questo giovane, Fanny?”

“Gli assomigliare? È quasi un idiota.”

“Mi dispiace tantissimo. Non arrabbiarti. Ma poiché mi chiedi cosa debba dire, mi dispiace davvero molto, Fanny, che tu abbia dovuto sopportare che questa signora ti desse qualcosa.”

“Piccola Stupida!” le rispose sua sorella, scuotendola con forza per il braccio che aveva afferrato. “Non hai proprio alcun spirito? E proprio così deve essere! Non hai alcun rispetto per te stessa, non provi nemmeno un po’ di orgoglio; permetti addirittura a quel disgustoso piccolo individuo di seguirti ovunque, ” disse con tono sprezzante. “Lascieresti che la tua famiglia venisse calpestata senza mai reagire.”

“Non dirlo, cara Fanny. Faccio del mio meglio per loro.”

“Fai tutto ciò che puoi per loro!” ripeté Fanny, camminando molto velocemente. “Lascieresti davvero che una donna del genere, che potresti vedere con i tuoi occhi, se avessi un minimo di esperienza in queste cose, fosse così falsa e insolente come solo una donna può essere. Lascieresti che mettesse piede nella tua famiglia e che tu le ne fossi grato?”

“No, Fanny, ne sono sicuro.”

“Allora fai sì che paghi per questo, intendi. Cosa altro puoi farla fare? Fai sì che paghi per questo, stupido bambino; e usa quei soldi per dare un po’ di credito alla tua famiglia!”

Non parlarono più per tutto il tragitto fino all’alloggio dove vivevano Fanny e suo zio. Quando arrivarono lì, trovarono l’uomo anziano che suonava il clarinetto in modo molto triste, in un angolo della stanza. Fanny dovette preparare un pasto semplice: costolette, birra e tè; fingeva con indignazione di farlo per sé, anche se in realtà era sua sorella a occuparsene tutto. Quando finalmente Fanny si sedette a mangiare e bere, gettò via gli utensili da tavola ed era arrabbiata con il proprio pane, proprio come suo padre lo era stato la sera precedente.

“Se mi disprezi,” disse lei, scoppiando in violente lacrime, “perché sono una ballerina, perché allora non mi hai impedito di diventarlo? È stata colpa tua. Volevi che mi umiliassi davanti a questa signora Merdle, che lei dicesse e facesse ciò che voleva, che disprezzasse tutti noi. E me lo hai detto in faccia proprio perché sono una ballerina!”

“O Fanny!”

‘E anche Tip, povero ragazzo. Lei può insultarlo quanto vuole, senza alcun limite. Immagino perché lui abbia lavorato nel settore legale e nei porti, e in altre cose del genere. In fondo, è stata colpa tua, Amy. Almeno potresti approvare che venga difeso.’

In tutto questo tempo, lo zio suonava tristemente la sua clarnetta nell’angolo; a volte allontanava l’instrumento per un attimo dalla bocca, mentre si fermava ad osservarli, con la vaga sensazione che qualcuno avesse detto qualcosa.

‘E tuo padre, povero tuo padre, Amy. Poiché non ha la libertà di esprimersi e di parlare per sé stesso, tu permetti a queste persone di insultarlo impunemente. Se non provi compassione per te stessa perché devi andare a lavorare, almeno dovresti provare compassione per lui, considerando tutto ciò che ha sopportato in questi anni.’

Povera piccola Dorrit percepì con estrema chiarezza l’ingiustizia di quell’insulto. Il ricordo della scorsa notte ne accentuò ancora di più la durezza. Non disse nulla in risposta, ma girò la sedia lontano dal tavolo, verso il focolare. Dopo un’altra pausa, lo zio emise un lamento triste e continuò a parlare.

Fanny era appassionata di tazze da tè e pane finché questa passione durava; poi protestava dicendo di essere la ragazza più sfortunata del mondo e desiderava morire. Dopo, i suoi pianti diventavano pieni di rimorso, e si alzava per abbracciare sua sorella. La piccola Dorrit cercava di farla smettere, ma lei rispondeva che lo avrebbe fatto, che doveva farlo! Allora ripeteva ancora e ancora: “Ti prego di perdonarmi, Amy”, “Perdona me, Amy”, con la stessa passione con cui aveva espresso i suoi rimpianti.

“Ma davvero, davvero, Amy,” riprese lei quando si furono sedute una accanto all’altra in un atmosfera di affetto fraterno, “spero e penso che avresti visto le cose in modo diverso, se avessi conosciuto meglio la società.”

“Forse potrei farlo, Fanny,” disse la gentile Piccola Dorrit.

“Vedi,” continuò sua sorella, assumendo gradualmente un tono condiscendente, “mentre tu sei rimasta a casa, silenziosa e sottomessa, io sono uscita spesso, ho iniziato a frequentare più assiduamente la società. Forse sono diventata un po’ troppo orgogliosa e sicura di me. Forse più di quanto dovessi essere?”

“Sì, sì!” rispose Little Dorrit.

“Mentre voi pensavate alla cena o ai vestiti, forse io pensavo, sapete, alla famiglia. Non è così, Amy?”

Ancora una volta, Little Dorrit annuì “Sì”, con un’espressione più allegra di quanto il suo cuore lo fosse realmente.

“Soprattutto perché sappiamo,” disse Fanny, “che c’è sicuramente un tono particolare in quel luogo al quale sei stata così fedele; un tono che gli appartiene davvero e che lo distingue dagli altri aspetti della società. Quindi baciami ancora una volta, cara Amy. E concorderemo entrambe sul fatto che possiamo avere ragione entrambe, e che tu sei una ragazza tranquilla, domestica, che ama il proprio familiare ambiente.”

Durante questo dialogo, il clarinetto aveva continuato a suonare in modo particolarmente malinconico, ma fu interrotto dall’annuncio di Fanny che era arrivato l’orario di andarsene; lei lo comunicò al suo zio mettendo da parte il foglio musicale e togliendogli il clarinetto dalla bocca.

Little Dorrit si congedò da loro alla porta e si affrettò a tornare a Marshalsea. Lì faceva buio più presto che altrove; entrarvi quella sera era come addentrarsi in una profonda trincea. L’ombra del muro copriva ogni oggetto. E soprattutto la figura vestita con l’antico abito grigio e il cappello di velluto nero, mentre si voltava verso di lei quando lei aprì la porta della stanza buia.

“Perché non anche su di me?” pensò Little Dorrit, ancora con la porta in mano. “Non era affatto irragionevole da parte di Fanny.”

CHAPTER 21. Mr Merdle’s Complaint

Upon that establishment of state, the Merdle establishment in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, there was the shadow of no more common wall than the fronts of other establishments of state on the opposite side of the street. Like unexceptionable Society, the opposing rows of houses in Harley Street were very grim with one another. Indeed, the mansions and their inhabitants were so much alike in that respect, that the people were often to be found drawn up on opposite sides of dinner-tables, in the shade of their own loftiness, staring at the other side of the way with the dullness of the houses.

Everybody knows how like the street the two dinner-rows of people who take their stand by the street will be. The expressionless uniform twenty houses, all to be knocked at and rung at in the same form, all approachable by the same dull steps, all fended off by the same pattern of railing, all with the same impracticable fire-escapes, the same inconvenient fixtures in their heads, and everything without exception to be taken at a high valuation—who has not dined with these? The house so drearily out of repair, the occasional bow-window, the stuccoed house, the newly-fronted house, the corner house with nothing but angular rooms, the house with the blinds always down, the house with the hatchment always up, the house where the collector has called for one quarter of an Idea, and found nobody at home—who has not dined with these? The house that nobody will take, and is to be had a bargain—who does not know her? The showy house that was taken for life by the disappointed gentleman, and which does not suit him at all—who is unacquainted with that haunted habitation?

Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was more than aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. Intruders there were in Harley Street, of whom it was not aware; but Mr and Mrs Merdle it delighted to honour. Society was aware of Mr and Mrs Merdle. Society had said ‘Let us license them; let us know them.’

Mr Merdle was immensely rich; a man of prodigious enterprise; a Midas without the ears, who turned all he touched to gold. He was in everything good, from banking to building. He was in Parliament, of course. He was in the City, necessarily. He was Chairman of this, Trustee of that, President of the other. The weightiest of men had said to projectors, ‘Now, what name have you got? Have you got Merdle?’ And, the reply being in the negative, had said, ‘Then I won’t look at you.’

This great and fortunate man had provided that extensive bosom which required so much room to be unfeeling enough in, with a nest of crimson and gold some fifteen years before. It was not a bosom to repose upon, but it was a capital bosom to hang jewels upon. Mr Merdle wanted something to hang jewels upon, and he bought it for the purpose. Storr and Mortimer might have married on the same speculation.

Like all his other speculations, it was sound and successful. The jewels showed to the richest advantage. The bosom moving in Society with the jewels displayed upon it, attracted general admiration. Society approving, Mr Merdle was satisfied. He was the most disinterested of men,—did everything for Society, and got as little for himself out of all his gain and care, as a man might.

That is to say, it may be supposed that he got all he wanted, otherwise with unlimited wealth he would have got it. But his desire was to the utmost to satisfy Society (whatever that was), and take up all its drafts upon him for tribute. He did not shine in company; he had not very much to say for himself; he was a reserved man, with a broad, overhanging, watchful head, that particular kind of dull red colour in his cheeks which is rather stale than fresh, and a somewhat uneasy expression about his coat-cuffs, as if they were in his confidence, and had reasons for being anxious to hide his hands. In the little he said, he was a pleasant man enough; plain, emphatic about public and private confidence, and tenacious of the utmost deference being shown by every one, in all things, to Society. In this same Society (if that were it which came to his dinners, and to Mrs Merdle’s receptions and concerts), he hardly seemed to enjoy himself much, and was mostly to be found against walls and behind doors. Also when he went out to it, instead of its coming home to him, he seemed a little fatigued, and upon the whole rather more disposed for bed; but he was always cultivating it nevertheless, and always moving in it—and always laying out money on it with the greatest liberality.

Mrs Merdle’s first husband had been a colonel, under whose auspices the bosom had entered into competition with the snows of North America, and had come off at little disadvantage in point of whiteness, and at none in point of coldness. The colonel’s son was Mrs Merdle’s only child. He was of a chuckle-headed, high-shouldered make, with a general appearance of being, not so much a young man as a swelled boy. He had given so few signs of reason, that a by-word went among his companions that his brain had been frozen up in a mighty frost which prevailed at St John’s, New Brunswick, at the period of his birth there, and had never thawed from that hour. Another by-word represented him as having in his infancy, through the negligence of a nurse, fallen out of a high window on his head, which had been heard by responsible witnesses to crack. It is probable that both these representations were of ex post facto origin; the young gentleman (whose expressive name was Sparkler) being monomaniacal in offering marriage to all manner of undesirable young ladies, and in remarking of every successive young lady to whom he tendered a matrimonial proposal that she was ‘a doosed fine gal—well educated too—with no biggodd nonsense about her.’

CAPITOLO 21. La lamentela di Signor Merdle

Con la costituzione di quell’istituto statale, l’edificio situato in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, non differiva in nulla dalle altre strutture statali presenti sul lato opposto della strada, per quanto riguarda il suo aspetto esteriore. Proprio come le altre abitazioni di quella zona, anche quelle di Harley Street avevano un aspetto molto austero e monotono. Infatti, le residenze e i loro abitanti erano così simili in questo senso che spesso si poteva vedere la stessa gente seduta ai lati opposti dello stesso tavolo da pranzo, immersa nell’ombra della propria superiorità sociale, a fissare con indifferenza le case situate dall’altra parte della strada.

Tutti sanno com’è fatto quel tipo di case allineate lungo la strada, dove le persone si riuniscono per cenare. Quelle case uniformi e prive di carattere: venti abitazioni uguali, tutte accessibili con gli stessi passi monotoni, tutte protette dallo stesso tipo di ringhiere, tutte dotate delle stesse soluzioni impraticabili per l’evacuazione in caso d’incendio, con gli stessi impianti scomodi. Chi non ha mai cenato in una di queste case? Quella casa così trasandata, quella finestra ad arco occasionale, quella facciata intonacata, quella casa con la facciata ristrutturata di recente, quella casa all’angolo con stanze tutte angolose, quella casa con le tende sempre abbassate, quella casa con il portone sempre chiuso. Chi non conosce queste case? Quella casa che nessuno vuole comprare ma che si può ottenere a buon prezzo. Chi non la conosce? Quella casa vistosa che è stata presa in affitto per tutta la vita da un gentiluomo deluso, e che però non gli piace affatto. Chi non ha mai sentito parlare di quella dimora “infestata”?

Harley Street, Cavendish Square, era ben consapevole dell’esistenza del signor e della signora Merdle. C’erano infatti intrusi in Harley Street di cui non si era a conoscenza; ma il signor e la signora Merdle venivano senz’altro “onorati” da quella società. La stessa società, del resto, li conosceva bene. E aveva deciso: “Lasciamo che siano accettati; facciamoli parte della nostra comunità”.

Signor Merdle era immensamente ricco; un uomo di straordinaria intraprendenza; una sorta di “Mida” senza orecchie, che trasformava in oro tutto ciò che toccava. Era coinvolto in ogni attività positiva, dal settore bancario all’edilizia. Naturalmente faceva parte del Parlamento. Era inevitabilmente presente nella City; ricopriva incarichi di presidente di questo consiglio, di amministratore di quello, di presidente di un altro ancora. Persino le persone più influenti dicevano ai proiettori: “Allora, qual è il vostro nome? Avete Merdle nel vostro elenco?” E se la risposta era negativa, aggiungevano: “In tal caso, non vi prenderò nemmeno in considerazione.”

Quest’uomo grande e fortunato aveva fornito quel seno ampio e capace di contenere tanto spazio, per poter essere abbastanza insensibile. Quindici anni prima, vi aveva già inserito un nido di pietre preziose color rosso sangue e oro. Non era certo un seno su cui riposare, ma sicuramente il seno ideale su cui appendere gioielli. Mr Merdle voleva qualcosa su cui appendere gioielli, e per quel motivo lo comprò. Forse anche Storr e Mortimer avrebbero potuto sposarsi per la stessa ragione.

Come tutte le sue altre speculazioni, anche questa si rivelò valida e fruttuosa. I gioielli mostrarono i loro maggiori pregi; il seno di Mr Merdle, adornato da quei gioielli, attirava l’ammirazione generale durante le riunioni sociali. Con l’approvazione della società, Mr Merdle fu soddisfatto. Era davvero l’uomo più disinteressato: faceva tutto per il bene della società, ma per sé stesso otteneva ben poco dai propri sforzi e dalle proprie fatiche, quanto ci si possa aspettare da un uomo del genere.

In altre parole, si può supporre che avesse ottenuto tutto ciò che desiderava; altrimenti, con una ricchezza illimitata, l’avrebbe comunque ottenuto. Ma il suo desiderio era quello di soddisfare appieno i requisiti della Società (qualunque essa fosse) e di assumersi su di sé tutti i suoi obblighi come tributo. Non brillava in compagnia; non aveva molto da dire; era un uomo riservato, con una testa larga, sporgente e attenta, guance di quel particolare colore rosso spento che sembra più stanco che fresco, e un’espressione piuttosto ansiosa sulle maniche del suo abito, come se queste ultime conoscessero i suoi segreti e avessero motivo di nascondere le sue mani. Nelle poche cose che diceva, era comunque una persona piacevole; parlava con franchezza della fiducia pubblica e privata, e insisteva affinché tutti rispettassero al massimo i requisiti della Società in ogni ambito. Tuttavia, in quella stessa Società (se davvero era quella che partecipava alle sue cene, ai ricevimenti e ai concerti di Mrs Merdle), sembrava quasi non divertirsi affatto; spesso si trovava contro i muri o dietro le porte. E quando vi usciva, invece che sentirsi a proprio agio in essa, sembrava un po’ stanco e, nel complesso, più propenso a andare a letto. Ma nonostante ciò, continuava sempre a coltivarla, ad agire al suo interno, e a investirci denaro con grande generosità.

Il primo marito di Mrs Merdle era stato un colonnello; sotto la sua protezione, il seno della moglie aveva iniziato a competere con le nevi del Nord America, e, per quanto riguarda la bianchezza, non risultava affatto indietro; per quanto riguarda il freddo, invece, non era certo da meno. Il figlio del colonnello era l’unico figlio di Mrs Merdle. Era un giovane dal viso stupido e dalle spalle alte, con un aspetto che lo faceva sembrare più un ragazzo cresciuto troppo in fretta che un vero giovane adulto. Non mostrava alcun segno di razionalità, tanto che tra i suoi compagni circolava la battuta che il suo cervello fosse stato congelato da una terribile frost durante la sua nascita a St John’s, nel New Brunswick, e che da allora non si fosse mai sciolto. Un’altra battuta lo descriveva come un bambino che, a causa della negligenza di una mamma nutrice, era caduto da una finestra alta, e testimoni attendibili avevano sentito il suo cranio rompersi. È probabile che entrambe queste storie fossero inventate in seguito. Il giovane signore (il cui nome, significativamente, era Sparkler) aveva l’abitudine di chiedere matrimonio a ogni sorta di giovane donna poco desiderabile, e ogni volta che lo faceva, aggiungeva sempre che lei fosse “una ragazza davvero bella, e anche molto istruita, senza alcuna sciocchezza”.

A son-in-law with these limited talents, might have been a clog upon another man; but Mr Merdle did not want a son-in-law for himself; he wanted a son-in-law for Society. Mr Sparkler having been in the Guards, and being in the habit of frequenting all the races, and all the lounges, and all the parties, and being well known, Society was satisfied with its son-in-law. This happy result Mr Merdle would have considered well attained, though Mr Sparkler had been a more expensive article. And he did not get Mr Sparkler by any means cheap for Society, even as it was.

There was a dinner giving in the Harley Street establishment, while Little Dorrit was stitching at her father’s new shirts by his side that night; and there were magnates from the Court and magnates from the City, magnates from the Commons and magnates from the Lords, magnates from the bench and magnates from the bar, Bishop magnates, Treasury magnates, Horse Guard magnates, Admiralty magnates,—all the magnates that keep us going, and sometimes trip us up.

‘I am told,’ said Bishop magnate to Horse Guards, ‘that Mr Merdle has made another enormous hit. They say a hundred thousand pounds.’

Horse Guards had heard two.

Treasury had heard three.

Bar, handling his persuasive double eye-glass, was by no means clear but that it might be four. It was one of those happy strokes of calculation and combination, the result of which it was difficult to estimate. It was one of those instances of a comprehensive grasp, associated with habitual luck and characteristic boldness, of which an age presented us but few. But here was Brother Bellows, who had been in the great Bank case, and who could probably tell us more. What did Brother Bellows put this new success at?

Brother Bellows was on his way to make his bow to the bosom, and could only tell them in passing that he had heard it stated, with great appearance of truth, as being worth, from first to last, half-a-million of money.

Admiralty said Mr Merdle was a wonderful man, Treasury said he was a new power in the country, and would be able to buy up the whole House of Commons. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman who was always disposed to maintain the best interests of Society.

Mr Merdle himself was usually late on these occasions, as a man still detained in the clutch of giant enterprises when other men had shaken off their dwarfs for the day. On this occasion, he was the last arrival. Treasury said Merdle’s work punished him a little. Bishop said he was glad to think that this wealth flowed into the coffers of a gentleman who accepted it with meekness.

Powder! There was so much Powder in waiting, that it flavoured the dinner. Pulverous particles got into the dishes, and Society’s meats had a seasoning of first-rate footmen. Mr Merdle took down a countess who was secluded somewhere in the core of an immense dress, to which she was in the proportion of the heart to the overgrown cabbage. If so low a simile may be admitted, the dress went down the staircase like a richly brocaded Jack in the Green, and nobody knew what sort of small person carried it.

Society had everything it could want, and could not want, for dinner. It had everything to look at, and everything to eat, and everything to drink. It is to be hoped it enjoyed itself; for Mr Merdle’s own share of the repast might have been paid for with eighteenpence. Mrs Merdle was magnificent. The chief butler was the next magnificent institution of the day. He was the stateliest man in the company. He did nothing, but he looked on as few other men could have done. He was Mr Merdle’s last gift to Society. Mr Merdle didn’t want him, and was put out of countenance when the great creature looked at him; but inappeasable Society would have him—and had got him.

The invisible countess carried out the Green at the usual stage of the entertainment, and the file of beauty was closed up by the bosom. Treasury said, Juno. Bishop said, Judith.

Bar fell into discussion with Horse Guards concerning courts-martial. Brothers Bellows and Bench struck in. Other magnates paired off. Mr Merdle sat silent, and looked at the table-cloth. Sometimes a magnate addressed him, to turn the stream of his own particular discussion towards him; but Mr Merdle seldom gave much attention to it, or did more than rouse himself from his calculations and pass the wine.

When they rose, so many of the magnates had something to say to Mr Merdle individually that he held little levees by the sideboard, and checked them off as they went out at the door.

Treasury hoped he might venture to congratulate one of England’s world-famed capitalists and merchant-princes (he had turned that original sentiment in the house a few times, and it came easy to him) on a new achievement. To extend the triumphs of such men was to extend the triumphs and resources of the nation; and Treasury felt—he gave Mr Merdle to understand—patriotic on the subject.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘thank you. I accept your congratulations with pride, and I am glad you approve.’

‘Why, I don’t unreservedly approve, my dear Mr Merdle. Because,’ smiling Treasury turned him by the arm towards the sideboard and spoke banteringly, ‘it never can be worth your while to come among us and help us.’

Mr Merdle felt honoured by the—

‘No, no,’ said Treasury, ‘that is not the light in which one so distinguished for practical knowledge and great foresight, can be expected to regard it. If we should ever be happily enabled, by accidentally possessing the control over circumstances, to propose to one so eminent to—to come among us, and give us the weight of his influence, knowledge, and character, we could only propose it to him as a duty. In fact, as a duty that he owed to Society.’

Mr Merdle intimated that Society was the apple of his eye, and that its claims were paramount to every other consideration. Treasury moved on, and Bar came up.

Un genero con talenti così limitati avrebbe potuto rappresentare un ostacolo per un altro uomo; ma Mr Merdle non voleva un genero per sé stesso. Voleva un genero adatto alla società. Poiché Mr Sparkler aveva prestato servizio nelle Guardie Reali, era abituato a frequentare corse, salotti e feste, ed era ben conosciuto in società; quindi la società stessa era soddisfatta del suo genero. Questo risultato positivo Mr Merdle l’avrebbe considerato assolutamente raggiunto, anche se Mr Sparkler fosse stato un “articolo” più costoso da acquistare. E, in ogni caso, per la società, ottenere Mr Sparkler non è stato affatto economico, nemmeno così come è avvenuto.

Quella sera, nell’edificio di Harley Street si tenne un banchetto, mentre Little Dorrit cuciva le nuove camicie di suo padre al suo fianco; c’erano magnati della >Corte, magnati della >Città, magnati del Parlamento, magnati dell’alta magistratura e dell’avvocatura, vescovi, esponenti del Tesoro, membri della Guardia Reale a cavallo, dell’Ammiragliato, tutti quei magnati che, sebbene a volte ci facciano inciampare, sono fondamentali per il funzionamento della società.

“Mi è stato detto,” disse il vescovo potente ai guardie a cavallo, “che Signor Merdle ha ottenuto un altro enorme successo. Dicono che si tratti di centomila sterline.”

I soldati della Guardia a Cavallo avevano sentito due spari.

La Tesoreria aveva ricevuto tre informazioni.

Bar, con quei suoi occhiali da vista dal doppio vetro, non era affatto chiaro quale fosse il numero esatto; poteva essere quattro. Era uno di quei calcoli e combinazioni geniali i cui risultati risultano difficili da prevedere. Era un esempio di quella capacità comprensiva unita a fortuna e audacia caratteristiche, qualcosa che poche persone nella nostra epoca avevano dimostrato. Ma c’era fratello Bellows. Lui, che aveva partecipato a quel grande caso bancario, probabilmente avrebbe potuto dirci di più. Quanto valutava fratello Bellows questo nuovo successo?

Il fratello Bellows stava per inchinarsi davanti a loro e poté solo dir loro di passaggio che aveva sentito affermare, con grande apparenza di _verità, che quel bene valeva, dall’inizio alla fine, mezzo milione di soldi.

L’Ammiragliato affermava che Mr Merdle fosse un uomo meraviglioso; il Tesoro sosteneva che rappresentasse una nuova forza nel paese e che avrebbe potuto acquistare l’intera >Casa dei Comuni. Il Vescovo dichiarava di essere felice al pensiero che tali ricchezze finissero nelle casse di un gentiluomo sempre disposto a perseguire gli interessi migliori della società.

Mr Merdle stesso di solito arrivava in ritardo in queste occasioni, essendo ancora intrappolato nelle grinfie di imprese gigantesche, mentre altri uomini avevano già liberato se stessi da tali vincoli. Quella volta fu l’ultimo ad arrivare. Il Tesoro affermava che il lavoro di Merdle lo penalizzasse un po’, mentre Bishop dichiarava di essere felice al pensiero che quella ricchezza finisse nelle casse di un gentiluomo che la accettava con umiltà.

Polvere! C’era così tanta polvere in attesa che ne risentì persino il sapore della cena; particelle fini si mischiarono nei piatti, e la carne servita aveva quasi il “sapore” dei domestici di alto rango. Mr Merdle conquistò una contessa nascosta chissà dove, all’interno di un abito enorme; lei, rispetto a quell’abito, era come il cuore rispetto a una cavolo gigante. Se si può permettere un simile paragone, l’abito scese le scale come un magnifico costume da giullare, e nessuno riuscì a capire di che tipo di persona piccola fosse fatto.

La società aveva tutto ciò che potesse desiderare, e anche ciò che non avrebbe mai voluto, per la cena. Aveva tutto ciò che poteva essere ammirato, tutto ciò che poteva essere mangiato, tutto ciò che poteva essere bevuto. Si spera che si sia divertita; infatti, la parte di cibo destinata a Mr Merdle stesso sarebbe potuta essere acquistata con soltanto diciotto penny. La signora Merdle fu davvero magnifica. Il maggiordomo capo rappresentava l’altra “istituzione” straordinaria di quel tempo: era l’uomo più imponente nella compagnia. Non faceva nulla, ma osservava tutto ciò che pochi altri avrebbero potuto fare. Era l’ultimo regalo che Mr Merdle aveva fatto alla società. A lui stesso non serviva; anzi, si sentiva a disagio quando quell’enorme individuo lo guardava. Ma la società, insaziabile, lo voleva, e l’aveva ottenuto.

La contessa invisibile eseguì la danza “Green” nella solita fase dello spettacolo; la fila di >bellezze terminava con il seno di Juno. Il tesoriere disse: “Juno”; l’vescovo disse: “Judith”.

Bar iniziò una discussione con i guardie a cavallo riguardo ai tribunali militari. I fratelli Bellows e Bench intervennero nella conversazione; altri magnati si formarono in coppie per discutere. Il signor Merdle rimase in silenzio, fissando il tovagliolo. A volte qualche magnate gli rivolgeva la parola per deviare il corso della propria discussione verso di lui; ma il signor Merdle raramente prestava molta attenzione a quelle conversazioni, e al massimo si distraeva dai suoi calcoli per prendere un sorso di vino.

Quando si alzarono, molti dei magnati avevano qualcosa da dire personalmente a Mr Merdle; questi tenne quindi alcuni appunti accanto al buffet e li controllò man mano che quelle persone uscivano dalla porta.

Il Ministero delle Finanze sperava che potesse prendersi la briga di congratularsi con uno dei più famosi capitalisti e principi mercanti d’Inghilterra (aveva già espresso quel sentimento in diverse occasioni, e gli riusciva facilmente) per un nuovo successo ottenuto. Rendere più ampi i trionfi di uomini del genere significava ampliare anche i trionfi e le risorse della nazione; e il Ministero delle Finanze riteneva – fece capire al signor Merdle – che questo fosse un atteggiamento patriottico.

“Grazie, mio signore,” disse Signor Merdle; “grazie. Accetto con orgoglio le vostre congratulazioni, e sono felice che approviate.”

“Beh, non approvo del tutto, caro Signor Merdle. Perché,” disse il Tesoriere sorridendo, prendendolo per il braccio e guidandolo verso il buffet, “non può mai essere vantaggioso per voi venire tra di noi ad aiutarci.”

Signor Merdle si sentì onorato dall’–

“No, no,” disse il Tesoriere, “non è certo in questo modo che si dovrebbe considerare una cosa per qualcuno così distinto per la sua conoscenza pratica e la sua grande lungimiranza. Se mai avessimo la fortuna di poter controllare le circostanze e proporre a una persona così eminente di unirsi a noi, offrendoci il peso della sua influenza, della sua conoscenza e del suo carattere, potremmo farlo soltanto come un dovere. Anzi, come un dovere che tale persona dovrebbe adempiere verso la Società.”

Signor Merdle fece capire che la Società era il cuore dei suoi interessi e che le sue esigenze avevano la massima priorità su ogni altra considerazione. Il dibattito proseguì, e poi fu il turno di Bar.

Bar, with his little insinuating jury droop, and fingering his persuasive double eye-glass, hoped he might be excused if he mentioned to one of the greatest converters of the root of all evil into the root of all good, who had for a long time reflected a shining lustre on the annals even of our commercial country—if he mentioned, disinterestedly, and as, what we lawyers called in our pedantic way, amicus curiae, a fact that had come by accident within his knowledge. He had been required to look over the title of a very considerable estate in one of the eastern counties—lying, in fact, for Mr Merdle knew we lawyers loved to be particular, on the borders of two of the eastern counties. Now, the title was perfectly sound, and the estate was to be purchased by one who had the command of—Money (jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), on remarkably advantageous terms. This had come to Bar’s knowledge only that day, and it had occurred to him, ‘I shall have the honour of dining with my esteemed friend Mr Merdle this evening, and, strictly between ourselves, I will mention the opportunity.’ Such a purchase would involve not only a great legitimate political influence, but some half-dozen church presentations of considerable annual value. Now, that Mr Merdle was already at no loss to discover means of occupying even his capital, and of fully employing even his active and vigorous intellect, Bar well knew: but he would venture to suggest that the question arose in his mind, whether one who had deservedly gained so high a position and so European a reputation did not owe it—we would not say to himself, but we would say to Society, to possess himself of such influences as these; and to exercise them—we would not say for his own, or for his party’s, but we would say for Society’s—benefit.

Mr Merdle again expressed himself as wholly devoted to that object of his constant consideration, and Bar took his persuasive eye-glass up the grand staircase. Bishop then came undesignedly sidling in the direction of the sideboard.

Surely the goods of this world, it occurred in an accidental way to Bishop to remark, could scarcely be directed into happier channels than when they accumulated under the magic touch of the wise and sagacious, who, while they knew the just value of riches (Bishop tried here to look as if he were rather poor himself), were aware of their importance, judiciously governed and rightly distributed, to the welfare of our brethren at large.

Mr Merdle with humility expressed his conviction that Bishop couldn’t mean him, and with inconsistency expressed his high gratification in Bishop’s good opinion.

Bishop then—jauntily stepping out a little with his well-shaped right leg, as though he said to Mr Merdle ‘don’t mind the apron; a mere form!’ put this case to his good friend:

Whether it had occurred to his good friend, that Society might not unreasonably hope that one so blest in his undertakings, and whose example on his pedestal was so influential with it, would shed a little money in the direction of a mission or so to Africa?

Mr Merdle signifying that the idea should have his best attention, Bishop put another case:

Whether his good friend had at all interested himself in the proceedings of our Combined Additional Endowed Dignitaries Committee, and whether it had occurred to him that to shed a little money in that direction might be a great conception finely executed?

Mr Merdle made a similar reply, and Bishop explained his reason for inquiring.

Society looked to such men as his good friend to do such things. It was not that he looked to them, but that Society looked to them. Just as it was not Our Committee who wanted the Additional Endowed Dignitaries, but it was Society that was in a state of the most agonising uneasiness of mind until it got them. He begged to assure his good friend that he was extremely sensible of his good friend’s regard on all occasions for the best interests of Society; and he considered that he was at once consulting those interests and expressing the feeling of Society, when he wished him continued prosperity, continued increase of riches, and continued things in general.

Bishop then betook himself up-stairs, and the other magnates gradually floated up after him until there was no one left below but Mr Merdle. That gentleman, after looking at the table-cloth until the soul of the chief butler glowed with a noble resentment, went slowly up after the rest, and became of no account in the stream of people on the grand staircase. Mrs Merdle was at home, the best of the jewels were hung out to be seen, Society got what it came for, Mr Merdle drank twopennyworth of tea in a corner and got more than he wanted.

Among the evening magnates was a famous physician, who knew everybody, and whom everybody knew. On entering at the door, he came upon Mr Merdle drinking his tea in a corner, and touched him on the arm.

Mr Merdle started. ‘Oh! It’s you!’

‘Any better to-day?’

‘No,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am no better.’

‘A pity I didn’t see you this morning. Pray come to me to-morrow, or let me come to you.’

‘Well!’ he replied. ‘I will come to-morrow as I drive by.’

Bar and Bishop had both been bystanders during this short dialogue, and as Mr Merdle was swept away by the crowd, they made their remarks upon it to the Physician. Bar said, there was a certain point of mental strain beyond which no man could go; that the point varied with various textures of brain and peculiarities of constitution, as he had had occasion to notice in several of his learned brothers; but the point of endurance passed by a line’s breadth, depression and dyspepsia ensued. Not to intrude on the sacred mysteries of medicine, he took it, now (with the jury droop and persuasive eye-glass), that this was Merdle’s case? Bishop said that when he was a young man, and had fallen for a brief space into the habit of writing sermons on Saturdays, a habit which all young sons of the church should sedulously avoid, he had frequently been sensible of a depression, arising as he supposed from an over-taxed intellect, upon which the yolk of a new-laid egg, beaten up by the good woman in whose house he at that time lodged, with a glass of sound sherry, nutmeg, and powdered sugar acted like a charm. Without presuming to offer so simple a remedy to the consideration of so profound a professor of the great healing art, he would venture to inquire whether the strain, being by way of intricate calculations, the spirits might not (humanly speaking) be restored to their tone by a gentle and yet generous stimulant?

‘Yes,’ said the physician, ‘yes, you are both right. But I may as well tell you that I can find nothing the matter with Mr Merdle. He has the constitution of a rhinoceros, the digestion of an ostrich, and the concentration of an oyster. As to nerves, Mr Merdle is of a cool temperament, and not a sensitive man: is about as invulnerable, I should say, as Achilles. How such a man should suppose himself unwell without reason, you may think strange. But I have found nothing the matter with him. He may have some deep-seated recondite complaint. I can’t say. I only say, that at present I have not found it out.’

There was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the bosom now displaying precious stones in rivalry with many similar superb jewel-stands; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on young Sparkler hovering about the rooms, monomaniacally seeking any sufficiently ineligible young lady with no nonsense about her; there was no shadow of Mr Merdle’s complaint on the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, of whom whole colonies were present; or on any of the company. Even on himself, its shadow was faint enough as he moved about among the throng, receiving homage.

Mr Merdle’s complaint. Society and he had so much to do with one another in all things else, that it is hard to imagine his complaint, if he had one, being solely his own affair. Had he that deep-seated recondite complaint, and did any doctor find it out? Patience, in the meantime, the shadow of the Marshalsea wall was a real darkening influence, and could be seen on the Dorrit Family at any stage of the sun’s course.

Bar, con quel suo leggero atteggiamento insinuante e giocherellando con i suoi persuasivi occhiali da vista doppia, sperava di poter essere scusato se avesse menzionato, in modo disinteressato – e, per usare il gergo pedantesco dei nostri avvocati, come “amicus curiae” – un fatto che gli era capitato per caso di conoscere. Gli era stato chiesto di esaminare i documenti relativi a una proprietà molto estesa situata in uno dei contee orientali; per essere precisi, si trovava ai confini di due contee orientali, come amavamo precisare noi avvocati. I documenti erano perfettamente validi e la proprietà stava per essere acquistata da una persona che disponeva di, denaro, a condizioni particolarmente vantaggiose. Bar aveva appreso questa informazione solo quel giorno e aveva pensato: “Avrò l’onore di cenare stasera con il mio stimato amico Mr Merdle e, tra noi due soltanto, gli parlerò di questa opportunità”. Un’acquisto del genere avrebbe comportato non solo una grande influenza politica legittima, ma anche diverse posizioni ecclesiastiche di notevole valore annuo. Ora, Bar sapeva bene che Mr Merdle non aveva certo difficoltà a trovare modi per utilizzare al massimo sia il proprio capitale che l’intelligenza attiva e vigile. Ma si chiedeva se una persona che aveva meritatamente raggiunto una posizione così elevata e una reputazione di tal rilievo in Europa non dovesse, per così dire, “possedere” queste influenze a beneficio della società stessa.

Signor Merdle si espresse nuovamente come completamente devoto a quell’oggetto di continua attenzione da parte sua; intanto Bar sollevò il suo occhialino persuasivo verso la grande scalinata. In quel momento, Bishop si avvicinò in modo inopportuno nella direzione del buffet.

Certamente, i beni di questo mondo, osservò il Vescovo, potrebbero difficilmente essere indirizzati verso canali più felici di quando si accumulano sotto la maga influenza dei saggi e dei prudenti, che, pur conoscendo il giusto valore della ricchezza (il Vescovo cercò in questo momento di dare l’impressione di essere piuttosto povero lui stesso), ne erano consapevoli dell’importanza e li gestivano con saggezza e li distribuivano nel modo più appropriato, al bene di tutti i nostri fratelli.

Signor Merdle, con umiltà, esprimeva la sua convinzione che il Vescovo non potesse parlare di lui; al contempo, con contraddizione, manifestava grande soddisfazione per l’ottima opinione che il Vescovo aveva di lui.

Allora il Vescovo – muovendosi con disinvoltura, avanzando leggermente con la sua gamba destra ben formata, come se volesse dire a Mr Merdle “Non badare all’grembiule; è solo una formalità!” – presentò questa situazione al suo buon amico:

Gli era mai venuto in mente, al suo caro amico, che quella Società potesse ragionevolmente sperare che una persona così fortunata nelle sue imprese, e il cui esempio fosse così influente per tutti, potesse donare un po’ di denaro a scopi benefici, ad esempio per una missione in Africa?

Signor Merdle, intendendo che quell’idea meritasse la sua massima attenzione,
Vescovo presentò un altro caso:

Se il suo buon amico si fosse minimamente interessato alle attività del nostro Comitato Congiunto per le Dignità Aggiuntive, e se gli fosse venuto in mente che investire un po’ di denaro in quella direzione potesse rappresentare un’ottima idea ben realizzata.

Signor Merdle diede una risposta simile, e il Vescovo spiegò il motivo della sua domanda.

La società si affidava a uomini come il suo buon amico affinché compissero simili azioni. Non era che lui si rivolgesse a loro, ma che fosse la società stessa a farlo. Proprio come non era il nostro comitato ad aver desiderato l’istituzione di quei “Funzionari con Dignità Aggiuntiva”, ma era la società stessa che si trovava in uno stato di estrema ansia e insicurezza finché non li ottenne. Lui pregò il suo buon amico di essere certo che fosse assolutamente consapevole del rispetto che quest’ultimo nutriva, in ogni occasione, per gli interessi supremi della società; e riteneva di stare al contempo servendo quegli interessi ed esprimendo i sentimenti della società stessa quando desiderava per lui continuità nella prosperità, nell’aumento delle ricchezze e, in generale, nel successo.

Il vescovo salì quindi al piano di sopra, e gli altri nobili lo seguirono gradualmente, fino a quando non rimase più nessuno al piano di sotto se non Mr Merdle. Quel gentiluomo, dopo aver fissato la tovaglia per un po’ fino a far brillare d’indignazione l’anima dello chef, salì lentamente anche lui e scomparve nella folla che si muoveva lungo la grande scalinata. La signora Merdle era a casa; i suoi più preziosi gioielli erano stati esposti per essere ammirati; la società ottenne ciò che cercava. Mr Merdle bevve del tè in un angolo, spendendo due penny, e ne ebbe più di quanto desiderasse.

Tra i notabili della serata c’era un famoso medico che conosceva tutti e che era conosciuto da tutti. Entrando dalla porta, lo incontrò mentre Mr Merdle beveva il tè in un angolo e gli toccò il braccio.

Signor Merdle iniziò: “Oh! Sei tu!”

“Meglio oggi?”

“No,” disse Signor Merdle, “anch’io non sono migliore.”

“Peccato che non ti abbia visto stamattina. Per favore, vieni da me domani, o lascia che venga io da te.”

“Beh!”, rispose. “Tornerò domani, passando di lì in macchina.”

Sia Bar che Bishop erano stati semplici spettatori durante questo breve dialogo; quando Mr Merdle fu trascinato via dalla folla, ne fecero commenti con il Dottore. Bar disse che esiste un certo limite di sforzo mentale oltre il quale nessun uomo può andare; tale limite varia a seconda delle caratteristiche individuali e della struttura cerebrale, come aveva avuto modo di osservare in diversi suoi colleghi studiosi. Tuttavia, superato quel limite, si verificano depressione e disturbi digestivi. Senza voler violare i sacri misteri della medicina, riteneva che questo fosse proprio il caso di Merdle. Bishop, invece, raccontò che da giovane aveva preso l’abitudine di scrivere sermoni ogni sabato, un’abitudine che tutti i giovani appartenenti alla chiesa dovrebbero evitare assolutamente. Spesso si sentiva depresso, probabilmente a causa di uno sforzo eccessivo per il suo intelletto; in quei momenti, l’albume di un uovo fresco sbattuto insieme a del buon sherry, noce moscata e zucchero a velo avevano su di lui un effetto rilassante. Senza osare proporre una soluzione così semplice a un esperto della medicina, chiedeva se, data la natura complessa dei calcoli che Merdle doveva eseguire, non fosse possibile ripristinare il suo equilibrio mentale con un stimolante delicato ma efficace.

“Sì,” disse il medico, “sì, avete entrambi ragione. Ma posso anche dirvi che non trovo nulla di anomalo in Mr Merdle. Ha la costituzione di un rinoceronte, la digestione di un struzzo e la resistenza di un’ostrica. Per quanto riguarda i nervi, Mr Merdle è di temperamento freddo e non è certo una persona sensibile: direi che sia quasi invulnerabile, come Achille. Potreste trovare strano che un uomo del genere si consideri malato senza motivo. Ma non ho trovato nulla di anomalo in lui. Forse ha qualche problema nascosto e profondo. Non posso dirlo con certezza. Posso solo dire che, al momento, non l’ho scoperto.”

Non c’era più traccia della lamentela di Mr Merdle su quel petto che ora mostrava preziosi gioielli in competizione con molti altri simili e splendidi ornamenti; non c’era più traccia della sua lamentela riguardo al giovane Sparkler, che si aggirava per le stanze alla ricerca, in modo ossessivo, di qualche giovane donna inadeguata ma priva di pretese; non c’era più traccia della sua lamentela nei confronti dei gruppi di persone presenti, né tantomeno su di lui stesso, mentre si muoveva tra la folla ricevendo omaggi.

La lamentela di Mr Merdle. Società e lui avevano così tante cose in comune in ogni altro aspetto, che è difficile immaginare che la sua lamentela, se mai ne avesse avuta una, fosse esclusivamente un problema suo personale. Se davvero possedeva quella lamentela profonda e nascosta, qualcun medico l’avrebbe scoperta? Nel frattempo, l’ombra del muro di Marshalsea rappresentava sicuramente un fattore negativo; si poteva notare il suo effetto negativo sulla famiglia Dorrit in qualsiasi momento della giornata.

CHAPTER 22. A Puzzle

Mr Clennam did not increase in favour with the Father of the Marshalsea in the ratio of his increasing visits. His obtuseness on the great Testimonial question was not calculated to awaken admiration in the paternal breast, but had rather a tendency to give offence in that sensitive quarter, and to be regarded as a positive shortcoming in point of gentlemanly feeling. An impression of disappointment, occasioned by the discovery that Mr Clennam scarcely possessed that delicacy for which, in the confidence of his nature, he had been inclined to give him credit, began to darken the fatherly mind in connection with that gentleman. The father went so far as to say, in his private family circle, that he feared Mr Clennam was not a man of high instincts. He was happy, he observed, in his public capacity as leader and representative of the College, to receive Mr Clennam when he called to pay his respects; but he didn’t find that he got on with him personally. There appeared to be something (he didn’t know what it was) wanting in him. Howbeit, the father did not fail in any outward show of politeness, but, on the contrary, honoured him with much attention; perhaps cherishing the hope that, although not a man of a sufficiently brilliant and spontaneous turn of mind to repeat his former testimonial unsolicited, it might still be within the compass of his nature to bear the part of a responsive gentleman, in any correspondence that way tending.

In the threefold capacity, of the gentleman from outside who had been accidentally locked in on the night of his first appearance, of the gentleman from outside who had inquired into the affairs of the Father of the Marshalsea with the stupendous idea of getting him out, and of the gentleman from outside who took an interest in the child of the Marshalsea, Clennam soon became a visitor of mark. He was not surprised by the attentions he received from Mr Chivery when that officer was on the lock, for he made little distinction between Mr Chivery’s politeness and that of the other turnkeys. It was on one particular afternoon that Mr Chivery surprised him all at once, and stood forth from his companions in bold relief.

Mr Chivery, by some artful exercise of his power of clearing the Lodge, had contrived to rid it of all sauntering Collegians; so that Clennam, coming out of the prison, should find him on duty alone.

‘(Private) I ask your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Chivery in a secret manner; ‘but which way might you be going?’

‘I am going over the Bridge.’ He saw in Mr Chivery, with some astonishment, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on his lips.

‘(Private) I ask your pardon again,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘but could you go round by Horsemonger Lane? Could you by any means find time to look in at that address?’ handing him a little card, printed for circulation among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers in Fancy Snuffs, &c. &c.

‘(Private) It an’t tobacco business,’ said Mr Chivery. ‘The truth is, it’s my wife. She’s wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point respecting—yes,’ said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam’s look of apprehension with a nod, ‘respecting her.’

‘I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.’

‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an’t above ten minutes out of your way. Please to ask for Mrs Chivery!’ These instructions, Mr Chivery, who had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection of visitors when it pleased him.

Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a little assortment of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail stock in trade.

Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the solicitation of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat behind the counter, and deploringly shook her head.

‘You may see him now,’ said she, ‘if you’ll condescend to take a peep.’

With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two; and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the last mariner left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man.

‘Our John,’ said Mrs Chivery.

Not to be deficient in interest, Clennam asked what he might be doing there?

‘It’s the only change he takes,’ said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head afresh. ‘He won’t go out, even in the back-yard, when there’s no linen; but when there’s linen to keep the neighbours’ eyes off, he’ll sit there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves!’ Mrs Chivery shook her head again, put her apron in a motherly way to her eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business.

‘Please to take a seat, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Miss Dorrit is the matter with Our John, sir; he’s a breaking his heart for her, and I would wish to take the liberty to ask how it’s to be made good to his parents when bust?’

Mrs Chivery, who was a comfortable-looking woman much respected about Horsemonger Lane for her feelings and her conversation, uttered this speech with fell composure, and immediately afterwards began again to shake her head and dry her eyes.

CAPITOLO 22. UN ENIGMA

Il signor Clennam non guadagnò affatto in stima agli occhi del padre di Marshalsea in proporzione alle sue crescenti visite. La sua ottusità riguardo alla questione fondamentale della testimonianza non era certo destinata a suscitare ammirazione nel cuore di quel padre, anzi tendeva piuttosto ad offendere in quella parte sensibile del suo animo e a essere considerata una vera mancanza dal punto di vista dei sentimenti da gentiluomo. L’impressione di delusione derivante dal constatare che il signor Clennam quasi non possedeva quella delicatezza per cui, fiducioso nella sua natura, aveva voluto credere in lui, iniziò a offuscare l’opinione di quel padre riguardo a quell’uomo. Arrivò persino ad affermare, nel suo circolo familiare, di temere che il signor Clennam non fosse un uomo dalle nobili inclinazioni. Era felice, osservava, di riceverlo nelle sue funzioni pubbliche di leader e rappresentante del College quando veniva a rendergli omaggio; ma personalmente non trovava di avere buoni rapporti con lui. Sembrava che mancasse qualcosa in lui. Non sapeva esattamente cosa fosse. Tuttavia, il padre non trascurò mai di mostrargli la dovuta cortesia e anzi gli riservò molta attenzione; forse nutriva la speranza che, anche se non era un uomo dal carattere abbastanza brillante e spontaneo da rinnovare volontariamente la sua precedente testimonianza, fosse comunque possibile che nella sua natura ci fosse spazio per comportarsi in modo corretto e rispettabile in qualsiasi corrispondenza di quel tipo.

Nelle sue tre diverse funzioni – quella di gentiluomo esterno che per caso si trovò chiuso dentro la prigione nella notte della sua prima apparizione, quella di persona che indagò sulle faccende del “Padre di Marshalsea” con l’idea assurda di farlo uscire, e quella di individuo interessato al bambino di Marshalsea – Clennam divenne ben presto un visitatore frequente. Non fu sorpreso dalle attenzioni che ricevette da Mr Chivery quando quest’ultimo era incaricato della custodia della prigione, poiché non faceva alcuna distinzione tra la cortesia di Mr Chivery e quella degli altri carcerieri. Fu proprio in un pomeriggio particolare che Mr Chivery lo sorprese completamente, distinguendosi decisamente dagli altri suoi colleghi.

Il signor Chivery, attraverso un abile utilizzo del proprio potere di controllare la Loggia, era riuscito a far scomparire tutti quegli studenti che gironzolavano lì; in modo che Clennam, uscendo dalla prigione, lo trovasse sul posto di servizio, da solo.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” disse il signor Chivery in tono sommesso; “ma verso quale direzione state andando?”

“Sto per attraversare il ponte.” Con un certo stupore, vide nel signor Chivery una vera e propria allegoria della silenzio: stava lì, con la chiave sulle labbra.

“Mi scusi ancora una volta,” disse il signor Chivery, “ma potrebbe passare per Horsemonger Lane? Potrebbe trovare qualche momento libero per dare un’occhiata a quell’indirizzo?” Gli porse quindi una piccola cartolina stampata per essere distribuita tra i clienti di Chivery e Co.: Tabaccheria, Importatori di sigari havana puri, cheroot del Bengala e cubani dal sapore raffinato, Rivenditori di tabacchi pregiati, ecc.

“Non si tratta di un affare legato al tabacco,” disse il signor Chivery. “La verità è che si tratta di mia moglie. Desidera parlarvi, signore, su una questione riguardante, sì,” aggiunse il signor Chivery, annuendo in risposta allo sguardo preoccupato di Clennam, “riguardante lei.”

“Farò in modo di incontrare tua moglie personalmente.”

“Grazie, signore. Molto obbligato. Non le richiederà più di dieci minuti del suo tempo. Per favore, chieda di signora Chivery!” Queste istruzioni, il signor Chivery, che lo aveva già fatto uscire, le comunicò con cautela attraverso una piccola fessura nella porta esterna, che poteva richiudere dall’interno per permettere l’ispezione dei visitatori quando lo desiderava.

Arthur Clennam, con la carta in mano, si diresse verso l’indirizzo indicato e arrivò rapidamente sul posto. Si trattava di un piccolissimo negozio, dove una donna perbene sedeva dietro al bancone a lavorare a maglia. Alcuni vasetti di tabacco, scatoline di sigari, una piccola varietà di pipe, uno o due vasetti di snuff, e un piccolo strumento simile a una forcella da calzola per servirli: questi costituivano l’intero assortimento del negozio.

Arthur menzionò il suo nome; aveva promesso di chiamare su esortazione del signor Chivery, per qualcosa che riguardava la signorina Dorrit, credeva. La signora Chivery mise immediatamente da parte il suo lavoro, si alzò dal posto dietro al bancone e scosse la testa con rammarico.

“Ora potete vederlo,” disse lei, “se vi degnate di dare un’occhiata.”

Con queste parole misteriose, lei accompagnò il visitatore in una piccola stanza situata dietro al negozio; quella stanza aveva una piccola finestra che dava su un cortile posteriore molto angusto e poco illuminato. In quel cortile, lenzuola e tovaglie cercavano invano di asciugarsi appese a delle corde, a causa della mancanza d’aria; tra quelle stoffe che sventolavano al vento, seduto su una sedia c’era un giovane dall’aspetto malinconico, come l’ultimo marinaio sopravvissuto a bordo di una nave umida e senza la possibilità di ammainare le vele.

“Il nostro John,” disse la signora Chivery.

Per non mostrare mancanza di interesse, Clennam chiese cosa potesse stare facendo lì.

“È l’unica modifica che apporta,” disse la signora Chivery scuotendo di nuovo la testa. “Non esce nemmeno nel cortile posteriore, quando non ci sono lenzuola pulite; ma appena ci sono lenzuola per tenere alla larga gli occhi dei vicini, si siede lì per ore. Ore intere! Dice che si sente come se fosse in un giardino pieno di alberi, ” La signora Chivery scosse ancora la testa, si sistemò il grembiule davanti agli occhi con un gesto materno e riaccompagnò la sua visitatrice nei “regni” delle faccende domestiche.

“Per favore, si sieda, signore,” disse la signora Chivery. “La questione riguarda la signorina Dorrit e nostro John: lui ne è davvero distrutto. Vorrei chiederle come possiamo rimediare a questa situazione per i suoi genitori.”

La signora Chivery, una donna dall’aspetto distinto molto rispettata in Horsemonger Lane per le sue qualità umane e il suo modo di parlare, pronunciò queste parole con estrema calma; subito dopo, però, ricominciò a scuotere la testa e asciugarsi gli occhi.

‘Sir,’ said she in continuation, ‘you are acquainted with the family, and have interested yourself with the family, and are influential with the family. If you can promote views calculated to make two young people happy, let me, for Our John’s sake, and for both their sakes, implore you so to do!’

‘I have been so habituated,’ returned Arthur, at a loss, ‘during the short time I have known her, to consider Little—I have been so habituated to consider Miss Dorrit in a light altogether removed from that in which you present her to me, that you quite take me by surprise. Does she know your son?’

‘Brought up together, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Played together.’

‘Does she know your son as her admirer?’

‘Oh! bless you, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, with a sort of triumphant shiver, ‘she never could have seen him on a Sunday without knowing he was that. His cane alone would have told it long ago, if nothing else had. Young men like John don’t take to ivory hands a pinting, for nothing. How did I first know it myself? Similarly.’

‘Perhaps Miss Dorrit may not be so ready as you, you see.’

‘Then she knows it, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘by word of mouth.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘sure and certain as in this house I am. I see my son go out with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I see my son come in with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I know he done it!’ Mrs Chivery derived a surprising force of emphasis from the foregoing circumstantiality and repetition.

‘May I ask you how he came to fall into the desponding state which causes you so much uneasiness?’

‘That,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘took place on that same day when to this house I see that John with these eyes return. Never been himself in this house since. Never was like what he has been since, not from the hour when to this house seven year ago me and his father, as tenants by the quarter, came!’ An effect in the nature of an affidavit was gained from this speech by Mrs Chivery’s peculiar power of construction.

‘May I venture to inquire what is your version of the matter?’

‘You may,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘and I will give it to you in honour and in word as true as in this shop I stand. Our John has every one’s good word and every one’s good wish. He played with her as a child when in that yard a child she played. He has known her ever since. He went out upon the Sunday afternoon when in this very parlour he had dined, and met her, with appointment or without appointment; which, I do not pretend to say. He made his offer to her. Her brother and sister is high in their views, and against Our John. Her father is all for himself in his views and against sharing her with any one. Under which circumstances she has answered Our John, “No, John, I cannot have you, I cannot have any husband, it is not my intentions ever to become a wife, it is my intentions to be always a sacrifice, farewell, find another worthy of you, and forget me!” This is the way in which she is doomed to be a constant slave to them that are not worthy that a constant slave she unto them should be. This is the way in which Our John has come to find no pleasure but in taking cold among the linen, and in showing in that yard, as in that yard I have myself shown you, a broken-down ruin that goes home to his mother’s heart!’ Here the good woman pointed to the little window, whence her son might be seen sitting disconsolate in the tuneless groves; and again shook her head and wiped her eyes, and besought him, for the united sakes of both the young people, to exercise his influence towards the bright reversal of these dismal events.

She was so confident in her exposition of the case, and it was so undeniably founded on correct premises in so far as the relative positions of Little Dorrit and her family were concerned, that Clennam could not feel positive on the other side. He had come to attach to Little Dorrit an interest so peculiar—an interest that removed her from, while it grew out of, the common and coarse things surrounding her—that he found it disappointing, disagreeable, almost painful, to suppose her in love with young Mr Chivery in the back-yard, or any such person. On the other hand, he reasoned with himself that she was just as good and just as true in love with him, as not in love with him; and that to make a kind of domesticated fairy of her, on the penalty of isolation at heart from the only people she knew, would be but a weakness of his own fancy, and not a kind one. Still, her youthful and ethereal appearance, her timid manner, the charm of her sensitive voice and eyes, the very many respects in which she had interested him out of her own individuality, and the strong difference between herself and those about her, were not in unison, and were determined not to be in unison, with this newly presented idea.

He told the worthy Mrs Chivery, after turning these things over in his mind—he did that, indeed, while she was yet speaking—that he might be relied upon to do his utmost at all times to promote the happiness of Miss Dorrit, and to further the wishes of her heart if it were in his power to do so, and if he could discover what they were. At the same time he cautioned her against assumptions and appearances; enjoined strict silence and secrecy, lest Miss Dorrit should be made unhappy; and particularly advised her to endeavour to win her son’s confidence and so to make quite sure of the state of the case. Mrs Chivery considered the latter precaution superfluous, but said she would try. She shook her head as if she had not derived all the comfort she had fondly expected from this interview, but thanked him nevertheless for the trouble he had kindly taken. They then parted good friends, and Arthur walked away.

The crowd in the street jostling the crowd in his mind, and the two crowds making a confusion, he avoided London Bridge, and turned off in the quieter direction of the Iron Bridge. He had scarcely set foot upon it, when he saw Little Dorrit walking on before him. It was a pleasant day, with a light breeze blowing, and she seemed to have that minute come there for air. He had left her in her father’s room within an hour.

“Signore,” continuò lei, “voi conoscete questa famiglia, vi siete interessato a loro e avete influenza su di loro. Se potete promuovere iniziative che possano rendere felici due giovani persone, vi prego, per il bene di Our John e per il loro bene, di farlo!”

“Sono talmente abituato,” rispose Arthur confuso, “nel breve tempo che l’ho conosciuta, a considerare Miss Dorrit in modo del tutto diverso da come voi la presentate a me, che siete davvero riusciti a sorprendermi. Lei conosce vostro figlio?”

“Siamo cresciuti insieme, signore,” disse la signora Chivery. “Abbiamo giocato insieme.”

“Sa lei che tuo figlio la considera una sua ammiratrice?”

“Oh! Grazie mille, signore,” disse la signora Chivery, con un tremito quasi trionfale, “non avrebbe mai potuto riconoscerlo in una domenica senza capire che era lui. Solo il suo bastone di avorio l’avrebbe già fatto capire da tempo, se nient’altro ci fosse stato. Giovani come John non si mettono mai mani d’avorio su oggetti del genere, per nessuna ragione. E io, come ho fatto a capirlo anch’io? Allo stesso modo.”

“Forse la signorina Dorrit non sarà pronta come te, capisci.”

“Allora lo sa, signore,” disse la signora Chivery, “per sentito dire.”

“Sei sicuro?”

“Signore,” disse la signora Chivery, “lo giuro su tutto ciò che ho in questo casa. Ho visto con i miei occhi mio figlio uscire da questa casa, e l’ho visto tornare dentro con i miei occhi. So per certo che è stato lui!” La signora Chivery riusciva a conferire una forza particolare alle sue parole grazie a questa ripetizione e a queste precisazioni circostanziali.

“Posso chiederle come abbia finito per trovarsi in quello stato di disperazione che le causa tanta preoccupazione?”

“Quello,” disse la signora Chivery, “accadde proprio nel giorno in cui vedo John tornare in questa casa con questi occhi. Da allora non è mai più stato lo stesso in questa casa. Non è mai più stato come è diventato da quel momento, sette anni fa, quando io e suo padre arrivammo qui come inquilini.” Il discorso della signora Chivery, grazie alla sua particolare capacità di espressione, ebbe l’effetto di un vero e proprio atto giuridico.

“Posso osare chiedere quale sia la sua versione dei fatti?”

“Puoi farlo,” disse la signora Chivery, “e te lo darò con onore e con parole sincere, proprio come sto in questa bottega. Nostro John ha le buone parole di tutti e i migliori desideri di tutti. Giocava con lei quando erano bambini, nel cortile dove anche lei giocava da bambina. La conosce da allora. Domenica pomeriggio, dopo aver pranzato proprio in questa stanza, l’incontrò, sia che ci fosse un appuntamento o meno. Non pretendo di saperlo con certezza. Le ha fatto la sua proposta. Suo fratello e sua sorella hanno opinioni elevate e sono contrari a Nostro John. Suo padre pensa solo a se stesso e non vuole che lei diventi moglie di nessuno. In queste circostanze, lei gli ha risposto: ‘No, John. Non posso aver te. Non voglio avere un marito. Non ho mai avuto l’intenzione di diventare una donna. Voglio solo essere sempre una vittima. Addio. Trova qualcuno che sia degno di te. E dimenticami!’ Ed è così che è destinata a rimanere per sempre una schiava di coloro che non meritano tale destino. Ed è così che Nostro John non trova più alcuna gioia nella vita. Trascorre i suoi giorni in solitudine, mostrando nel cortile, proprio come vi ho mostrato io stessa, l’immagine di un uomo distrutto e disperato. Che torna a casa con il cuore spezzato, ” La buona donna indicò la piccola finestra da cui si poteva vedere suo figlio seduto, cupo e solo, nei giardini desolati. Scosse di nuovo la testa, si asciugò le lacrime e pregò, per il bene di entrambi i giovani, che lui esercitasse la sua influenza affinché questi tristi eventi potessero cambiare.

Era così sicura della propria esposizione dei fatti, e queste argomentazioni si basavano indubbiamente su premesse corrette riguardo alle rispettive posizioni di Little Dorrit e della sua famiglia, che Clennam non riusciva a prendere una posizione contraria. Aveva iniziato a provare per Little Dorrit un interesse particolare: un interesse che la distaccava dalle cose comuni e volgari che la circondavano, ma che allo stesso tempo ne derivava. Per questo motivo, gli risultava deludente, sgradevole, quasi doloroso, l’idea che potesse essere innamorata di quel giovane Mr Chivery o di qualcun altro del genere. D’altra parte, ragionava con se stesso che lei fosse altrettanto buona e sincera nell’amore verso di lui, quanto lo era nel non esserlo. E che trasformarla in una sorta di “fata addomesticata”, a scapito dell’isolamento dalle uniche persone che conosceva, sarebbe stata soltanto una debolezza della sua immaginazione, e non certo una cosa positiva. Tuttavia, il suo aspetto giovane ed etereo, il suo modo timido di comportarsi, il fascino della sua voce e dei suoi occhi sensibili, i molti aspetti della sua personalità che lo avevano colpito, insieme alla forte differenza che c’era tra lei e le persone che la circondavano, non erano affatto in sintonia con questa nuova idea che gli era venuta in mente.

Dopo aver attentamente riflettuto su queste cose – e lo fece davvero mentre lei ancora parlava – le disse che poteva contare sul suo impegno costante nel promuovere la felicità di Miss Dorrit e nel realizzare, se possibile, i suoi desideri più profondi, purché riuscisse a comprenderli. Allo stesso tempo la avvertì di non fare supposizioni o affidarsi alle apparenze; le impose il massimo riserbo e discrezione, per evitare di rendere Miss Dorrit infelice; in particolare le consigliò di cercare di guadagnarsi la fiducia di suo figlio, così da conoscere con certezza la situazione reale. La signora Chivery riteneva che questo ultimo consiglio fosse superfluo, ma promise comunque di provarci. Scosse la testa, come se non avesse tratto tutto il conforto che si aspettava da quell’incontro, ma gli ringraziò comunque per l’impegno che aveva messo nel parlarle. Poi si separarono in buoni amici, e Arthur se ne andò a piedi.

La folla per strada si sovrappondeva alla folla nei suoi pensieri; quelle due folle creavano confusione. Evitò il Ponte di Londra e prese una direzione più tranquilla, verso il Ponte di Ferro. Appena vi mise piede, vide Little Dorrit camminare davanti a lui. Era una giornata piacevole, con una brezza leggera; sembrava che lei fosse venuta lì proprio in quel momento per prendere un po’ d’aria. L’aveva lasciata nella stanza di suo padre meno di un’ora prima.

It was a timely chance, favourable to his wish of observing her face and manner when no one else was by. He quickened his pace; but before he reached her, she turned her head.

‘Have I startled you?’ he asked.

‘I thought I knew the step,’ she answered, hesitating.

‘And did you know it, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have expected mine.’

‘I did not expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it—sounded like yours.’

‘Are you going further?’

‘No, sir, I am only walking here for a little change.’

They walked together, and she recovered her confiding manner with him, and looked up in his face as she said, after glancing around:

‘It is so strange. Perhaps you can hardly understand it. I sometimes have a sensation as if it was almost unfeeling to walk here.’

‘Unfeeling?’

‘To see the river, and so much sky, and so many objects, and such change and motion. Then to go back, you know, and find him in the same cramped place.’

‘Ah yes! But going back, you must remember that you take with you the spirit and influence of such things to cheer him.’

‘Do I? I hope I may! I am afraid you fancy too much, sir, and make me out too powerful. If you were in prison, could I bring such comfort to you?’

‘Yes, Little Dorrit, I am sure of it.’

He gathered from a tremor on her lip, and a passing shadow of great agitation on her face, that her mind was with her father. He remained silent for a few moments, that she might regain her composure. The Little Dorrit, trembling on his arm, was less in unison than ever with Mrs Chivery’s theory, and yet was not irreconcilable with a new fancy which sprung up within him, that there might be some one else in the hopeless—newer fancy still—in the hopeless unattainable distance.

They turned, and Clennam said, Here was Maggy coming! Little Dorrit looked up, surprised, and they confronted Maggy, who brought herself at sight of them to a dead stop. She had been trotting along, so preoccupied and busy that she had not recognised them until they turned upon her. She was now in a moment so conscience-stricken that her very basket partook of the change.

‘Maggy, you promised me to stop near father.’

‘So I would, Little Mother, only he wouldn’t let me. If he takes and sends me out I must go. If he takes and says, “Maggy, you hurry away and back with that letter, and you shall have a sixpence if the answer’s a good ‘un,” I must take it. Lor, Little Mother, what’s a poor thing of ten year old to do? And if Mr Tip—if he happens to be a coming in as I come out, and if he says “Where are you going, Maggy?” and if I says, “I’m a going So and So,” and if he says, “I’ll have a Try too,” and if he goes into the George and writes a letter and if he gives it me and says, “Take that one to the same place, and if the answer’s a good ‘un I’ll give you a shilling,” it ain’t my fault, mother!’

Arthur read, in Little Dorrit’s downcast eyes, to whom she foresaw that the letters were addressed.

‘I’m a going So and So. There! That’s where I am a going to,’ said Maggy. ‘I’m a going So and So. It ain’t you, Little Mother, that’s got anything to do with it—it’s you, you know,’ said Maggy, addressing Arthur. ‘You’d better come, So and So, and let me take and give ‘em to you.’

‘We will not be so particular as that, Maggy. Give them me here,’ said Clennam in a low voice.

‘Well, then, come across the road,’ answered Maggy in a very loud whisper. ‘Little Mother wasn’t to know nothing of it, and she would never have known nothing of it if you had only gone So and So, instead of bothering and loitering about. It ain’t my fault. I must do what I am told. They ought to be ashamed of themselves for telling me.’

Clennam crossed to the other side, and hurriedly opened the letters. That from the father mentioned that most unexpectedly finding himself in the novel position of having been disappointed of a remittance from the City on which he had confidently counted, he took up his pen, being restrained by the unhappy circumstance of his incarceration during three-and-twenty years (doubly underlined), from coming himself, as he would otherwise certainly have done—took up his pen to entreat Mr Clennam to advance him the sum of Three Pounds Ten Shillings upon his I.O.U., which he begged to enclose. That from the son set forth that Mr Clennam would, he knew, be gratified to hear that he had at length obtained permanent employment of a highly satisfactory nature, accompanied with every prospect of complete success in life; but that the temporary inability of his employer to pay him his arrears of salary to that date (in which condition said employer had appealed to that generous forbearance in which he trusted he should never be wanting towards a fellow-creature), combined with the fraudulent conduct of a false friend and the present high price of provisions, had reduced him to the verge of ruin, unless he could by a quarter before six that evening raise the sum of eight pounds. This sum, Mr Clennam would be happy to learn, he had, through the promptitude of several friends who had a lively confidence in his probity, already raised, with the exception of a trifling balance of one pound seventeen and fourpence; the loan of which balance, for the period of one month, would be fraught with the usual beneficent consequences.

These letters Clennam answered with the aid of his pencil and pocket-book, on the spot; sending the father what he asked for, and excusing himself from compliance with the demand of the son. He then commissioned Maggy to return with his replies, and gave her the shilling of which the failure of her supplemental enterprise would have disappointed her otherwise.

When he rejoined Little Dorrit, and they had begun walking as before, she said all at once:

‘I think I had better go. I had better go home.’

‘Don’t be distressed,’ said Clennam, ‘I have answered the letters. They were nothing. You know what they were. They were nothing.’

Era un’occasione propizia, ideale per poter osservare il suo viso e i suoi modi quando nessun altro era nei paraggi. Accelerò il passo; ma prima che la raggiungesse, lei girò la testa.

“Vi ho spaventato?” chiese.

“Pensavo di conoscere quella mossa,” rispose lei, esitando.

“E lo sapevi, Piccola Dorrit? Non avresti mai potuto immaginarlo, ”

“Non mi aspettavo nulla. Ma quando ho sentito dei passi, ho pensato che fossero i tuoi.”

“Andrai oltre?”

“No, signore, sto solo camminando qui per fare un po’ di movimento.”

Camminarono insieme, e lei riprese il suo modo di comportarsi fiduciosamente con lui; dopo essersi guardata intorno, alzò lo sguardo verso di lui e disse.

“È così strano. Forse è difficile da capire. A volte ho la sensazione che camminare qui sia quasi privo di emozioni.”

“Senza cuore?”

“Vedere il >fiume, tutto quel cielo, tanti oggetti intorno, e osservare i loro cambiamenti e i loro movimenti. Poi tornare indietro e ritrovarlo nello stesso spazio angusto.”

“Ah sì! Ma tornando indietro, devi ricordare che porti con te lo spirito e l’influenza di queste cose per incoraggiarlo.”

“Davvero? Spero di sì! Temo che voi pensiate troppo, signore, e che mi riteniate troppo potente. Se foste in prigione, riuscirei davvero a darvi conforto?”

“Sì, piccola Dorrit, ne sono sicuro.”

Notò un tremito sulle sue labbra e un fugace segno di grande agitazione sul suo viso: capì che i suoi pensieri erano con suo padre. Rimase in silenzio per qualche momento, affinché potesse riprendere il controllo di sé. La piccola Dorrit, tremante nel suo braccio, non concordava più del solito con le teorie della signora Chivery, ma questa discrepanza non era comunque incompatibile con una nuova idea che gli era venuta in mente: forse c’era qualcun altro, in quella distanza disperata e irraggiungibile.

Si girarono, e Clennam disse: “Ecco che arriva Maggy!” La piccola Dorrit alzò lo sguardo, sorpresa; si trovarono di fronte a Maggy, la quale, non appena li vide, si fermò di colpo. Era stata camminando velocemente, così assorta e impegnata nei suoi pensieri da non riconoscerli fino a quando non si girarono verso di lei. In quel momento, il suo senso di coscienza era così tormentato che anche il cestino che portava sembrò subire lo stesso cambiamento.

“Maggy, mi avevi promesso di fermarti vicino a papà.”

“Lo farei volentieri, Piccola Madre, ma lui non mi lascia. Se decide di mandarmi via, devo andare. Se dice: ‘Maggy, vai subito e torna con quella lettera; se la risposta è positiva, avrai sei penny’, allora devo accettare. Oh, Piccola Madre, cosa può fare una povera bambina di dieci anni? E se il signor Tip dovesse entrare proprio mentre esco, e mi chiedesse ‘Dove stai andando, Maggy?’ e io rispondessi ‘Vado da così e così’, e lui dicesse ‘Anch’io proverò’, e poi entrasse al George per scrivere una lettera e me la desse dicendo ‘Portala nello stesso posto; se la risposta è positiva, avrai un scellino’, non sarebbe colpa mia, mamma, ”

Arthur lesse, negli occhi tristi di Little Dorrit, a cui sapeva che quelle lettere erano indirizzate.

“Sto andando da così e così. Lì! È lì che sto andando,” disse Maggy. “Non sei tu, Piccola Madre, che c’entri in qualche modo, sei tu, capisci?” aggiunse rivolgendosi ad Arthur. “È meglio che vieni anche tu, così posso darteli.”

“Non saremo così esigenti, Maggy. Dammeli qui,” disse Clennam a bassa voce.

‘Beh,’ rispose Maggy sussurrando molto ad alta voce, ‘allora, incrociati sulla strada. Little Mother non doveva saperne nulla, e non avrebbe mai saputo nulla se solo fossi andata da quella parte invece di stare a perdere tempo qui. Non è colpa mia. Devo fare ciò che mi viene detto. Dovrebbero vergognarsi di avermelo chiesto.’

Clennam attraversò la strada e aprì rapidamente le lettere. Quella del padre menzionava come, trovandosi inaspettatamente nella situazione di non aver ricevuto il denaro che si aspettava con fiducia dalla città, avesse deciso di scrivere per chiedere a Clennam di anticipargli la somma di tre sterline e dieci scellini, allegando anche l’assegno come garanzia. Quella del figlio spiegava che Clennam sarebbe stato sicuramente lieto di sapere che aveva finalmente ottenuto un lavoro stabile e molto soddisfacente, con tutte le prospettive di successo nella vita; tuttavia, l’impossibilità temporanea del suo datore di lavoro di pagargli gli arretrati, unita al comportamento fraudolento di un falso amico e ai costi elevati dei generi di prima necessità, lo avevano portato sull’orlo della rovina, a meno che non riuscisse a racimolare otto sterline entro le sei di quella sera. Clennam avrebbe certo apprezzato sapere che, grazie alla prontezza di alcuni amici che avevano grande fiducia nella sua onestà, lui aveva già raccolto la somma richiesta, ad eccezione di un piccolo saldo di una sterlina diciassette pence; il prestito di tale importo, per un periodo di un mese, avrebbe portato alle solite conseguenze positive.

Clennam rispose a queste lettere sul momento, utilizzando la sua penna e il suo taccuino; inviò al padre ciò che questi chiedeva e si scusò per non poter soddisfare le richieste del figlio. Poi incaricò Maggy di portargli le risposte e le diede lo scellino che, in caso contrario, l’insuccesso della sua iniziativa avrebbe deluso.

Quando si riunì a Little Dorrit e iniziarono a camminare come prima, lei disse all’improvviso:

“Credo che sia meglio che vada. È meglio che torni a casa.”

“Non angosciarti,” disse Clennam, “ho risposto a quelle lettere. Non significavano nulla. Tu sai di cosa si trattava. Non significavano nulla.”

‘But I am afraid,’ she returned, ‘to leave him, I am afraid to leave any of them. When I am gone, they pervert—but they don’t mean it—even Maggy.’

‘It was a very innocent commission that she undertook, poor thing. And in keeping it secret from you, she supposed, no doubt, that she was only saving you uneasiness.’

‘Yes, I hope so, I hope so. But I had better go home! It was but the other day that my sister told me I had become so used to the prison that I had its tone and character. It must be so. I am sure it must be when I see these things. My place is there. I am better there, it is unfeeling in me to be here, when I can do the least thing there. Good-bye. I had far better stay at home!’

The agonised way in which she poured this out, as if it burst of itself from her suppressed heart, made it difficult for Clennam to keep the tears from his eyes as he saw and heard her.

‘Don’t call it home, my child!’ he entreated. ‘It is always painful to me to hear you call it home.’

‘But it is home! What else can I call home? Why should I ever forget it for a single moment?’

‘You never do, dear Little Dorrit, in any good and true service.’

‘I hope not, O I hope not! But it is better for me to stay there; much better, much more dutiful, much happier. Please don’t go with me, let me go by myself. Good-bye, God bless you. Thank you, thank you.’

He felt that it was better to respect her entreaty, and did not move while her slight form went quickly away from him. When it had fluttered out of sight, he turned his face towards the water and stood thinking.

She would have been distressed at any time by this discovery of the letters; but so much so, and in that unrestrainable way?

No.

When she had seen her father begging with his threadbare disguise on, when she had entreated him not to give her father money, she had been distressed, but not like this. Something had made her keenly and additionally sensitive just now. Now, was there some one in the hopeless unattainable distance? Or had the suspicion been brought into his mind, by his own associations of the troubled river running beneath the bridge with the same river higher up, its changeless tune upon the prow of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the peaceful flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet?

He thought of his poor child, Little Dorrit, for a long time there; he thought of her going home; he thought of her in the night; he thought of her when the day came round again. And the poor child Little Dorrit thought of him—too faithfully, ah, too faithfully!—in the shadow of the Marshalsea wall.

“Ma ho paura,” rispose lei, “di lasciarlo. Ho paura di lasciare qualcuno di loro. Quando me ne vado, loro si comportano male, ma non lo fanno apposta, anche Maggy.”

“Era un compito molto innocente quello che aveva intrapreso, poverina. E, tenendolo segreto da te, senza dubbio pensava di starti solo risparmiando delle preoccupazioni.”

‘Sì, spero proprio di sì. Ma è meglio che vada a casa! Solo l’altro giorno mia sorella mi ha detto che ormai sono così abituato alla prigione da averne assunto lo stesso tono e lo stesso carattere. Deve essere vero. Ne sono sicuro, quando vedo queste cose. Il mio posto è lì. Sono meglio lì. Qui non provo nulla. Lì, invece, posso almeno fare qualcosa. Addio. È molto meglio che rimanga a casa!’

Il modo angosciato con cui lei lo espresse, come se quelle parole fossero scaturite spontaneamente dal suo cuore represso, fece sì che a Clennam risultasse difficile trattenere le lacrime mentre la guardava e la ascoltava.

“Non chiamarla casa, mio bambino!” lo pregò. “Mi fa sempre male sentirti chiamarla così.”

“Ma è la casa! Come altro potrei chiamare questa luogo la casa? Perché dovrei mai dimenticarlo, nemmeno per un momento?”

“Mai fai nulla di buono e sincero, cara piccola Dorrit, ”

‘Non lo spero, oh non lo spero! Ma è meglio per me restare lì; molto meglio, molto più doveroso, molto più felice. Per favore, non andartene con me, lasciami andare da solo. Addio, che Dio ti benedica. Grazie, grazie.’

Sentì che fosse meglio rispettare il suo supplico e non si mosse mentre la sua esile figura si allontanava rapidamente da lui. Quando scomparve dalla vista, girò il viso verso l’acqua e rimase a pensare.

Sarebbe stata sconvolta in qualsiasi momento da questa scoperta delle lettere; ma così tanto, e in quel modo incontrollabile?

No.

Quando aveva visto suo padre implorare con il suo logoro travestimento addosso, quando gli aveva chiesto di non dargli soldi, si era sentita angosciata, ma non così. Qualcosa aveva reso lei particolarmente sensibile in quel momento. Forse c’era qualcuno, lontano e irraggiungibile. O forse quella sospetta era nata dalle sue stesse riflessioni: il turbolento fiume che scorreva sotto il ponte, lo stesso fiume più in alto, con il suo ritmo costante lungo la prua della barca traghetto. Quel flusso tranquillo, migliaia di chilometri orari. Qui i giunchi, là i lillà. Niente di incerto o inquietante.

Pensò a sua povera figlia, la piccola Dorrit, per molto tempo; pensò al momento in cui sarebbe tornata a casa, alla notte, e anche quando il giorno sarebbe ricominciato. E la povera piccola Dorrit, a sua volta, pensava a lui, con troppa fedeltà, ah, con troppa fedeltà, nell’ombra del muro di Marshalsea.

CHAPTER 23. Machinery in Motion

Mr Meagles bestirred himself with such prompt activity in the matter of the negotiation with Daniel Doyce which Clennam had entrusted to him, that he soon brought it into business train, and called on Clennam at nine o’clock one morning to make his report.

‘Doyce is highly gratified by your good opinion,’ he opened the business by saying, ‘and desires nothing so much as that you should examine the affairs of the Works for yourself, and entirely understand them. He has handed me the keys of all his books and papers—here they are jingling in this pocket—and the only charge he has given me is “Let Mr Clennam have the means of putting himself on a perfect equality with me as to knowing whatever I know. If it should come to nothing after all, he will respect my confidence. Unless I was sure of that to begin with, I should have nothing to do with him.” And there, you see,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘you have Daniel Doyce all over.’

‘A very honourable character.’

‘Oh, yes, to be sure. Not a doubt of it. Odd, but very honourable. Very odd though. Now, would you believe, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, with a hearty enjoyment of his friend’s eccentricity, ‘that I had a whole morning in What’s-his-name Yard—’

‘Bleeding Heart?’

‘A whole morning in Bleeding Heart Yard, before I could induce him to pursue the subject at all?’

‘How was that?’

‘How was that, my friend? I no sooner mentioned your name in connection with it than he declared off.’

‘Declared off on my account?’

‘I no sooner mentioned your name, Clennam, than he said, “That will never do!” What did he mean by that? I asked him. No matter, Meagles; that would never do. Why would it never do? You’ll hardly believe it, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, laughing within himself, ‘but it came out that it would never do, because you and he, walking down to Twickenham together, had glided into a friendly conversation in the course of which he had referred to his intention of taking a partner, supposing at the time that you were as firmly and finally settled as St Paul’s Cathedral. “Whereas,” says he, “Mr Clennam might now believe, if I entertained his proposition, that I had a sinister and designing motive in what was open free speech. Which I can’t bear,” says he, “which I really am too proud to bear.”’

‘I should as soon suspect—’

‘Of course you would,’ interrupted Mr Meagles, ‘and so I told him. But it took a morning to scale that wall; and I doubt if any other man than myself (he likes me of old) could have got his leg over it. Well, Clennam. This business-like obstacle surmounted, he then stipulated that before resuming with you I should look over the books and form my own opinion. I looked over the books, and formed my own opinion. “Is it, on the whole, for, or against?” says he. “For,” says I. “Then,” says he, “you may now, my good friend, give Mr Clennam the means of forming his opinion. To enable him to do which, without bias and with perfect freedom, I shall go out of town for a week.” And he’s gone,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘that’s the rich conclusion of the thing.’

‘Leaving me,’ said Clennam, ‘with a high sense, I must say, of his candour and his—’

‘Oddity,’ Mr Meagles struck in. ‘I should think so!’

It was not exactly the word on Clennam’s lips, but he forbore to interrupt his good-humoured friend.

‘And now,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘you can begin to look into matters as soon as you think proper. I have undertaken to explain where you may want explanation, but to be strictly impartial, and to do nothing more.’

They began their perquisitions in Bleeding Heart Yard that same forenoon. Little peculiarities were easily to be detected by experienced eyes in Mr Doyce’s way of managing his affairs, but they almost always involved some ingenious simplification of a difficulty, and some plain road to the desired end. That his papers were in arrear, and that he stood in need of assistance to develop the capacity of his business, was clear enough; but all the results of his undertakings during many years were distinctly set forth, and were ascertainable with ease. Nothing had been done for the purposes of the pending investigation; everything was in its genuine working dress, and in a certain honest rugged order. The calculations and entries, in his own hand, of which there were many, were bluntly written, and with no very neat precision; but were always plain and directed straight to the purpose. It occurred to Arthur that a far more elaborate and taking show of business—such as the records of the Circumlocution Office made perhaps—might be far less serviceable, as being meant to be far less intelligible.

Three or four days of steady application tendered him master of all the facts it was essential to become acquainted with. Mr Meagles was at hand the whole time, always ready to illuminate any dim place with the bright little safety-lamp belonging to the scales and scoop. Between them they agreed upon the sum it would be fair to offer for the purchase of a half-share in the business, and then Mr Meagles unsealed a paper in which Daniel Doyce had noted the amount at which he valued it; which was even something less. Thus, when Daniel came back, he found the affair as good as concluded.

‘And I may now avow, Mr Clennam,’ said he, with a cordial shake of the hand, ‘that if I had looked high and low for a partner, I believe I could not have found one more to my mind.’

‘I say the same,’ said Clennam.

‘And I say of both of you,’ added Mr Meagles, ‘that you are well matched. You keep him in check, Clennam, with your common sense, and you stick to the Works, Dan, with your—’

‘Uncommon sense?’ suggested Daniel, with his quiet smile.

‘You may call it so, if you like—and each of you will be a right hand to the other. Here’s my own right hand upon it, as a practical man, to both of you.’

The purchase was completed within a month. It left Arthur in possession of private personal means not exceeding a few hundred pounds; but it opened to him an active and promising career. The three friends dined together on the auspicious occasion; the factory and the factory wives and children made holiday and dined too; even Bleeding Heart Yard dined and was full of meat. Two months had barely gone by in all, when Bleeding Heart Yard had become so familiar with short-commons again, that the treat was forgotten there; when nothing seemed new in the partnership but the paint of the inscription on the door-posts, DOYCE AND CLENNAM; when it appeared even to Clennam himself, that he had had the affairs of the firm in his mind for years.

CAPITOLO 23. Macchinari in movimento

Il signor Meagles si impegnò con grande efficienza nella negoziazione relativa a Daniel Doyce, incarico che Clennam gli aveva affidato; in poco tempo portò le cose avanti e, una mattina alle nove, andò da Clennam per riferirgli i risultati.

“Doyce è molto grato per la vostra buona opinione,” iniziò dicendo, “e desidera più di ogni altra cosa che voi esaminiate personalmente gli affari delle Imprese e ne comprendiate appieno i dettagli. Mi ha consegnato le chiavi di tutti i suoi libri e documenti, eccole qui, che tintinnano nella mia tasca. L’unica raccomandazione che mi ha fatto è: ‘Fai in modo che il signor Clennam abbia le stesse possibilità di conoscere ciò che so io’. Anche se alla fine tutto dovesse rivelarsi inutile, rispetterà la mia fiducia. Se non ne fossi stato sicuro fin dall’inizio, non avrei mai avuto nulla a che fare con lui.” E così, vedete,” aggiunse il signor Meagles, “ecco qui tutto ciò che riguarda Daniel Doyce.”

“Un personaggio davvero onorevole.”

“Oh, sì, certamente. Nessun >dubbio al riguardo. Strano, ma molto onorevole. Anzi, molto strano davvero. Ora, credi o no, Clennam,” disse il signor Meagles, godendosi appieno l’eccentricità del suo amico, “che ho trascorso un intero mattino nel cortile di quel posto che non ricordo più come si chiama, ”

“Cuore sanguinante?”

“Un’intera mattina nel Bleeding Heart Yard, prima ancora che riuscissi a fargli affrontare l’argomento?”

“Come è andata?”

“Com’è andata, amico mio? Non appena ho menzionato il tuo nome in relazione a quella cosa, lui ha rifiutato all’istante.”

“Declarato a mio nome?”

Non appena menzionai il tuo nome, Clennam, lui disse: “Quello non va mai bene!” Cosa intendeva con questo? Glielo chiesi. Niente importa, Meagles; semplicemente, non andava mai bene. Perché non andava mai bene? Difficilmente ci crederai, Clennam, disse il signor Meagles ridendo tra sé e sé, ma risultò che non andava mai bene perché tu e lui, camminando insieme verso Twickenham, avevate iniziato a conversare amichevolmente; durante quella conversazione lui aveva accennato al suo desiderio di trovare un socio, supponendo all’epoca che tu fossi altrettanto deciso e irrevocabile nella tua decisione quanto la Cattedrale di San Paolo. “Mentre invece,” disse lui, “se accettassi la sua proposta, il signor Clennam potrebbe pensare che io abbia motivi sinistri e calcolatori dietro a quelle parole apparentemente sincere. E questo non lo posso sopportare,” aggiunse, “sono davvero troppo orgoglioso per farlo.”

“Dovrei forse sospettare, ”

“Certo che sì,” interruppe il signor Meagles, “e così gli ho detto. Ma ci è voluta un’intera mattina per scalare quel muro; e dubito che qualcun altro oltre a me (che lui ha sempre apprezzato) sarebbe riuscito a farlo. Beh, Clennam. Una volta superato questo ostacolo pratico, mi chiese di esaminare i libri prima di riprendere il lavoro con te e formarmi una mia opinione. Ho esaminato i libri e ho formato la mia opinione. ‘In generale, è a favore o contro?’ mi chiese. ‘A favore,’ risposi. ‘Allora,’ disse lui, ‘puoi ora, mio caro amico, dare al signor Clennam le informazioni necessarie per formarsi una sua opinione. Affinché possa farlo senza pregiudizi e con totale libertà, me ne andrò fuori città per una settimana.’ E se n’è andato,” disse il signor Meagles; “ecco la conclusione di tutta questa storia.”

“Lasciandomi,” disse Clennam, “con una profonda ammirazione per la sua onestà e, ”.

“Stranezza, ”, intervenne il signor Meagles. “Certo che lo è!”

Non era esattamente quella parola che Clennam aveva intenzione di dire, ma si trattenne dal interrompere il suo amico di buon umore.

“E ora,” aggiunse il signor Meagles, “potete iniziare a indagare su queste questioni non appena lo riterrete opportuno. Ho promesso di spiegare tutto ciò che potreste aver bisogno di sapere, ma devo rimanere assolutamente imparziale e non fare nulla di più.”

Iniziarono le loro indagini quel pomeriggio stesso nel Bleeding Heart Yard. Con occhi esperti, era facile notare alcune particolarità nel modo in cui il signor Doyce gestiva i suoi affari; queste particolarità riguardavano quasi sempre semplici soluzioni ingegnose a difficoltà esistenti, nonché metodi diretti per raggiungere gli obiettivi desiderati. Era evidente che i suoi documenti fossero in arretrato e che avesse bisogno di aiuto per sviluppare ulteriormente la sua attività; tuttavia, tutti i risultati delle sue iniziative negli anni precedenti erano chiaramente esposti e facilmente verificabili. Non era stato fatto nulla che potesse ostacolare le indagini in corso; tutto era nella sua forma originale, in un ordine semplice e onesto. I calcoli e le annotazioni, scritti di suo pugno e numerosi, erano redatti in modo diretto e senza particolare precisione formale, ma sempre chiari e mirati al loro scopo. A Arthur sembrò che una presentazione degli affari molto più elaborata e complessa – come quelle dei registri dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, ad esempio – potesse rivelarsi meno utile, poiché probabilmente anche meno comprensibile.

Dopo tre o quattro giorni di applicazione costante, riuscì a padroneggiare tutti i fatti essenziali per comprendere la situazione. Il signor Meagles era sempre presente, pronto ad aiutarlo con quella piccola lampada luminosa utilizzata per le bilance e le ciotole. Insieme stabilirono l’importo che sarebbe stato giusto offrire per acquistare una metà delle quote dell’attività; poi il signor Meagles aprì un foglio su cui Daniel Doyce aveva annotato la somma che riteneva adeguata; anzi, era persino inferiore a quella concordata. Così, quando Daniel tornò, scoprì che l’affare era ormai concluso.

“E ora posso confessarlo, signor Clennam,” disse lui, stringendogli la mano con calore, “che se avessi cercato ovunque un compagno di affari, credo che non ne avrei trovato uno più adatto ai miei desideri.”

“Dico lo stesso,” disse Clennam.

“E dico di entrambi voi,” aggiunse il signor Meagles, “che siete davvero una bella coppia. Tu lo controlli, Clennam, con il tuo buon senso, e tu ti attieni alle tue responsabilità, Dan, con la tua, ”

“Buon senso comune?”, suggerì Daniel, con il suo sorriso tranquillo.

“Potete chiamarlo così, se volete. E ognuno di voi sarà un braccio destro per l’altro. Ecco la mia mano destra, come uomo pratico, che garantisce questo impegno per entrambi.”

L’acquisto fu completato entro un mese. Questo permise a Arthur di disporre di risorse personali che non superavano alcune centinaia di sterline; tuttavia, gli aprì la strada per una carriera promettente e attiva. I tre amici pranzarono insieme in quell’occasione importante; anche le famiglie dei lavoratori della fabbrica parteciparono al banchetto; persino il quartiere di Bleeding Heart Yard si unì alla festa, con tavoli pieni di cibo. Appena due mesi dopo, quel quartiere aveva ormai dimenticato quella novità; nulla sembrava essere cambiato nella società, tranne la vernice delle iscrizioni sulle porte: “DOYCE E CLENNAM”. Persino a Clennam stesso pareva di aver gestito gli affari dell’azienda da anni.

The little counting-house reserved for his own occupation, was a room of wood and glass at the end of a long low workshop, filled with benches, and vices, and tools, and straps, and wheels; which, when they were in gear with the steam-engine, went tearing round as though they had a suicidal mission to grind the business to dust and tear the factory to pieces. A communication of great trap-doors in the floor and roof with the workshop above and the workshop below, made a shaft of light in this perspective, which brought to Clennam’s mind the child’s old picture-book, where similar rays were the witnesses of Abel’s murder. The noises were sufficiently removed and shut out from the counting-house to blend into a busy hum, interspersed with periodical clinks and thumps. The patient figures at work were swarthy with the filings of iron and steel that danced on every bench and bubbled up through every chink in the planking. The workshop was arrived at by a step-ladder from the outer yard below, where it served as a shelter for the large grindstone where tools were sharpened. The whole had at once a fanciful and practical air in Clennam’s eyes, which was a welcome change; and, as often as he raised them from his first work of getting the array of business documents into perfect order, he glanced at these things with a feeling of pleasure in his pursuit that was new to him.

Raising his eyes thus one day, he was surprised to see a bonnet labouring up the step-ladder. The unusual apparition was followed by another bonnet. He then perceived that the first bonnet was on the head of Mr F.’s Aunt, and that the second bonnet was on the head of Flora, who seemed to have propelled her legacy up the steep ascent with considerable difficulty.

Though not altogether enraptured at the sight of these visitors, Clennam lost no time in opening the counting-house door, and extricating them from the workshop; a rescue which was rendered the more necessary by Mr F.’s Aunt already stumbling over some impediment, and menacing steam power as an Institution with a stony reticule she carried.

‘Good gracious, Arthur,—I should say Mr Clennam, far more proper—the climb we have had to get up here and how ever to get down again without a fire-escape and Mr F.’s Aunt slipping through the steps and bruised all over and you in the machinery and foundry way too only think, and never told us!’

Thus, Flora, out of breath. Meanwhile, Mr F.’s Aunt rubbed her esteemed insteps with her umbrella, and vindictively glared.

‘Most unkind never to have come back to see us since that day, though naturally it was not to be expected that there should be any attraction at our house and you were much more pleasantly engaged, that’s pretty certain, and is she fair or dark blue eyes or black I wonder, not that I expect that she should be anything but a perfect contrast to me in all particulars for I am a disappointment as I very well know and you are quite right to be devoted no doubt though what I am saying Arthur never mind I hardly know myself Good gracious!’

By this time he had placed chairs for them in the counting-house. As Flora dropped into hers, she bestowed the old look upon him.

‘And to think of Doyce and Clennam, and who Doyce can be,’ said Flora; ‘delightful man no doubt and married perhaps or perhaps a daughter, now has he really? then one understands the partnership and sees it all, don’t tell me anything about it for I know I have no claim to ask the question the golden chain that once was forged being snapped and very proper.’

Flora put her hand tenderly on his, and gave him another of the youthful glances.

‘Dear Arthur—force of habit, Mr Clennam every way more delicate and adapted to existing circumstances—I must beg to be excused for taking the liberty of this intrusion but I thought I might so far presume upon old times for ever faded never more to bloom as to call with Mr F.’s Aunt to congratulate and offer best wishes, A great deal superior to China not to be denied and much nearer though higher up!’

‘I am very happy to see you,’ said Clennam, ‘and I thank you, Flora, very much for your kind remembrance.’

‘More than I can say myself at any rate,’ returned Flora, ‘for I might have been dead and buried twenty distinct times over and no doubt whatever should have been before you had genuinely remembered Me or anything like it in spite of which one last remark I wish to make, one last explanation I wish to offer—’

‘My dear Mrs Finching,’ Arthur remonstrated in alarm.

‘Oh not that disagreeable name, say Flora!’

‘Flora, is it worth troubling yourself afresh to enter into explanations? I assure you none are needed. I am satisfied—I am perfectly satisfied.’

A diversion was occasioned here, by Mr F.’s Aunt making the following inexorable and awful statement:

‘There’s mile-stones on the Dover road!’

With such mortal hostility towards the human race did she discharge this missile, that Clennam was quite at a loss how to defend himself; the rather as he had been already perplexed in his mind by the honour of a visit from this venerable lady, when it was plain she held him in the utmost abhorrence. He could not but look at her with disconcertment, as she sat breathing bitterness and scorn, and staring leagues away. Flora, however, received the remark as if it had been of a most apposite and agreeable nature; approvingly observing aloud that Mr F.’s Aunt had a great deal of spirit. Stimulated either by this compliment, or by her burning indignation, that illustrious woman then added, ‘Let him meet it if he can!’ And, with a rigid movement of her stony reticule (an appendage of great size and of a fossil appearance), indicated that Clennam was the unfortunate person at whom the challenge was hurled.

‘One last remark,’ resumed Flora, ‘I was going to say I wish to make one last explanation I wish to offer, Mr F.’s Aunt and myself would not have intruded on business hours Mr F. having been in business and though the wine trade still business is equally business call it what you will and business habits are just the same as witness Mr F. himself who had his slippers always on the mat at ten minutes before six in the afternoon and his boots inside the fender at ten minutes before eight in the morning to the moment in all weathers light or dark—would not therefore have intruded without a motive which being kindly meant it may be hoped will be kindly taken Arthur, Mr Clennam far more proper, even Doyce and Clennam probably more business-like.’

La piccola casa destinata alle operazioni di conteggio era una stanza fatta interamente di legno e vetro, situata alla fine di un lungo e basso laboratorio, piena di banchi, morse, attrezzi, cinghie e ruote. Quando questi strumenti venivano messi in funzione insieme alla macchina a vapore, si mettevano in movimento con tale violenza da sembrare animati dall’intenzione suicida di ridurre tutto in polvere e distruggere completamente la fabbrica. Grandi porte basculanti nel pavimento e nel soffitto collegavano questa stanza ai laboratori sopra e sotto di essa, creando un fascio di luce che ricordava a Clennam i vecchi libri illustrati del bambino, nei quali raggi simili erano stati utilizzati per rappresentare il crimine commesso da Abe. I rumori provenienti dal laboratorio erano abbastanza attutiti da fondersi in un brusio costante, interrotto di tanto in tanto da suoni metallici. Le figure impegnate nel lavoro avevano il viso annerito a causa della polvere di ferro e acciaio che si sollevava ovunque. Si poteva accedere al laboratorio tramite una scala a pioli posta nel cortile esterno, dove si trovava anche la grande pietra da affilare utilizzata per temperare gli attrezzi. Nel complesso, tutto questo aveva un aspetto al tempo stesso fantastico e pratico, il che rappresentava un piacevole cambiamento rispetto alle sue abitudini quotidiane. Ogni volta che alzava lo sguardo dai documenti da sistemare, Clennam osservava quelle attività con un senso di soddisfazione che prima non provava mai.

Un giorno, alzando lo sguardo, rimase sorpreso nel vedere un cappello che saliva lentamente lungo la scala a pioli. Quell’apparizione insolita fu seguita da un altro cappello. Allora capì che il primo cappello era sulla testa della zia del signor F., mentre il secondo cappello apparteneva a Flora, che sembrava avere molta difficoltà ad avanzare lungo quella ripida salita, come se stesse cercando di “spingere” il proprio lascito verso l’alto con grande sforzo.

Sebbene non fosse del tutto entusiasta alla vista di questi visitatori, Clennam non perse tempo ad aprire la porta della casa dei conti e a farli uscire dal laboratorio; un intervento reso ancora più necessario dal fatto che la zia del signor F. si era già imbattuta in qualche ostacolo e minacciava di distruggere l’intera istituzione con il suo “reticolo di pietra”.

“Mio Dio, Arthur, dovrei dire il signor Clennam, che è molto più appropriato. Quanto abbiamo dovuto salire fino a qui, e come faremo ad scendere di nuovo senza un’uscita di emergenza. E poi la zia del signor F. che è scivolata sui gradini e si è ferita dappertutto. E tu, immerso in tutto quel lavoro nella macchina-fonderia. Non ci hai mai detto nulla!”

Così, Flora, senza fiato. Nel frattempo, la zia del signor F. si strofinava i piedi con l’ombrello e lo fissava con uno sguardo pieno di rancore.

“Che crudeltà da parte sua non essere mai tornato a trovarci da quel giorno. Anche se, naturalmente, non si poteva certo aspettarsi che ci fosse alcun interesse per la nostra >casa, e inoltre tu eri sicuramente impegnato con qualcuno molto più adatto a te. Chissà se lei ha occhi belli, blu scuro o neri. Non che mi aspetti che sia diversa da me sotto alcun aspetto: so bene di non essere affatto perfetto, e hai tutto il diritto di essere fedele senza >dubbi. Ma, Arthur, lascia perdere. In realtà, non so nemmeno cosa sto dicendo. Oddio!”

A quell’ora, aveva già preparato delle sedie per loro nella sala del conteggio. Mentre Flora si sedeva, gli rivolse quel suo vecchio sguardo.

“E pensare a Doyce e Clennam. E chi possa essere Doyce, ” disse Flora; “Un uomo davvero delizioso, senza alcun >dubbio. Forse è sposato, o forse ha una figlia. Ora che ci penso, tutto ha senso. Non ditemi nulla al riguardo: so bene di non avere il diritto di porre queste domande. Quella ‘catena d’oro’ che un tempo fu forgiata, ora è spezzata. E in modo molto appropriato.”

Flora posò dolcemente la sua mano sulla sua e gli rivolse uno di quegli sguardi giovani e pieni di tenerezza.

‘Caro Arthur, per abitudine, e perché il signor Clennam è molto più raffinato e adatto alle circostanze attuali, devo chiedervi scusa per questa intrusione. Tuttavia, ho pensato di potermi permettere di fare questo, ricordando i tempi passati, che ormai sono svaniti per sempre e non torneranno mai più. Vorrei quindi invitare la zia del signor F. a ricevere le mie congratulazioni e i miei migliori auguri. Qualcosa di molto superiore a ciò che si può trovare in Cina, e sicuramente molto più prezioso!’

“Sono molto felice di vederti,” disse Clennam, “e ti ringrazio molto, Flora, per il tuo gentile pensiero.”

“Più di quanto io possa dire io stessa, comunque,” rispose Flora, “perché avrei potuto essere morta e sepolta venti volte senza che tu ti fossi mai davvero ricordato di me o di qualcosa del genere. Tuttavia, vorrei fare un’ultima osservazione, offrire un’ultima spiegazione, ”

“Mia cara signora Finching,” protestò Arthur con preoccupazione.

“Ah no, un nome così sgradevole, chiamiamola Flora!”

“Flora, vale davvero la pena che ti impegni di nuovo per dare spiegazioni? Ti assicuro che non sono necessarie. Sono soddisfatta, sono perfettamente soddisfatta.”

Qui si verificò un’interruzione nel corso degli eventi, quando la zia del signor F. fece la seguente dichiarazione inesorabile e terribile:

“Ci sono pietre miliari sulla strada di Dover!”

Con un tale odio mortale verso l’umanità lei lanciò quel missile; Clennam non sapeva proprio come difendersi. Del resto, era già confuso per via dell’onore di aver ricevuto la visita di quella nobile signora, quando era evidente che lei lo disprezzava profondamente. Non poteva fare altro che guardarla con imbarazzo, mentre lei sedeva lì, emettendo suoni di amarezza e disprezzo, fissando qualcosa lontano davanti a sé. Flora, invece, interpretò quelle parole come se fossero di natura molto appropriata e gradita; commentò ad alta voce che la zia del signor F. aveva davvero molto spirito. Stimolata sia da quel complimento che dalla sua furiosa indignazione, quella nobile donna aggiunse: “Che ci provi, se ne ha il coraggio!” E, con un movimento rigido della sua reticola di pietra (un oggetto enorme e dall’aspetto fossile), indicò chiaramente che Clennam era la persona sfortunata a cui veniva lanciato quel sfida.

“Un’ultima osservazione,” riprese Flora, “volevo dire che desidero fornire un’ultima spiegazione. La zia di Mr F. e io non avremmo mai interferito durante gli orari di lavoro, visto che Mr F. era impegnato nelle sue attività commerciali. E anche il commercio del vino, dopotutto, è pur sempre un’attività. Chiamatela come volete; le abitudini lavorative rimangono comunque le stesse. Basta guardare Mr F. stesso: i suoi pantofole erano sempre posizionate sul tappetino dieci minuti prima delle sei del pomeriggio, e le sue scarpe dentro il paracarro dieci minuti prima delle otto del mattino. In qualsiasi condizione meteorologica, sia di giorno che di notte. Quindi, non ci saremmo mai intromesse senza un motivo. Un motivo gentile, si spera. Che possa essere accolto con lo stesso spirito gentile, Arthur, ” “Mr Clennam, forse, sarebbe la denominazione più appropriata. Anzi, probabilmente anche ‘Doyce e Clennam’ suonerebbe più professionale.”

‘Pray say nothing in the way of apology,’ Arthur entreated. ‘You are always welcome.’

‘Very polite of you to say so Arthur—cannot remember Mr Clennam until the word is out, such is the habit of times for ever fled, and so true it is that oft in the stilly night ere slumber’s chain has bound people, fond memory brings the light of other days around people—very polite but more polite than true I am afraid, for to go into the machinery business without so much as sending a line or a card to papa—I don’t say me though there was a time but that is past and stern reality has now my gracious never mind—does not look like it you must confess.’

Even Flora’s commas seemed to have fled on this occasion; she was so much more disjointed and voluble than in the preceding interview.

‘Though indeed,’ she hurried on, ‘nothing else is to be expected and why should it be expected and if it’s not to be expected why should it be, and I am far from blaming you or any one, When your mama and my papa worried us to death and severed the golden bowl—I mean bond but I dare say you know what I mean and if you don’t you don’t lose much and care just as little I will venture to add—when they severed the golden bond that bound us and threw us into fits of crying on the sofa nearly choked at least myself everything was changed and in giving my hand to Mr F. I know I did so with my eyes open but he was so very unsettled and in such low spirits that he had distractedly alluded to the river if not oil of something from the chemist’s and I did it for the best.’

‘My good Flora, we settled that before. It was all quite right.’

‘It’s perfectly clear you think so,’ returned Flora, ‘for you take it very coolly, if I hadn’t known it to be China I should have guessed myself the Polar regions, dear Mr Clennam you are right however and I cannot blame you but as to Doyce and Clennam papa’s property being about here we heard it from Pancks and but for him we never should have heard one word about it I am satisfied.’

‘No, no, don’t say that.’

‘What nonsense not to say it Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—easier and less trying to me than Mr Clennam—when I know it and you know it too and can’t deny it.’

‘But I do deny it, Flora. I should soon have made you a friendly visit.’

‘Ah!’ said Flora, tossing her head. ‘I dare say!’ and she gave him another of the old looks. ‘However when Pancks told us I made up my mind that Mr F.’s Aunt and I would come and call because when papa—which was before that—happened to mention her name to me and to say that you were interested in her I said at the moment Good gracious why not have her here then when there’s anything to do instead of putting it out.’

‘When you say Her,’ observed Clennam, by this time pretty well bewildered, ‘do you mean Mr F.’s—’

‘My goodness, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam really easier to me with old remembrances—who ever heard of Mr F.’s Aunt doing needlework and going out by the day?’

‘Going out by the day! Do you speak of Little Dorrit?’

‘Why yes of course,’ returned Flora; ‘and of all the strangest names I ever heard the strangest, like a place down in the country with a turnpike, or a favourite pony or a puppy or a bird or something from a seed-shop to be put in a garden or a flower-pot and come up speckled.’

‘Then, Flora,’ said Arthur, with a sudden interest in the conversation, ‘Mr Casby was so kind as to mention Little Dorrit to you, was he? What did he say?’

‘Oh you know what papa is,’ rejoined Flora, ‘and how aggravatingly he sits looking beautiful and turning his thumbs over and over one another till he makes one giddy if one keeps one’s eyes upon him, he said when we were talking of you—I don’t know who began the subject Arthur (Doyce and Clennam) but I am sure it wasn’t me, at least I hope not but you really must excuse my confessing more on that point.’

‘Certainly,’ said Arthur. ‘By all means.’

‘You are very ready,’ pouted Flora, coming to a sudden stop in a captivating bashfulness, ‘that I must admit, Papa said you had spoken of her in an earnest way and I said what I have told you and that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ said Arthur, a little disappointed.

‘Except that when Pancks told us of your having embarked in this business and with difficulty persuaded us that it was really you I said to Mr F.’s Aunt then we would come and ask you if it would be agreeable to all parties that she should be engaged at our house when required for I know she often goes to your mama’s and I know that your mama has a very touchy temper Arthur—Doyce and Clennam—or I never might have married Mr F. and might have been at this hour but I am running into nonsense.’

‘It was very kind of you, Flora, to think of this.’

Poor Flora rejoined with a plain sincerity which became her better than her youngest glances, that she was glad he thought so. She said it with so much heart that Clennam would have given a great deal to buy his old character of her on the spot, and throw it and the mermaid away for ever.

‘I think, Flora,’ he said, ‘that the employment you can give Little Dorrit, and the kindness you can show her—’

‘Yes and I will,’ said Flora, quickly.

‘I am sure of it—will be a great assistance and support to her. I do not feel that I have the right to tell you what I know of her, for I acquired the knowledge confidentially, and under circumstances that bind me to silence. But I have an interest in the little creature, and a respect for her that I cannot express to you. Her life has been one of such trial and devotion, and such quiet goodness, as you can scarcely imagine. I can hardly think of her, far less speak of her, without feeling moved. Let that feeling represent what I could tell you, and commit her to your friendliness with my thanks.’

Once more he put out his hand frankly to poor Flora; once more poor Flora couldn’t accept it frankly, found it worth nothing openly, must make the old intrigue and mystery of it. As much to her own enjoyment as to his dismay, she covered it with a corner of her shawl as she took it. Then, looking towards the glass front of the counting-house, and seeing two figures approaching, she cried with infinite relish, ‘Papa! Hush, Arthur, for Mercy’s sake!’ and tottered back to her chair with an amazing imitation of being in danger of swooning, in the dread surprise and maidenly flutter of her spirits.

“Per favore, non dire nulla di scusante,” pregò Arthur. “Sei sempre il benvenuto.”

‘È molto gentile da parte tua dirlo, Arthur. Non riesco proprio a ricordare il signor Clennam finché la notizia non viene resa pubblica; è ormai un’abitudine del passato, eppure è vero che spesso, nelle silenziose notti, prima ancora che le catene del sonno avvolgano le persone, i ricordi più cari riportano alla luce momenti di tempi lontani. È molto gentile da parte tua, ma temo che sia più una cortesia che la verità. Andare a occuparsi degli affari della ditta senza nemmeno inviare una lettera o un biglietto a papà. Non sto parlando di me, anche se ci è stato un momento in cui l’ho fatto. Ma quel tempo è passato, e ora la dura realtà ha preso il sopravvento. Devo ammetterlo.’

Anche le virgole di Flora sembravano essere scomparse in questa occasione; era molto più incoerente e loquace rispetto all’intervista precedente.

“Anche se, in effetti,” proseguì lei in fretta, “non ci si può aspettare nulla di più. E perché mai dovremmo aspettarci qualcosa? Se non è previsto, allora perché dovrebbe accadere? Non sto affatto rimproverando te o nessun altro. Quando tua madre e mio padre ci hanno angosciato fino alla morte e hanno spezzato quel legame d’oro. Voglio dire, quel vincolo che ci univa. Beh, so che capisci cosa intendo. E anche se non capissi, non perderesti molto. E comunque non te ne importerebbe affatto. Oso aggiungere ancora: quando hanno spezzato quel legame d’oro che ci univa e ci hanno fatto piangere disperatamente sul divano, quasi soffocandoci. Beh, tutto è cambiato. E quando ho dato la mia mano a Mr F., so di averlo fatto con gli occhi aperti. Ma lui era così turbato, così depresso. Che aveva accennato, in modo confuso, a qualcosa legato al fiume. O forse all’olio prodotto da qualche sostanza chimica. E io l’ho fatto per il meglio.”

“Mia cara Flora, ne abbiamo già parlato. Tutto era a posto.”

“È perfettamente chiaro che la pensi così,” rispose Flora, “perché lo affronti con molta calma. Se non avessi saputo che si trattava della Cina, avrei indovinato che fossero le regioni polari. Caro signor Clennam, hai ragione e non posso biasimarti. Ma riguardo a Doyce e alla proprietà di papà che si troverebbe qui intorno. L’abbiamo saputo da Pancks; senza di lui, non avremmo mai sentito parlare di nulla. Sono soddisfatta.”

“No, no, non dirlo.”

“Che sciocchezza. Non dirlo, Arthur. Doyce e Clennam. È più facile per me, e meno faticoso, che parlare di Mr Clennam. Lo sappiamo entrambi, e non possiamo negarlo.”

“Ma lo nego assolutamente, Flora. Avrei dovuto farti una visita molto presto.”

“Ah!” disse Flora, scuotendo la testa. “Certo che sì!” e gli rivolse di nuovo uno di quei suoi vecchi sguardi. “Comunque, quando Pancks ce lo ha detto, ho deciso subito che io e zia del signor F. saremmo venute a farle visita. Perché quando papà – prima di allora – menzionò il suo nome e disse che tu eri interessato a lei, io pensai: ‘Ma perché non invitarla qui, dove possiamo fare qualcosa insieme, invece di lasciar perdere l’occasione?’”

“Quando dici ‘Lei’,” osservò Clennam, ormai piuttosto confuso, “intendi il signor F.”.

“Mio Dio, Arthur. Doyce e Clennam mi risultano davvero più facili da comprendere grazie a quei vecchi ricordi. Chi avrebbe mai immaginato che la zia del signor F. facesse lavori di cucito e uscisse di giorno?”

“Uscire di giorno. Vi riferite forse a Little Dorrit?”

“Certo che sì,” rispose Flora; “e tra tutti i nomi più strani che abbia mai sentito, questo è davvero il più strano: sembra il nome di un posto in campagna vicino a una strada a pedaggio, o di un pony preferito, di un cucciolo, di un uccellino, qualcosa che si compra in una bottega di semi per metterlo in un giardino o in un vaso e far sì che cresca con dei puntini colorati.”

“Allora, Flora,” disse Arthur, con un improvviso interesse nella conversazione,
“il signor Casby è stato così gentile da menzionare a voi Little Dorrit, vero? Cosa vi ha detto?”

“Oh, sai bene com’è papà,” ribatté Flora, “e quanto sia irritante il modo in cui se ne sta lì, con quell’aspetto così attraente, girando continuamente le dita dei pollici avanti e indietro. Fa venire la vertigine solo a guardarlo. Lui stesso ne ha parlato quando discutevamo di te. Non so chi abbia iniziato l’argomento (Arthur [Doyce e Clennam]), ma sono sicura che non sia stata io. Almeno lo spero, anche se devo scusarmi per averne parlato così tanto.”

“Certamente,” disse Arthur. “Con piacere.”

“Sei davvero molto pronto,” borbottò Flora, fermandosi improvvisamente con un’aria di timidezza affascinante. “Devo ammetterlo: papà ha detto che ne avevi parlato seriamente, e io ti ho detto quello che ti ho detto. E basta.”

“È tutto?” disse Arthur, un po’ deluso.

‘Tranne che quando Pancks ci ha detto che ti eri impegnato in questa faccenda e con difficoltà ci ha convinti che fossi davvero tu, allora ho detto alla zia del signor F. che saremmo venuti a chiederti se fosse accettabile per tutte le parti che lei venisse a casa nostra quando necessario. So infatti che spesso va da tua madre, e so anche che tua madre ha un temperamento molto irritabile. Arthur. Doyce e Clennam. Altrimenti forse non avrei mai sposato il signor F., e ora potrei trovarmi in una situazione molto diversa. Ma sto dicendo sciocchezze.’

“È stato davvero molto gentile da parte tua, Flora, averci pensato.”

Povera Flora. Rispose con una semplicità e sincerità che, più di qualsiasi suo sguardo affettuoso, dimostravano quanto fosse felice che lui la pensasse così. Lo disse con tale sincerità che Clennam avrebbe dato qualunque cosa pur di riacquistare il proprio vecchio giudizio su di lei, e gettare via per sempre sia quel vecchio giudizio che quella “sirena”.

“Penso, Flora,” disse, “che il lavoro che puoi offrire a Little Dorrit e la gentilezza che puoi mostrarle, ”

“Sì, lo farò,” disse Flora in fretta.

“Ne sono sicura: sarà di grande aiuto e sostegno per lei. Non credo di avere il diritto di raccontarvi ciò che so su di lei, poiché ho appreso queste informazioni in modo confidenziale, e in circostanze che mi impongono il silenzio. Ma provo un sincero interesse per quella piccola creatura, e un rispetto per lei che non riesco a esprimere a parole. La sua vita è stata piena di prove difficili e di grande devozione, oltre che di una bontà silenziosa che difficilmente potete immaginare. Non riesco nemmeno a pensarci, figuriamoci parlarne, senza provare commozione. Lasciate che questo sentimento rappresenti ciò che potrei dirvi. E affidatela alla vostra gentilezza, con i miei ringraziamenti.”

Ancora una volta tese la mano apertamente alla povera Flora; ancora una volta la povera Flora non poté accettarla apertamente, la ritenne del tutto insignificante e dovette ricorrere a vecchi trucchi e misteri per accettarla. Per suo piacere personale, e per disperazione sua, lei la nascose con un angolo del proprio scialle mentre la prendeva. Poi, guardando verso il vetro frontale della banca, e vedendo due figure avvicinarsi, esclamò con infinito piacere: “Papà! Taci, Arthur, per l’amor di Mercy!” e barcollò indietro verso la sua sedia, imitando in modo sorprendente di essere sul punto di svenire, sotto l’effetto della terribile sorpresa e dell’emozione tipica di una fanciulla.

The Patriarch, meanwhile, came inanely beaming towards the counting-house in the wake of Pancks. Pancks opened the door for him, towed him in, and retired to his own moorings in a corner.

‘I heard from Flora,’ said the Patriarch with his benevolent smile, ‘that she was coming to call, coming to call. And being out, I thought I’d come also, thought I’d come also.’

The benign wisdom he infused into this declaration (not of itself profound), by means of his blue eyes, his shining head, and his long white hair, was most impressive. It seemed worth putting down among the noblest sentiments enunciated by the best of men. Also, when he said to Clennam, seating himself in the proffered chair, ‘And you are in a new business, Mr Clennam? I wish you well, sir, I wish you well!’ he seemed to have done benevolent wonders.

‘Mrs Finching has been telling me, sir,’ said Arthur, after making his acknowledgments; the relict of the late Mr F. meanwhile protesting, with a gesture, against his use of that respectable name; ‘that she hopes occasionally to employ the young needlewoman you recommended to my mother. For which I have been thanking her.’

The Patriarch turning his head in a lumbering way towards Pancks, that assistant put up the note-book in which he had been absorbed, and took him in tow.

‘You didn’t recommend her, you know,’ said Pancks; ‘how could you? You knew nothing about her, you didn’t. The name was mentioned to you, and you passed it on. That’s what you did.’

‘Well!’ said Clennam. ‘As she justifies any recommendation, it is much the same thing.’

‘You are glad she turns out well,’ said Pancks, ‘but it wouldn’t have been your fault if she had turned out ill. The credit’s not yours as it is, and the blame wouldn’t have been yours as it might have been. You gave no guarantee. You knew nothing about her.’

‘You are not acquainted, then,’ said Arthur, hazarding a random question, ‘with any of her family?’

‘Acquainted with any of her family?’ returned Pancks. ‘How should you be acquainted with any of her family? You never heard of ‘em. You can’t be acquainted with people you never heard of, can you? You should think not!’

All this time the Patriarch sat serenely smiling; nodding or shaking his head benevolently, as the case required.

‘As to being a reference,’ said Pancks, ‘you know, in a general way, what being a reference means. It’s all your eye, that is! Look at your tenants down the Yard here. They’d all be references for one another, if you’d let ‘em. What would be the good of letting ‘em? It’s no satisfaction to be done by two men instead of one. One’s enough. A person who can’t pay, gets another person who can’t pay, to guarantee that he can pay. Like a person with two wooden legs getting another person with two wooden legs, to guarantee that he has got two natural legs. It don’t make either of them able to do a walking match. And four wooden legs are more troublesome to you than two, when you don’t want any.’ Mr Pancks concluded by blowing off that steam of his.

A momentary silence that ensued was broken by Mr F.’s Aunt, who had been sitting upright in a cataleptic state since her last public remark. She now underwent a violent twitch, calculated to produce a startling effect on the nerves of the uninitiated, and with the deadliest animosity observed:

‘You can’t make a head and brains out of a brass knob with nothing in it. You couldn’t do it when your Uncle George was living; much less when he’s dead.’

Mr Pancks was not slow to reply, with his usual calmness, ‘Indeed, ma’am! Bless my soul! I’m surprised to hear it.’ Despite his presence of mind, however, the speech of Mr F.’s Aunt produced a depressing effect on the little assembly; firstly, because it was impossible to disguise that Clennam’s unoffending head was the particular temple of reason depreciated; and secondly, because nobody ever knew on these occasions whose Uncle George was referred to, or what spectral presence might be invoked under that appellation.

Therefore Flora said, though still not without a certain boastfulness and triumph in her legacy, that Mr F.’s Aunt was ‘very lively to-day, and she thought they had better go.’ But Mr F.’s Aunt proved so lively as to take the suggestion in unexpected dudgeon and declare that she would not go; adding, with several injurious expressions, that if ‘He’—too evidently meaning Clennam—wanted to get rid of her, ‘let him chuck her out of winder;’ and urgently expressing her desire to see ‘Him’ perform that ceremony.

In this dilemma, Mr Pancks, whose resources appeared equal to any emergency in the Patriarchal waters, slipped on his hat, slipped out at the counting-house door, and slipped in again a moment afterwards with an artificial freshness upon him, as if he had been in the country for some weeks. ‘Why, bless my heart, ma’am!’ said Mr Pancks, rubbing up his hair in great astonishment, ‘is that you? How do you do, ma’am? You are looking charming to-day! I am delighted to see you. Favour me with your arm, ma’am; we’ll have a little walk together, you and me, if you’ll honour me with your company.’ And so escorted Mr F.’s Aunt down the private staircase of the counting-house with great gallantry and success. The patriarchal Mr Casby then rose with the air of having done it himself, and blandly followed: leaving his daughter, as she followed in her turn, to remark to her former lover in a distracted whisper (which she very much enjoyed), that they had drained the cup of life to the dregs; and further to hint mysteriously that the late Mr F. was at the bottom of it.

Alone again, Clennam became a prey to his old doubts in reference to his mother and Little Dorrit, and revolved the old thoughts and suspicions. They were all in his mind, blending themselves with the duties he was mechanically discharging, when a shadow on his papers caused him to look up for the cause. The cause was Mr Pancks. With his hat thrown back upon his ears as if his wiry prongs of hair had darted up like springs and cast it off, with his jet-black beads of eyes inquisitively sharp, with the fingers of his right hand in his mouth that he might bite the nails, and with the fingers of his left hand in reserve in his pocket for another course, Mr Pancks cast his shadow through the glass upon the books and papers.

Nel frattempo, il Patriarca entrò sorridendo stupidamente nella sala dove si svolgevano i conti, seguendo Pancks. Pancks gli aprì la porta, lo fece entrare e poi si ritirò nel proprio angolo.

“Ho sentito da Flora,” disse il Patriarca con il suo sorriso benevolo, “che sarebbe venuta a trovarmi. E poiché ero fuori, ho pensato di venire anch’io.”

La saggezza gentile che egli infuse in questa dichiarazione – sebbene di per sé non profonda – attraverso i suoi occhi azzurri, la sua testa luminosa e i suoi lunghi capelli bianchi, fu davvero impressionante. Sembrava degna di essere inserita tra i sentimenti più nobili espressi dalle migliori persone. Inoltre, quando disse a Clennam, sedendosi sulla sedia che gli veniva offerta: “E lei si dedica ora a un nuovo lavoro, signor Clennam? Le auguro il meglio, signore, ”, sembrava davvero aver compiuto atti di vera benevolenza.

“La signora Finching mi ha detto, signore,” disse Arthur dopo aver espresso la sua gratitudine; intanto, il vedovo del defunto signor F. protestava con un gesto contro l’uso di quel rispettabile nome da parte di Arthur; “che spera di poter assumere occasionalmente quella giovane sarta che avevate consigliato a mia madre. Per questo le ho già ringraziato.”

Il Patriarca girò la testa con movimenti goffi verso Pancks; quello assistente sollevò il taccuino su cui era concentrato e lo seguì.

“Non l’hai raccomandata tu, sai,” disse Pancks; “come avresti potuto? Non sapevi nulla di lei, davvero. Ti è stato menzionato il suo nome e tu l’hai semplicemente trasmesso ad altri. Ecco cosa hai fatto.”

“Beh!”, disse Clennam. “Poiché lei giustifica qualsiasi raccomandazione, allora è più o meno la stessa cosa.”

“Sei contento che le sia andata bene,” disse Pancks, “ma non sarebbe stata colpa tua se fosse andata male. Il merito non è tuo, e la colpa non sarebbe stata tua se lo fosse stata. Non hai dato alcuna garanzia. Non sapevi nulla di lei.”

“Allora non la conosciate,” disse Arthur, ponendo una domanda casuale, “nessuno della sua famiglia?”

“Conosci qualcuno della sua famiglia?” rispose Pancks. “Come potresti conoscere qualcuno della sua famiglia? Non ne hai mai sentito parlare. Non puoi certo conoscere persone di cui non sai nulla, vero? Dovresti pensarci bene!”

In tutto questo tempo, il Patriarca sedeva serenamente, sorridendo; annuiva o scuoteva la testa con benevolenza, a seconda delle circostanze.

“Per quanto riguarda il fatto di essere una ‘referenza’, ”, disse Pancks, “sapete bene, in linea di massima, cosa significhi. Tutto dipende dagli occhi di chi valuta, ecco! Guardate i vostri inquilini qui nel cortile: ognuno di loro potrebbe essere una ‘referenza’ per gli altri, se solo lo permetteste. Ma a che servirebbe? Non è certo più soddisfacente affidarsi a due persone invece di una sola. Una persona che non può pagare trova un’altra che non può pagare, soltanto per garantire che alla fine qualcuno pagherà. È come se una persona con due gambe di legno ne cercasse un’altra per assicurarsi di avere davvero due gambe normali. Ma nessuno dei due diventa davvero in grado di camminare meglio. E quattro gambe di legno rappresentano solo un ulteriore problema, soprattutto quando non ne avete affatto bisogno.” Il signor Pancks concluse soffiando via il fumo che gli era rimasto nei polmoni.

Il breve silenzio che seguì fu interrotto dalla zia del signor F., che era rimasta seduta dritta in uno stato di catalessi da quando aveva fatto la sua ultima dichiarazione pubblica. Ora ebbe un violento sussulto, calcolato apposta per produrre un effetto scioccante sui nervi dei non addetti ai lavori, e con l’animosità più letale che si possa immaginare.

“Non si può ottenere nulla da un pomello di ottone che non contiene nulla al suo interno. Non ci saresti riuscito nemmeno quando tuo zio George era vivo; figuriamoci ora che è morto.”

Mr Pancks non esitò a rispondere, con la sua solita calma: “Certamente, signora! Che il mio ‘anima sia benedetta. Sono sorpreso di sentirlo dire.” Tuttavia, nonostante la sua compostezza, il discorso della zia del signor F ebbe un effetto deprimente su tutti i presenti: innanzitutto, perché era impossibile nascondere che la testa inoffensiva di Clennam fosse proprio quel “tempio della ragione” che veniva denigrato; e in secondo luogo, perché nessuno riusciva mai a capire, in quelle occasioni, a quale zio George si facesse riferimento, o quale “presenza spettrale” potesse essere evocata con quel nome.

Pertanto Flora disse, sebbene ancora con una certa vanità e trionfo riguardo al proprio lascito, che zia del signor F. “era molto allegra oggi, e pensava fosse meglio andare”. Ma zia del signor F. si rivelò così allegra da prendere quell’invito in modo inaspettatamente ostile, dichiarando di non voler andare; aggiunse inoltre, con diverse espressioni offensive, che se “lui” – intendendo chiaramente Clennam – voleva sbarazzarsi di lei, “poteva buttarla fuori dalla finestra”; e esprimeva con insistenza il proprio desiderio di vedere “lui” compiere quella “cerimonia”.

In questa situazione difficile, Mr Pancks, il cui patrimonio sembrava sufficiente ad affrontare qualsiasi emergenza nelle acque del Patriarcato, inciampò nel proprio cappello, uscì dalla porta della banca e poco dopo rientrò con un aspetto apparentemente fresco e riposato, come se fosse stato in campagna per alcune settimane. “Ma mia cara, che sorpresa!”, esclamò Mr Pancks strofinandosi i capelli con grande stupore, “siete voi? Come state, signora? Oggi siete davvero incantevole. Sono molto felice di vedervi. Permettetemi di accompagnarvi in una piccola passeggiata, se mi onorate della vostra compagnia.” E così scortò con grande galanteria la zia del signor F. lungo la scala privata della banca, con successo. Il patriarca Mr Casby si alzò poi con l’aria di aver fatto tutto lui stesso e seguì loro in silenzio; lasciando che sua figlia, mentre li seguiva a sua volta, sussurrasse al suo ex amante che avevano ormai bevuto fino all’ultima goccia della “tazza della vita”, e gli fece anche capire in modo misterioso che il defunto signor F. si trovava proprio, alla “base” di quella tazza.

Di nuovo solo, Clennam divenne preda delle sue vecchie dubbi riguardo a sua madre e a Little Dorrit, e ripensò a tutte quelle vecchie idee e sospetti. Tutto ciò gli vorticava nella mente, mescolandosi con i compiti che eseguiva meccanicamente, quando un’ombra sui suoi documenti lo fece alzare lo sguardo per scoprirne la causa. La causa era Mr Pancks. Con il cappello gettato all’indietro sulle orecchie, come se i suoi capelli rigidi si fossero improvvisamente rialzati come molle e lo avessero scagliato via; con i suoi occhi neri e penetranti; con le dita della mano destra in bocca per mordersi le unghie; e con le dita della mano sinistra pronte nel taschino, pronto a intervenire in qualsiasi momento, Mr Pancks proiettava la sua ombra attraverso il vetro sui libri e sui documenti.

Mr Pancks asked, with a little inquiring twist of his head, if he might come in again? Clennam replied with a nod of his head in the affirmative. Mr Pancks worked his way in, came alongside the desk, made himself fast by leaning his arms upon it, and started conversation with a puff and a snort.

‘Mr F.’s Aunt is appeased, I hope?’ said Clennam.

‘All right, sir,’ said Pancks.

‘I am so unfortunate as to have awakened a strong animosity in the breast of that lady,’ said Clennam. ‘Do you know why?’

‘Does she know why?’ said Pancks.

‘I suppose not.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Pancks.

He took out his note-book, opened it, shut it, dropped it into his hat, which was beside him on the desk, and looked in at it as it lay at the bottom of the hat: all with a great appearance of consideration.

‘Mr Clennam,’ he then began, ‘I am in want of information, sir.’

‘Connected with this firm?’ asked Clennam.

‘No,’ said Pancks.

‘With what then, Mr Pancks? That is to say, assuming that you want it of me.’

‘Yes, sir; yes, I want it of you,’ said Pancks, ‘if I can persuade you to furnish it. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. Dictionary order. Dorrit. That’s the name, sir?’

Mr Pancks blew off his peculiar noise again, and fell to at his right-hand nails. Arthur looked searchingly at him; he returned the look.

‘I don’t understand you, Mr Pancks.’

‘That’s the name that I want to know about.’

‘And what do you want to know?’

‘Whatever you can and will tell me.’ This comprehensive summary of his desires was not discharged without some heavy labouring on the part of Mr Pancks’s machinery.

‘This is a singular visit, Mr Pancks. It strikes me as rather extraordinary that you should come, with such an object, to me.’

‘It may be all extraordinary together,’ returned Pancks. ‘It may be out of the ordinary course, and yet be business. In short, it is business. I am a man of business. What business have I in this present world, except to stick to business? No business.’

With his former doubt whether this dry hard personage were quite in earnest, Clennam again turned his eyes attentively upon his face. It was as scrubby and dingy as ever, and as eager and quick as ever, and he could see nothing lurking in it that was at all expressive of a latent mockery that had seemed to strike upon his ear in the voice.

‘Now,’ said Pancks, ‘to put this business on its own footing, it’s not my proprietor’s.’

‘Do you refer to Mr Casby as your proprietor?’

Pancks nodded. ‘My proprietor. Put a case. Say, at my proprietor’s I hear name—name of young person Mr Clennam wants to serve. Say, name first mentioned to my proprietor by Plornish in the Yard. Say, I go to Plornish. Say, I ask Plornish as a matter of business for information. Say, Plornish, though six weeks in arrear to my proprietor, declines. Say, Mrs Plornish declines. Say, both refer to Mr Clennam. Put the case.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, sir,’ returned Pancks, ‘say, I come to him. Say, here I am.’

With those prongs of hair sticking up all over his head, and his breath coming and going very hard and short, the busy Pancks fell back a step (in Tug metaphor, took half a turn astern) as if to show his dingy hull complete, then forged a-head again, and directed his quick glance by turns into his hat where his note-book was, and into Clennam’s face.

‘Mr Pancks, not to trespass on your grounds of mystery, I will be as plain with you as I can. Let me ask two questions. First—’

‘All right!’ said Pancks, holding up his dirty forefinger with his broken nail. ‘I see! “What’s your motive?”’

‘Exactly.’

‘Motive,’ said Pancks, ‘good. Nothing to do with my proprietor; not stateable at present, ridiculous to state at present; but good. Desiring to serve young person, name of Dorrit,’ said Pancks, with his forefinger still up as a caution. ‘Better admit motive to be good.’

‘Secondly, and lastly, what do you want to know?’

Mr Pancks fished up his note-book before the question was put, and buttoning it with care in an inner breast-pocket, and looking straight at Clennam all the time, replied with a pause and a puff, ‘I want supplementary information of any sort.’

Clennam could not withhold a smile, as the panting little steam-tug, so useful to that unwieldy ship, the Casby, waited on and watched him as if it were seeking an opportunity of running in and rifling him of all he wanted before he could resist its manoeuvres; though there was that in Mr Pancks’s eagerness, too, which awakened many wondering speculations in his mind. After a little consideration, he resolved to supply Mr Pancks with such leading information as it was in his power to impart him; well knowing that Mr Pancks, if he failed in his present research, was pretty sure to find other means of getting it.

He, therefore, first requesting Mr Pancks to remember his voluntary declaration that his proprietor had no part in the disclosure, and that his own intentions were good (two declarations which that coaly little gentleman with the greatest ardour repeated), openly told him that as to the Dorrit lineage or former place of habitation, he had no information to communicate, and that his knowledge of the family did not extend beyond the fact that it appeared to be now reduced to five members; namely, to two brothers, of whom one was single, and one a widower with three children. The ages of the whole family he made known to Mr Pancks, as nearly as he could guess at them; and finally he described to him the position of the Father of the Marshalsea, and the course of time and events through which he had become invested with that character. To all this, Mr Pancks, snorting and blowing in a more and more portentous manner as he became more interested, listened with great attention; appearing to derive the most agreeable sensations from the painfullest parts of the narrative, and particularly to be quite charmed by the account of William Dorrit’s long imprisonment.

Signor Pancks chiese, inclinando leggermente la testa con un’espressione curiosa, se potesse entrare di nuovo. Clennam annuì in segno di assenso. Signor Pancks entrò, si avvicinò alla scrivania, appoggiò le braccia su di essa e iniziò a parlare, emettendo dei sospiri e dei grugniti.

“Spero che la zia del signor F. sia stata placata”, disse Clennam.

“Va bene, signore,” disse Pancks.

“Sono davvero sfortunato ad aver suscitato un’ostilità così forte nel cuore di quella signora,” disse Clennam. “Lo sai il motivo?”

“Lei sa il motivo?” disse Pancks.

“Immagino di no.”

“Immagino di no,” disse Pancks.

Prese il suo taccuino, lo aprì, lo chiuse, lo mise nella sua giacca, che era accanto a lui sulla scrivania, e lo guardò mentre giaceva nel basso della giacca: tutto con un’aria di grande attenzione.

“Signor Clennam,” cominciò allora, “ho bisogno di alcune informazioni, signore.”

“Connesso con questa ditta?”, chiese Clennam.

“No,” disse Pancks.

“Allora, con cosa, Signor Pancks? Voglio dire, ammesso che lo vogliate da me.”

“Sì, signore; sì, lo voglio da voi,” disse Pancks, “se riesco a convincervi a fornirmelo. A, B, C, D. DA, DE, DI, DO. In ordine alfabetico. Dorrit. Quel è il nome, vero, signore?”

Signor Pancks fece di nuovo quel suo strano rumore e poi si concentrò sulle sue unghie destre. Arthur lo guardò attentamente; lui ricambiò lo sguardo.

“Non capisco quello che dice, Signor Pancks.”

“È quel nome che voglio conoscere.”

“E cosa vuoi sapere?”

“Qualunque cosa tu possa e voglia dirmi.” Questo riassunto completo dei suoi desideri non fu ottenuto senza un certo sforzo da parte delle “macchine” di Signor Pancks.

“Questa è una visita davvero insolita, Signor Pancks. Mi sembra piuttosto straordinario che siate venuti da me con un simile scopo.”

“Tutto questo potrebbe essere davvero straordinario,” rispose Pancks. “Potrebbe andare al di fuori del normale corso delle cose, eppure rimanere comunque un affare. In breve, è un affare. Io sono una persona d’affari. Qual è il mio compito in questo mondo, se non occuparmi degli affari? Nessun altro compito.”

Con i suoi precedenti dubbi su se questa persona rigida e asciutta fosse davvero sincera, Clennam rivolse di nuovo lo sguardo attentamente sul suo volto. Era ancora così trasandato e sporco come sempre, e altrettanto vivace e pronto; non riuscì a scorgere nulla nel suo atteggiamento che potesse indicare una qualche ironia nascosta, anche se quella voce sembrava nascondere un certo sarcasmo.

“Ora,” disse Pancks, “per chiarire la situazione, questo affare non appartiene al mio proprietario.”

“Vi riferite al signor Casby come al vostro proprietario?”

Pancks annuì. “Il mio datore di lavoro. Diciamo che, presso il mio datore di lavoro, ho sentito menzionare il nome di una giovane persona che il signor Clennam vuole assumere. Il nome è stato menzionato per la prima volta dal signor Plornish nel cortile. Io sono andato da Plornish e gli ho chiesto informazioni, a titolo professionale. Ma Plornish, nonostante sia in arretrato di sei settimane con il mio datore di lavoro, si è rifiutato di fornire quelle informazioni. Anche la signora Plornish si è rifiutata. Entrambi hanno fatto riferimento al signor Clennam. Riassumi tutto questo.”

“‘Beh?’”

“Beh, signore,” rispose Pancks, “diciamo che vado da lui. Diciamo che sono qui.”

Con quei ciuffi di capelli che spuntavano dappertutto sulla testa, e il respiro affannoso e corto, il frenetico Pancks fece un passo indietro (metaforicamente parlando, girò di mezzo giro all’indietro) come per mostrare completamente la sua “telaio” malandato. Poi riprese ad avanzare velocemente, lanciando occhiate rapide verso il cappello dove teneva il suo quaderno, e poi verso il viso di Clennam.

‘Signor Pancks, senza violare i confini del vostro mistero, sarò il più chiaro possibile con voi. Lasciate che vi ponga due domande. Prima, ’

“Bene!” disse Pancks, alzando il suo dito indice sporco con l’unghia rotta. “Capisco, ‘Qual è il tuo movente?’”

“Esattamente.”

“Motivi,” disse Pancks, “buoni. Niente a che fare con il mio datore di lavoro; al momento non è possibile spiegarli chiaramente, sarebbe ridicolo farlo. Ma comunque buoni. Desidero aiutare una giovane donna, di nome Dorrit,” aggiunse Pancks, tenendo ancora il dito indice sollevato come un avvertimento. “È meglio ammettere che i motivi siano buoni.”

“In secondo luogo, e infine, cosa vuoi sapere?”

Signor Pancks tirò fuori il suo taccuino prima ancora che venisse posta la domanda; lo chiuse con cura nella tasca interna del petto e, guardando dritto in faccia a Clennam per tutto il tempo, rispose dopo una pausa e un sospiro: “Desidero informazioni supplementari di qualsiasi tipo.”

Clennam non poté trattenere un sorriso: quel piccolo rimorchiatore a vapore, così utile per quella ingombrante nave chiamata Casby, lo serviva e lo osservava come se cercasse l’occasione per avvicinarsi e sottrargli tutto ciò che desiderava prima che lui potesse opporsi alle sue manovre. Anche nell’entusiasmo di Mr Pancks c’era qualcosa che suscitava in lui molte riflessioni. Dopo un attimo di ponderazione, decise di fornire a Mr Pancks tutte le informazioni utili che gli fossero riuscite a reperire; sapeva bene infatti che, se avesse fallito nelle sue indagini attuali, Mr Pancks avrebbe sicuramente trovato altri modi per ottenerle.

Pertanto, dopo aver prima chiesto a Mr Pancks di ricordare la sua dichiarazione volontaria secondo cui il suo proprietario non aveva alcuna responsabilità nella divulgazione dei fatti in questione, e che le sue intenzioni erano buone (due dichiarazioni che quel piccolo gentiluomo, con grande entusiasmo, ripeté più volte), gli disse apertamente che riguardo alla discendenza o all’antico luogo di residenza della famiglia Dorrit, non aveva alcuna informazione da fornire; inoltre, la sua conoscenza della famiglia non andava oltre il fatto che sembrasse essere ora composta da soli cinque membri: due fratelli, uno dei quali era single e l’altro un vedovo con tre figli. Fece anche sapere a Mr Pancks le età di tutti i membri della famiglia, per quanto potesse indovinarle; infine gli descrisse la posizione che il padre di William Dorrit ricopriva e il corso degli eventi che lo avevano portato ad assumere tale ruolo. A tutto ciò, Mr Pancks, soffiando e sbuffando in modo sempre più significativo man mano che si interessava di più alla storia, ascoltò con grande attenzione; sembrava trarre il massimo piacere anche dalle parti più dolorose del racconto, e fu particolarmente affascinato dal resoconto della lunga carcerazione di William Dorrit.

‘In conclusion, Mr Pancks,’ said Arthur, ‘I have but to say this. I have reasons beyond a personal regard for speaking as little as I can of the Dorrit family, particularly at my mother’s house’ (Mr Pancks nodded), ‘and for knowing as much as I can. So devoted a man of business as you are—eh?’

For Mr Pancks had suddenly made that blowing effort with unusual force.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Pancks.

‘So devoted a man of business as yourself has a perfect understanding of a fair bargain. I wish to make a fair bargain with you, that you shall enlighten me concerning the Dorrit family when you have it in your power, as I have enlightened you. It may not give you a very flattering idea of my business habits, that I failed to make my terms beforehand,’ continued Clennam; ‘but I prefer to make them a point of honour. I have seen so much business done on sharp principles that, to tell you the truth, Mr Pancks, I am tired of them.’

Mr Pancks laughed. ‘It’s a bargain, sir,’ said he. ‘You shall find me stick to it.’

After that, he stood a little while looking at Clennam, and biting his ten nails all round; evidently while he fixed in his mind what he had been told, and went over it carefully, before the means of supplying a gap in his memory should be no longer at hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said at last, ‘and now I’ll wish you good day, as it’s collecting day in the Yard. By-the-bye, though. A lame foreigner with a stick.’

‘Ay, ay. You do take a reference sometimes, I see?’ said Clennam.

‘When he can pay, sir,’ replied Pancks. ‘Take all you can get, and keep back all you can’t be forced to give up. That’s business. The lame foreigner with the stick wants a top room down the Yard. Is he good for it?’

‘I am,’ said Clennam, ‘and I will answer for him.’

‘That’s enough. What I must have of Bleeding Heart Yard,’ said Pancks, making a note of the case in his book, ‘is my bond. I want my bond, you see. Pay up, or produce your property! That’s the watchword down the Yard. The lame foreigner with the stick represented that you sent him; but he could represent (as far as that goes) that the Great Mogul sent him. He has been in the hospital, I believe?’

‘Yes. Through having met with an accident. He is only just now discharged.’

‘It’s pauperising a man, sir, I have been shown, to let him into a hospital?’ said Pancks. And again blew off that remarkable sound.

‘I have been shown so too,’ said Clennam, coldly.

Mr Pancks, being by that time quite ready for a start, got under steam in a moment, and, without any other signal or ceremony, was snorting down the step-ladder and working into Bleeding Heart Yard, before he seemed to be well out of the counting-house.

Throughout the remainder of the day, Bleeding Heart Yard was in consternation, as the grim Pancks cruised in it; haranguing the inhabitants on their backslidings in respect of payment, demanding his bond, breathing notices to quit and executions, running down defaulters, sending a swell of terror on before him, and leaving it in his wake. Knots of people, impelled by a fatal attraction, lurked outside any house in which he was known to be, listening for fragments of his discourses to the inmates; and, when he was rumoured to be coming down the stairs, often could not disperse so quickly but that he would be prematurely in among them, demanding their own arrears, and rooting them to the spot. Throughout the remainder of the day, Mr Pancks’s What were they up to? and What did they mean by it? sounded all over the Yard. Mr Pancks wouldn’t hear of excuses, wouldn’t hear of complaints, wouldn’t hear of repairs, wouldn’t hear of anything but unconditional money down. Perspiring and puffing and darting about in eccentric directions, and becoming hotter and dingier every moment, he lashed the tide of the yard into a most agitated and turbid state. It had not settled down into calm water again full two hours after he had been seen fuming away on the horizon at the top of the steps.

There were several small assemblages of the Bleeding Hearts at the popular points of meeting in the Yard that night, among whom it was universally agreed that Mr Pancks was a hard man to have to do with; and that it was much to be regretted, so it was, that a gentleman like Mr Casby should put his rents in his hands, and never know him in his true light. For (said the Bleeding Hearts), if a gentleman with that head of hair and them eyes took his rents into his own hands, ma’am, there would be none of this worriting and wearing, and things would be very different.

At which identical evening hour and minute, the Patriarch—who had floated serenely through the Yard in the forenoon before the harrying began, with the express design of getting up this trustfulness in his shining bumps and silken locks—at which identical hour and minute, that first-rate humbug of a thousand guns was heavily floundering in the little Dock of his exhausted Tug at home, and was saying, as he turned his thumbs:

‘A very bad day’s work, Pancks, very bad day’s work. It seems to me, sir, and I must insist on making this observation forcibly in justice to myself, that you ought to have got much more money, much more money.’

“In conclusione, Signor Pancks,” disse Arthur, “devo solo dire questo: ho motivi che vanno oltre un interesse personale per parlare il meno possibile della famiglia Dorrit, soprattutto in casa di mia madre” (Signor Pancks annuì), “e per cercare di sapere il più possibile. Un uomo d’affari così devoto come lei, eh?”

Perché Signor Pancks aveva improvvisamente fatto quel soffio con una forza insolita.

“Non è nulla,” disse Pancks.

“So che un uomo d’affari come voi ha una perfetta comprensione di ciò che significa fare affari onesti. Vorrei concludere un accordo equo con voi: vi chiedo di informarmi su tutta la famiglia Dorrit non appena ne avrete l’opportunità, proprio come ho fatto io con voi. Forse questo non darà un’immagine molto lusinghiera delle mie abitudini commerciali, il fatto che non abbia fissato i termini dell’accordo in anticipo”, continuò Clennam, “ma preferisco considerarlo un punto d’onore. Ho visto troppe transazioni condotte seguendo principi spietati; onestamente, [il signor Pancks], ne ho abbastanza.”

Signor Pancks rise. “È un ottimo affare, signore,” disse. “Vi assicuro che manterrò la mia parola.”

Dopo quel momento, rimase fermo per un po’ a guardare Clennam, mordendosi tutte e dieci le unghie; evidentemente stava cercando di ricordare attentamente ciò che gli era stato detto, prima che non gli rimanessero più mezzi a disposizione per colmare quella lacuna nella sua memoria. “Va tutto bene,” disse infine, “e ora vi auguro buona giornata, visto che oggi è il giorno della raccolta nel cortile. Ah, a proposito: un straniero zoppo con un bastone.”

“Ah, ah. A volte ti fai aiutare da qualcuno, vedo?” disse Clennam.

“Quando potrà pagare, signore,” rispose Pancks. “Prendete tutto quello che potete e tenetevi tutto ciò di cui non vi si può costringere a rinunciare. Questo è il modo giusto per fare affari. Quel straniero zoppo con il bastone vuole una stanza al piano di sopra, lungo il corridoio. È in grado di permettersela?”

“Sì, lo sono,” disse Clennam, “e sarò io a rispondere per lui.”

“Basta così. Quello che devo assolutamente ottenere da Bleeding Heart Yard,” disse Pancks, annotando l’informazione nel suo libro, “è il mio debito. Voglio riprendere il mio debito, capite? Pagate, oppure presentate le vostre proprietà! Questa è la regola in vigore laggiù. Quel straniero zoppo con il bastone rappresentava voi che lo avete mandato; ma potrebbe anche significare (per quel che vale) che è stato inviato dal Grande Mogul. Credo sia stato in ospedale, vero?”

“Sì. A causa di un incidente. È stato dimesso solo ora.”

“Signore, mi è stato detto che far entrare una persona in un ospedale la riduce alla povertà”, disse Pancks. E di nuovo emise quel suono straordinario.

“Anche a me è stato mostrato lo stesso,” disse Clennam, in tono freddo.

Mr Pancks, essendo a quel momento completamente pronto per partire, si mise subito in movimento; senza alcun altro segnale o cerimonia, cominciò ad avanzare velocemente lungo la scala a pioli e si diresse verso il cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard, prima ancora che sembrasse essere del tutto uscito dall’edificio dove si svolgevano le operazioni di conteggio.

Per il resto della giornata, il cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard fu pervaso dal panico: il cupo Pancks vi si aggirava minacciosamente, rimproverando gli abitanti per i loro ritardi nel pagamento dei debiti, esigendo il rispetto delle sue condizioni e minacciando azioni legali. La sua presenza seminava terrore ovunque andasse. Gruppi di persone, attratti da una forza irresistibile, si nascondevano davanti alle case in cui sapevano che si trovava, ascoltando i frammenti delle sue parole; quando si diffondeva la notizia del suo arrivo, spesso non riuscivano a disperdersi in tempo e lui li raggiungeva immediatamente, esigendo il pagamento dei loro debiti. Per tutto il giorno, le domande di Pancks – “Cosa stavano facendo? Cosa intendevano con questo?” – risuonavano per tutto il cortile. Pancks non accettava scuse, lamentele né promesse di riparazioni: voleva soltanto denaro, e subito. Sudando e ansimando, si muoveva in modo frenetico e disordinato, rendendo l’atmosfera del cortile ancora più tesa e caotica. Solo due ore dopo che lo avevano visto infuriare in cima alle scale, il cortile riuscì finalmente a tornare alla calma.

Quella notte, in alcuni dei luoghi più frequentati del Giardino, si trovavano alcune piccole riunioni dei “Bleeding Hearts”; tutti erano d’accordo nel ritenere che Mr Pancks fosse una persona molto difficile con cui avere a che fare. E si rammaricava davvero che un gentiluomo come Mr Casby affidasse le sue rendite a lui, senza mai conoscere la vera natura di quell’uomo. “Perché”, dicevano i “Bleeding Hearts”, “se un gentiluomo con quel tipo di capelli e quegli occhi si occupasse personalmente delle proprie rendite, signore, non ci sarebbero più tutte queste preoccupazioni. Le cose andrebbero molto meglio”.

In quale identico momento della sera, in quale esatta ora e minuto, il Patriarca – che quel pomeriggio aveva navigato serenamente nel cortile, con l’intento preciso di suscitare fiducia in tutti con la sua aria dignitosa e i suoi capelli setosi – in quale identico momento, quell’impostore di prim’ordine si trovava immerso nei problemi del suo esausto rimorchiatore, nel piccolo porto vicino a casa sua, e mentre girava le dita pollici diceva.

“Un lavoro davvero pessimo, Pancks. Un lavoro molto, molto scadente. A mio parere, signore, e devo insistere su questo punto per giustizia verso me stesso, avreste dovuto guadagnare molto di più. Molto di più.”

CHAPTER 24. Fortune-Telling

Little Dorrit received a call that same evening from Mr Plornish, who, having intimated that he wished to speak to her privately, in a series of coughs so very noticeable as to favour the idea that her father, as regarded her seamstress occupation, was an illustration of the axiom that there are no such stone-blind men as those who will not see, obtained an audience with her on the common staircase outside the door.

‘There’s been a lady at our place to-day, Miss Dorrit,’ Plornish growled, ‘and another one along with her as is a old wixen if ever I met with such. The way she snapped a person’s head off, dear me!’

The mild Plornish was at first quite unable to get his mind away from Mr F.’s Aunt. ‘For,’ said he, to excuse himself, ‘she is, I do assure you, the winegariest party.’

At length, by a great effort, he detached himself from the subject sufficiently to observe:

‘But she’s neither here nor there just at present. The other lady, she’s Mr Casby’s daughter; and if Mr Casby an’t well off, none better, it an’t through any fault of Pancks. For, as to Pancks, he does, he really does, he does indeed!’

Mr Plornish, after his usual manner, was a little obscure, but conscientiously emphatic.

‘And what she come to our place for,’ he pursued, ‘was to leave word that if Miss Dorrit would step up to that card—which it’s Mr Casby’s house that is, and Pancks he has a office at the back, where he really does, beyond belief—she would be glad for to engage her. She was a old and a dear friend, she said particular, of Mr Clennam, and hoped for to prove herself a useful friend to his friend. Them was her words. Wishing to know whether Miss Dorrit could come to-morrow morning, I said I would see you, Miss, and inquire, and look round there to-night, to say yes, or, if you was engaged to-morrow, when?’

‘I can go to-morrow, thank you,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘This is very kind of you, but you are always kind.’

Mr Plornish, with a modest disavowal of his merits, opened the room door for her readmission, and followed her in with such an exceedingly bald pretence of not having been out at all, that her father might have observed it without being very suspicious. In his affable unconsciousness, however, he took no heed. Plornish, after a little conversation, in which he blended his former duty as a Collegian with his present privilege as a humble outside friend, qualified again by his low estate as a plasterer, took his leave; making the tour of the prison before he left, and looking on at a game of skittles with the mixed feelings of an old inhabitant who had his private reasons for believing that it might be his destiny to come back again.

Early in the morning, Little Dorrit, leaving Maggy in high domestic trust, set off for the Patriarchal tent. She went by the Iron Bridge, though it cost her a penny, and walked more slowly in that part of her journey than in any other. At five minutes before eight her hand was on the Patriarchal knocker, which was quite as high as she could reach.

She gave Mrs Finching’s card to the young woman who opened the door, and the young woman told her that ‘Miss Flora’—Flora having, on her return to the parental roof, reinvested herself with the title under which she had lived there—was not yet out of her bedroom, but she was to please to walk up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room. She walked up into Miss Flora’s sitting-room, as in duty bound, and there found a breakfast-table comfortably laid for two, with a supplementary tray upon it laid for one. The young woman, disappearing for a few moments, returned to say that she was to please to take a chair by the fire, and to take off her bonnet and make herself at home. But Little Dorrit, being bashful, and not used to make herself at home on such occasions, felt at a loss how to do it; so she was still sitting near the door with her bonnet on, when Flora came in in a hurry half an hour afterwards.

Flora was so sorry to have kept her waiting, and good gracious why did she sit out there in the cold when she had expected to find her by the fire reading the paper, and hadn’t that heedless girl given her the message then, and had she really been in her bonnet all this time, and pray for goodness sake let Flora take it off! Flora taking it off in the best-natured manner in the world, was so struck with the face disclosed, that she said, ‘Why, what a good little thing you are, my dear!’ and pressed her face between her hands like the gentlest of women.

It was the word and the action of a moment. Little Dorrit had hardly time to think how kind it was, when Flora dashed at the breakfast-table full of business, and plunged over head and ears into loquacity.

‘Really so sorry that I should happen to be late on this morning of all mornings because my intention and my wish was to be ready to meet you when you came in and to say that any one that interested Arthur Clennam half so much must interest me and that I gave you the heartiest welcome and was so glad, instead of which they never called me and there I still am snoring I dare say if the truth was known and if you don’t like either cold fowl or hot boiled ham which many people don’t I dare say besides Jews and theirs are scruples of conscience which we must all respect though I must say I wish they had them equally strong when they sell us false articles for real that certainly ain’t worth the money I shall be quite vexed,’ said Flora.

Little Dorrit thanked her, and said, shyly, bread-and-butter and tea was all she usually—

‘Oh nonsense my dear child I can never hear of that,’ said Flora, turning on the urn in the most reckless manner, and making herself wink by splashing hot water into her eyes as she bent down to look into the teapot. ‘You are coming here on the footing of a friend and companion you know if you will let me take that liberty and I should be ashamed of myself indeed if you could come here upon any other, besides which Arthur Clennam spoke in such terms—you are tired my dear.’

CAPITOLO 24. DIVINAZIONE DEL FATE

Quella stessa sera, Little Dorrit ricevette una chiamata da parte di Mr Plornish, il quale, dopo aver accennato al desiderio di parlare con lei in privato, emise una serie di colpi di tosse così evidenti da far pensare che suo padre, considerando la sua attività di sarta, rappresentasse l’esempio perfetto dell’aforisma secondo cui non esistono persone davvero cieche al punto di non vedere nulla. Alla fine riuscì a incontrarla sulle scale esterne, fuori dalla porta.

“Oggi è stata da noi una signora, la signorina Dorrit,” ringhiò Plornish, “e con lei c’era un’altra donna, una vecchia strega, per dirla tutta. Il modo in cui ha parlato, sembrava davvero che potesse staccare la testa a qualcuno, per l’amor del cielo!”

Il mite Plornish, all’inizio, non riusciva affatto a distogliere i suoi pensieri dalla zia del signor F. “Perché,” si scusava, “le assicuro che è davvero la persona più, ‘vinirosa’ che esista.”

Finalmente, con un grande sforzo, riuscì a distaccarsi abbastanza dall’argomento per poter osservare attentamente.

“Ma al momento non è né qui né lì. L’altra signora, è la figlia del signor Casby; e se il signor Casby non è molto ricco, beh, non è certo per colpa di Pancks. Perché, quanto a Pancks, lui davvero lo fa, davvero!”

Il signor Plornish, come al solito, era un po’ oscuro nel suo modo di esprimersi, ma si sforzava sempre di essere chiaro e deciso nelle sue affermazioni.

“E quello per cui è venuta a casa nostra,” continuò, “è stato per lasciare un messaggio: se la signorina Dorrit fosse disposta ad andare da quel signore, cioè nella casa del signor Casby, dove Pancks ha un ufficio sul retro, sarebbe molto contenta di poterla assumere. Ha detto che era un’antica e cara amica del signor Clennam, e sperava di rivelarsi una vera amica anche per sua amica. Queste sono state le sue parole. Volevo sapere se la signorina Dorrit potesse venire domani mattina, quindi ho detto che vi avrei incontrata per chiedervelo, e magari dare un’occhiata lì intorno stasera, per rispondervi sì, oppure, se foste già impegnata domani, quando?”

“Posso andare domani, grazie,” disse Little Dorrit. “È molto gentile da parte tua, ma tu sei sempre gentile.”

Il signor Plornish, con una modesta smentita dei propri meriti, aprì la porta della stanza per farla rientrare e la seguì all’interno, fingendo in modo estremamente evidente di non essere mai uscito, tanto che suo padre avrebbe potuto accorgersene senza sospettare nulla. Tuttavia, nella sua affabile ignoranza, Plornish non se ne rese conto. Dopo una breve conversazione, nella quale mescolò il proprio ruolo precedente di studente con quello attuale di umile amico esterno, e anche con la propria condizione sociale di imbianchino, si congedò; prima di andarsene, fece un giro per la prigione e osservò una partita a skittles, provando sentimenti contrastanti: da vecchio abitante che aveva le sue ragioni personali per credere che potesse essere suo destino tornare lì di nuovo.

All’alba, Little Dorrit, lasciando Maggy a capo delle faccende domestiche, si diresse verso la tenda del Patriarca. Passò sotto il Ponte di Ferro, anche se questo le costò un penny, e camminò più lentamente in quella parte del suo viaggio che in qualsiasi altra. Cinque minuti prima delle otto, raggiunse la porta della tenda del Patriarca; il battente era così alto che lei riusciva appena a raggiungerlo con la mano.

Lei diede la cartolina della signora Finching alla giovane donna che le aprì la porta, e questa le disse che “la signorina Flora” – poiché Flora, al suo ritorno sotto il tetto dei genitori, aveva ripreso il nome con cui vi aveva vissuto – non era ancora uscita dalla sua camera da letto, ma poteva accomodarsi nel salotto della signorina Flora. Lei entrò nel salotto, come se fosse suo dovere, e vi trovò un tavolo da colazione comodamente preparato per due persone, con un vassoio aggiuntivo sopra per una terza. La giovane donna scomparve per qualche momento e tornò poi dicendo che poteva prendere una sedia vicino al focolare e togliersi il cappello, per sentirsi a proprio agio. Ma Little Dorrit, essendo timida e non abituata a comportarsi in modo così disinvolto in occasioni del genere, non sapeva come fare; quindi rimase seduta vicino alla porta con il cappello ancora indossato, quando Flora entrò di fretta mezz’ora dopo.

Flora si sentiva così in colpa per averla fatta aspettare; e, santo cielo, perché mai era rimasta seduta là fuori al freddo, se si aspettava di trovarla davanti al focolare mentre leggeva il giornale? Quella ragazza negligente non le aveva forse già inviato un messaggio in quel momento? E poi, era davvero stata con il cappello tutto questo tempo? Per favore, lasciate che Flora se lo tolga! Quando Flora lo fece, con la massima gentilezza possibile, rimase sbalordita dal viso che apparve: “Ma che cara bambina, ”, disse, e prese il suo viso tra le mani, come una donna davvero dolce e premurosa.

Fu una parola e un gesto dettati dall’istante. La piccola Dorrit non ebbe quasi il tempo di riflettere su quanto fosse gentile quel gesto, quando Flora si precipitò al tavolo della colazione, piena di impegni, e iniziò a parlare senza sosta.

“Mi dispiace davvero moltissimo di essere in ritardo proprio questa mattina, tra tutte le mattine possibili. La mia intenzione era davvero quella di esserci pronta quando saresti arrivato per darti il benvenuto; chiunque possa interessare anche solo la metà di quanto interessa Arthur Clennam deve necessariamente interessarmi anch’io. Ti ho accolto con tutto il cuore, ero davvero felice. Invece non mi hanno mai chiamato, e ora sono ancora lì a russare. Se la gente sapesse la verità. E se a te non piacciono né le carni fredde né i prosciutti cotti al vapore. Che molte persone non gradiscono, oltre ai giudei. Beh, diciamo che si tratta di scrupoli di conscienza che tutti dovremmo rispettare. Anche se devo ammettere che vorrei che questi scrupoli fossero altrettanto forti anche quando ci vendono articoli falsi a prezzo pieno. Che di certo non ne valgono la pena. Sarò davvero molto arrabbiata,” disse Flora.

“Little Dorrit le ringraziò e, con timidezza, disse che il pane, il burro e il tè erano tutto ciò di cui aveva normalmente bisogno, ”

“Oh, sciocchezze, mio caro bambino. Non posso assolutamente crederci,” disse Flora, accendendo la lampada con grande noncuranza e facendosi schizzare acqua bollente negli occhi mentre si chinava a guardare dentro la teiera. “Tu vieni qui in qualità di amico e compagno. Lo sai bene. Se mi permetti di dirtelo, mi vergognerei davvero se venissi qui per un altro motivo. Inoltre, Arthur Clennam ha parlato di te in termini molto affettuosi. Sei stanco, caro.”

‘No, ma’am.’

‘You turn so pale you have walked too far before breakfast and I dare say live a great way off and ought to have had a ride,’ said Flora, ‘dear dear is there anything that would do you good?’

‘Indeed I am quite well, ma’am. I thank you again and again, but I am quite well.’

‘Then take your tea at once I beg,’ said Flora, ‘and this wing of fowl and bit of ham, don’t mind me or wait for me, because I always carry in this tray myself to Mr F.’s Aunt who breakfasts in bed and a charming old lady too and very clever, Portrait of Mr F. behind the door and very like though too much forehead and as to a pillar with a marble pavement and balustrades and a mountain, I never saw him near it nor not likely in the wine trade, excellent man but not at all in that way.’

Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait, very imperfectly following the references to that work of art.

‘Mr F. was so devoted to me that he never could bear me out of his sight,’ said Flora, ‘though of course I am unable to say how long that might have lasted if he hadn’t been cut short while I was a new broom, worthy man but not poetical manly prose but not romance.’

Little Dorrit glanced at the portrait again. The artist had given it a head that would have been, in an intellectual point of view, top-heavy for Shakespeare.

‘Romance, however,’ Flora went on, busily arranging Mr F.’s Aunt’s toast, ‘as I openly said to Mr F. when he proposed to me and you will be surprised to hear that he proposed seven times once in a hackney-coach once in a boat once in a pew once on a donkey at Tunbridge Wells and the rest on his knees, Romance was fled with the early days of Arthur Clennam, our parents tore us asunder we became marble and stern reality usurped the throne, Mr F. said very much to his credit that he was perfectly aware of it and even preferred that state of things accordingly the word was spoken the fiat went forth and such is life you see my dear and yet we do not break but bend, pray make a good breakfast while I go in with the tray.’

She disappeared, leaving Little Dorrit to ponder over the meaning of her scattered words. She soon came back again; and at last began to take her own breakfast, talking all the while.

‘You see, my dear,’ said Flora, measuring out a spoonful or two of some brown liquid that smelt like brandy, and putting it into her tea, ‘I am obliged to be careful to follow the directions of my medical man though the flavour is anything but agreeable being a poor creature and it may be have never recovered the shock received in youth from too much giving way to crying in the next room when separated from Arthur, have you known him long?’

As soon as Little Dorrit comprehended that she had been asked this question—for which time was necessary, the galloping pace of her new patroness having left her far behind—she answered that she had known Mr Clennam ever since his return.

‘To be sure you couldn’t have known him before unless you had been in China or had corresponded neither of which is likely,’ returned Flora, ‘for travelling-people usually get more or less mahogany and you are not at all so and as to corresponding what about? that’s very true unless tea, so it was at his mother’s was it really that you knew him first, highly sensible and firm but dreadfully severe—ought to be the mother of the man in the iron mask.’

‘Mrs Clennam has been kind to me,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Really? I am sure I am glad to hear it because as Arthur’s mother it’s naturally pleasant to my feelings to have a better opinion of her than I had before, though what she thinks of me when I run on as I am certain to do and she sits glowering at me like Fate in a go-cart—shocking comparison really—invalid and not her fault—I never know or can imagine.’

‘Shall I find my work anywhere, ma’am?’ asked Little Dorrit, looking timidly about; ‘can I get it?’

‘You industrious little fairy,’ returned Flora, taking, in another cup of tea, another of the doses prescribed by her medical man, ‘there’s not the slightest hurry and it’s better that we should begin by being confidential about our mutual friend—too cold a word for me at least I don’t mean that, very proper expression mutual friend—than become through mere formalities not you but me like the Spartan boy with the fox biting him, which I hope you’ll excuse my bringing up for of all the tiresome boys that will go tumbling into every sort of company that boy’s the tiresomest.’

Little Dorrit, her face very pale, sat down again to listen. ‘Hadn’t I better work the while?’ she asked. ‘I can work and attend too. I would rather, if I may.’

Her earnestness was so expressive of her being uneasy without her work, that Flora answered, ‘Well my dear whatever you like best,’ and produced a basket of white handkerchiefs. Little Dorrit gladly put it by her side, took out her little pocket-housewife, threaded the needle, and began to hem.

‘What nimble fingers you have,’ said Flora, ‘but are you sure you are well?’

‘Oh yes, indeed!’

Flora put her feet upon the fender, and settled herself for a thorough good romantic disclosure. She started off at score, tossing her head, sighing in the most demonstrative manner, making a great deal of use of her eyebrows, and occasionally, but not often, glancing at the quiet face that bent over the work.

‘You must know my dear,’ said Flora, ‘but that I have no doubt you know already not only because I have already thrown it out in a general way but because I feel I carry it stamped in burning what’s his names upon my brow that before I was introduced to the late Mr F. I had been engaged to Arthur Clennam—Mr Clennam in public where reserve is necessary Arthur here—we were all in all to one another it was the morning of life it was bliss it was frenzy it was everything else of that sort in the highest degree, when rent asunder we turned to stone in which capacity Arthur went to China and I became the statue bride of the late Mr F.’

‘No, ma’am.’

“Sembri così pallido. Devi aver camminato troppo prima di colazione, e oserei dire che abiti molto lontano da qui; avresti dovuto farti portare in qualche modo,” disse Flora. “Caro, c’è qualcosa che potrebbe farti bene?”

“Infatti sto davvero molto bene, signora. La ringrazio ancora e ancora, ma sto davvero molto bene.”

“Allora prendi subito il tuo tè, ti prego,” disse Flora, “e anche questa ala di pollame e questo pezzo di prosciutto. Non badare a me né aspettarmi, perché io porto sempre personalmente questo vassoio dalla zia del signor F., che fa colazione a letto, e anche da una cara vecchietta molto intelligente. C’è il ritratto del signor F. dietro la porta. Assomiglia molto a lui. Anche se ha la fronte un po’ troppo alta. E poi c’è quella colonna con il pavimento in marmo, le balaustrate. E una montagna. Non l’ho mai visto vicino a quella colonna. E probabilmente non lavora nel settore vinicolo. Un uomo eccellente, ma assolutamente no in quel senso, ”

Little Dorrit guardò il ritratto, cercando di seguirne le caratteristiche descritte in quell’opera d’arte, anche se non con grande precisione.

“Il signor F. era così devoto a me che non riusciva mai a stare lontano da me,” disse Flora, “anche se ovviamente non posso dire per quanto tempo questa situazione sarebbe potuta continuare, se non fosse stato interrotto quando ero ancora una ‘scopa nuova’. Un uomo onesto, ma non un poeta; prosa maschile solida, ma niente romanzo.”

Little Dorrit guardò di nuovo il ritratto. L’artista aveva dato al personaggio una testa che, dal punto di vista intellettuale, sarebbe risultata sproporzionatamente grande rispetto al resto del corpo, per uno come Shakespeare.

“‘Romanzo’, tuttavia, ”, proseguì Flora, sistemando con cura il toast della zia del signor F., “come dissi apertamente al signor F. quando mi chiese di sposarlo. Vi sorprenderà sapere che lo fece sette volte: una volta in una vettura a noleggio, una volta in barca, una volta in chiesa, una volta su un asino a Tunbridge Wells. E il resto, in ginocchio. Il ‘Romanzo’ finì nelle prime fasi della storia di Arthur Clennam. I nostri genitori ci separarono. Diventammo pietra. La dura realtà usurpò il trono. Il signor F., a onor del vero, ne era pienamente consapevole. Anzi, preferiva proprio quella situazione. Così fu detto. E così fu fatto. E questa è la vita. Vedete, caro mio. Ma non ci spezziamo. Ci piegiamo soltanto. Per favore, preparatevi un buon colazione. Mentre io vado ad portare il vassoio, ”

Scomparve, lasciando Little Dorrit a riflettere sul significato delle sue parole sparse qua e là. Poco dopo tornò indietro; e finalmente iniziò a mangiare la sua colazione, parlando tutto il tempo.

“Vedi, caro mio,” disse Flora, versando un cucchiaino o due di un liquido marrone che profumava di brandy nel suo tè, “devo assolutamente seguire le indicazioni del mio medico. Anche se il sapore non è affatto gradevole. Essendo una povera creatura, forse non sono mai riuscita a superare lo shock subito in giovane età per via delle troppe lacrime versate nella stanza accanto quando venivo separata da Arthur. Lo conosci da molto tempo?”

Non appena Little Dorrit capì che le era stata posta questa domanda – e poiché il passo veloce della sua nuova datrice di lavoro l’aveva lasciata molto indietro – rispose che conosceva il signor Clennam fin dal suo ritorno.

“Certo, non avresti potuto conoscerlo prima a meno di essere stata in Cina o di aver corrisposto con lui, il che è improbabile,” rispose Flora. “Le persone che viaggiano di solito assumono un aspetto piuttosto comune; tu invece non assomigli affatto a loro. E per quanto riguarda la corrispondenza, beh, è vero che spesso si scambiano lettere riguardo al tè. Quindi è stata sua madre ad aiutarti a conoscerlo, giusto? Molto sensata e decisa, ma terribilmente severa. Dev’essere davvero la madre dell’uomo dalla maschera di ferro.”

“Signora Clennam è stata gentile con me,” disse Little Dorrit.

‘Davvero? Sono sicura che mi fa piacere saperlo, perché come madre di Arthur è naturalmente gratificante per me ricevere un’opinione migliore su di lei rispetto a prima. Anche se non so cosa pensi di me quando io continuo a comportarmi così come sicuramente farò, e lei se ne sta lì a fissarmi con aria minacciosa, come la “Destino” in una go-kart. Una comparazione davvero scioccante. In ogni caso, non è colpa sua. Non lo so mai, né riesco nemmeno a immaginarlo.’

“Riuscirò a trovare il mio lavoro da qualche parte, signora?”, chiese Little Dorrit, guardandosi intorno timidamente; “potrò ottenerlo?”

“Tu piccola fata laboriosa,” rispose Flora, prendendo un’altra tazza di tè e assumendo un’altra dose prescritta dal suo medico, “non c’è alcuna fretta; è meglio che iniziamo parlando con sincerità del nostro amico comune. Anche se ‘amico comune’ è una parola troppo fredda per me. Non intendo questo; ‘amico comune’ è un’espressione più appropriata. Meglio non lasciare che formalità banali ci impediscano di essere onesti l’uno con l’altro, soprattutto io. Come quel ragazzo spartano a cui la volpe mordeva il piede. Spero tu mi perdoni per aver menzionato questo esempio, tra tutti i ragazzi noiosi che finiranno per frequentare ogni sorta di compagnie. Quel ragazzo è davvero il più fastidioso.”

Piccola Dorrit, con il viso molto pallido, si sedette di nuovo ad ascoltare. “Non sarebbe meglio che lavorassi intanto?”, chiese. “Posso lavorare e contemporaneamente prestare attenzione. Preferirei farlo, se possibile.”

La sua serietà rivelava chiaramente quanto si sentisse a disagio senza il suo lavoro; così Flora rispose: “Beh, cara mia, fai pure ciò che preferisci”, e le porse un cestino pieno di fazzoletti bianchi. La piccola Dorrit li mise subito accanto a sé, tirò fuori la sua minuscola scatola da cucito, infilò l’ago e iniziò a cucire i bordi dei fazzoletti.

“Che dita agili che hai,” disse Flora, “ma sei sicura di stare bene?”

“Ah sì, davvero!”

Flora appoggiò i piedi sul parafango e si preparò ad ascoltare una confessione romantica in pieno regolo. Iniziò con grandi gesti: scuoteva la testa, sospirava in modo molto teatrale, utilizzava abbondantemente le sopracciglia e, di tanto in tanto, ma non troppo spesso, gettava uno sguardo verso quel viso tranquillo chino sul lavoro.

“Devi sapere, mio caro,” disse Flora, “che non ho alcun >dubbio che tu lo sappia già. Non solo perché ne ho parlato in modo generico, ma anche perché sento di portare impresso sulla mia fronte, con estrema chiarezza, il nome di colui a cui ero promessa prima di conoscere il defunto signor F. Eravamo tutti quanti legati l’uno all’altro. Era la mattina della vita. Era felicità. Era follia. Era tutto ciò che si possa immaginare, nel grado più alto. Poi, separati per sempre, siamo diventati “statue”. In quel ruolo, Arthur è andato in Cina, e io sono diventata la “sposa-statua” del defunto signor F.”

Flora, uttering these words in a deep voice, enjoyed herself immensely.

‘To paint,’ said she, ‘the emotions of that morning when all was marble within and Mr F.’s Aunt followed in a glass-coach which it stands to reason must have been in shameful repair or it never could have broken down two streets from the house and Mr F.’s Aunt brought home like the fifth of November in a rush-bottomed chair I will not attempt, suffice it to say that the hollow form of breakfast took place in the dining-room downstairs that papa partaking too freely of pickled salmon was ill for weeks and that Mr F. and myself went upon a continental tour to Calais where the people fought for us on the pier until they separated us though not for ever that was not yet to be.’

The statue bride, hardly pausing for breath, went on, with the greatest complacency, in a rambling manner sometimes incidental to flesh and blood.

‘I will draw a veil over that dreamy life, Mr F. was in good spirits his appetite was good he liked the cookery he considered the wine weak but palatable and all was well, we returned to the immediate neighbourhood of Number Thirty Little Gosling Street London Docks and settled down, ere we had yet fully detected the housemaid in selling the feathers out of the spare bed Gout flying upwards soared with Mr F. to another sphere.’

His relict, with a glance at his portrait, shook her head and wiped her eyes.

‘I revere the memory of Mr F. as an estimable man and most indulgent husband, only necessary to mention Asparagus and it appeared or to hint at any little delicate thing to drink and it came like magic in a pint bottle it was not ecstasy but it was comfort, I returned to papa’s roof and lived secluded if not happy during some years until one day papa came smoothly blundering in and said that Arthur Clennam awaited me below, I went below and found him ask me not what I found him except that he was still unmarried still unchanged!’

The dark mystery with which Flora now enshrouded herself might have stopped other fingers than the nimble fingers that worked near her. They worked on without pause, and the busy head bent over them watching the stitches.

‘Ask me not,’ said Flora, ‘if I love him still or if he still loves me or what the end is to be or when, we are surrounded by watchful eyes and it may be that we are destined to pine asunder it may be never more to be reunited not a word not a breath not a look to betray us all must be secret as the tomb wonder not therefore that even if I should seem comparatively cold to Arthur or Arthur should seem comparatively cold to me we have fatal reasons it is enough if we understand them hush!’

All of which Flora said with so much headlong vehemence as if she really believed it. There is not much doubt that when she worked herself into full mermaid condition, she did actually believe whatever she said in it.

‘Hush!’ repeated Flora, ‘I have now told you all, confidence is established between us hush, for Arthur’s sake I will always be a friend to you my dear girl and in Arthur’s name you may always rely upon me.’

The nimble fingers laid aside the work, and the little figure rose and kissed her hand. ‘You are very cold,’ said Flora, changing to her own natural kind-hearted manner, and gaining greatly by the change. ‘Don’t work to-day. I am sure you are not well I am sure you are not strong.’

‘It is only that I feel a little overcome by your kindness, and by Mr Clennam’s kindness in confiding me to one he has known and loved so long.’

‘Well really my dear,’ said Flora, who had a decided tendency to be always honest when she gave herself time to think about it, ‘it’s as well to leave that alone now, for I couldn’t undertake to say after all, but it doesn’t signify lie down a little!’

‘I have always been strong enough to do what I want to do, and I shall be quite well directly,’ returned Little Dorrit, with a faint smile. ‘You have overpowered me with gratitude, that’s all. If I keep near the window for a moment I shall be quite myself.’

Flora opened a window, sat her in a chair by it, and considerately retired to her former place. It was a windy day, and the air stirring on Little Dorrit’s face soon brightened it. In a very few minutes she returned to her basket of work, and her nimble fingers were as nimble as ever.

Quietly pursuing her task, she asked Flora if Mr Clennam had told her where she lived? When Flora replied in the negative, Little Dorrit said that she understood why he had been so delicate, but that she felt sure he would approve of her confiding her secret to Flora, and that she would therefore do so now with Flora’s permission. Receiving an encouraging answer, she condensed the narrative of her life into a few scanty words about herself and a glowing eulogy upon her father; and Flora took it all in with a natural tenderness that quite understood it, and in which there was no incoherence.

When dinner-time came, Flora drew the arm of her new charge through hers, and led her down-stairs, and presented her to the Patriarch and Mr Pancks, who were already in the dining-room waiting to begin. (Mr F.’s Aunt was, for the time, laid up in ordinary in her chamber.) By those gentlemen she was received according to their characters; the Patriarch appearing to do her some inestimable service in saying that he was glad to see her, glad to see her; and Mr Pancks blowing off his favourite sound as a salute.

In that new presence she would have been bashful enough under any circumstances, and particularly under Flora’s insisting on her drinking a glass of wine and eating of the best that was there; but her constraint was greatly increased by Mr Pancks. The demeanour of that gentleman at first suggested to her mind that he might be a taker of likenesses, so intently did he look at her, and so frequently did he glance at the little note-book by his side. Observing that he made no sketch, however, and that he talked about business only, she began to have suspicions that he represented some creditor of her father’s, the balance due to whom was noted in that pocket volume. Regarded from this point of view Mr Pancks’s puffings expressed injury and impatience, and each of his louder snorts became a demand for payment.

Flora, pronunciando queste parole con voce profonda, si divertì moltissimo.

“Per dipingere,” disse lei, “le emozioni di quella mattina in cui tutto sembrava fatto di marmo. La zia del signor F. arrivò poi in una carrozza coperta di vetro; è logico pensare che fosse in condizioni pessime, altrimenti non si sarebbe mai rotta a due strade di distanza dalla casa. La zia del signor F. tornò a casa su una sedia con fondo imbottito. Basterà dire che la colazione ebbe luogo nel salone da pranzo al piano di sotto. Mio padre, mangiando troppo salmone in scatola, si ammalò per settimane. Il signor F. ed io partimmo poi per un viaggio in Europa, fino a Calais. Lì la gente ci aiutava sul molo, anche se alla fine non riuscirono a separarci del tutto, ma questo sarebbe accaduto solo più tardi, ”

La sposa di pietra, senza quasi mai prendere fiato, continuava con la massima compiaciuta indifferenza, in modo talvolta casuale e legato alla carne e al %sangue.

“Coprirò con un velo quella vita piena di sogni. Il signor F. era di buon umore, aveva appetito, gli piaceva la cucina; riteneva il vino debole ma gradevole al palato. Tutto andava bene. Tornammo nell’area immediatamente circostante il numero 30 di Little Gosling Street, nei Docks di Londra, e ci stabilimmo lì. Prima ancora che potessimo scoprire completamente che la cameriera vendeva le piume provenienti dal letto extra, ” La gotta, intanto, continuava a “salire sempre più in alto”, portando il signor F. verso un’altra dimensione.

Il suo ricordo, dopo aver guardato il suo ritratto, scosse la testa e si asciugò gli occhi.

“Rispetto la memoria del signor F. come quella di un uomo stimabile e di un marito estremamente premuroso; bastava menzionare l’Asparago per far sì che lui preparasse immediatamente qualcosa di delizioso da bere. Era come se fosse magia: in una bottiglia da una pinta, quel liquido non rappresentava certo un’estasi, ma sicuramente un grande conforto. Tornai a vivere sotto il tetto di mio padre e trascorsi alcuni anni tranquilli, se non felici. Fino a quando un giorno mio padre entrò improvvisamente nella mia stanza e mi disse che Arthur Clennam mi stava aspettando giù. Andai da lui e scoprii che era ancora single, immutato in tutto, ”

Il mistero oscuro con cui ora Flora si avvolgeva avrebbe potuto fermare altre mani, tranne quelle agili che lavoravano vicino a lei. Continuavano a lavorare senza sosta, mentre la testa impegnata era china su di loro, osservando ogni punto che veniva fatto.

“Non chiedermelo,” disse Flora, “se lo amo ancora o se lui mi ama ancora, né quale sarà la fine di tutto questo, né quando accadrà. Siamo circondati da occhi attenti, e forse siamo destinati a separarci per sempre. Forse non ci riuniremo mai più. Nessuna parola, nessun respiro, nessuno sguardo deve tradirci. Tutto deve rimanere segreto, come una tomba. Quindi, anche se potessi sembrare relativamente fredda verso Arthur o se lui sembrasse relativamente freddo verso di me, abbiamo ragioni fatali. Basta che le comprendiamo. Taci!”

Tutto ciò Flora lo disse con tale veemenza e convinzione, come se davvero ci credesse. Non c’è molto >dubbio che, quando raggiungeva lo stato perfetto di >sirena, lei credesse davvero in tutto ciò che diceva in quel momento.

“Zitta!” ripeté Flora. “Ora che vi ho detto tutto, la fiducia tra noi è stata ristabilita. Zitta. Per il bene di Arthur, sarò sempre tua amica, mia cara ragazza. E per nome di Arthur, potete sempre contare su di me.”

Le dita agili posarono da parte il lavoro; la piccola figura si alzò e baciò la sua mano. “Sei molto fredda,” disse Flora, tornando al suo solito modo naturale e gentile, guadagnando molto in questo cambiamento. “Non lavorare oggi. Sono sicura che non stai bene. Non sei affatto in forze.”

“È solo che mi sento un po’ sopraffatta dalla tua gentilezza, e anche da quella del signor Clennam per avermi affidata a qualcuno che conosce e ama da così tanto tempo.”

“Beh, davvero cara,” disse Flora, che aveva la tendenza ad essere sempre onesta quando si prendeva il tempo di pensarci bene, “è meglio lasciarle stare per ora. Non potrei comunque garantirlo con certezza, ma non significa mica che debbano sdraiarsi subito!”

“Sono sempre stata abbastanza forte per fare ciò che voglio, e ora starò benissimo,” rispose Little Dorrit con un debole sorriso. “Mi avete sopraffatta con la vostra gratitudine, nient’altro. Se resto vicino alla finestra per un momento, tornerò completamente me stessa.”

Flora aprì una finestra, si sedette su una sedia accanto ad essa e, con premura, tornò al suo posto precedente. Era una giornata ventosa, e l’aria che le accarezzava il viso lo riscaldò rapidamente. In pochi minuti tornò al suo lavoro; le sue dita agili erano ancora così abili come sempre.

Proseguendo silenziosamente nel suo compito, chiese a Flora se il signor Clennam le avesse detto dove viveva. Quando Flora rispose di no, Little Dorrit disse di capire perché lui fosse stato così delicato, ma era sicura che avrebbe approvato se lei gli avesse confidato il suo segreto. E quindi lo fece, con l’autorizzazione di Flora. Ricevuta una risposta incoraggiante, riassunse la storia della sua vita in poche parole riguardanti sé stessa e scrisse un elogio appassionato per suo padre; Flora ascoltò tutto con una tenerezza naturale, che comprendeva perfettamente il significato di quelle parole. E non c’era alcuna incoerenza nella sua reazione.

Quando arrivò l’ora di cena, Flora prese per il braccio la sua nuova protetta e la condusse giù per le scale, presentandola al Patriarca e a Mr Pancks, che erano già in sala da pranzo in attesa di iniziare. (La zia di Mr F. era, in quel momento, a letto nella sua stanza.) Quei gentiluomini la accolsero secondo il loro carattere: il Patriarca le disse che gli faceva molto piacere vederla, mentre Mr Pancks emise il suo suono preferito come saluto.

In quella nuova situazione, lei sarebbe stata già abbastanza timida in qualsiasi circostanza, soprattutto considerando l’insistenza di Flora affinché bevesse un bicchiere di vino e mangiasse il meglio che c’era; ma la sua imbarazzo aumentò notevolmente a causa di Mr Pancks. Il comportamento di quell’uomo, all’inizio, le fece pensare che potesse essere un ritrattista, visto quanto attentamente la osservava e con quale frequenza guardava il piccolo taccuino accanto a lui. Tuttavia, notando che non faceva alcun schizzo e parlava soltanto di affari, iniziò a sospettare che rappresentasse qualche creditore di suo padre, e che l’importo dovuto fosse annotato proprio in quel taccuino. Da questo punto di vista, i suoi sbuffi esprimevano offesa e impazienza, e ogni uno dei suoi colpi di naso più sonori rappresentava una richiesta di pagamento.

But here again she was undeceived by anomalous and incongruous conduct on the part of Mr Pancks himself. She had left the table half an hour, and was at work alone. Flora had ‘gone to lie down’ in the next room, concurrently with which retirement a smell of something to drink had broken out in the house. The Patriarch was fast asleep, with his philanthropic mouth open under a yellow pocket-handkerchief in the dining-room. At this quiet time, Mr Pancks softly appeared before her, urbanely nodding.

‘Find it a little dull, Miss Dorrit?’ inquired Pancks in a low voice.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Busy, I see,’ observed Mr Pancks, stealing into the room by inches. ‘What are those now, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Handkerchiefs.’

‘Are they, though!’ said Pancks. ‘I shouldn’t have thought it.’ Not in the least looking at them, but looking at Little Dorrit. ‘Perhaps you wonder who I am. Shall I tell you? I am a fortune-teller.’

Little Dorrit now began to think he was mad.

‘I belong body and soul to my proprietor,’ said Pancks; ‘you saw my proprietor having his dinner below. But I do a little in the other way, sometimes; privately, very privately, Miss Dorrit.’

Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. ‘I wish you’d show me the palm of your hand,’ said Pancks. ‘I should like to have a look at it. Don’t let me be troublesome.’

He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with her thimble on it.

‘Years of toil, eh?’ said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt forefinger. ‘But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!’ looking into the lines. ‘What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it’s a father! And what’s this with a clarionet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing-shoes? It’s a sister! And what’s this straggling about in an idle sort of a way? It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for ‘em all? Why, this is you, Miss Dorrit!’

Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting the impression was gone.

‘Now, the deuce is in it,’ muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her hand with his clumsy finger, ‘if this isn’t me in the corner here! What do I want here? What’s behind me?’

He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.

‘Is it any harm?’ asked Little Dorrit, smiling.

‘Deuce a bit!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’

‘I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.’

‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss Dorrit.’

Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner; and repeated slowly, ‘Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live to see.’

She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only by his knowing so much about her.

‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that, ever!’

More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to him for an explanation of his last words.

‘Not that,’ said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally grotesque. ‘Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’

‘I hardly know what to say,’ returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded. ‘Why?’

‘Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Agreed that I—am—to—’

‘To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not to mind me when I come and go. It’s very easy. I am no loss, I am not handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber. You need do no more than think, “Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his fortune-telling—he’ll tell the rest of my fortune one day—I shall live to know it.” Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Ye-es,’ faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, ‘I suppose so, while you do no harm.’

‘Good!’ Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped forward. ‘Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.’ With that he rubbed his hands as if the interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door, and urbanely nodded himself out again.

If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded him in Mr Casby’s house of significantly glancing at her and snorting at her—which was not much, after what he had done already—he began to pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she went to Mr Casby’s, he was always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam’s, he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among the visitors at her father’s Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that held its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the members of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company to five gallons of ale—report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The effect on Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of in his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to that produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind him. He could only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn’t be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never said a word more, or made a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr Pancks crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that gentleman’s arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit, save once or twice when he happened to come close to her and there was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing, with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, ‘Pancks the gipsy—fortune-telling.’

Ma anche questa volta non fu ingannata dalle azioni anomale e incongrue di Signor Pancks stesso. Aveva lasciato la tavola mezz’ora prima ed era al lavoro, da sola. Flora “era andata a riposare” nella stanza accanto; proprio in quel momento, nell’casa si diffuse l’odore di qualcosa da bere. Il Patriarca dormiva profondamente, con la bocca aperta sotto un fazzoletto giallo nel salone da pranzo. In quel momento di tranquillità, Signor Pancks apparve silenziosamente davanti a lei, annuendo cortesemente.

“Le sembra un po’ noioso, signorina Dorrit?” chiese Pancks a bassa voce.

“No, grazie, signore,” disse Little Dorrit.

“Occupato, a quanto pare,” osservò Signor Pancks, entrando nella stanza lentamente.
“Che cos’è quella roba, signorina Dorrit?”

“Fazzoletti.”

“Davvero lo sono!” disse Pancks. “Non avrei mai pensato che fossero così. Non guardandoli affatto, ma osservando Little Dorrit.” “Forse vi chiedete chi sono. Vielo dire? Sono una veggente.”

Ora Little Dorrit iniziò a pensare che fosse pazzo.

“Il mio corpo e la mia anima appartengono al mio padrone,” disse Pancks; “avete visto il mio padrone cenare di sotto. Ma a volte faccio anche qualcos’altro, in privato, molto in privato, signorina Dorrit.”

Little Dorrit lo guardò con dubbi e anche con un certo allarme. “Mi piacerebbe che mi mostraste il palmo della mano,” disse Pancks. “Vorrei darci un’occhiata. Non voglio essere una scocciatura.”

Era così fastidioso che nessuno lo voleva lì, ma lei posò il lavoro sulle ginocchia per un momento e tese la mano sinistra, con l’anulare coperto dal dito mignolo.

“Anni e anni di fatica, eh?” disse Pancks, dolcemente, toccandola con il suo dito indice tozzo. “Ma per cosa altro siamo fatti, dopotutto? Per nulla. Ehi!” osservando le linee scritte. “Che significano queste barre? È un’università! E questi abiti grigi e questo cappello di velluto nero? Un padre. E questa clarinetta? Un zio. E queste scarpe da ballo? Una sorella. E chi è questo che gira qua e là in modo così svogliato? Un fratello. E cosa sta pensando per tutti loro? Beh, sei tu, Miss Dorrit!”

I suoi occhi incrociarono i suoi mentre alzava lo sguardo verso di lui con meraviglia; pensò che, nonostante i suoi occhi fossero acuti, lui fosse un uomo più gentile e attraente di quanto avesse immaginato a cena. I suoi occhi erano di nuovo fissi sulla sua mano. E così le sfuggì l’occasione per confermare o correggere quell’impressione.

“Ora, il diavolo è davvero coinvolto in questa faccenda,” mormorò Pancks, tracciando una linea sulla sua mano con il suo dito goffo. “Se non sono proprio io in questo angolo. Cosa voglio qui? Cosa c’è dietro di me?”

Portò lentamente il dito verso il polso, attorno al polso stesso, e fece finta di guardare il dorso della mano per vedere cosa ci fosse dietro di lui.

“Fa qualche danno?”, chiese Little Dorrit sorridendo.

“Ma che sciocchezza!”, disse Pancks. “Secondo te, quanto vale?”

“Dovrei essere io a chiedertelo. Non sono mica una veggente.”

“Vero,” disse Pancks. “Ma a che prezzo? Lo vedrete con i vostri occhi, signorina Dorrit.”

Lasciando andare la mano lentamente, fece passare tutti i suoi dita tra le ciocche di capelli, in modo che si drizzassero nella loro posizione più significativa; poi ripeté lentamente: “Ricordate quello che dico, signorina Dorrit. Vivrete abbastanza a lungo per vederlo accadere.”

Non poteva fare a meno di mostrare quanto fosse sorpresa, soprattutto dal fatto che lui sapesse così tanto su di lei.

“Ah! Ecco fatto!” disse Pancks, indicandola. “Signorina Dorrit, mai così!”

Ancora più sorpresa di prima, e anche un po’ più spaventata, lo guardò in cerca di una spiegazione per le sue ultime parole.

“Non quello,” disse Pancks, imitando con grande serietà un’espressione e un comportamento sorpresi che sembravano involontariamente grotteschi. “Non fatelo. Mai, quando mi vedete, in nessun momento, in nessun luogo. Io non sono nessuno. Non badate a me. Non parlatene. Non fateci caso. Vi va bene, signorina Dorrit?”

“Non so proprio cosa dire,” rispose Little Dorrit, completamente sbalordita.
“Perché?”

“Perché sono una veggente. Pancks la zingara. Non vi ho ancora rivelato tutto del vostro destino, signorina Dorrit. Non vi ho ancora detto cosa c’è dietro quella mia piccola mano. Vi ho detto che vivrete abbastanza a lungo per scoprirlo. È d’accordo, signorina Dorrit?”

“Concordato sul fatto che io debba, ”

“Non portarmi via da qui a meno che prima non lo faccia io stesso. Non badare a me quando vengo e vado. È molto semplice: non rappresento alcun valore, non sono bello, non sono una compagnia piacevole. Sono soltanto un peso per i miei proprietari. Basta che pensiate: ‘Ah! Quel zingaro che legge il futuro. Un giorno mi dirà anche il resto del mio destino. Vivrò abbastanza a lungo per saperlo.’ È d’accordo, signorina Dorrit?”

“Sì, sì,” balbettò Little Dorrit, confusa da quelle parole, “immagino di sì, purché tu non faccia del male.”

“Bene!” Signor Pancks guardò il muro della stanza accanto e si chinò in avanti. “Una persona onesta, una donna di grande valore, ma anche negligente e troppo loquace, signorina Dorrit.” Dopo aver detto questo, si strofinò le mani come se l’intervista fosse stata molto soddisfacente per lui, poi si affrettò verso la porta e uscì con un inchino cortese.

Se la piccola Dorrit fosse stata profondamente perplessa da questo comportamento strano da parte del suo nuovo conoscente, e se si fosse trovata coinvolta in un accordo così insolito, la sua confusione non sarebbe diminuita di fronte alle circostanze successive. Oltre al fatto che Mr Pancks approfittava di ogni occasione per lanciarle sguardi significativi e soffiare su di lei nella casa di Mr Casby – il che, considerando ciò che aveva già fatto, non era certo poco – iniziò anche a invadere la sua vita quotidiana. Lo vedeva sempre per strada; quando andava da Mr Casby, lui c’era sempre; quando andava da Mrs Clennam, arrivava lì con qualsiasi scusa, come se volesse tenerla sempre sott’occhio. Non era passata nemmeno una settimana che, sua grande sorpresa, lo trovò una notte nella prigione, mentre conversava con il guardiano di turno, e sembrava proprio uno dei suoi soliti compagni. La sua successiva sorpresa fu scoprire che si comportava altrettanto a suo agio anche all’interno della prigione; sentì dire che si presentava tra i visitatori durante la riunione domenicale di suo padre; lo vide camminare a braccetto con un amico nel cortile della prigione; e da Fame seppe che una sera, al club sociale che si teneva nella Snuggery, si era distinto molto: aveva tenuto un discorso ai membri dell’istituzione, cantato una canzone e offerto alla compagnia cinque galloni di birra. Secondo le voci, aggiungevano anche un bushel di gamberi. L’effetto di questi eventi, che Mr Plornish assisteva personalmente durante le sue visite regolari, su la piccola Dorrit era secondo solo a quello degli eventi stessi. Sembrava che tali cose lo paralizzassero completamente; riusciva soltanto a fissarla in silenzio, e a volte mormorava debolmente che nessuno avrebbe creduto, nemmeno nel Bleeding Heart Yard, che si trattasse davvero di Pancks. Ma non disse mai più una parola, né fece alcun gesto, nemmeno verso la piccola Dorrit. Mr Pancks completò il mistero presentandosi in modo inspiegabile a Tip e facendo una passeggiata domenicale al college, sostenuto dal braccio di quel gentiluomo. Per tutto il tempo non prestò alcuna attenzione alla piccola Dorrit, tranne che un paio di volte, quando si trovava abbastanza vicino a lei e non c’era nessuno nelle vicinanze; in quei momenti le diceva, con uno sguardo amichevole e un gesto incoraggiante: “Pancks il gitano, quello che predice il futuro”.

Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet, over the patient heart. Every day found her something more retiring than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison unnoticed, and elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for herself, her chief desires.

To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she was unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with her father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she would flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her room, and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those spikes upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave itself into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when she saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still, always over it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her solitude, seeing everything with that ineffaceable brand.

A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little Dorrit’s room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had ever been able to buy, had gone to her father’s room. Howbeit, for this poor place she showed an increasing love; and to sit in it alone became her favourite rest.

Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy’s well-known step coming up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being summoned away. As Maggy’s step came higher up and nearer, she trembled and faltered; and it was as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at length appeared.

‘Please, Little Mother,’ said Maggy, panting for breath, ‘you must come down and see him. He’s here.’

‘Who, Maggy?’

‘Who, o’ course Mr Clennam. He’s in your father’s room, and he says to me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it’s only me.’

‘I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down. See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that you left me so, or I would have come.’

‘Well, it an’t very polite though, Little Mother,’ said the staring Maggy, ‘to turn your face away, neither!’

Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in inventing them. ‘Putting both your hands afore your face too!’ she went on. ‘If you can’t bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to tell her so at once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her feelings and breaking her heart at ten year old, poor thing!’

‘It’s to ease my head, Maggy.’

‘Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too. Don’t go and have all the crying to yourself,’ expostulated Maggy, ‘that an’t not being greedy.’ And immediately began to blubber.

It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with the excuse; but the promise of being told a story—of old her great delight—on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour longer, combined with a misgiving on Maggy’s part that she had left her good temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away she went, muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind, and, at the appointed time, came back.

‘He was very sorry, I can tell you,’ she announced, ‘and wanted to send a doctor. And he’s coming again to-morrow he is and I don’t think he’ll have a good sleep to-night along o’ hearing about your head, Little Mother. Oh my! Ain’t you been a-crying!’

‘I think I have, a little, Maggy.’

‘A little! Oh!’

‘But it’s all over now—all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not go down.’

Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair by the window. Over against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic exertions that were not at all required, dragged the box which was her seat on story-telling occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and said, with a voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes:

‘Now, Little Mother, let’s have a good ‘un!’

‘What shall it be about, Maggy?’

‘Oh, let’s have a princess,’ said Maggy, ‘and let her be a reg’lar one. Beyond all belief, you know!’

Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:

‘Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had—’

‘Hospitals,’ interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. ‘Let him have hospitals, because they’re so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of Chicking.’

‘Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.’

‘Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?’ said Maggy.

‘Plenty of everything.’

‘Lor!’ chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. ‘Wasn’t it prime!’

‘This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown up, she was the wonder of the world. Now, near the Palace where this Princess lived, there was a cottage in which there was a poor little tiny woman, who lived all alone by herself.’

Little Dorrit lavorava e si sforzava come al solito, chiedendosi tutto questo, ma teneva per sé il proprio stupore, proprio come aveva fatto fin dai primi anni, quando doveva sopportare carichi molto più pesanti. Un cambiamento era già avvenuto, e continuava ad avvenire, nel suo cuore paziente. Ogni giorno si ritirava sempre di più dal mondo esterno. Passare in e out dalla prigione senza essere notata, e altrove essere ignorata e dimenticata, era ciò che desiderava di più.

Anche la sua stanza, stranamente arredata per la sua delicata giovinezza e il suo carattere, le permetteva di ritirarsi spesso senza trascurare alcun dovere. C’erano pomeriggi in cui non aveva nulla da fare; quando gli ospiti venivano a giocare a carte con suo padre, lei poteva allontanarsi senza problemi. Allora correva nel cortile, saliva le numerose scale che portavano alla sua stanza e si sedeva davanti alla finestra. Le decorazioni sulla parete assumevano mille forme diverse; i fili d’acciaio si intrecciavano in motivi belli o severi; i riflessi dorati illuminavano il ferro arrugginito. Mentre Little Dorrit sedeva lì a riflettere. A volte, quando guardava attraverso le lacrime, quei disegni sembravano cambiare; ma, comunque fossero, lei li ammirava nella sua solitudine, vedendo tutto attraverso quell’impronta indelebile.

In un sottotetto, e precisamente in uno sottotetto del Marshalsea, si trovava la stanza di Little Dorrit. Ben tenuta, era però di aspetto brutto; l’unica cosa che la rendeva attraente erano la pulizia e l’aria fresca. Tutti i bei oggetti che lei fosse riuscita a comprare erano stati invece destinati alla stanza di suo padre. Nonostante ciò, provava per quel povero angolo un amore sempre crescente; sedersi lì da sola era diventato il suo rifugio preferito.

Insomma, un certo pomeriggio, durante le indagini sui misteri dei Pancks, mentre era seduta alla sua finestra e sentiva i passi ben noti di Maggy salire le scale, fu molto turbata dall’idea che potesse essere chiamata via. Man mano che i passi di Maggy si avvicinavano sempre di più, lei iniziò a tremare e a balbettare; riuscì a parlare solo quando finalmente Maggy apparve.

“Per favore, Piccola Madre,” disse Maggy, ansimando, “devi scendere a vederlo. È qui.”

“Chi, Maggy?”

“Chi? Naturalmente il signor Clennam. È nella stanza di tuo padre e mi ha detto: ‘Maggy, potresti essere così gentile da andare a dirgli che sono solo io?’”

“Non sto molto bene, Maggy. Meglio che non vada. Mi sdraierò un po’. Vedi? Ora mi metto a letto per alleviare il mal di testa. Digli, con la mia gratitudine, che è stato lui ad andarsene così. Altrimenti sarei venuta io.”

“Beh, però non è molto educato, Piccola Madre,” disse Maggy, fissandola, “voltare le spalle in quel modo, ”

Maggy era molto sensibile alle offese personali e molto abile nel inventarle. “Mettersi anche le mani davanti al viso!” continuò. “Se non riesci a sopportare il suo aspetto, sarebbe meglio dirglielo subito, invece di escluderla in quel modo, ferendo i suoi sentimenti e spezzandole il cuore a soli dieci anni, ” povera bambina.

“È solo per rilassarmi un po’, Maggy.”

“Beh,” disse, “se piangi per alleviare il dolore, Piccola Mamma, lasciami piangere anch’io. Non prenderti tutto il pianto per te sola,” protestò Maggy, “non sarebbe mica avidità.” E immediatamente iniziò a singhiozzare.

Fu con qualche difficoltà che si riuscì a convincerla ad andare indietro, usando come scusa quella motivazione; ma la promessa di ascoltare una storia – che un tempo le procurava grande gioia – e il fatto che le fosse stato chiesto di concentrarsi completamente sul compito assegnato e di lasciare la sua piccola padroncina da sola per un’altra ora, uniti al timore che Maggy avesse perso il suo buon umore, tutto ciò ebbe la meglio. Così se ne andò, mormorando continuamente il messaggio da ricordare, e tornò all’ora stabilita.

“Era davvero molto dispiaciuto, posso assicurarvelo,” annunciò lei, “e voleva mandare un dottore. Tornerà domani e penso che non riuscirà a dormire bene, pensando alla tua testa, Piccola Madre. Oh mio Dio! Non hai pianto un po’?”

“Credo di averla un po’, Maggy, ”

“Un po’! Oh, davvero!”

“Ma ora è tutto finito, per sempre, Maggy. La mia testa sta molto meglio, non mi sento più confuso, e sto davvero bene. Sono molto contento di non essere svenuto.”

Il suo grande e fissante bambino la abbracciò con tenerezza; dopo averle sistemato i capelli e bagnato fronte e occhi con acqua fredda (operazioni che, grazie alle sue mani inesperte, le riuscirono con facilità), la abbracciò di nuovo, esultando per il suo aspetto più radioso, e la sistemò nella sedia accanto alla finestra. Di fronte a quella sedia, Maggy, con uno sforzo eccessivo che non era affatto necessario, trascinò fino lì la scatola su cui si sedeva quando raccontava storie; vi si mise a sedere, abbracciò le proprie ginocchia e, con grande desiderio di ascoltare storie e occhi ben aperti, disse.

“Ora, piccola mamma, facciamoci una bella volta!”

“Di cosa parleremo, Maggy?”

“Oh, facciamoci una principessa,” disse Maggy, “e che sia proprio una principessa vera e propria. Incredibile, vero?”

Little Dorrit ci pensò per un momento; poi, con un sorriso piuttosto triste sul viso, che era arrossito dal tramonto, iniziò a parlare.

‘Maggy, c’era una volta un nobile re, che aveva tutto ciò che poteva desiderare, e molto di più. Aveva oro e argento, diamanti e rubini, ricchezze di ogni tipo. Aveva palazzi, e aveva anche–’

“Gli ospedali,” intervenne Maggy, ancora appoggiata alle ginocchia. “Lasciate che abbia gli ospedali, perché sono così comodi. Ospedali pieni di, ”

“Sì, ne aveva in abbondanza, e aveva tutto in abbondanza.”

“Ad esempio, tante patate arrosto?” chiese Maggy.

“Abbastanza di tutto.”

“Che meraviglia!”, ridacchiò Maggy, abbracciando le proprie ginocchia. “Non è stato fantastico?”

Questo re aveva una figlia, la principessa più saggia e bella che si fosse mai vista. Da piccola, capiva già tutto ciò che i suoi insegnanti le spiegavano; da adulta, divenne la meraviglia del mondo. Vicino al palazzo in cui viveva questa principessa, c’era una casetta nella quale abitava una povera donna molto piccola, che viveva completamente da sola.

‘An old woman,’ said Maggy, with an unctuous smack of her lips.

‘No, not an old woman. Quite a young one.’

‘I wonder she warn’t afraid,’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’

‘The Princess passed the cottage nearly every day, and whenever she went by in her beautiful carriage, she saw the poor tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. So, one day she stopped the coachman a little way from the cottage, and got out and walked on and peeped in at the door, and there, as usual, was the tiny woman spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the Princess, and the Princess looked at her.’

‘Like trying to stare one another out,’ said Maggy. ‘Please go on, Little Mother.’

‘The Princess was such a wonderful Princess that she had the power of knowing secrets, and she said to the tiny woman, Why do you keep it there? This showed her directly that the Princess knew why she lived all alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she kneeled down at the Princess’s feet, and asked her never to betray her. So the Princess said, I never will betray you. Let me see it. So the tiny woman closed the shutter of the cottage window and fastened the door, and trembling from head to foot for fear that any one should suspect her, opened a very secret place and showed the Princess a shadow.’

‘Lor!’ said Maggy.

‘It was the shadow of Some one who had gone by long before: of Some one who had gone on far away quite out of reach, never, never to come back. It was bright to look at; and when the tiny woman showed it to the Princess, she was proud of it with all her heart, as a great, great treasure. When the Princess had considered it a little while, she said to the tiny woman, And you keep watch over this every day? And she cast down her eyes, and whispered, Yes. Then the Princess said, Remind me why. To which the other replied, that no one so good and kind had ever passed that way, and that was why in the beginning. She said, too, that nobody missed it, that nobody was the worse for it, that Some one had gone on, to those who were expecting him—’

‘Some one was a man then?’ interposed Maggy.

Little Dorrit timidly said Yes, she believed so; and resumed:

‘—Had gone on to those who were expecting him, and that this remembrance was stolen or kept back from nobody. The Princess made answer, Ah! But when the cottager died it would be discovered there. The tiny woman told her No; when that time came, it would sink quietly into her own grave, and would never be found.’

‘Well, to be sure!’ said Maggy. ‘Go on, please.’

‘The Princess was very much astonished to hear this, as you may suppose, Maggy.’

[‘And well she might be,’ said Maggy.)

‘So she resolved to watch the tiny woman, and see what came of it. Every day she drove in her beautiful carriage by the cottage-door, and there she saw the tiny woman always alone by herself spinning at her wheel, and she looked at the tiny woman, and the tiny woman looked at her. At last one day the wheel was still, and the tiny woman was not to be seen. When the Princess made inquiries why the wheel had stopped, and where the tiny woman was, she was informed that the wheel had stopped because there was nobody to turn it, the tiny woman being dead.’

[‘They ought to have took her to the Hospital,’ said Maggy, and then she’d have got over it.’)

‘The Princess, after crying a very little for the loss of the tiny woman, dried her eyes and got out of her carriage at the place where she had stopped it before, and went to the cottage and peeped in at the door. There was nobody to look at her now, and nobody for her to look at, so she went in at once to search for the treasured shadow. But there was no sign of it to be found anywhere; and then she knew that the tiny woman had told her the truth, and that it would never give anybody any trouble, and that it had sunk quietly into her own grave, and that she and it were at rest together.

‘That’s all, Maggy.’

The sunset flush was so bright on Little Dorrit’s face when she came thus to the end of her story, that she interposed her hand to shade it.

‘Had she got to be old?’ Maggy asked.

‘The tiny woman?’

‘Ah!’

‘I don’t know,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But it would have been just the same if she had been ever so old.’

‘Would it raly!’ said Maggy. ‘Well, I suppose it would though.’ And sat staring and ruminating.

She sat so long with her eyes wide open, that at length Little Dorrit, to entice her from her box, rose and looked out of window. As she glanced down into the yard, she saw Pancks come in and leer up with the corner of his eye as he went by.

‘Who’s he, Little Mother?’ said Maggy. She had joined her at the window and was leaning on her shoulder. ‘I see him come in and out often.’

‘I have heard him called a fortune-teller,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But I doubt if he could tell many people even their past or present fortunes.’

‘Couldn’t have told the Princess hers?’ said Maggy.

Little Dorrit, looking musingly down into the dark valley of the prison, shook her head.

‘Nor the tiny woman hers?’ said Maggy.

‘No,’ said Little Dorrit, with the sunset very bright upon her. ‘But let us come away from the window.’

“Una vecchia donna,” disse Maggy, leccandosi le labbra in modo untuoso.

“No, non una donna anziana. Ma piuttosto giovane.”

“Mi chiedo come facesse a non avere paura,” disse Maggy. “Continua, per favore.”

‘La Principessa passava vicino alla capanna quasi ogni giorno; e ogni volta che viaggiava nella sua bellissima carrozza, vedeva quella povera donna minuta che filava al suo fuso. La Principessa la osservava, e anche lei guardava la Principessa. Un giorno, fece fermare il cocchiere un po’ lontano dalla capanna, scese dalla carrozza e si avvicinò per sbirciare all’interno; lì, come al solito, c’era quella donna minuta che filava al suo fuso. Lei guardò la Principessa, e la Principessa guardò lei.’

“È come se cercassimo di fissarci negli occhi fino a farci cedere,” disse Maggy. “Per favore, continua, Piccola Madre.”

“La Principessa era una principessa così meravigliosa che possedeva il potere di conoscere i segreti; disse alla donna minuta: ‘Perché lo tieni lì?’ Questo le dimostrò chiaramente il motivo per cui viveva da sola, filando al suo telaio. La donna si inginocchiò ai piedi della Principessa e le chiese di non tradirla mai. Allora la Principessa rispose: ‘Non ti tradirò mai. Lasciami vederlo.’ La donna minuta chiuse la finestra della capanna, serrò bene la porta, e tremando per paura che qualcuno potesse sospettarla di qualcosa, aprì un luogo molto segreto e mostrò alla Principessa una ombra, ”

“Lor!” disse Maggy.

‘Era l’ombra di qualcuno che era passato molto tempo prima: di qualcuno che se n’era andato lontano, irraggiungibile, per non tornare mai più. Era bella da guardare; e quando la piccola donna la mostrò alla Principessa, ne fu orgogliosa con tutto il cuore, come di un grande tesoro. Dopo averla osservata per un po’, la Principessa chiese: “E tu la custodisci ogni giorno?” La piccola donna abbassò lo sguardo e rispose: “Sì.” Allora la Principessa aggiunse: “Dimmi perché.” Lei spiegò che nessuno così buono e gentile era mai passato di lì, ed ecco il motivo per cui quella ombra esisteva. La Principessa disse anche che nessuno se ne accorgeva, che a nessuno veniva meno nulla, perché qualcuno aveva continuato il suo cammino verso coloro che lo aspettavano, ’

“Allora, qualcuno di loro era un uomo?” intervenne Maggy.

“Little Dorrit rispose timidamente di sì, credeva davvero così; e poi continuò, ”

‘– Era stata inviata a coloro che lo aspettavano, e che quel ricordo non fosse stato né rubato né nascosto da nessuno. La Principessa rispose: “Ah!”, ma quando la contadina fosse morta, lì sarebbe stata scoperta. Quella piccola donna le disse di no; quando sarebbe arrivato quel momento, il ricordo sarebbe scomparso silenziosamente nella sua stessa tomba, e non sarebbe mai stato ritrovato.’

“Beh, sicuramente!” disse Maggy. “Continua, per favore.”

“La principessa rimase molto sorpresa nell’udire questo, come potete immaginare, Maggy.”

“E forse lo è davvero,” disse Maggy.

Decise quindi di osservare quella donna minuta e vedere cosa ne sarebbe risultato. Ogni giorno, con la sua bella carrozza, passava davanti alla capanna; lì vedeva sempre quella donna minuta, da sola, che filava al suo fuso. La principessa la guardava, e anche lei la guardava. Alla fine, un giorno, il )fuso smise di girare e la donna minuta scomparve. Quando la principessa chiese perché il fuso si fosse fermato e dove fosse finita quella donna, le dissero che il fuso si era fermato perché non c’era più nessuno a farlo girare. La donna minuta era morta.

“Avrebbero dovuto portarla in ospedale,” disse Maggy, “e allora si sarebbe ripresa.”

‘La Principessa, dopo aver pianto un po’ per la perdita di quella piccola donna, si asciugò gli occhi e scese dalla sua carrozza nel luogo in cui l’aveva fermata prima; poi andò nella capanna e sbirciò attraverso la porta. Ora non c’era nessuno che potesse vederla, né lei aveva nessuno con cui guardarsi. Così entrò subito per cercare quella preziosa ombra. Ma non ne trovò traccia da nessuna parte; allora capì che quella piccola donna le aveva detto la verità: quell’ombra non avrebbe mai causato problemi a nessuno, era semplicemente scomparsa nel suo sepolcro, e ora lei e l’ombra riposavano insieme in pace.’

“Basta così, Maggy.”

Il rossore del tramonto era così intenso sul viso di Little Dorrit quando arrivò a questa fine della sua storia, che lei si mise la mano davanti al viso per schermirsi da esso.

“Doveva già essere vecchia?” chiese Maggy.

“La donna minuta?”

‘Ah!’

“Non lo so,” disse Little Dorrit. “Ma sarebbe stato esattamente lo stesso anche se fosse stata molto più vecchia.”

“Davvero lo farebbe!”, disse Maggy. “Beh, immagino di sì, ” E rimase seduta a fissare il vuoto, riflettendo.

Rimase seduta a lungo con gli occhi spalancati; alla fine, Little Dorrit, per attirarla fuori dalla sua cesta, le mostrò una rosa e la fece guardare fuori dalla finestra. Mentre guardava giù nel cortile, vide Pancks entrare e lanciarle uno sguardo furtivo con l’angolo dell’occhio mentre passava.

“Chi è, Piccola Madre?” chiese Maggy. Si era unita a lei davanti alla finestra e si appoggiava al suo braccio. “Lo vedo entrare e uscire spesso.”

“Ho sentito dire che lo chiamano un indovino,” disse Little Dorrit. “Ma dubito che possa rivelare a molte persone nemmeno il loro passato o il loro presente.”

“Non avresti potuto dare quella rosa alla Principessa?” disse Maggy.

Little Dorrit, con lo sguardo perso nel buio valle della prigione, scosse la testa.

“Nemmeno quella piccola donna la sua?” disse Maggy.

“No,” disse Little Dorrit, con il tramonto che brillava intensamente intorno a lei. “Ma andiamo via da questa finestra.”

CHAPTER 25. Conspirators and Others

The private residence of Mr Pancks was in Pentonville, where he lodged on the second-floor of a professional gentleman in an extremely small way, who had an inner-door within the street door, poised on a spring and starting open with a click like a trap; and who wrote up in the fan-light, RUGG, GENERAL AGENT, ACCOUNTANT, DEBTS RECOVERED.

This scroll, majestic in its severe simplicity, illuminated a little slip of front garden abutting on the thirsty high-road, where a few of the dustiest of leaves hung their dismal heads and led a life of choking. A professor of writing occupied the first-floor, and enlivened the garden railings with glass-cases containing choice examples of what his pupils had been before six lessons and while the whole of his young family shook the table, and what they had become after six lessons when the young family was under restraint. The tenancy of Mr Pancks was limited to one airy bedroom; he covenanting and agreeing with Mr Rugg his landlord, that in consideration of a certain scale of payments accurately defined, and on certain verbal notice duly given, he should be at liberty to elect to share the Sunday breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, or each or any or all of those repasts or meals of Mr and Miss Rugg (his daughter) in the back-parlour.

Miss Rugg was a lady of a little property which she had acquired, together with much distinction in the neighbourhood, by having her heart severely lacerated and her feelings mangled by a middle-aged baker resident in the vicinity, against whom she had, by the agency of Mr Rugg, found it necessary to proceed at law to recover damages for a breach of promise of marriage. The baker having been, by the counsel for Miss Rugg, witheringly denounced on that occasion up to the full amount of twenty guineas, at the rate of about eighteen-pence an epithet, and having been cast in corresponding damages, still suffered occasional persecution from the youth of Pentonville. But Miss Rugg, environed by the majesty of the law, and having her damages invested in the public securities, was regarded with consideration.

In the society of Mr Rugg, who had a round white visage, as if all his blushes had been drawn out of him long ago, and who had a ragged yellow head like a worn-out hearth broom; and in the society of Miss Rugg, who had little nankeen spots, like shirt buttons, all over her face, and whose own yellow tresses were rather scrubby than luxuriant; Mr Pancks had usually dined on Sundays for some few years, and had twice a week, or so, enjoyed an evening collation of bread, Dutch cheese, and porter. Mr Pancks was one of the very few marriageable men for whom Miss Rugg had no terrors, the argument with which he reassured himself being twofold; that is to say, firstly, ‘that it wouldn’t do twice,’ and secondly, ‘that he wasn’t worth it.’ Fortified within this double armour, Mr Pancks snorted at Miss Rugg on easy terms.

Up to this time, Mr Pancks had transacted little or no business at his quarters in Pentonville, except in the sleeping line; but now that he had become a fortune-teller, he was often closeted after midnight with Mr Rugg in his little front-parlour office, and even after those untimely hours, burnt tallow in his bed-room. Though his duties as his proprietor’s grubber were in no wise lessened; and though that service bore no greater resemblance to a bed of roses than was to be discovered in its many thorns; some new branch of industry made a constant demand upon him. When he cast off the Patriarch at night, it was only to take an anonymous craft in tow, and labour away afresh in other waters.

The advance from a personal acquaintance with the elder Mr Chivery to an introduction to his amiable wife and disconsolate son, may have been easy; but easy or not, Mr Pancks soon made it. He nestled in the bosom of the tobacco business within a week or two after his first appearance in the College, and particularly addressed himself to the cultivation of a good understanding with Young John. In this endeavour he so prospered as to lure that pining shepherd forth from the groves, and tempt him to undertake mysterious missions; on which he began to disappear at uncertain intervals for as long a space as two or three days together. The prudent Mrs Chivery, who wondered greatly at this change, would have protested against it as detrimental to the Highland typification on the doorpost but for two forcible reasons; one, that her John was roused to take strong interest in the business which these starts were supposed to advance—and this she held to be good for his drooping spirits; the other, that Mr Pancks confidentially agreed to pay her, for the occupation of her son’s time, at the handsome rate of seven and sixpence per day. The proposal originated with himself, and was couched in the pithy terms, ‘If your John is weak enough, ma’am, not to take it, that is no reason why you should be, don’t you see? So, quite between ourselves, ma’am, business being business, here it is!’

What Mr Chivery thought of these things, or how much or how little he knew about them, was never gathered from himself. It has been already remarked that he was a man of few words; and it may be here observed that he had imbibed a professional habit of locking everything up. He locked himself up as carefully as he locked up the Marshalsea debtors. Even his custom of bolting his meals may have been a part of an uniform whole; but there is no question, that, as to all other purposes, he kept his mouth as he kept the Marshalsea door. He never opened it without occasion. When it was necessary to let anything out, he opened it a little way, held it open just as long as sufficed for the purpose, and locked it again. Even as he would be sparing of his trouble at the Marshalsea door, and would keep a visitor who wanted to go out, waiting for a few moments if he saw another visitor coming down the yard, so that one turn of the key should suffice for both, similarly he would often reserve a remark if he perceived another on its way to his lips, and would deliver himself of the two together. As to any key to his inner knowledge being to be found in his face, the Marshalsea key was as legible as an index to the individual characters and histories upon which it was turned.

Capitolo 25: Conspiratori e altri

La residenza privata di Signor Pancks si trovava a Pentonville, dove alloggiava al secondo piano di un appartamento estremamente piccolo appartenente a un gentiluomo professionista. Questo appartamento era dotato di una porta interna posta all’interno della porta d’ingresso, mossa da una molla e che si apriva con un clic, come una trappola; inoltre, sulla finestra era scritto: “RUGG, AGENTE GENERALE, CONTABILE, RICUPERO DEBITI”.

Questo rotolo, maestoso nella sua semplicità severa, illuminava un angolino del giardino anteriore che confinava con la polverosa strada sopraelevata; lì, alcune delle foglie più impolverate pendevano tristemente, come se soffrissero di asfissia. Un professore di scrittura abitava al primo piano e ravvivava le ringhiere del giardino con vetrine contenenti esempi selezionati di ciò che i suoi studenti erano prima delle sei lezioni, e di ciò in cui si trasformavano dopo, quando tutta la sua giovane famiglia era sotto controllo. L’affitto della stanza occupata da Mr Pancks era limitato a una camera da letto spaziosa; egli aveva stipulato un accordo con il suo padrone di casa, Mr Rugg, secondo cui, in cambio di determinati pagamenti precisi e di un preavviso verbale adeguato, avrebbe potuto scegliere di condividere la colazione, la cena, il tè o la cena del domenico, oppure uno qualsiasi di questi pasti, con i signori Rugg (e sua figlia).

La signorina Rugg era una donna che possedeva una piccola proprietà, ottenuta grazie anche alla sua notevole reputazione nel quartiere. Il suo cuore era stato profondamente ferito e i suoi sentimenti distrutti da un panettiere di mezza età che viveva nelle vicinanze; contro di lui, con l’aiuto dell’avvocato Rugg, aveva deciso di intraprendere legali azioni per ottenere un risarcimento per la mancata attuazione di una promessa di matrimonio. L’avvocato della signorina Rugg aveva denunciato pubblicamente quel panettiere, chiedendo un risarcimento pari a venti ghinee, calcolate a circa diciotto pence per ogni insulto pronunciato; nonostante ciò, il panettiere continuava ad essere perseguitato dai giovani del quartiere di Pentonville. Tuttavia, la signorina Rugg, protetta dalla forza della legge e con i suoi risarcimenti investiti in titoli pubblici, era considerata con rispetto da tutti.

Nella compagnia di Mr Rugg, il cui viso era rotondo e bianco, come se tutti i suoi rossori fossero da tempo scomparsi, e il cui capello giallo e disordinato assomigliava a una scopa da camino logora; e nella compagnia di Miss Rugg, la cui faccia era coperta di piccole macchie color cannella, simili a bottoni di camicia, e i cui capelli gialli erano piuttosto radi che rigogliosi; Mr Pancks da alcuni anni pranzava regolarmente la domenica e, circa due volte alla settimana, si concedeva una cena a base di pane, formaggio olandese e birra. Mr Pancks era uno dei pochi uomini idonei al matrimonio che Miss Rugg non temesse affatto; le ragioni con cui si rassicurava erano due: innanzitutto, “non succederebbe più una seconda volta”, e in secondo luogo, “non valeva la pena”. Protetto da questa doppia “armatura”, Mr Pancks trattava Miss Rugg con grande disinvoltura.

Fino a quel momento, Mr Pancks aveva svolto pochissimi o nessun affare presso la sua sede di Pentonville, tranne che nell’attività legata alla “linea del sonno”; ma ora che era diventato un indovino, spesso si ritirava dopo mezzanotte nel suo piccolo ufficio in sala d’ingresso per consultarsi con Mr Rugg, e anche dopo quelle ore tardive continuava a bruciare sego nella sua camera da letto. Sebbene i suoi doveri di “raccoglitore” per il suo datore di lavoro non fossero affatto diminuiti, e anzi quel compito presentasse molte difficoltà, un’altra attività nuova richiedeva costantemente la sua presenza. Quando abbandonò Mr Rugg di notte, fu soltanto per intraprendere una nuova attività sotto pseudonimo e continuare a lavorare in altri ambiti.

Il passaggio da una conoscenza personale con il signor Chivery anziano a un incontro con sua moglie affabile e suo figlio desolato potrebbe essere stato facile; ma facile o meno, il signor Pancks ci riuscì rapidamente. Entro una o due settimane dal suo primo apparire nel College, si inserì con successo nel mondo del commercio del tabacco, dedicandosi in particolare a instaurare buone relazioni con il giovane John. Riuscì così bene nel suo intento da convincere quel ragazzo timido ad impegnarsi in missioni misteriose, per le quali iniziò a scomparire per periodi di due o tre giorni consecutivi. La prudente signora Chivery, molto sorpresa da questo cambiamento, avrebbe probabilmente protestato contro di esso, ritenendolo dannoso per l’immagine del “tipico abitante delle Highlands” che voleva mantenere, se non fosse stato per due motivi fondamentali: primo, suo figlio mostrava un grande interesse per queste attività, e lei riteneva che ciò potesse aiutare il suo umore depresso; secondo, il signor Pancks le aveva offerto una generosa retribuzione per l’occupazione del tempo di suo figlio, a un tasso di sette scellini e sei pence al giorno. L’offerta proveniva direttamente da lui stesso ed era formulata in termini molto chiari: “Se vostro figlio è troppo debole per accettare questa opportunità, signora, non c’è motivo che lo siate voi stessa, capite? Quindi, tra noi, visto che si tratta di affari, ”

Ciò che il signor Chivery pensasse di queste cose, o quanto ne sapesse o ne ignorasse, non fu mai rivelato da lui stesso. Come già accennato, era un uomo poco loquace; inoltre, aveva sviluppato l’abitudine professionale di chiudere tutto a chiave. Si chiudeva dentro con la stessa cura con cui teneva chiusi i debitori del Marshalsea. Anche il suo modo di mangiare in fretta poteva far parte di questa abitudine sistematica; comunque, per quanto riguardava tutti gli altri aspetti della sua vita, teneva la bocca chiusa proprio come teneva chiusa la porta del Marshalsea. Non l’apriva mai senza motivo. Quando era necessario far uscire qualcosa, la apriva appena sufficientemente per il bisogno, la teneva aperta solo il tempo indispensabile e poi la richiudeva subito. Proprio come evitava di farsi troppo sforzo davanti alla porta del Marshalsea, facendo aspettare un visitatore che volesse uscire se ne vedeva arrivare un altro nel cortile, così spesso trattenesse anche una frase che stava per dire, aspettando che entrambe venissero pronunciate insieme. Per quanto riguarda eventuali “chiavi” che potessero rivelare i segreti del suo interno, la “chiave” del Marshalsea era altrettanto indecifrabile di un indice che indicasse i caratteri e le storie delle persone a cui veniva applicata.

That Mr Pancks should be moved to invite any one to dinner at Pentonville, was an unprecedented fact in his calendar. But he invited Young John to dinner, and even brought him within range of the dangerous (because expensive) fascinations of Miss Rugg. The banquet was appointed for a Sunday, and Miss Rugg with her own hands stuffed a leg of mutton with oysters on the occasion, and sent it to the baker’s—not the baker’s but an opposition establishment. Provision of oranges, apples, and nuts was also made. And rum was brought home by Mr Pancks on Saturday night, to gladden the visitor’s heart.

The store of creature comforts was not the chief part of the visitor’s reception. Its special feature was a foregone family confidence and sympathy. When Young John appeared at half-past one without the ivory hand and waistcoat of golden sprigs, the sun shorn of his beams by disastrous clouds, Mr Pancks presented him to the yellow-haired Ruggs as the young man he had so often mentioned who loved Miss Dorrit.

‘I am glad,’ said Mr Rugg, challenging him specially in that character, ‘to have the distinguished gratification of making your acquaintance, sir. Your feelings do you honour. You are young; may you never outlive your feelings! If I was to outlive my own feelings, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, who was a man of many words, and was considered to possess a remarkably good address; ‘if I was to outlive my own feelings, I’d leave fifty pound in my will to the man who would put me out of existence.’

Miss Rugg heaved a sigh.

‘My daughter, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Anastatia, you are no stranger to the state of this young man’s affections. My daughter has had her trials, sir’—Mr Rugg might have used the word more pointedly in the singular number—‘and she can feel for you.’

Young John, almost overwhelmed by the touching nature of this greeting, professed himself to that effect.

‘What I envy you, sir, is,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘allow me to take your hat—we are rather short of pegs—I’ll put it in the corner, nobody will tread on it there—What I envy you, sir, is the luxury of your own feelings. I belong to a profession in which that luxury is sometimes denied us.’

Young John replied, with acknowledgments, that he only hoped he did what was right, and what showed how entirely he was devoted to Miss Dorrit. He wished to be unselfish; and he hoped he was. He wished to do anything as laid in his power to serve Miss Dorrit, altogether putting himself out of sight; and he hoped he did. It was but little that he could do, but he hoped he did it.

‘Sir,’ said Mr Rugg, taking him by the hand, ‘you are a young man that it does one good to come across. You are a young man that I should like to put in the witness-box, to humanise the minds of the legal profession. I hope you have brought your appetite with you, and intend to play a good knife and fork?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Young John, ‘I don’t eat much at present.’

Mr Rugg drew him a little apart. ‘My daughter’s case, sir,’ said he, ‘at the time when, in vindication of her outraged feelings and her sex, she became the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins. I suppose I could have put it in evidence, Mr Chivery, if I had thought it worth my while, that the amount of solid sustenance my daughter consumed at that period did not exceed ten ounces per week.’

‘I think I go a little beyond that, sir,’ returned the other, hesitating, as if he confessed it with some shame.

‘But in your case there’s no fiend in human form,’ said Mr Rugg, with argumentative smile and action of hand. ‘Observe, Mr Chivery! No fiend in human form!’

‘No, sir, certainly,’ Young John added with simplicity, ‘I should be very sorry if there was.’

‘The sentiment,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘is what I should have expected from your known principles. It would affect my daughter greatly, sir, if she heard it. As I perceive the mutton, I am glad she didn’t hear it. Mr Pancks, on this occasion, pray face me. My dear, face Mr Chivery. For what we are going to receive, may we (and Miss Dorrit) be truly thankful!’

But for a grave waggishness in Mr Rugg’s manner of delivering this introduction to the feast, it might have appeared that Miss Dorrit was expected to be one of the company. Pancks recognised the sally in his usual way, and took in his provender in his usual way. Miss Rugg, perhaps making up some of her arrears, likewise took very kindly to the mutton, and it rapidly diminished to the bone. A bread-and-butter pudding entirely disappeared, and a considerable amount of cheese and radishes vanished by the same means. Then came the dessert.

Then also, and before the broaching of the rum and water, came Mr Pancks’s note-book. The ensuing business proceedings were brief but curious, and rather in the nature of a conspiracy. Mr Pancks looked over his note-book, which was now getting full, studiously; and picked out little extracts, which he wrote on separate slips of paper on the table; Mr Rugg, in the meanwhile, looking at him with close attention, and Young John losing his uncollected eye in mists of meditation. When Mr Pancks, who supported the character of chief conspirator, had completed his extracts, he looked them over, corrected them, put up his note-book, and held them like a hand at cards.

‘Now, there’s a churchyard in Bedfordshire,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’

‘I’ll take it, sir,’ returned Mr Rugg, ‘if no one bids.’

Mr Pancks dealt him his card, and looked at his hand again.

‘Now, there’s an Enquiry in York,’ said Pancks. ‘Who takes it?’

‘I’m not good for York,’ said Mr Rugg.

‘Then perhaps,’ pursued Pancks, ‘you’ll be so obliging, John Chivery?’

Young John assenting, Pancks dealt him his card, and consulted his hand again.

‘There’s a Church in London; I may as well take that. And a Family Bible; I may as well take that, too. That’s two to me. Two to me,’ repeated Pancks, breathing hard over his cards. ‘Here’s a Clerk at Durham for you, John, and an old seafaring gentleman at Dunstable for you, Mr Rugg. Two to me, was it? Yes, two to me. Here’s a Stone; three to me. And a Still-born Baby; four to me. And all, for the present, told.’

Il fatto che Signor Pancks invitasse qualcuno a cena a Pentonville era un evento senza precedenti nella sua vita. Ma invitò il giovane John e addirittura lo portò in prossimità delle pericolose (e costose) attrazioni di Miss Rugg. Il banchetto fu fissato per una domenica, e Miss Rugg, con le sue stesse mani, farcì una coscia di montone con ostriche per l’occasione, poi la inviò al panettiere, non al solito panettiere, ma a un negozio concorrente. Furono anche preparati arance, mele e noci. E il sabato sera, Signor Pancks portò a casa del rum per rallegrare l’animo dell’ospite.

La disponibilità di comodità materiali non rappresentava la parte principale dell’accoglienza riservata ai visitatori. La caratteristica distintiva di quell’ambiente era una fiducia e una simpatia familiari immediate e spontanee. Quando Young John apparve alle due e mezza, senza l’avorio né il gilet decorato con rametti d’oro, mentre il sole veniva oscurato da nuvole minacciose, Mr Pancks lo presentò a Ruggs, il uomo dai capelli biondi, come il giovane di cui aveva spesso parlato e che amava Miss Dorrit.

“Sono lieto,” disse il signor Rugg, sfidandolo appositamente su quel punto, “di avere l’onore di conoscervi, signore. I vostri sentimenti vi onorano. Siete giovane; spero che non viviate mai più a lungo dei vostri sentimenti! Se io dovessi vivere più a lungo dei miei stessi sentimenti,” proseguì il signor Rugg, un uomo loquace e considerato molto abile nel parlare, “lascerei cinquanta sterline nel mio testamento all’uomo che mi togliesse la vita.”

La signorina Rugg sospirò.

“Mia figlia, signore,” disse il signor Rugg. “Anastatia, non è certo nuova alla situazione sentimentale di questo giovane. Mia figlia ha avuto le sue difficoltà, signore” – il signor Rugg avrebbe potuto usare una parola più incisiva al singolare – “e lei può comprendere i vostri sentimenti.”

Il giovane John, quasi sopraffatto dalla commovente >natura di questo saluto, lo esprime chiaramente.

“Quello che vi invidio, signore,” disse il signor Rugg, “è la possibilità di poter indossare il vostro cappello. Ne abbiamo davvero bisogno. Lo metterò in un angolo; nessuno lo calpesterà lì. Quello che vi invidio, signore, è il lusso di poter esprimere liberamente i propri sentimenti. Io appartengo a una professione in cui talvolta ci viene negato questo diritto.”

Il giovane John rispose, con gratitudine, che sperava solo di aver fatto ciò che era giusto e che dimostrasse quanto fosse completamente devoto a Miss Dorrit. Desiderava essere altruista; e sperava di esserlo davvero. Voleva fare tutto ciò che era in suo potere per servire Miss Dorrit, mettendosi completamente da parte; e sperava di riuscirci. C’erano poche cose che potesse fare, ma sperava comunque di averle fatte al meglio.

“Signore,” disse il signor Rugg, prendendolo per mano, “lei è un giovane che fa davvero bene incontrare. Vorrei che salisse sul banco dei testimoni, per rendere più umana l’attività della professione legale. Spero che abbia portato con sé anche l’appetito, e che intenda divertirsi a tavola!”

“Grazie, signore,” rispose il giovane John, “al momento non mangio molto.”

Il signor Rugg lo portò da parte. “Il caso di mia figlia,” disse, “nel momento in cui, per difendere i suoi sentimenti offesi e il suo sesso, divenne la parte civile nel processo Rugg contro Bawkins. Immagino che avrei potuto presentare queste prove, signor Chivery, se avessi ritenuto che valesse la pena farlo; cioè che la quantità di cibo solido consumato da mia figlia in quel periodo non superava le dieci once a settimana.”

“Credo di essere andato un po’ oltre, signore,” rispose l’altro, esitando, come se lo confessasse con imbarazzo.

“Ma nel tuo caso non c’è alcun demone sotto forma umana,” disse il signor Rugg, con un sorriso argomentativo e accompagnandosi con un gesto della mano. “Guardate bene, signor Chivery! Nessun demone sotto forma umana!”

“No, signore, certamente,” aggiunse Young John con semplicità, “mi dispiacerebbe molto se ci fosse.”

“Questo sentimento,” disse il signor Rugg, “è esattamente ciò che avrei potuto aspettarmi dai vostri noti principi. Sarebbe molto influente sulla mia figlia, signore, se lo venisse a sapere. Fortunatamente non l’ha sentito. Signor Pancks, in questa occasione, vi prego di rivolgervi verso di me. Mia cara, rivolgetevi al signor Chivery. Per ciò che stiamo per ricevere, possiamo davvero essere grati!”

Se non fosse stato per una certa gravità ironica nel modo in cui il signor Rugg presentò questa introduzione al banchetto, si sarebbe potuto pensare che la signorina Dorrit dovesse far parte del gruppo. Pancks riconobbe subito questo scherzo, e mangiò come al solito. Anche la signorina Rugg, forse per recuperare il tempo perso, apprezzò molto la carne d’agnello, che diminuì rapidamente fino a rimanere solo le ossa. Un budino di pane e burro scomparve completamente, così come una notevole quantità di formaggio e ravanelli. Poi arrivò il dolce.

Poi, prima ancora di iniziare a parlare del rum e dell’acqua, arrivò il taccuino del signor Pancks. Le procedure successive furono brevi ma curiose, e avevano piuttosto la natura di una congiura. Il signor Pancks esaminò attentamente il suo taccuino, che ormai si stava riempiendo, e ne estrasse alcuni passaggi, che scrisse su foglietti separati posizionati sul tavolo; nel frattempo, il signor Rugg lo osservava con attenzione, mentre Young John perdeva lo sguardo nel vuoto, immerso nei suoi pensieri. Quando il signor Pancks, che ricopriva il ruolo di principale cospiratore, ebbe terminato di prendere appunti, li rilesse attentamente, li corresse e ripose il taccuino; poi li tenne in mano come se fossero carte da gioco.

“C’è un cimitero nel Bedfordshire,” disse Pancks. “Chi se ne occupa?”

“Lo prenderò io, signore,” rispose il signor Rugg, “se nessuno altro fa offerta.”

Signor Pancks gli diede la sua carta e poi guardò di nuovo la sua mano.

“Ora, c’è un’indagine a York,” disse Pancks. “Chi se ne occuperà?”

“Non sono adatto per York,” disse il signor Rugg.

“Allora forse,” proseguì Pancks, “sarai così gentile da farlo, John Chivery, ”

Il giovane John acconsentì, e Pancks gli diede la sua carta, poi consultò di nuovo le sue carte in mano.

“C’è una Chiesa a Londra; posso ben prenderla. E anche una Famiglia e una Bibbia; posso ben prenderle anch’esse. Sono due per me. Due per me,” ripeteva Pancks, ansimando mentre contava le carte. “Ecco un impiegato a Durham per te, John, e un vecchio gentiluomo di mare a Dunstable per te, signor Rugg. Due per me, giusto? Sì, due per me. Ecco una Pietra; tre per me. E anche un Bambino Morto Nato; quattro per me. E per ora, tutto qui.”

When he had thus disposed of his cards, all being done very quietly and in a suppressed tone, Mr Pancks puffed his way into his own breast-pocket and tugged out a canvas bag; from which, with a sparing hand, he told forth money for travelling expenses in two little portions. ‘Cash goes out fast,’ he said anxiously, as he pushed a portion to each of his male companions, ‘very fast.’

‘I can only assure you, Mr Pancks,’ said Young John, ‘that I deeply regret my circumstances being such that I can’t afford to pay my own charges, or that it’s not advisable to allow me the time necessary for my doing the distances on foot; because nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to walk myself off my legs without fee or reward.’

This young man’s disinterestedness appeared so very ludicrous in the eyes of Miss Rugg, that she was obliged to effect a precipitate retirement from the company, and to sit upon the stairs until she had had her laugh out. Meanwhile Mr Pancks, looking, not without some pity, at Young John, slowly and thoughtfully twisted up his canvas bag as if he were wringing its neck. The lady, returning as he restored it to his pocket, mixed rum and water for the party, not forgetting her fair self, and handed to every one his glass. When all were supplied, Mr Rugg rose, and silently holding out his glass at arm’s length above the centre of the table, by that gesture invited the other three to add theirs, and to unite in a general conspiratorial clink. The ceremony was effective up to a certain point, and would have been wholly so throughout, if Miss Rugg, as she raised her glass to her lips in completion of it, had not happened to look at Young John; when she was again so overcome by the contemptible comicality of his disinterestedness as to splutter some ambrosial drops of rum and water around, and withdraw in confusion.

Such was the dinner without precedent, given by Pancks at Pentonville; and such was the busy and strange life Pancks led. The only waking moments at which he appeared to relax from his cares, and to recreate himself by going anywhere or saying anything without a pervading object, were when he showed a dawning interest in the lame foreigner with the stick, down Bleeding Heart Yard.

The foreigner, by name John Baptist Cavalletto—they called him Mr Baptist in the Yard—was such a chirping, easy, hopeful little fellow, that his attraction for Pancks was probably in the force of contrast. Solitary, weak, and scantily acquainted with the most necessary words of the only language in which he could communicate with the people about him, he went with the stream of his fortunes, in a brisk way that was new in those parts. With little to eat, and less to drink, and nothing to wear but what he wore upon him, or had brought tied up in one of the smallest bundles that ever were seen, he put as bright a face upon it as if he were in the most flourishing circumstances when he first hobbled up and down the Yard, humbly propitiating the general good-will with his white teeth.

It was uphill work for a foreigner, lame or sound, to make his way with the Bleeding Hearts. In the first place, they were vaguely persuaded that every foreigner had a knife about him; in the second, they held it to be a sound constitutional national axiom that he ought to go home to his own country. They never thought of inquiring how many of their own countrymen would be returned upon their hands from divers parts of the world, if the principle were generally recognised; they considered it particularly and peculiarly British. In the third place, they had a notion that it was a sort of Divine visitation upon a foreigner that he was not an Englishman, and that all kinds of calamities happened to his country because it did things that England did not, and did not do things that England did. In this belief, to be sure, they had long been carefully trained by the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings, who were always proclaiming to them, officially, that no country which failed to submit itself to those two large families could possibly hope to be under the protection of Providence; and who, when they believed it, disparaged them in private as the most prejudiced people under the sun.

This, therefore, might be called a political position of the Bleeding Hearts; but they entertained other objections to having foreigners in the Yard. They believed that foreigners were always badly off; and though they were as ill off themselves as they could desire to be, that did not diminish the force of the objection. They believed that foreigners were dragooned and bayoneted; and though they certainly got their own skulls promptly fractured if they showed any ill-humour, still it was with a blunt instrument, and that didn’t count. They believed that foreigners were always immoral; and though they had an occasional assize at home, and now and then a divorce case or so, that had nothing to do with it. They believed that foreigners had no independent spirit, as never being escorted to the poll in droves by Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, with colours flying and the tune of Rule Britannia playing. Not to be tedious, they had many other beliefs of a similar kind.

Against these obstacles, the lame foreigner with the stick had to make head as well as he could; not absolutely single-handed, because Mr Arthur Clennam had recommended him to the Plornishes (he lived at the top of the same house), but still at heavy odds. However, the Bleeding Hearts were kind hearts; and when they saw the little fellow cheerily limping about with a good-humoured face, doing no harm, drawing no knives, committing no outrageous immoralities, living chiefly on farinaceous and milk diet, and playing with Mrs Plornish’s children of an evening, they began to think that although he could never hope to be an Englishman, still it would be hard to visit that affliction on his head. They began to accommodate themselves to his level, calling him ‘Mr Baptist,’ but treating him like a baby, and laughing immoderately at his lively gestures and his childish English—more, because he didn’t mind it, and laughed too. They spoke to him in very loud voices as if he were stone deaf. They constructed sentences, by way of teaching him the language in its purity, such as were addressed by the savages to Captain Cook, or by Friday to Robinson Crusoe. Mrs Plornish was particularly ingenious in this art; and attained so much celebrity for saying ‘Me ope you leg well soon,’ that it was considered in the Yard but a very short remove indeed from speaking Italian. Even Mrs Plornish herself began to think that she had a natural call towards that language. As he became more popular, household objects were brought into requisition for his instruction in a copious vocabulary; and whenever he appeared in the Yard ladies would fly out at their doors crying ‘Mr Baptist—tea-pot!’ ‘Mr Baptist—dust-pan!’ ‘Mr Baptist—flour-dredger!’ ‘Mr Baptist—coffee-biggin!’ At the same time exhibiting those articles, and penetrating him with a sense of the appalling difficulties of the Anglo-Saxon tongue.

Dopo aver sistemato tutte le sue carte in modo molto silenzioso e con un tono sommesso, Signor Pancks si infilò una mano nella tasca del petto e ne tirò fuori un sacchetto di tela; da esso, con gesti misurati, estrasse due piccole somme di denaro per le spese di viaggio. “Il contante se ne va in fretta,” disse ansiosamente, distribuendo una parte a ciascuno dei suoi compagni maschi, “molto in fretta.”

“Posso solo assicurarvi, Signor Pancks,” disse Young John, “che mi dispiace profondamente che le mie circostanze non mi permettano di pagare da solo le mie spese, o che non sia opportuno concedermi il tempo necessario per percorrere le distanze a piedi; perché nulla mi darebbe maggiore soddisfazione che camminare senza alcun compenso.”

L’indifferenza di questo giovane sembrava così assurda agli occhi della signorina Rugg che lei fu costretta a ritirarsi precipitosamente dal gruppo e ad sedersi sulle scale finché non riuscì a trattenere le risate. Nel frattempo, il signor Pancks, guardando Young John con una certa compassione, strinse lentamente e pensosamente la sua borsa di canapa, come se stesse stringendole il collo. Quando la signorina Rugg tornò, dopo che lui l’aveva rimessa in tasca, preparò del rum mescolato con acqua per tutti, senza dimenticare sé stessa, e distribuì i bicchieri a ciascuno. Una volta che tutti ebbero ricevuto il loro drink, il signor Rugg si alzò e, tenendo silenziosamente il bicchiere a distanza dal centro del tavolo, invitò gli altri tre ad unirsi a lui in quel brindisi comune. La cerimonia ebbe un certo successo, se solo la signorina Rugg, mentre alzava il bicchiere alle labbra per concluderla, non avesse guardato Young John: di nuovo sopraffatta dall’assurdità della sua indifferenza, versò accidentalmente alcune gocce di rum e acqua dappertutto, per poi ritirarsi in preda al panico.

Ecco quale fu quella cena senza precedenti, offerta da Pancks a Pentonville; ed ecco quale fosse la vita frenetica e strana che Pancks conduceva. Gli unici momenti in cui sembrava rilassarsi dalle sue preoccupazioni, e divertirsi andando ovunque o dicendo qualsiasi cosa senza uno scopo preciso, erano quando mostrava un certo interesse per quel straniero zoppo con il bastone, che abitava in Bleeding Heart Yard.

Lo straniero, di nome John Baptist Cavalletto – lo chiamavano “Mr Baptist” nel cortile – era un tipo così vivace, gentile e pieno di speranza che il suo fascino per Pancks derivava probabilmente proprio dal contrasto con lui. Solo, debole e a malapena in grado di pronunciare le parole più essenziali dell’unica lingua con cui poteva comunicare con la gente intorno a sé, seguiva passivamente il corso degli eventi, con un’energia insolita per quelle zone. Con poco da mangiare, ancora meno da bere e nessun vestito se non quello che indossava o che aveva portato con sé in uno dei pacchetti più piccoli mai visti, riusciva comunque a mostrare un viso sorridente, come se si trovasse nelle circostanze più favorevoli. Quando per la prima volta si aggirò nel cortile, cercando di guadagnarsi l’affetto generale con i suoi denti bianchi.

Per un straniero, che fosse zoppo o sano, era davvero un compito arduo integrarsi tra i membri del gruppo dei “Bleeding Hearts”. In primo luogo, erano vagamente convinti che ogni straniero avesse sempre con sé un coltello; in secondo luogo, ritenevano fosse una regola fondamentale della loro cultura nazionale che gli stranieri dovessero tornare nel loro paese d’origine. Non si chiedevano mai quante delle loro stesse persone sarebbero state rimpatriate da varie parti del mondo, se quel principio venisse generalmente adottato; consideravano invece tale comportamento particolarmente tipico della cultura britannica. In terzo luogo, avevano l’idea che il fatto di non essere inglesi rappresentasse una sorta di “punizione divina”, e che le calamità che colpivano i loro paesi fossero dovute al fatto che questi facevano cose diverse da quelle dell’Inghilterra. In questa convinzione, ovviamente, erano stati da tempo influenzati dalle persone del gruppo dei “Barnacles and Stiltstalkings”, le quali dichiaravano sempre ufficialmente che nessun paese che non si sottomettesse a quelle due grandi famiglie potesse sperare di essere protetto dalla Provvidenza; e quando questi ultimi credevano in queste affermazioni, li denigravano in privato definendoli le persone più prevenute al mondo.

Questa, quindi, potrebbe essere definita una posizione politica dei “Corti Cuori”; tuttavia, essi avevano altre obiezioni riguardo alla presenza di stranieri nel loro ambiente. Credevano che gli stranieri fossero sempre in condizioni difficili; e anche se loro stessi erano altrettanto sfortunati quanto avrebbero potuto desiderare, questo non diminuiva la forza delle loro obiezioni. Pensavano che gli stranieri venissero maltrattati e aggrediti con le baionette; e anche se di certo a loro stessi venivano frantumati i crani non appena mostravano il minimo segno di cattivo umore, ciò avveniva comunque con strumenti rozzi, il che, secondo loro, non contava nulla. Ritenevano inoltre che gli stranieri fossero sempre immorali; e anche se occasionalmente si verificavano processi o casi di divorzio tra persone straniere, questo, a loro parere, non aveva alcuna rilevanza. Credevano infine che gli stranieri mancassero completamente di spirito indipendente, poiché mai venivano accompagnati alle urne elettorali in gruppi numerosi da personaggi come Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, con bandiere sventolate e la musica di “Rule Britannia” che suonava. Per non essere noiosi, avevano molte altre convinzioni simili.

Di fronte a questi ostacoli, quel straniero zoppo, con il suo bastone, doveva procedere il meglio possibile; non certo da solo, perché il signor Arthur Clennam lo aveva raccomandato alla famiglia Plornish (che viveva nello stesso edificio), ma comunque con notevoli difficoltà. Tuttavia, le persone della casa Plornish erano cuori gentili; e quando vedevano quel ragazzo zoppicare allegramente, con un viso sorridente, senza fare del male a nessuno, senza estrarre coltelli, senza commettere atti immorali, vivendo principalmente di cereali e latte, e giocando con i bambini della signora Plornish la sera, iniziarono a pensare che, anche se non avrebbe mai potuto diventare un inglese, sarebbe stato ingiusto infliggergli ulteriori sofferenze. Iniziarono quindi ad adattarsi al suo livello, chiamandolo “signor Baptist”, ma trattandolo come un bambino e ridendo in modo esagerato delle sue gesta vivaci e del suo inglese infantile, soprattutto perché a lui non dispiaceva affatto e rideva anche lui. Gli parlavano ad alta voce, come se fosse sordo. Componevano frasi apposta per insegnargli la lingua nella sua purezza, del tipo di quelle che i selvaggi usavano rivolgere al capitano Cook o Friday a Robinson Crusoe. La signora Plornish era particolarmente abile in questo campo; e divenne così famosa per dire “Me ope you leg well soon”, che si pensava che fosse davvero molto vicina alla capacità di parlare italiano. Anche la stessa signora Plornish iniziò a credere di avere un talento naturale per quella lingua. Man mano che diventava più popolare, venivano utilizzati oggetti domestici per insegnargli un vasto vocabolario; e ogni volta che compariva nel cortile, le signore uscivano di corsa dalle loro case gridando: “Signor Baptist, teiera!”, “Signor Baptist, pala per la polvere!”, “Signor Baptist, setaccio per il farina!”, “Signor Baptist, caffettiera!” Mostrandogli al contempo quegli oggetti, gli facevano comprendere quanto fosse terribilmente difficile imparare la lingua anglo-sassone.

It was in this stage of his progress, and in about the third week of his occupation, that Mr Pancks’s fancy became attracted by the little man. Mounting to his attic, attended by Mrs Plornish as interpreter, he found Mr Baptist with no furniture but his bed on the ground, a table, and a chair, carving with the aid of a few simple tools, in the blithest way possible.

‘Now, old chap,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘pay up!’

He had his money ready, folded in a scrap of paper, and laughingly handed it in; then with a free action, threw out as many fingers of his right hand as there were shillings, and made a cut crosswise in the air for an odd sixpence.

‘Oh!’ said Mr Pancks, watching him, wonderingly. ‘That’s it, is it? You’re a quick customer. It’s all right. I didn’t expect to receive it, though.’

Mrs Plornish here interposed with great condescension, and explained to Mr Baptist. ‘E please. E glad get money.’

The little man smiled and nodded. His bright face seemed uncommonly attractive to Mr Pancks. ‘How’s he getting on in his limb?’ he asked Mrs Plornish.

‘Oh, he’s a deal better, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish. ‘We expect next week he’ll be able to leave off his stick entirely.’ (The opportunity being too favourable to be lost, Mrs Plornish displayed her great accomplishment by explaining with pardonable pride to Mr Baptist, ‘E ope you leg well soon.’)

‘He’s a merry fellow, too,’ said Mr Pancks, admiring him as if he were a mechanical toy. ‘How does he live?’

‘Why, sir,’ rejoined Mrs Plornish, ‘he turns out to have quite a power of carving them flowers that you see him at now.’ (Mr Baptist, watching their faces as they spoke, held up his work. Mrs Plornish interpreted in her Italian manner, on behalf of Mr Pancks, ‘E please. Double good!’)

‘Can he live by that?’ asked Mr Pancks.

‘He can live on very little, sir, and it is expected as he will be able, in time, to make a very good living. Mr Clennam got it him to do, and gives him odd jobs besides in at the Works next door—makes ‘em for him, in short, when he knows he wants ‘em.’

‘And what does he do with himself, now, when he ain’t hard at it?’ said Mr Pancks.

‘Why, not much as yet, sir, on accounts I suppose of not being able to walk much; but he goes about the Yard, and he chats without particular understanding or being understood, and he plays with the children, and he sits in the sun—he’ll sit down anywhere, as if it was an arm-chair—and he’ll sing, and he’ll laugh!’

‘Laugh!’ echoed Mr Pancks. ‘He looks to me as if every tooth in his head was always laughing.’

‘But whenever he gets to the top of the steps at t’other end of the Yard,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘he’ll peep out in the curiousest way! So that some of us thinks he’s peeping out towards where his own country is, and some of us thinks he’s looking for somebody he don’t want to see, and some of us don’t know what to think.’

Mr Baptist seemed to have a general understanding of what she said; or perhaps his quickness caught and applied her slight action of peeping. In any case he closed his eyes and tossed his head with the air of a man who had sufficient reasons for what he did, and said in his own tongue, it didn’t matter. Altro!

‘What’s Altro?’ said Pancks.

‘Hem! It’s a sort of a general kind of expression, sir,’ said Mrs Plornish.

‘Is it?’ said Pancks. ‘Why, then Altro to you, old chap. Good afternoon. Altro!’

Mr Baptist in his vivacious way repeating the word several times, Mr Pancks in his duller way gave it him back once. From that time it became a frequent custom with Pancks the gipsy, as he went home jaded at night, to pass round by Bleeding Heart Yard, go quietly up the stairs, look in at Mr Baptist’s door, and, finding him in his room, to say, ‘Hallo, old chap! Altro!’ To which Mr Baptist would reply with innumerable bright nods and smiles, ‘Altro, signore, altro, altro, altro!’ After this highly condensed conversation, Mr Pancks would go his way with an appearance of being lightened and refreshed.

Fu in questa fase del suo percorso di progresso, e più o meno nella terza settimana della sua permanenza lì, che l’attenzione di Mr Pancks fu attratta da quell’uomo piccolo. Salendo sul suo attico, accompagnato da Mrs Plornish come interprete, trovò Mr Baptist senza alcun mobile, se non un letto per terra, un tavolo e una sedia; l’uomo stava intagliando, utilizzando soltanto alcuni strumenti semplici, nel modo più spartano possibile.

“Ora, vecchio mio,” disse Signor Pancks, “paga!”

Aveva i suoi soldi pronti, ripiegati in un pezzo di carta, e li consegnò ridendo; poi, con un gesto disinvolto, allargò tutte le dita della mano destra tanto quanto erano i penny presenti, e fece un movimento orizzontale nell’aria per indicare quei sei pence.

“Oh!”, disse Signor Pancks osservandolo con meraviglia. “Ecco fatto, vero? Sei davvero veloce. Va bene, non mi aspettavo di riceverlo così presto, però.”

La signora Plornish intervenne con grande condiscendenza e spiegò al signor Baptist: “Per favore. Sono felice di guadagnare denaro.”

Il piccolo uomo sorrise e annuì. Il suo viso luminoso sembrava insolitamente attraente per Signor Pancks. “Come se la sta cavando con quella gamba?” chiese a Signora Plornish.

“Oh, è decisamente meglio, signore,” disse la signora Plornish. “Ci aspettiamo che la prossima settimana possa smettere del tutto di usare il bastone.” (L’opportunità essendo troppo vantaggiosa per essere persa, la signora Plornish dimostrò la sua grande abilità spiegando, con un comprensibile orgoglio, al signor Baptist: “E così potrete muovervi meglio molto presto.”)

“È anche un tipo allegramente spensierato,” disse Signor Pancks, ammirandolo come se fosse un giocattolo meccanico. “Come fa a vivere?”

“Perché, signore,” rispose la signora Plornish, “si scopre che ha davvero un notevole talento nel scolpire quelle >fioriture che vedete ora.” (Il signor Baptist, osservando i loro volti mentre parlavano, sollevò il proprio lavoro. La signora Plornish lo interpretò a modo suo, in italiano, per conto del signor Pancks: “E, davvero molto buono!”)

“Riuscirà a vivere in quel modo?” chiese Signor Pancks.

“Può vivere con molto poco, signore, e si prevede che, col tempo, riuscirà a guadagnarsi da vivere bene. È stato il signor Clennam ad assicurargli questo lavoro, e inoltre gli dà piccoli incarichi anche presso la fabbrica accanto: insomma, gli prepara tutto ciò di cui ha bisogno.”

“E cosa fa ora, quando non è impegnato in questo lavoro?” chiese Signor Pancks.

“Beh, per ora non molto, signore; suppongo sia perché non riesce a camminare molto. Ma gira per il cortile, chiacchiera senza che nessuno lo capisca davvero o lui capisca gli altri, gioca con i bambini e si siede al sole. Si siede ovunque, come se fosse una poltrona. Canta e ride!”

“Ridi!” echeggiò la voce di Mr Pancks. “Mi guarda come se ogni singolo dente che ha in bocca stesse sempre ridendo.”

“Ma ogni volta che arriva in cima alle scale all’altra estremità del cortile,” disse la signora Plornish, “si sporge fuori in modo davvero curioso! Alcuni di noi pensano che stia guardando verso il suo paese natale, altri credono che stia cercando qualcuno che non vuole vedere. E alcuni non sanno proprio cosa pensare.”

Il signor Baptist sembrava aver compreso in generale ciò che lei aveva detto; oppure forse aveva notato e interpretato quel suo breve gesto di sbirciare. Comunque sia, chiuse gli occhi e scosse la testa con l’aria di una persona che avesse motivi sufficienti per quello che stava facendo, e disse nella sua lingua: “Non importa”. Altro!

“Cosa c’è d’altro?” disse Pancks.

“Ehm. È una sorta di espressione generica, signore,” disse la signora Plornish.

“Davvero?” disse Pancks. “Beh, allora salve a te, vecchio mio. Buon pomeriggio. Salve!”

Il signor Baptist, con il suo modo vivace, ripeteva quella parola più volte; il signor Pancks, invece, in modo più monotono, gliela ripeteva una sola volta. Da quel momento, divenne un’abitudine frequente per il signor Pancks: ogni sera, mentre tornava a casa stanco, passava davanti al cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard, saliva silenziosamente le scale, guardava dentro la porta del signor Baptist e, trovandolo nella sua stanza, gli diceva: “Salve, vecchio mio! Ancora una volta!” Al che il signor Baptist rispondeva con innumerevoli cenni della testa e sorrisi radiosi: “Ancora una volta, signore, ancora una volta, ancora una volta!” Dopo questo breve scambio di parole, il signor Pancks se ne andava, con l’aria di essere rinvigorito e sollevato.

CHAPTER 26. Nobody’s State of Mind

If Arthur Clennam had not arrived at that wise decision firmly to restrain himself from loving Pet, he would have lived on in a state of much perplexity, involving difficult struggles with his own heart. Not the least of these would have been a contention, always waging within it, between a tendency to dislike Mr Henry Gowan, if not to regard him with positive repugnance, and a whisper that the inclination was unworthy. A generous nature is not prone to strong aversions, and is slow to admit them even dispassionately; but when it finds ill-will gaining upon it, and can discern between-whiles that its origin is not dispassionate, such a nature becomes distressed.

Therefore Mr Henry Gowan would have clouded Clennam’s mind, and would have been far oftener present to it than more agreeable persons and subjects but for the great prudence of his decision aforesaid. As it was, Mr Gowan seemed transferred to Daniel Doyce’s mind; at all events, it so happened that it usually fell to Mr Doyce’s turn, rather than to Clennam’s, to speak of him in the friendly conversations they held together. These were of frequent occurrence now; as the two partners shared a portion of a roomy house in one of the grave old-fashioned City streets, lying not far from the Bank of England, by London Wall.

Mr Doyce had been to Twickenham to pass the day. Clennam had excused himself. Mr Doyce was just come home. He put in his head at the door of Clennam’s sitting-room to say Good night.

‘Come in, come in!’ said Clennam.

‘I saw you were reading,’ returned Doyce, as he entered, ‘and thought you might not care to be disturbed.’

But for the notable resolution he had made, Clennam really might not have known what he had been reading; really might not have had his eyes upon the book for an hour past, though it lay open before him. He shut it up, rather quickly.

‘Are they well?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Doyce; ‘they are well. They are all well.’

Daniel had an old workmanlike habit of carrying his pocket-handkerchief in his hat. He took it out and wiped his forehead with it, slowly repeating, ‘They are all well. Miss Minnie looking particularly well, I thought.’

‘Any company at the cottage?’

‘No, no company.’

‘And how did you get on, you four?’ asked Clennam gaily.

‘There were five of us,’ returned his partner. ‘There was What’s-his-name. He was there.’

‘Who is he?’ said Clennam.

‘Mr Henry Gowan.’

‘Ah, to be sure!’ cried Clennam with unusual vivacity, ‘Yes!—I forgot him.’

‘As I mentioned, you may remember,’ said Daniel Doyce, ‘he is always there on Sunday.’

‘Yes, yes,’ returned Clennam; ‘I remember now.’

Daniel Doyce, still wiping his forehead, ploddingly repeated. ‘Yes. He was there, he was there. Oh yes, he was there. And his dog. He was there too.’

‘Miss Meagles is quite attached to—the—dog,’ observed Clennam.

‘Quite so,’ assented his partner. ‘More attached to the dog than I am to the man.’

‘You mean Mr—?’

‘I mean Mr Gowan, most decidedly,’ said Daniel Doyce.

There was a gap in the conversation, which Clennam devoted to winding up his watch.

‘Perhaps you are a little hasty in your judgment,’ he said. ‘Our judgments—I am supposing a general case—’

‘Of course,’ said Doyce.

‘Are so liable to be influenced by many considerations, which, almost without our knowing it, are unfair, that it is necessary to keep a guard upon them. For instance, Mr—’

‘Gowan,’ quietly said Doyce, upon whom the utterance of the name almost always devolved.

‘Is young and handsome, easy and quick, has talent, and has seen a good deal of various kinds of life. It might be difficult to give an unselfish reason for being prepossessed against him.’

‘Not difficult for me, I think, Clennam,’ returned his partner. ‘I see him bringing present anxiety, and, I fear, future sorrow, into my old friend’s house. I see him wearing deeper lines into my old friend’s face, the nearer he draws to, and the oftener he looks at, the face of his daughter. In short, I see him with a net about the pretty and affectionate creature whom he will never make happy.’

‘We don’t know,’ said Clennam, almost in the tone of a man in pain, ‘that he will not make her happy.’

‘We don’t know,’ returned his partner, ‘that the earth will last another hundred years, but we think it highly probable.’

‘Well, well!’ said Clennam, ‘we must be hopeful, and we must at least try to be, if not generous (which, in this case, we have no opportunity of being), just. We will not disparage this gentleman, because he is successful in his addresses to the beautiful object of his ambition; and we will not question her natural right to bestow her love on one whom she finds worthy of it.’

‘Maybe, my friend,’ said Doyce. ‘Maybe also, that she is too young and petted, too confiding and inexperienced, to discriminate well.’

‘That,’ said Clennam, ‘would be far beyond our power of correction.’

Daniel Doyce shook his head gravely, and rejoined, ‘I fear so.’

‘Therefore, in a word,’ said Clennam, ‘we should make up our minds that it is not worthy of us to say any ill of Mr Gowan. It would be a poor thing to gratify a prejudice against him. And I resolve, for my part, not to depreciate him.’

‘I am not quite so sure of myself, and therefore I reserve my privilege of objecting to him,’ returned the other. ‘But, if I am not sure of myself, I am sure of you, Clennam, and I know what an upright man you are, and how much to be respected. Good night, my friend and partner!’ He shook his hand in saying this, as if there had been something serious at the bottom of their conversation; and they separated.

By this time they had visited the family on several occasions, and had always observed that even a passing allusion to Mr Henry Gowan when he was not among them, brought back the cloud which had obscured Mr Meagles’s sunshine on the morning of the chance encounter at the Ferry. If Clennam had ever admitted the forbidden passion into his breast, this period might have been a period of real trial; under the actual circumstances, doubtless it was nothing—nothing.

Capitolo 26. Lo stato d’animo di nessuno

Se Arthur Clennam non fosse giunto a quella saggia decisione di trattenersi dal provare affetto per Pet, avrebbe continuato a vivere in uno stato di grande confusione, impegnato in difficili lotte con se stesso. Tra queste difficoltà, c’era soprattutto una lotta costante nel suo cuore: da un lato, la tendenza a disprezzare il signor Henry Gowan, o addirittura a provare per lui un vero disgusto; dall’altro, la consapevolezza che tale avversione fosse ingiustificata. Una natura generosa non è propensa ad avversioni forti e impiega molto tempo ad ammetterle anche in modo oggettivo; ma quando scopre che qualcuno cerca di instillarle in lei, e riesce a riconoscere che tali sentimenti non derivano da una valutazione imparziale, allora tale natura ne risente profondamente.

Pertanto, il signor Henry Gowan avrebbe confuso le idee di Clennam e sarebbe stato molto più spesso presente nella sua mente rispetto a persone e argomenti più piacevoli; ma grazie alla grande prudenza della sua decisione menzionata in precedenza, ciò non accadde. In realtà, il signor Gowan sembrava essere “trasferito” nella mente di Daniel Doyce; comunque sia, spesso era toccava a lui, e non a Clennam, parlare di lui durante le loro conversazioni amichevoli. Queste conversazioni avvenivano con frequenza; i due soci condividevano infatti una stanza spaziosa in una delle vecchie strade della Città, non lontano dalla Banca d’Inghilterra, vicino al Muro di Londra.

Il signor Doyce era stato a Twickenham per trascorrere la giornata; Clennam si era scusato e non era presente. Il signor Doyce era appena tornato a casa e bussò alla porta del salotto di Clennam per augurargli buona notte.

“Entra, entra!” disse Clennam.

“Vedevo che stavi leggendo,” rispose Doyce entrando, “e ho pensato che forse non volessi essere disturbato.”

Se non fosse stato per la decisione importante che aveva preso, Clennam probabilmente non avrebbe saputo cosa stesse leggendo; forse nemmeno si sarebbe accorto che il libro era aperto davanti a lui, per un’ora intera. Lo chiuse, piuttosto in fretta.

“Stanno bene?”, chiese.

“Sì,” disse Doyce; “stanno tutti bene. Sono tutti in ottima forma.”

Daniel aveva l’antica abitudine da lavoratore di tenere il fazzoletto da tasca nel cappello. Lo tirò fuori e si asciugò la fronte, ripetendo lentamente: “Tutti stanno bene. Miss Minnie, in particolare, sembra davvero in ottima forma.”

“C’è qualche compagnia alla capanna?”

“No, nessuna compagnia.”

“E come avete fatto a conoscervi voi quattro?” chiese Clennam allegramente.

“Eravamo in cinque”, rispose il suo compagno. “C’era, come si chiama. Lui c’era.”

“Chi è?” disse Clennam.

“Il signor Henry Gowan.”

“Ah, certo!” esclamò Clennam con insolita vivacità. “Sì, me n’ero dimenticato.”

“Come ho già detto, forse ricorderete,” disse Daniel Doyce, “lui c’è sempre il )domenica.”

“Sì, sì,” rispose Clennam; “Ora me ne ricordo.”

Daniel Doyce, ancora asciugandosi la fronte, ripeteva con voce monotona: “Sì. Lui c’era, c’era davvero. Oh sì, c’era. E anche il suo cane. Anche lui c’era.”

“La signorina Meagles è molto affezionata a quel cane,” osservò Clennam.

“Esattamente,” concordò la sua compagna. “Mi attacco di più al cane che all’uomo.”

“Intendi dire il signor,?”

“Intendo, senza dubbio, il signor Gowan,” disse Daniel Doyce.

Ci fu un momento di silenzio nella conversazione; in quel lasso di tempo, Clennam si dedicò ad aggiustare il proprio orologio.

“Forse sei un po’ troppo affrettato nel giudicare,” disse. “I nostri giudizi, intendo dire, nel caso generale, ”

“Certo,” disse Doyce.

Sono così soggetti ad essere influenzati da molte considerazioni che, quasi senza che ce ne rendiamo conto, sono ingiuste; per questo è necessario stare attenti a esse. Ad esempio, il signor–

“Gowan,” disse sottovoce Doyce, a cui quel nome veniva quasi sempre rivolto.

È giovane e attraente, disinvolto e veloce, ha talento e ha vissuto molte esperienze diverse nella vita. Potrebbe essere difficile trovare una ragione altruistica per non essere attratti da lui.

“Non è difficile per me, penso, Clennam,” rispose il suo compagno. “Vedo che porta ansia nel presente e, temo, dolore futuro nella casa del mio vecchio amico. Vedo che incide solchi sempre più profondi sul viso di quel mio vecchio amico, ogni volta che si avvicina di più e guarda più spesso il volto di sua figlia. In breve, vedo che sta intrappolando quella bella e affettuosa creatura in una rete dalla quale non potrà mai liberarla.”

“Non lo sappiamo,” disse Clennam, quasi con il tono di un uomo che soffre, “se riuscirà a renderla felice.”

“Non lo sappiamo,” rispose il suo compagno, “se la Terra durerà altri cento anni, ma riteniamo che sia molto probabile.”

‘Beh, beh!’, disse Clennam, ‘dobbiamo essere ottimisti, e dobbiamo almeno cercare di esserlo, anche se non possiamo essere generosi (cosa che, in questo caso, non abbiamo alcuna possibilità di fare), ma almeno onesti. Non criticheremo questo signore, perché riesce nel suo tentativo di conquistare l’oggetto dei suoi desideri; e non metteremo in dubbio il suo diritto naturale di donare il proprio amore a colui che ritiene degno di esso.’

“Forse, amico mio,” disse Doyce. “Forse anche perché è troppo giovane, viziata e inesperta per poter giudicare con saggezza.”

“Quello”, disse Clennam, “sarebbe ben al di là delle nostre possibilità di correggerlo”.

Daniel Doyce scosse la testa con gravità e riprese: “Io temo davvero così.”

“Quindi, in poche parole,” disse Clennam, “dovremmo decidere che non è degno di noi parlare male del signor Gowan. Soddisfare un pregiudizio contro di lui sarebbe una cosa meschina. E io, personalmente, decido di non denigrarlo.”

“Non sono del tutto sicuro di me stesso, e per questo riservo per me il diritto di oppormi a lui,” rispose l’altro. “Ma se non sono sicuro di me stesso, sono certo di te, Clennam. So quanto tu sia una persona onesta e meritevole di rispetto. Buona notte, mio caro amico e compagno!” Mentre lo diceva, gli strinse la mano, come se ci fosse qualcosa di importante alla base della loro conversazione; poi si separarono.

A quel momento, avevano già visitato quella famiglia in diverse occasioni, e avevano sempre notato che anche solo un accenno casuale al signor Henry Gowan, quando lui non era presente, riusciva a riportare indietro quell’ombra che aveva offuscato l’armonia nella vita del signor Meagles, proprio il giorno in cui si erano incontrati per caso alla ferrovia. Se Clennam avesse mai permesso a quel sentimento proibito di prendere piede nel suo cuore, quella sarebbe stata davvero un’epoca di grande sofferenza; ma nelle circostanze reali, probabilmente non era nulla – proprio nulla.

Equally, if his heart had given entertainment to that prohibited guest, his silent fighting of his way through the mental condition of this period might have been a little meritorious. In the constant effort not to be betrayed into a new phase of the besetting sin of his experience, the pursuit of selfish objects by low and small means, and to hold instead to some high principle of honour and generosity, there might have been a little merit. In the resolution not even to avoid Mr Meagles’s house, lest, in the selfish sparing of himself, he should bring any slight distress upon the daughter through making her the cause of an estrangement which he believed the father would regret, there might have been a little merit. In the modest truthfulness of always keeping in view the greater equality of Mr Gowan’s years and the greater attractions of his person and manner, there might have been a little merit. In doing all this and much more, in a perfectly unaffected way and with a manful and composed constancy, while the pain within him (peculiar as his life and history) was very sharp, there might have been some quiet strength of character. But, after the resolution he had made, of course he could have no such merits as these; and such a state of mind was nobody’s—nobody’s.

Mr Gowan made it no concern of his whether it was nobody’s or somebody’s. He preserved his perfect serenity of manner on all occasions, as if the possibility of Clennam’s presuming to have debated the great question were too distant and ridiculous to be imagined. He had always an affability to bestow on Clennam and an ease to treat him with, which might of itself (in the supposititious case of his not having taken that sagacious course) have been a very uncomfortable element in his state of mind.

‘I quite regret you were not with us yesterday,’ said Mr Henry Gowan, calling on Clennam the next morning. ‘We had an agreeable day up the river there.’

So he had heard, Arthur said.

‘From your partner?’ returned Henry Gowan. ‘What a dear old fellow he is!’

‘I have a great regard for him.’

‘By Jove, he is the finest creature!’ said Gowan. ‘So fresh, so green, trusts in such wonderful things!’

Here was one of the many little rough points that had a tendency to grate on Clennam’s hearing. He put it aside by merely repeating that he had a high regard for Mr Doyce.

‘He is charming! To see him mooning along to that time of life, laying down nothing by the way and picking up nothing by the way, is delightful. It warms a man. So unspoilt, so simple, such a good soul! Upon my life Mr Clennam, one feels desperately worldly and wicked in comparison with such an innocent creature. I speak for myself, let me add, without including you. You are genuine also.’

‘Thank you for the compliment,’ said Clennam, ill at ease; ‘you are too, I hope?’

‘So so,’ rejoined the other. ‘To be candid with you, tolerably. I am not a great impostor. Buy one of my pictures, and I assure you, in confidence, it will not be worth the money. Buy one of another man’s—any great professor who beats me hollow—and the chances are that the more you give him, the more he’ll impose upon you. They all do it.’

‘All painters?’

‘Painters, writers, patriots, all the rest who have stands in the market. Give almost any man I know ten pounds, and he will impose upon you to a corresponding extent; a thousand pounds—to a corresponding extent; ten thousand pounds—to a corresponding extent. So great the success, so great the imposition. But what a capital world it is!’ cried Gowan with warm enthusiasm. ‘What a jolly, excellent, lovable world it is!’

‘I had rather thought,’ said Clennam, ‘that the principle you mention was chiefly acted on by—’

‘By the Barnacles?’ interrupted Gowan, laughing.

‘By the political gentlemen who condescend to keep the Circumlocution Office.’

‘Ah! Don’t be hard upon the Barnacles,’ said Gowan, laughing afresh, ‘they are darling fellows! Even poor little Clarence, the born idiot of the family, is the most agreeable and most endearing blockhead! And by Jupiter, with a kind of cleverness in him too that would astonish you!’

‘It would. Very much,’ said Clennam, drily.

‘And after all,’ cried Gowan, with that characteristic balancing of his which reduced everything in the wide world to the same light weight, ‘though I can’t deny that the Circumlocution Office may ultimately shipwreck everybody and everything, still, that will probably not be in our time—and it’s a school for gentlemen.’

‘It’s a very dangerous, unsatisfactory, and expensive school to the people who pay to keep the pupils there, I am afraid,’ said Clennam, shaking his head.

‘Ah! You are a terrible fellow,’ returned Gowan, airily. ‘I can understand how you have frightened that little donkey, Clarence, the most estimable of moon-calves (I really love him) nearly out of his wits. But enough of him, and of all the rest of them. I want to present you to my mother, Mr Clennam. Pray do me the favour to give me the opportunity.’

In nobody’s state of mind, there was nothing Clennam would have desired less, or would have been more at a loss how to avoid.

‘My mother lives in a most primitive manner down in that dreary red-brick dungeon at Hampton Court,’ said Gowan. ‘If you would make your own appointment, suggest your own day for permitting me to take you there to dinner, you would be bored and she would be charmed. Really that’s the state of the case.’

What could Clennam say after this? His retiring character included a great deal that was simple in the best sense, because unpractised and unused; and in his simplicity and modesty, he could only say that he was happy to place himself at Mr Gowan’s disposal. Accordingly he said it, and the day was fixed. And a dreaded day it was on his part, and a very unwelcome day when it came and they went down to Hampton Court together.

Allo stesso modo, se il suo cuore avesse accolto quel “visitatore proibito”, la sua silenziosa lotta per superare le difficoltà di quel periodo potrebbe essere stata considerata un po’ meritevole. Nel costante sforzo di non cadere nuovamente vittima di quel peccato che lo assillava – ovvero nel perseguire scopi egoistici con mezzi meschini e bassi, invece di attenersi a principi nobili di onore e generosità – potrebbe esserci stato un certo merito. Nella determinazione di non evitare nemmeno la casa del signor Meagles, per non causare sofferenza alla figlia rendendola motivo di un allontanamento che, secondo lui, il padre avrebbe rimpianto, potrebbe esserci stato un po’ merito. Nella modesta onestà di tenere sempre presente la maggiore età del signor Gowan, nonché i suoi maggiori pregi in termini di persona e comportamento, potrebbe esserci stato un po’ merito. Nel fare tutto ciò, e molto altro ancora, in modo del tutto naturale e con costanza e coraggio, nonostante il dolore interno fosse estremamente intenso – considerando la particolarità della sua vita e della sua storia – potrebbe esserci stata una certa forza di carattere. Ma, dopo la decisione che aveva preso, ovviamente non poteva possedere tali meriti; e uno stato d’animo del genere non apparteneva a nessuno, a nessuno.

Per il signor Gowan non faceva alcuna differenza che la questione riguardasse qualcuno o nessuno. In ogni occasione manteneva una perfetta serenità di comportamento, come se fosse assolutamente improbabile e ridicolo che Clennam osasse anche solo discutere su quella importante questione. Riservava sempre a Clennam un tono cordiale e un modo di trattarlo disinvolto; qualcosa che, nel caso ipotetico in cui non avesse seguito quella sagge linea d’azione, avrebbe potuto rappresentare un elemento molto scomodo nella sua mentalità.

“Mi dispiace davvero che ieri non foste con noi,” disse il signor Henry Gowan, visitando Clennam la mattina seguente. “Abbiamo trascorso una giornata piacevole lungo quel fiume.”

“Sapevo che l’aveva sentito,” disse Arthur.

“Dall’amico tuo?” rispose Henry Gowan. “Che bravo vecchio uomo!”

“Ho un grande rispetto per lui.”

“Per Giove, è davvero la creatura più meravigliosa!” disse Gowan. “Così fresco, così verde, e crede in cose così straordinarie!”

Ecco uno dei tanti piccoli dettagli fastidiosi che tendevano ad irritare l’orecchio di Clennam. Decise di ignorarli semplicemente ripetendo più volte quanto stimasse molto il signor Doyce.

“È davvero affascinante! Vederlo vivere in quel modo, senza preoccuparsi di nulla e senza accumulare nulla, è delizioso. Riscalda il cuore delle persone. Così innocente, così semplice. Che bella ‘anima! Giuro su quanto ho di più caro, signor Clennam: al confronto di una creatura così innocente, ci si sente terribilmente mondani e malvagi. Parlo per me stesso, naturalmente, senza includervi voi. Anche voi siete sinceri.”

“Grazie per il complimento,” disse Clennam, a disagio; “anche voi lo siete troppo, spero, ”

“Sì sì,” rispose l’altro. “A dire la verità, è abbastanza accettabile. Non sono un gran imbroglione. Compra uno dei miei quadri, e ti assicuro che non varrà nemmeno i soldi spesi. Ma compra invece un quadro di un altro, qualsiasi grande professore che mi superi in abilità. E più gli dai, più probabilmente cercherà di ingannarti. Lo fanno tutti.”

“Tutti i pittori?”

“Pittori, scrittori, patrioti, e tutti gli altri che hanno un ruolo nel mercato. Date a qualsiasi uomo che conosca dieci sterline, e vi farà pressioni nella stessa misura; mille sterline, sempre nella stessa misura; diecimila sterline, ancora nella stessa misura. Il successo è così grande, ma anche le pressioni sono altrettanto grandi. Che mondo meraviglioso!” esclamò Gowan con calore e entusiasmo. “Che mondo gioioso, eccellente, adorabile!”

“Avrei piuttosto pensato,” disse Clennam, “che il principio di cui parlate fosse principalmente seguito da, ”

“Per i Barnacle?” intervenne Gowan, ridendo.

“Da quei signori politici che si degnano di ricoprire la carica di ‘Ufficio della Circonlocuzione’.”

“Ah! Non essere troppo duro con i Barnacles,” disse Gowan, ridendo di nuovo, “sono davvero creature adorabili! Anche povero piccolo Clarence, l’idiota di nascita della famiglia, è il più simpatico e affascinante degli sciocchi. E, per Giove, possiede anche una sorta di intelligenza che ti sorprenderebbe!”

“Sì, molto probabilmente,” disse Clennam in tono secco.

“E dopotutto,” esclamò Gowan, con quel suo caratteristico modo di bilanciare le cose che riduceva tutto nel vasto mondo allo stesso peso insignificante, “anche se non posso negare che l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni possa alla fine mandare all’aria tutti e tutto, probabilmente ciò non accadrà nella nostra epoca. E inoltre, è una scuola per gentiluomini.”

“È una scuola molto pericolosa, insoddisfacente e costosa per le persone che pagano affinché gli studenti vi rimangano, temo,” disse Clennam scuotendo la testa.

“Ah! Sei davvero un individuo terribile,” rispose Gowan con noncuranza. “Posso capire come tu abbia spaventato a morte quel piccolo asino, Clarence, il più stimabile tra tutti i vitelli della luna. Lo amo davvero molto. Ma basta parlare di lui, e di tutti gli altri. Voglio presentarti a mia madre, signor Clennam. Per favore, dammi questa opportunità.”

Nessuno, in quelle circostanze, avrebbe desiderato nulla di meno; al contrario, nessuno avrebbe saputo come evitare quella situazione.

“Mia madre vive in modo molto primitivo in quella tetra prigione di mattoni rossi a Hampton Court,” disse Gowan. “Se voleste fissare voi stesso l’appuntamento, se suggeriste voi stesso la data per portarmi lì a cena, vi annoiereste e lei ne sarebbe incantata. Davvero, è così che stanno le cose.”

Cosa poteva dire Clennam dopo questo? Il suo carattere riservato e modesto includeva molte cose semplici, nel miglior senso del termine: cose che non erano state mai praticate o utilizzate; e proprio per questa sua semplicità e umiltà, poté soltanto dire di essere felice di mettersi a disposizione del signor Gowan. Così fece, e fu fissata la data dell’incontro. Ma per lui quella fu una giornata terribile, e davvero molto sgradita quando finalmente arrivò il momento in cui scesero insieme a Hampton Court.

The venerable inhabitants of that venerable pile seemed, in those times, to be encamped there like a sort of civilised gipsies. There was a temporary air about their establishments, as if they were going away the moment they could get anything better; there was also a dissatisfied air about themselves, as if they took it very ill that they had not already got something much better. Genteel blinds and makeshifts were more or less observable as soon as their doors were opened; screens not half high enough, which made dining-rooms out of arched passages, and warded off obscure corners where footboys slept at nights with their heads among the knives and forks; curtains which called upon you to believe that they didn’t hide anything; panes of glass which requested you not to see them; many objects of various forms, feigning to have no connection with their guilty secret, a bed; disguised traps in walls, which were clearly coal-cellars; affectations of no thoroughfares, which were evidently doors to little kitchens. Mental reservations and artful mysteries grew out of these things. Callers looking steadily into the eyes of their receivers, pretended not to smell cooking three feet off; people, confronting closets accidentally left open, pretended not to see bottles; visitors with their heads against a partition of thin canvas, and a page and a young female at high words on the other side, made believe to be sitting in a primeval silence. There was no end to the small social accommodation-bills of this nature which the gipsies of gentility were constantly drawing upon, and accepting for, one another.

Some of these Bohemians were of an irritable temperament, as constantly soured and vexed by two mental trials: the first, the consciousness that they had never got enough out of the public; the second, the consciousness that the public were admitted into the building. Under the latter great wrong, a few suffered dreadfully—particularly on Sundays, when they had for some time expected the earth to open and swallow the public up; but which desirable event had not yet occurred, in consequence of some reprehensible laxity in the arrangements of the Universe.

Mrs Gowan’s door was attended by a family servant of several years’ standing, who had his own crow to pluck with the public concerning a situation in the Post-Office which he had been for some time expecting, and to which he was not yet appointed. He perfectly knew that the public could never have got him in, but he grimly gratified himself with the idea that the public kept him out. Under the influence of this injury (and perhaps of some little straitness and irregularity in the matter of wages), he had grown neglectful of his person and morose in mind; and now beholding in Clennam one of the degraded body of his oppressors, received him with ignominy.

Mrs Gowan, however, received him with condescension. He found her a courtly old lady, formerly a Beauty, and still sufficiently well-favoured to have dispensed with the powder on her nose and a certain impossible bloom under each eye. She was a little lofty with him; so was another old lady, dark-browed and high-nosed, and who must have had something real about her or she could not have existed, but it was certainly not her hair or her teeth or her figure or her complexion; so was a grey old gentleman of dignified and sullen appearance; both of whom had come to dinner. But, as they had all been in the British Embassy way in sundry parts of the earth, and as a British Embassy cannot better establish a character with the Circumlocution Office than by treating its compatriots with illimitable contempt (else it would become like the Embassies of other countries), Clennam felt that on the whole they let him off lightly.

The dignified old gentleman turned out to be Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking, who had been maintained by the Circumlocution Office for many years as a representative of the Britannic Majesty abroad. This noble Refrigerator had iced several European courts in his time, and had done it with such complete success that the very name of Englishman yet struck cold to the stomachs of foreigners who had the distinguished honour of remembering him at a distance of a quarter of a century.

He was now in retirement, and hence (in a ponderous white cravat, like a stiff snow-drift) was so obliging as to shade the dinner. There was a whisper of the pervading Bohemian character in the nomadic nature of the service and its curious races of plates and dishes; but the noble Refrigerator, infinitely better than plate or porcelain, made it superb. He shaded the dinner, cooled the wines, chilled the gravy, and blighted the vegetables.

There was only one other person in the room: a microscopically small footboy, who waited on the malevolent man who hadn’t got into the Post-Office. Even this youth, if his jacket could have been unbuttoned and his heart laid bare, would have been seen, as a distant adherent of the Barnacle family, already to aspire to a situation under Government.

Mrs Gowan with a gentle melancholy upon her, occasioned by her son’s being reduced to court the swinish public as a follower of the low Arts, instead of asserting his birthright and putting a ring through its nose as an acknowledged Barnacle, headed the conversation at dinner on the evil days. It was then that Clennam learned for the first time what little pivots this great world goes round upon.

‘If John Barnacle,’ said Mrs Gowan, after the degeneracy of the times had been fully ascertained, ‘if John Barnacle had but abandoned his most unfortunate idea of conciliating the mob, all would have been well, and I think the country would have been preserved.’

The old lady with the high nose assented; but added that if Augustus Stiltstalking had in a general way ordered the cavalry out with instructions to charge, she thought the country would have been preserved.

Gli onorabili abitanti di quel luogo sembravano, in quei tempi, accamparsi lì come una sorta di zingari civilizzati. Le loro dimore avevano un aspetto temporaneo, come se fossero pronte a lasciarle non appena ne trovassero di migliori; inoltre, gli stessi abitanti sembravano insoddisfatti, come se si lamentassero di non aver già ottenuto qualcosa di molto più confortevole. Appena le loro porte venivano aperte, era possibile notare tende di scarsa qualità e soluzioni provvisorie; schermi così bassi da trasformare i corridoi in sale da pranzo, e angoli oscuri dove i servitori dormivano la notte con la testa tra coltelli e forchette; tende che sembravano non nascondere nulla, vetri che invitavano a non guardarvi dentro, e molti oggetti di varie forme che fingevano di non avere alcun legame con i loro “segreti”. Letti trasformati in trappole nascoste nei muri, ambientazioni che sembravano corridoi ma in realtà erano porte che conducevano a piccole cucine. Da tutto ciò nascevano riserve mentali e misteri ingegnosi. I visitatori fissavano negli occhi coloro che li ricevevano, fingendo di non sentire l’odore del cibo che veniva cucinato a pochi passi di distanza; le persone che si trovavano davanti a armadi lasciati aperti fingevano di non vedere le bottiglie all’interno; i visitatori appoggiati a divisori di tela sottile, mentre dall’altra parte una ragazza e un ragazzo discutevano animatamente, creavano l’illusione di trovarsi in un ambiente di totale silenzio. Non c’era fine alle piccole “note di arredamento sociale” di questo genere che i “zingari della gentilezza” si scambiavano costantemente tra loro.

Alcuni di questi bohemiani avevano un temperamento irritabile, poiché erano costantemente tormentati da due tipi di difficoltà mentali: la prima era la consapevolezza di non aver mai ottenuto abbastanza riconoscimenti dal pubblico; la seconda era il fatto che il pubblico stesso fosse ammesso all’interno dei loro luoghi di ritrovo. A causa di quest’ultima situazione, alcuni soffrivano terribilmente, soprattutto la domenica, quando per un po’ si aspettavano che la terra si aprisse e inghiottisse tutto il pubblico. Ma tale evento desiderato non si era ancora verificato, a causa di qualche negligenza nei preparativi dell’Universo stesso.

La porta della signora Gowan era custodita da un domestico di famiglia con molti anni di servizio; quest’ultimo aveva i suoi motivi personali per lamentarsi con il pubblico riguardo a una situazione presso l’Ufficio Postale, che da tempo si aspettava ma per cui ancora non era stato nominato. Sapeva benissimo che il pubblico non avrebbe mai potuto farlo entrare, ma si compiaceva segretamente all’idea che fosse proprio il pubblico a impedirglielo. A causa di questa delusione (e forse anche di alcune difficoltà e irregolarità nel pagamento dei suoi salari), aveva iniziato a trascurare la propria cura personale e ad essere di cattivo umore; ora, vedendo in Clennam uno degli esponenti di quella classe oppressiva che lo aveva maltrattato, lo accolse con disprezzo.

Tuttavia, la signora Gowan lo accolse con condiscendenza. Lo trovò una vecchia signora cortese, un tempo una bellezza, e ancora abbastanza attraente da non aver bisogno di trucco sul naso né di quella sorta di “rosa” artificiale sotto gli occhi. Era un po’ sprezzante nei suoi confronti; lo erano anche un’altra vecchia signora, con sopracciglia scure e naso prominente. Entrambe dovevano avere qualcosa di veramente notevole in sé, altrimenti non avrebbero potuto esistere. Ma certamente non era il loro aspetto fisico a renderle così interessanti. Lo stesso valeva per un anziano signore dai capelli grigi, dall’aspetto dignitoso ma cupo; entrambi erano venuti a cena da lui. Tuttavia, poiché tutti quanti avevano trascorso del tempo presso l’Ambasciata britannica in varie parti del mondo, e poiché un’ambasciata britannica non può certo farsi una buona reputazione presso le autorità locali se non trattando i propri connazionali con un disprezzo infinito (altrimenti diventerebbe come le ambasciate di altri paesi), Clennam pensò che, nel complesso, lo avessero trattato abbastanza bene.

Quel nobile signore anziano si rivelò essere Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking, che per molti anni era stato mantenuto dall’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni come rappresentante della Maestà Britannica all’estero. Questo nobile “frigorifero” aveva “raffreddato” diverse corti europee durante il suo tempo, e lo aveva fatto con tale successo che il semplice nome di “inglese” ancora oggi suscitava terrore nelle persone straniere che avevano l’onore di ricordarlo, anche a distanza di un quarto di secolo.

Ora era in pensione, e quindi (con un pesante cravattino bianco, simile a una dura massa di neve) si preoccupava con grande zelo di servire la cena. C’era un senso della tipica natura bohémienne nella forma nomade del servizio e nelle strane varietà di piatti e stoviglie utilizzate; ma il nobile Frigorifero, infinitamente superiore a qualsiasi piatto o porcellana, rendeva tutto davvero eccezionale. Serviva la cena, raffreddava i vini, manteneva fredda la salsa, e distruggeva anche le verdure.

C’era solo un’altra persona nella stanza: un ragazzo molto piccolo che serviva quell’uomo malvagio che non era riuscito ad entrare nell’Ufficio Postale. Anche questo giovane, se solo si fosse potuto slacciare la giacca e mostrare il proprio cuore, sarebbe stato visto come un lontano seguace della famiglia Barnacle, già desideroso di ottenere una posizione all’interno del Governo.

La signora Gowan, con un leggero melanconico sul viso, a causa del fatto che suo figlio fosse costretto a frequentare quella gente volgare e depravata seguendo le arti basse, invece di rivendicare i propri diritti natali e comportarsi con dignità. Fu durante quei pasti che Clennam scoprì per la prima volta su quali fragili “punti di appoggio” ruoti questo grande mondo.

“Se solo John Barnacle,” disse la signora Gowan, “dopo che la degenerazione dei tempi fosse stata pienamente dimostrata, se solo avesse abbandonato quell’idea assurda di cercare di placare la folla, tutto sarebbe andato bene. E penso che il paese sarebbe stato salvato.”

La vecchia signora dal naso prominente acconsentì; ma aggiunse che se Augustus Stiltstalking avesse ordinato in modo generale all’esercito di cavalieri di avanzare con l’ordine di attaccare, pensava che il paese sarebbe stato salvato.

The noble Refrigerator assented; but added that if William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, when they came over to one another and formed their ever-memorable coalition, had boldly muzzled the newspapers, and rendered it penal for any Editor-person to presume to discuss the conduct of any appointed authority abroad or at home, he thought the country would have been preserved.

It was agreed that the country (another word for the Barnacles and Stiltstalkings) wanted preserving, but how it came to want preserving was not so clear. It was only clear that the question was all about John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, because there was nobody else but mob. And this was the feature of the conversation which impressed Clennam, as a man not used to it, very disagreeably: making him doubt if it were quite right to sit there, silently hearing a great nation narrowed to such little bounds. Remembering, however, that in the Parliamentary debates, whether on the life of that nation’s body or the life of its soul, the question was usually all about and between John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle and Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick, or Harry Barnacle or Stiltstalking, and nobody else; he said nothing on the part of mob, bethinking himself that mob was used to it.

Mr Henry Gowan seemed to have a malicious pleasure in playing off the three talkers against each other, and in seeing Clennam startled by what they said. Having as supreme a contempt for the class that had thrown him off as for the class that had not taken him on, he had no personal disquiet in anything that passed. His healthy state of mind appeared even to derive a gratification from Clennam’s position of embarrassment and isolation among the good company; and if Clennam had been in that condition with which Nobody was incessantly contending, he would have suspected it, and would have struggled with the suspicion as a meanness, even while he sat at the table.

In the course of a couple of hours the noble Refrigerator, at no time less than a hundred years behind the period, got about five centuries in arrears, and delivered solemn political oracles appropriate to that epoch. He finished by freezing a cup of tea for his own drinking, and retiring at his lowest temperature.

Then Mrs Gowan, who had been accustomed in her days of a vacant arm-chair beside her to which to summon state to retain her devoted slaves, one by one, for short audiences as marks of her especial favour, invited Clennam with a turn of her fan to approach the presence. He obeyed, and took the tripod recently vacated by Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking.

‘Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘apart from the happiness I have in becoming known to you, though in this odiously inconvenient place—a mere barrack—there is a subject on which I am dying to speak to you. It is the subject in connection with which my son first had, I believe, the pleasure of cultivating your acquaintance.’

Clennam inclined his head, as a generally suitable reply to what he did not yet quite understand.

‘First,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘now, is she really pretty?’

In nobody’s difficulties, he would have found it very difficult to answer; very difficult indeed to smile, and say ‘Who?’

‘Oh! You know!’ she returned. ‘This flame of Henry’s. This unfortunate fancy. There! If it is a point of honour that I should originate the name—Miss Mickles—Miggles.’

‘Miss Meagles,’ said Clennam, ‘is very beautiful.’

‘Men are so often mistaken on those points,’ returned Mrs Gowan, shaking her head, ‘that I candidly confess to you I feel anything but sure of it, even now; though it is something to have Henry corroborated with so much gravity and emphasis. He picked the people up at Rome, I think?’

The phrase would have given nobody mortal offence. Clennam replied, ‘Excuse me, I doubt if I understand your expression.’

‘Picked the people up,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the sticks of her closed fan (a large green one, which she used as a hand-screen) on her little table. ‘Came upon them. Found them out. Stumbled against them.’

‘The people?’

‘Yes. The Miggles people.’

‘I really cannot say,’ said Clennam, ‘where my friend Mr Meagles first presented Mr Henry Gowan to his daughter.’

‘I am pretty sure he picked her up at Rome; but never mind where—somewhere. Now (this is entirely between ourselves), is she very plebeian?’

‘Really, ma’am,’ returned Clennam, ‘I am so undoubtedly plebeian myself, that I do not feel qualified to judge.’

‘Very neat!’ said Mrs Gowan, coolly unfurling her screen. ‘Very happy! From which I infer that you secretly think her manner equal to her looks?’

Clennam, after a moment’s stiffness, bowed.

‘That’s comforting, and I hope you may be right. Did Henry tell me you had travelled with them?’

‘I travelled with my friend Mr Meagles, and his wife and daughter, during some months.’ (Nobody’s heart might have been wrung by the remembrance.)

‘Really comforting, because you must have had a large experience of them. You see, Mr Clennam, this thing has been going on for a long time, and I find no improvement in it. Therefore to have the opportunity of speaking to one so well informed about it as yourself, is an immense relief to me. Quite a boon. Quite a blessing, I am sure.’

‘Pardon me,’ returned Clennam, ‘but I am not in Mr Henry Gowan’s confidence. I am far from being so well informed as you suppose me to be. Your mistake makes my position a very delicate one. No word on this topic has ever passed between Mr Henry Gowan and myself.’

Mrs Gowan glanced at the other end of the room, where her son was playing ecarte on a sofa, with the old lady who was for a charge of cavalry.

‘Not in his confidence? No,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘No word has passed between you? No. That I can imagine. But there are unexpressed confidences, Mr Clennam; and as you have been together intimately among these people, I cannot doubt that a confidence of that sort exists in the present case. Perhaps you have heard that I have suffered the keenest distress of mind from Henry’s having taken to a pursuit which—well!’ shrugging her shoulders, ‘a very respectable pursuit, I dare say, and some artists are, as artists, quite superior persons; still, we never yet in our family have gone beyond an Amateur, and it is a pardonable weakness to feel a little—’

Il nobile Frigorifero acconsentì; ma aggiunse che se William Barnacle e Tudor Stiltstalking, quando si erano uniti per formare quella loro memorabile alleanza, avessero osato zittire i giornali e rendere punibile qualsiasi editore che osasse discutere le azioni delle autorità nominate, sia all’estero che in casa, pensava che il paese sarebbe stato salvato.

Si concordò sul fatto che quel paese volesse essere preservato, ma non era del tutto chiaro come fosse nata questa volontà. Quello che era certo era che tutta la questione riguardava John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle e Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick o Harry Barnacle o Stiltstalking, perché non c’era nessun altro se non la “folla”. Questo aspetto della conversazione colpì molto Clennam, che non era abituato a simili argomenti; gli fece persino dubitare che fosse del tutto giusto starsene lì in silenzio ad ascoltare di come una grande nazione venisse ridotta a limiti così ristretti. Tuttavia, ricordando che nelle discussioni parlamentari, sia riguardo alla “vita fisica” che a quella “spirituale” della nazione, l’argomento era sempre lo stesso: John Barnacle, Augustus Stiltstalking, William Barnacle e Tudor Stiltstalking, Tom, Dick o Harry Barnacle o Stiltstalking, e nessun altro. Così, non disse nulla riguardo alla “folla”, pensando che probabilmente essa fosse abituata a tutto ciò.

Il signor Henry Gowan sembrava provare un piacere malizioso nel far scontrare i tre conversatori tra loro e nel vedere Clennam sorpreso da ciò che dicevano. Avendo un disprezzo supremo sia per la classe che lo aveva rifiutato che per quella che non lo aveva accettato, non provava alcun disagio personale di fronte a quanto accadeva. Anzi, il suo stato mentale equilibrato sembrava trarre soddisfazione dal fatto che Clennam si trovasse in una situazione imbarazzante e isolata tra persone perbene; e se Clennam fosse stato in quella condizione contro cui nessuno smetteva di contrastarlo, lui se ne sarebbe accorto e avrebbe lottato contro tale sospetto, considerandolo un segno di meschinità, anche mentre sedeva a tavola.

Nel corso di un paio d’ore, il nobile Frigorifero, senza mai rimanere indietro di meno di cento anni rispetto al periodo in questione, si ritrovò comunque con circa cinque secoli di ritardo e pronunciò solenni oracoli politici adeguati a quell’epoca. Alla fine, congelò una tazza di tè per sé stesso e si ritirò alla sua temperatura più bassa.

Allora la signora Gowan, abituata nei suoi tempi ad avere accanto a sé una poltrona vuota alla quale chiamare i propri “servi devoti” uno per uno per brevi colloqui, come segno della sua particolare favore, invitò Clennam con un gesto del suo ventaglio ad avvicinarsi. Lui obbedì e prese il posto appena lasciato libero da Lord Lancaster Stiltstalking.

“Signor Clennam,” disse la signora Gowan, “oltre alla felicità di conoscervi, anche se in questo posto odiosamente scomodo, una semplice caserma, c’è un argomento di cui desidero parlare con voi a tutti i costi. È lo stesso argomento per il quale, credo, mio figlio ebbe per la prima volta l’onore di fare la vostra conoscenza.”

Clennam inclinò la testa, come risposta appropriata a ciò che ancora non aveva del tutto capito.

“Prima di tutto,” disse la signora Gowan, “ma è davvero bella?”

Nelle difficoltà di chiunque altro, gli sarebbe stato molto difficile rispondere; davvero molto difficile sorridere e dire “Chi?”.

“Oh! Lo sai!” rispose lei. “Questa idea di Henry. Questa sfortunata fantasia. Ecco! Se per qualche motivo dovrei essere io a dare il nome. Miss Mickles. Miggles.”

“La signorina Meagles,” disse Clennam, “è davvero molto bella.”

“Gli uomini spesso sbagliano su questi argomenti,” rispose la signora Gowan scuotendo la testa, “che onestamente devo confessarvi di non esserne affatto sicura nemmeno ora; anche se il fatto che Henry abbia confermato tutto con tale serietà e enfasi mi dà un po’ di fiducia. Penso che abbia incontrato quelle persone a Roma, vero?”

Quella frase non avrebbe offeso nessuno. Clennam rispose: “Scusi, ma dubito di aver capito esattamente ciò che intendete.”

“Li ho trovati,” disse la signora Gowan, battendo le pale del suo ventaglio chiuso (un grande ventaglio verde che usava come schermo protettivo per le mani) sul suo piccolo tavolo. “Li ho incontrati per caso. Li ho scoperti. Li ho trovati per pura fortuna.”

“Il popolo?”

“Sì, la gente dei Miggles.”

“Non posso davvero dirlo,” disse Clennam, “dove mio amico il signor Meagles abbia presentato per la prima volta il signor Henry Gowan a sua figlia.”

“Sono abbastanza sicuro che l’abbia presa a Roma; ma non importa dove, da qualche parte. Ora (e questo è assolutamente tra noi due), è davvero molto plebea?”

“Davvero, signora,” rispose Clennam, “sono così indubbiamente un plebeo che non mi sento qualificato a giudicare.”

“Molto ordinato!” disse la signora Gowan, aprendo con calma il suo paravento. “Molto soddisfatta! Da questo deduco che in segreto riteniate che il suo comportamento sia all’altezza del suo aspetto, ”

Dopo un momento di esitazione, Clennam si inchinò.

“È confortante saperlo. Spero davvero che tu abbia ragione. Henry mi ha detto che hai viaggiato con loro, vero?”

“Ho viaggiato con mio amico il signor Meagles, sua moglie e sua figlia, per alcuni mesi.” (Nessuno avrebbe potuto provare dolore al ricordo di questo periodo.)

“Davvero confortante, perché sicuramente ne avete una grande esperienza. Vede, signor Clennam, questa situazione va avanti da molto tempo, e non vedo alcun miglioramento. Pertanto, avere l’opportunità di parlare con qualcuno che ne sia così ben informato come lei rappresenta per me un enorme sollievo. Un vero dono, una vera benedizione, ne sono sicuro.”

“Perdonatemi,” rispose Clennam, “ma non sono al corrente delle informazioni di cui dispone il signor Henry Gowan. Sono lontano dall’essere così ben informato come voi credete. Il vostro errore rende la mia posizione molto delicata. Non è mai passata alcuna parola sull’argomento tra me e il signor Henry Gowan.”

La signora Gowan gettò uno sguardo verso l’altra estremità della stanza, dove suo figlio stava giocando a carte su un divano, insieme alla vecchia signora che faceva parte del “reggimento di cavalleria”.

“Non nella sua fiducia? No,” disse la signora Gowan. “Nessuna parola è stata scambiata tra voi? No. Almeno non che io possa immaginare. Ma ci sono confidenze non espresse a parole, signor Clennam; e poiché avete trascorso molto tempo insieme in mezzo a queste persone, non posso >dubitare che in questo caso esista una simile confidenza. Forse avrete sentito dire che ho sofferto terribilmente per il fatto che Henry abbia intrapreso una carriera, che, beh!” scrollò le spalle, “una carriera molto rispettabile, oserei dire; e alcuni artisti, come tali, sono certamente persone superiori. Tuttavia, nella nostra famiglia non siamo mai andati oltre il livello di dilettanti. E è comprensibile provare un certo rimpianto, ”

As Mrs Gowan broke off to heave a sigh, Clennam, however resolute to be magnanimous, could not keep down the thought that there was mighty little danger of the family’s ever going beyond an Amateur, even as it was.

‘Henry,’ the mother resumed, ‘is self-willed and resolute; and as these people naturally strain every nerve to catch him, I can entertain very little hope, Mr Clennam, that the thing will be broken off. I apprehend the girl’s fortune will be very small; Henry might have done much better; there is scarcely anything to compensate for the connection: still, he acts for himself; and if I find no improvement within a short time, I see no other course than to resign myself and make the best of these people. I am infinitely obliged to you for what you have told me.’

As she shrugged her shoulders, Clennam stiffly bowed again. With an uneasy flush upon his face, and hesitation in his manner, he then said in a still lower tone than he had adopted yet:

‘Mrs Gowan, I scarcely know how to acquit myself of what I feel to be a duty, and yet I must ask you for your kind consideration in attempting to discharge it. A misconception on your part, a very great misconception if I may venture to call it so, seems to require setting right. You have supposed Mr Meagles and his family to strain every nerve, I think you said—’

‘Every nerve,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, looking at him in calm obstinacy, with her green fan between her face and the fire.

‘To secure Mr Henry Gowan?’

The lady placidly assented.

‘Now that is so far,’ said Arthur, ‘from being the case, that I know Mr Meagles to be unhappy in this matter; and to have interposed all reasonable obstacles with the hope of putting an end to it.’

Mrs Gowan shut up her great green fan, tapped him on the arm with it, and tapped her smiling lips. ‘Why, of course,’ said she. ‘Just what I mean.’

Arthur watched her face for some explanation of what she did mean.

‘Are you really serious, Mr Clennam? Don’t you see?’

Arthur did not see; and said so.

‘Why, don’t I know my son, and don’t I know that this is exactly the way to hold him?’ said Mrs Gowan, contemptuously; ‘and do not these Miggles people know it, at least as well as I? Oh, shrewd people, Mr Clennam: evidently people of business! I believe Miggles belonged to a Bank. It ought to have been a very profitable Bank, if he had much to do with its management. This is very well done, indeed.’

‘I beg and entreat you, ma’am—’ Arthur interposed.

‘Oh, Mr Clennam, can you really be so credulous?’

It made such a painful impression upon him to hear her talking in this haughty tone, and to see her patting her contemptuous lips with her fan, that he said very earnestly, ‘Believe me, ma’am, this is unjust, a perfectly groundless suspicion.’

‘Suspicion?’ repeated Mrs Gowan. ‘Not suspicion, Mr Clennam, Certainty. It is very knowingly done indeed, and seems to have taken you in completely.’ She laughed; and again sat tapping her lips with her fan, and tossing her head, as if she added, ‘Don’t tell me. I know such people will do anything for the honour of such an alliance.’

At this opportune moment, the cards were thrown up, and Mr Henry Gowan came across the room saying, ‘Mother, if you can spare Mr Clennam for this time, we have a long way to go, and it’s getting late.’ Mr Clennam thereupon rose, as he had no choice but to do; and Mrs Gowan showed him, to the last, the same look and the same tapped contemptuous lips.

‘You have had a portentously long audience of my mother,’ said Gowan, as the door closed upon them. ‘I fervently hope she has not bored you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Clennam.

They had a little open phaeton for the journey, and were soon in it on the road home. Gowan, driving, lighted a cigar; Clennam declined one. Do what he would, he fell into such a mood of abstraction that Gowan said again, ‘I am very much afraid my mother has bored you?’ To which he roused himself to answer, ‘Not at all!’ and soon relapsed again.

In that state of mind which rendered nobody uneasy, his thoughtfulness would have turned principally on the man at his side. He would have thought of the morning when he first saw him rooting out the stones with his heel, and would have asked himself, ‘Does he jerk me out of the path in the same careless, cruel way?’ He would have thought, had this introduction to his mother been brought about by him because he knew what she would say, and that he could thus place his position before a rival and loftily warn him off, without himself reposing a word of confidence in him? He would have thought, even if there were no such design as that, had he brought him there to play with his repressed emotions, and torment him? The current of these meditations would have been stayed sometimes by a rush of shame, bearing a remonstrance to himself from his own open nature, representing that to shelter such suspicions, even for the passing moment, was not to hold the high, unenvious course he had resolved to keep. At those times, the striving within him would have been hardest; and looking up and catching Gowan’s eyes, he would have started as if he had done him an injury.

Then, looking at the dark road and its uncertain objects, he would have gradually trailed off again into thinking, ‘Where are we driving, he and I, I wonder, on the darker road of life? How will it be with us, and with her, in the obscure distance?’ Thinking of her, he would have been troubled anew with a reproachful misgiving that it was not even loyal to her to dislike him, and that in being so easily prejudiced against him he was less deserving of her than at first.

‘You are evidently out of spirits,’ said Gowan; ‘I am very much afraid my mother must have bored you dreadfully.’

‘Believe me, not at all,’ said Clennam. ‘It’s nothing—nothing!’

Mentre la signora Gowan interrompeva il suo discorso per sospirare, Clennam, per quanto risoluto a essere magnanimo, non riusciva a scacciare l’idea che ci fosse ben poco rischio che quella famiglia superasse mai il livello di un “amatoriale”, anche così com’era.

“Henry,” riprese la madre, “è testardo e risoluto; e poiché queste persone fanno di tutto per conquistarlo, non ho molte speranze, signor Clennam, che questa relazione possa interrompersi. Temo che il destino della ragazza sia molto triste; Henry avrebbe potuto ottenere molto di meglio. Non c’è quasi nulla che possa compensare questo legame. Comunque, lui agisce secondo i suoi desideri; e se entro poco non noto alcun miglioramento, non vedo altra soluzione se non rassegnarmi e cercare di fare del mio meglio con queste persone. Sono infinitamente grata per ciò che mi avete detto.”

Mentre lei alzava le spalle, Clennam si inchinò di nuovo rigidamente. Con un rossore imbarazzato sul viso e esitazione nel suo comportamento, disse poi con una voce ancora più bassa di prima:

‘Signora Gowan, non so proprio come possa adempiere a ciò che ritengo sia un dovere, eppure devo chiedervi la vostra gentile collaborazione nel tentativo di farlo. Credo che esista un malinteso da parte vostra, un errore molto grave, se posso permettermi di dirlo. Avete pensato che il signor Meagles e la sua famiglia stessero facendo del loro meglio, giusto?’

“Ogni nervo, ”, ripeté la signora Gowan, guardandolo con calma ostinazione, con il suo ventaglio verde tra il viso e il fuoco.

“Per garantire la sicurezza del signor Henry Gowan?”

La signora acconsentì con calma.

“Ora la situazione è completamente diversa da prima,” disse Arthur, “poiché so con certezza che il signor Meagles non è affatto contento di questa faccenda; anzi, ha posto ogni ostacolo possibile nella speranza di porre fine a tutto questo.”

La signora Gowan chiuse il suo grande ventaglio verde, lo batté sul braccio di lui e poi si toccò le labbra sorridenti. “Oh, certo,” disse. “Esattamente quello che intendevo.”

Arthur osservò il suo viso in attesa di una spiegazione di ciò che intendeva dire.

“È davvero serio, signor Clennam? Non se ne rende conto?”

Arthur non se ne accorse; e lo disse apertamente.

“Ma certo che conosco mio figlio, e so benissimo come si deve tenerlo in braccio”, disse la signora Gowan con disprezzo; “e non lo sanno anche quelle persone dei Miggles, almeno altrettanto bene quanto me? Oh, gente astuta. Il signor Clennam: chiaramente persone d’affari! Credo che i Miggles facessero parte di una banca. Sarebbe dovuta essere una banca molto redditizia, se lui avesse avuto molta responsabilità nella sua gestione. Davvero, è stato fatto molto bene.”

“Vi supplico, signora, ” intervenne Arthur.

“Oh, signor Clennam, può davvero essere così ingenuo?”

Gli fece un’impressione così dolorosa sentirla parlare con quel tono arrogante e vederla accarezzarsi le labbra con il ventaglio, con aria di disprezzo, che disse molto seriamente: “Credetemi, signora, questo è ingiusto. Una sospetta del tutto infondata.”

“Sospetto?” ripeté la signora Gowan. “No, signor Clennam. Certezza. È stato fatto con estrema intenzionalità, e sembra che vi abbiano completamente ingannato.” Rise di nuovo, poi continuò a tamburellare le labbra con il ventaglio e a scuotere la testa, come se volesse aggiungere: “Non ditemi nulla. So bene che persone del genere sono disposte a fare qualsiasi cosa per l’onore di un simile legame.”

In questo momento opportuno, le carte furono gettate in aria e il signor Henry Gowan entrò nella stanza dicendo: “Madre, se potete concedere al signor Clennam un po’ di tempo questa volta, abbiamo ancora molta strada da fare e sta facendosi tardi.” Il signor Clennam si alzò allora, poiché non aveva altra scelta; la signora Gowan gli rivolse lo stesso sguardo sprezzante e mosse le stesse labbra con lo stesso tono di disprezzo.

“Avete avuto un’udienza con mia madre particolarmente lunga, ”, disse Gowan mentre la porta si chiudeva alle loro spalle. “Spero davvero che non vi sia stata noiosa, ”

“Assolutamente no,” disse Clennam.

Avevano una piccola carrozza scoperta per il viaggio, e presto si misero in cammino sulla strada verso la casa. Gowan, che guidava, accese un sigaro; Clennam rifiutò. Nonostante facesse del suo meglio, cadde in uno stato di distacco tale che Gowan gli chiese di nuovo: “Temo molto che mia madre ti abbia annoiato, ”. Lui si riprese e rispose: “Assolutamente no!”, per poi ricadere nuovamente nello stesso stato d’animo poco dopo.

Nello stato d’animo in cui nessuno provava disagio, i suoi pensieri si sarebbero concentrati soprattutto sull’uomo al suo fianco. Avrebbe ricordato la mattina in cui lo aveva visto per la prima volta rimuovere le pietre con il tacco e si sarebbe chiesto: “Mi sposta dalla sua strada nello stesso modo negligente e crudele?” Si sarebbe domandato anche se quell’incontro con sua madre fosse stato organizzato da lui, perché sapeva cosa lei avrebbe detto, e così avrebbe potuto mettere in evidenza la propria posizione di fronte a un rivale, avvertendolo con arroganza senza mai fidarsi completamente di lui. Avrebbe pensato ancora: anche se non esisteva alcun piano del genere, forse lo aveva portato lì per farlo sfogare le sue emozioni represse e tormentarlo. A volte, questi pensieri venivano interrotti da un’ondata di vergogna, che gli ricordava la sua stessa natura onesta e aperta, sottolineando quanto fosse errato nutrire simili sospetti, anche solo per un momento. In quei momenti, il conflitto interiore diventava particolarmente intenso; alzando lo sguardo e incrociando gli occhi di Gowan, si sarebbe sentito come se gli avesse fatto del male.

Poi, guardando la buia strada e gli oggetti incerti che vi si trovavano, avrebbe gradualmente ripreso a pensare: “Dove stiamo andando, lui ed io? Mi chiedo, su questa strada ancora più oscura della vita. Come andrà per noi, e per lei, in quella lontananza indefinita?” Pensandola, si sarebbe nuovamente sentito tormentato da un senso di colpa: non era forse nemmeno leale nei suoi confronti odiarlo così facilmente. E il fatto che fosse così pronto a pregiudicarlo significava forse che meritasse meno di lei di quanto avesse pensato all’inizio.

“Ovviamente sei di cattivo umore,” disse Gowan; “temo molto che mia madre ti abbia annoiato terribilmente.”

“Credetemi, per niente,” disse Clennam. “Non è nulla, assolutamente nulla!”

CHAPTER 27. Five-and-Twenty

A frequently recurring doubt, whether Mr Pancks’s desire to collect information relative to the Dorrit family could have any possible bearing on the misgivings he had imparted to his mother on his return from his long exile, caused Arthur Clennam much uneasiness at this period. What Mr Pancks already knew about the Dorrit family, what more he really wanted to find out, and why he should trouble his busy head about them at all, were questions that often perplexed him. Mr Pancks was not a man to waste his time and trouble in researches prompted by idle curiosity. That he had a specific object Clennam could not doubt. And whether the attainment of that object by Mr Pancks’s industry might bring to light, in some untimely way, secret reasons which had induced his mother to take Little Dorrit by the hand, was a serious speculation.

Not that he ever wavered either in his desire or his determination to repair a wrong that had been done in his father’s time, should a wrong come to light, and be reparable. The shadow of a supposed act of injustice, which had hung over him since his father’s death, was so vague and formless that it might be the result of a reality widely remote from his idea of it. But, if his apprehensions should prove to be well founded, he was ready at any moment to lay down all he had, and begin the world anew. As the fierce dark teaching of his childhood had never sunk into his heart, so that first article in his code of morals was, that he must begin, in practical humility, with looking well to his feet on Earth, and that he could never mount on wings of words to Heaven. Duty on earth, restitution on earth, action on earth; these first, as the first steep steps upward. Strait was the gate and narrow was the way; far straiter and narrower than the broad high road paved with vain professions and vain repetitions, motes from other men’s eyes and liberal delivery of others to the judgment—all cheap materials costing absolutely nothing.

No. It was not a selfish fear or hesitation that rendered him uneasy, but a mistrust lest Pancks might not observe his part of the understanding between them, and, making any discovery, might take some course upon it without imparting it to him. On the other hand, when he recalled his conversation with Pancks, and the little reason he had to suppose that there was any likelihood of that strange personage being on that track at all, there were times when he wondered that he made so much of it. Labouring in this sea, as all barks labour in cross seas, he tossed about and came to no haven.

The removal of Little Dorrit herself from their customary association, did not mend the matter. She was so much out, and so much in her own room, that he began to miss her and to find a blank in her place. He had written to her to inquire if she were better, and she had written back, very gratefully and earnestly telling him not to be uneasy on her behalf, for she was quite well; but he had not seen her, for what, in their intercourse, was a long time.

He returned home one evening from an interview with her father, who had mentioned that she was out visiting—which was what he always said when she was hard at work to buy his supper—and found Mr Meagles in an excited state walking up and down his room. On his opening the door, Mr Meagles stopped, faced round, and said:

‘Clennam!—Tattycoram!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Lost!’

‘Why, bless my heart alive!’ cried Clennam in amazement. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Wouldn’t count five-and-twenty, sir; couldn’t be got to do it; stopped at eight, and took herself off.’

‘Left your house?’

‘Never to come back,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head. ‘You don’t know that girl’s passionate and proud character. A team of horses couldn’t draw her back now; the bolts and bars of the old Bastille couldn’t keep her.’

‘How did it happen? Pray sit down and tell me.’

‘As to how it happened, it’s not so easy to relate: because you must have the unfortunate temperament of the poor impetuous girl herself, before you can fully understand it. But it came about in this way. Pet and Mother and I have been having a good deal of talk together of late. I’ll not disguise from you, Clennam, that those conversations have not been of as bright a kind as I could wish; they have referred to our going away again. In proposing to do which, I have had, in fact, an object.’

Nobody’s heart beat quickly.

‘An object,’ said Mr Meagles, after a moment’s pause, ‘that I will not disguise from you, either, Clennam. There’s an inclination on the part of my dear child which I am sorry for. Perhaps you guess the person. Henry Gowan.’

‘I was not unprepared to hear it.’

‘Well!’ said Mr Meagles, with a heavy sigh, ‘I wish to God you had never had to hear it. However, so it is. Mother and I have done all we could to get the better of it, Clennam. We have tried tender advice, we have tried time, we have tried absence. As yet, of no use. Our late conversations have been upon the subject of going away for another year at least, in order that there might be an entire separation and breaking off for that term. Upon that question, Pet has been unhappy, and therefore Mother and I have been unhappy.’

Clennam said that he could easily believe it.

‘Well!’ continued Mr Meagles in an apologetic way, ‘I admit as a practical man, and I am sure Mother would admit as a practical woman, that we do, in families, magnify our troubles and make mountains of our molehills in a way that is calculated to be rather trying to people who look on—to mere outsiders, you know, Clennam. Still, Pet’s happiness or unhappiness is quite a life or death question with us; and we may be excused, I hope, for making much of it. At all events, it might have been borne by Tattycoram. Now, don’t you think so?’

CAPITOLO 27. VENTI CINQUE

Un dubbio che si ripresentava spesso: se il desiderio di Mr Pancks di raccogliere informazioni sulla famiglia Dorrit potesse in qualche modo essere collegato alle preoccupazioni che aveva espresso a sua madre al suo ritorno dal lungo esilio, causava a Arthur Clennam grande ansia in quel periodo. Quello che Mr Pancks sapeva già sulla famiglia Dorrit, cosa volesse davvero scoprire e perché si dovesse preoccupare di loro nonostante la sua impegnata agenda, erano domande che spesso lo lasciavano perplesso. Mr Pancks non era il tipo da sprecare tempo e fatica in ricerche motivate da una curiosità futile; Clennam non poteva dubitare che avesse un obiettivo preciso. E se la realizzazione di quell’obiettivo, grazie all’impegno di Mr Pancks, potesse portare alla luce, in modo improvviso e indesiderato, motivi nascosti che avevano spinto sua madre a prendere per mano Little Dorrit, questa era una possibilità davvero preoccupante.

Non che mai avesse vacillato nella sua desiderio né nella sua determinazione a rimediare a un torto commesso durante l’epoca di suo padre, nel caso tale torto venisse alla luce e potesse essere riparato. L’ombra di un presunto atto di ingiustizia che lo aveva perseguitato sin dalla morte di suo padre era così vaga e informe da poter essere il risultato di una realtà molto lontana dall’immagine che ne aveva lui stesso. Tuttavia, se le sue apprensioni si fossero rivelate fondate, era pronto in qualsiasi momento a sacrificare tutto ciò che possedeva e a ricominciare da zero. Poiché gli insegnamenti duri e severi della sua infanzia non avevano mai preso radici nel suo cuore, il primo principio del suo codice morale era che doveva iniziare con la più sincera umiltà, assicurandosi prima di tutto di avere una solida base sulla Terra, e che non poteva mai affidarsi alle parole per raggiungere il Cielo. Il dovere sulla Terra, la riparazione dei torti commessi sulla Terra, l’azione concreta sulla Terra: queste erano le prime tappe verso la salvezza. La strada era stretta e difficile da percorrere; molto più stretta e ardua della vasta e apparentemente facile strada pavimentata di vane promesse, ripetizioni vuote, opinioni altrui e giudizi superficiali, tutti materiali di scarsa valore che non costavano assolutamente nulla.

No. Non era una paura egoistica né un esitazione a renderlo insicuro, ma una diffidenza: temeva che Pancks potesse non rispettare l’accordo tra loro e, scoprendo qualcosa, agire di conseguenza senza informarlo. D’altra parte, quando ricordava la sua conversazione con Pancks e i pochi motivi per cui poteva pensare che quel personaggio strano potesse essere coinvolto in quella faccenda, a volte si chiedeva se stesse davvero dando troppo peso alla cosa. Lottando in queste acque tempestose, come tutte le imbarcazioni che navigano in mari agitati, si dibatteva senza riuscire a trovare una via d’uscita.

La separazione di Little Dorrit dal loro solito rapporto non risolse nulla. Lei era così lontana, e passava così tanto tempo nella sua stanza, che lui iniziò a sentire la sua mancanza e a percepire un vuoto al suo posto. Le aveva scritto per chiederle come stesse, e lei gli aveva risposto con grande gratitudine, assicurandolo di non preoccuparsi per lei, perché si sentiva davvero bene; ma non l’aveva più vista, poiché nel loro rapporto era trascorso molto tempo.

Tornò a casa una sera, dopo un colloquio con suo padre, il quale aveva detto che lei era fuori a fare visite. Il solito pretesto che usava quando lei lavorava sodo per comprargli la cena. E trovò il signor Meagles in uno stato di agitazione, che andava avanti e indietro nella sua stanza. Non appena aprì la porta, il signor Meagles si fermò, si girò verso di lui e disse:

“Clennam. Tattycoram!”

“Che c’è che non va?”

“Perduto!”

“Ma per l’amor del cielo!”, esclamò Clennam, stupito. “Cosa intendi?”

“Non arriverei nemmeno a cinquantadue, signore; non sarei in grado di farlo; mi sono fermata a otto e me ne sono andata.”

“Hai lasciato la tua casa?”

“Non tornerà mai più,” disse il signor Meagles scuotendo la testa. “Non conoscete il carattere appassionato e orgoglioso di quella ragazza. Nemmeno un intero team di cavalli riuscirebbe a farla tornare indietro; nemmeno le sbarre della vecchia Bastiglia potrebbero trattenerla.”

“Come è successo? Per favore, siediti e raccontamelo.”

“Per quanto riguarda il modo in cui è successo, non è facile spiegarlo: perché bisogna avere lo stesso sfortunato temperamento di quella povera ragazza impulsiva per poterlo comprendere appieno. Ma è andata proprio così. Ultimamente Pet, mia madre e io abbiamo avuto molte conversazioni insieme. Non vi nasconderò, Clennam, che non sono state di natura molto piacevole; riguardavano il nostro possibile ritorno via. In realtà, avevo un motivo preciso per proporlo.”

Nessuno aveva il cuore che batteva velocemente.

“Un oggetto,” disse il signor Meagles dopo un momento di pausa, “che non intendo nasconderti, nemmeno a te, Clennam. C’è una certa tendenza da parte della mia cara figlia che mi dispiace. Forse tu già indovini di chi si tratta: Henry Gowan.”

“Non ero affatto impreparato ad ascoltarlo.”

“Beh, ”, disse il signor Meagles con un profondo sospiro, “vorrei davvero che non aveste mai dovuto sentirlo. Ma ormai è fatta. Io e mia madre abbiamo fatto di tutto per risolvere la situazione, Clennam: abbiamo provato con parole gentili, abbiamo cercato di aspettare, e anche di allontanarci per un po’. Finora, niente. Le nostre ultime conversazioni riguardavano proprio l’idea di andarcene via per almeno un altro anno, in modo che ci fosse una vera separazione durante quel periodo. Su questo argomento, Pet non è stata d’accordo, e quindi nemmeno io e mia madre siamo stati felici.”

Clennam disse che poteva crederci facilmente.

“Beh!”, continuò il signor Meagles in tono scusante, “ammetto che, da persona pratica – e sono sicuro che anche mia madre lo ammetterebbe allo stesso modo – noi, nelle famiglie, tendiamo ad esagerare i nostri problemi, a trasformare le piccole difficoltà in questioni molto più grandi di quanto siano in realtà. Il che, ovviamente, può risultare particolarmente fastidioso per chi osserva da fuori, come te, Clennam. Tuttavia, la felicità o l’infelicità di Pet rappresentano davvero una questione vitale, quasi una questione di vita o di morte per noi; quindi forse possiamo essere scusati se ci prendiamo così a cuore questa situazione. Comunque, probabilmente anche Tattycoram avrebbe potuto gestirla allo stesso modo, non credi?”

‘I do indeed think so,’ returned Clennam, in most emphatic recognition of this very moderate expectation.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head ruefully. ‘She couldn’t stand it. The chafing and firing of that girl, the wearing and tearing of that girl within her own breast, has been such that I have softly said to her again and again in passing her, “Five-and-twenty, Tattycoram, five-and-twenty!” I heartily wish she could have gone on counting five-and-twenty day and night, and then it wouldn’t have happened.’

Mr Meagles with a despondent countenance in which the goodness of his heart was even more expressed than in his times of cheerfulness and gaiety, stroked his face down from his forehead to his chin, and shook his head again.

‘I said to Mother (not that it was necessary, for she would have thought it all for herself), we are practical people, my dear, and we know her story; we see in this unhappy girl some reflection of what was raging in her mother’s heart before ever such a creature as this poor thing was in the world; we’ll gloss her temper over, Mother, we won’t notice it at present, my dear, we’ll take advantage of some better disposition in her another time. So we said nothing. But, do what we would, it seems as if it was to be; she broke out violently one night.’

‘How, and why?’

‘If you ask me Why,’ said Mr Meagles, a little disturbed by the question, for he was far more intent on softening her case than the family’s, ‘I can only refer you to what I have just repeated as having been pretty near my words to Mother. As to How, we had said Good night to Pet in her presence (very affectionately, I must allow), and she had attended Pet up-stairs—you remember she was her maid. Perhaps Pet, having been out of sorts, may have been a little more inconsiderate than usual in requiring services of her: but I don’t know that I have any right to say so; she was always thoughtful and gentle.’

‘The gentlest mistress in the world.’

‘Thank you, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand; ‘you have often seen them together. Well! We presently heard this unfortunate Tattycoram loud and angry, and before we could ask what was the matter, Pet came back in a tremble, saying she was frightened of her. Close after her came Tattycoram in a flaming rage. “I hate you all three,” says she, stamping her foot at us. “I am bursting with hate of the whole house.”’

‘Upon which you—?’

‘I?’ said Mr Meagles, with a plain good faith that might have commanded the belief of Mrs Gowan herself. ‘I said, count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

Mr Meagles again stroked his face and shook his head, with an air of profound regret.

‘She was so used to do it, Clennam, that even then, such a picture of passion as you never saw, she stopped short, looked me full in the face, and counted (as I made out) to eight. But she couldn’t control herself to go any further. There she broke down, poor thing, and gave the other seventeen to the four winds. Then it all burst out. She detested us, she was miserable with us, she couldn’t bear it, she wouldn’t bear it, she was determined to go away. She was younger than her young mistress, and would she remain to see her always held up as the only creature who was young and interesting, and to be cherished and loved? No. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t! What did we think she, Tattycoram, might have been if she had been caressed and cared for in her childhood, like her young mistress? As good as her? Ah! Perhaps fifty times as good. When we pretended to be so fond of one another, we exulted over her; that was what we did; we exulted over her and shamed her. And all in the house did the same. They talked about their fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters; they liked to drag them up before her face. There was Mrs Tickit, only yesterday, when her little grandchild was with her, had been amused by the child’s trying to call her (Tattycoram) by the wretched name we gave her; and had laughed at the name. Why, who didn’t; and who were we that we should have a right to name her like a dog or a cat? But she didn’t care. She would take no more benefits from us; she would fling us her name back again, and she would go. She would leave us that minute, nobody should stop her, and we should never hear of her again.’

Mr Meagles had recited all this with such a vivid remembrance of his original, that he was almost as flushed and hot by this time as he described her to have been.

‘Ah, well!’ he said, wiping his face. ‘It was of no use trying reason then, with that vehement panting creature (Heaven knows what her mother’s story must have been); so I quietly told her that she should not go at that late hour of night, and I gave her my hand and took her to her room, and locked the house doors. But she was gone this morning.’

‘And you know no more of her?’

‘No more,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘I have been hunting about all day. She must have gone very early and very silently. I have found no trace of her down about us.’

‘Stay! You want,’ said Clennam, after a moment’s reflection, ‘to see her? I assume that?’

‘Yes, assuredly; I want to give her another chance; Mother and Pet want to give her another chance; come! You yourself,’ said Mr Meagles, persuasively, as if the provocation to be angry were not his own at all, ‘want to give the poor passionate girl another chance, I know, Clennam.’

‘It would be strange and hard indeed if I did not,’ said Clennam, ‘when you are all so forgiving. What I was going to ask you was, have you thought of that Miss Wade?’

‘I have. I did not think of her until I had pervaded the whole of our neighbourhood, and I don’t know that I should have done so then but for finding Mother and Pet, when I went home, full of the idea that Tattycoram must have gone to her. Then, of course, I recalled what she said that day at dinner when you were first with us.’

“Credo davvero di sì,” rispose Clennam, confermando con grande enfasi proprio questa aspettativa moderata.

“No, signore,” disse il signor Meagles scuotendo la testa con rammarico. “Non ce l’ha fatta a resistere. Quel continuo tormento interiore, quella lotta continua che quella ragazza doveva sostenere dentro di sé. Le ho detto più e più volte, mentre le passavo accanto: ‘Venticinque giorni, Tattycoram, venticinque giorni!’ Vorrei davvero che avesse potuto continuare a contare quei venticinque giorni e quelle venticinque notti. Allora, forse, non sarebbe successo nulla.”

Il signor Meagles, con un’espressione scoraggiata che faceva risaltare ancora di più la bontà del suo cuore rispetto ai momenti in cui era allegro e felice, si accarezzò il viso dalla fronte al mento e scosse di nuovo la testa.

“Ho detto a mia madre (anche se non era necessario, perché avrebbe pensato che fosse tutta colpa sua), siamo persone pratiche, cara. Conosciamo la sua storia; vediamo in questa ragazza sfortunata un riflesso di ciò che infuriava nel cuore di sua madre molto tempo prima che esistesse una creatura del genere. Copriremo questo suo cattivo carattere, mia madre. Per ora non ne faremo caso. Ne approfitteremo quando avrà un umore migliore. Quindi non abbiamo detto nulla. Ma, per quanto facciamo, sembra che fosse inevitabile. Una notte è scoppiata in una crisi violenta.”

“Come e perché?”

“Se mi chiedete il perché,” disse il signor Meagles, un po’ turbato dalla domanda, poiché era molto più interessato a giustificare la sua posizione che quella della famiglia, “posso solo farvi riferimento a ciò che ho appena ripetuto, poiché è stato quasi esattamente ciò che ho detto alla madre. Per quanto riguarda il ‘come’, abbiamo detto buonanotte a Pet in sua presenza (molto affettuosamente, devo ammetterlo), e lei l’ha accompagnata di sopra. Vi ricordate che era la sua cameriera personale. Forse Pet, essendo un po’ malata, ha potuto essere meno considerata del solito nel chiedere aiuto. Ma non credo di avere il diritto di affermarlo; lei era sempre premurosa e gentile.”

“La padrona più gentile del mondo.”

“Grazie, Clennam,” disse il signor Meagles stringendogli la mano; “le avete viste spesso insieme. Bene! Poco dopo abbiamo sentito Tattycoram parlare ad alta voce e arrabbiata; prima che potessimo chiedere cosa stesse succedendo, Pet è tornata tremando, dicendo di essere spaventata da lei. Subito dopo è arrivata Tattycoram, furiosa come una tigre, ‘Vi odio tutti e tre,’ ha detto, pestando i piedi contro di noi, ‘Sono piena d’odio per tutta questa casa.’”

“Su quale argomento si basa questa domanda?”

“‘Io?’” disse il signor Meagles, con una semplice e sincera fede tale da poter convincere persino la stessa signora Gowan. “Ho detto: ‘Conta fino a venticinque, Tattycoram’.”

Il signor Meagles accarezzò di nuovo il suo viso e scosse la testa, con un’espressione di profondo rimpianto.

‘Era così abituata a farlo, Clennam, che anche in quel momento, di fronte a una scena di passione come non ne avevi mai viste prima, si fermò, mi guardò dritto negli occhi e contò fino a otto. Ma non riuscì a trattenersi oltre. Si lasciò andare, poverina, e gettò via le altre diciassette opportunità che aveva avuto. Allora tutto scoppiò: ci odiava, soffriva terribilmente con noi, non ne poteva più. Era decisa ad andarsene. Era più giovane della sua padroncina. Avrebbe mai potuto sopportare di vederla sempre considerata l’unica persona giovane e interessante in quella casa, amata e coccolata? No. Non avrebbe mai potuto. Cosa pensavamo che sarebbe diventata, Tattycoram, se da piccola fosse stata trattata con affetto e cura, come sua padroncina? Forse sarebbe stata altrettanto brava. Anzi, forse cinquanta volte migliore. Quando fingevamo di volerci bene a vicenda, ci compiacevamo di lei. Ma in realtà la umiliavamo e la mettevamo in imbarazzo. E tutti in quella casa facevano lo stesso: parlavano dei loro genitori, fratelli e sorelle. Le piaceva ricordarli davanti a lei. Solo ieri, per esempio, la signora Tickit si era divertita quando il suo nipotino aveva cercato di chiamare Tattycoram con quel nome orribile che le avevamo dato. E aveva riso di quella battuta. Ma chi non lo faceva? E chi eravamo noi per avere il diritto di chiamarla in quel modo, come un cane o un gatto? A lei non importava. Non voleva più accettare nessun favore da noi. Ci avrebbe restituito il suo nome e se ne sarebbe andata. Se ne sarebbe andata subito. Nessuno avrebbe potuto fermarla. E noi non l’avremmo mai più sentita parlare.’

Il signor Meagles aveva raccontato tutto questo con una tale vivida ricordazione di quanto realmente accaduto, che a quel momento era quasi altrettanto arrossito e sudato quanto aveva descritto lei come fosse stata in quei momenti.

“Ah, bene!” disse, asciugandosi il viso. “Non aveva senso provare a ragionare con quella creatura che respirava così affannosamente. Chissà quale storia avesse raccontato sua madre; quindi le ho semplicemente detto di non uscire a quell’ora tarda della notte, l’ho accompagnata in camera sua e ho chiuso a chiave le porte di tutta la casa. Ma stamattina se n’è andata lo stesso.”

“E non sai più nulla di lei?”

“Non c’è più,” rispose il signor Meagles. “Ho cercato per tutto il giorno. Deve essere partita molto presto e in silenzio totale. Non ho trovato traccia di lei nelle vicinanze.”

“Resta! Vuoi,” disse Clennam, dopo un momento di riflessione, “vederla? Lo suppongo, ”

“Sì, certamente; voglio darle un’altra opportunità; anche mia madre e Pet vogliono darle un’altra possibilità. Vieni! Anche tu stesso,” disse il signor Meagles in tono persuasivo, come se la provocazione a arrabbiarsi non fosse affatto sua, “vogli dare un’altra opportunità a quella povera ragazza appassionata, lo so, Clennam.”

“Sarebbe davvero strano e difficile se non lo facessi,” disse Clennam, “visto che siete tutti così indulgenti con me. Quello che volevo chiedervi era: avete pensato a quella signorina Wade?”

‘Sì, l’ho fatto. Non ci avevo pensato fino a quando non ho ispezionato l’intero nostro quartiere. E non so nemmeno se avrei dovuto farlo in quel momento, se non fosse stato per aver trovato mia madre e Pet quando sono tornato a casa, convinto che Tattycoram fosse andata da lei. Allora, naturalmente, mi sono ricordato di quello che aveva detto quel giorno a cena, quando eri appena arrivato da noi.’

‘Have you any idea where Miss Wade is to be found?’

‘To tell you the truth,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘it’s because I have an addled jumble of a notion on that subject that you found me waiting here. There is one of those odd impressions in my house, which do mysteriously get into houses sometimes, which nobody seems to have picked up in a distinct form from anybody, and yet which everybody seems to have got hold of loosely from somebody and let go again, that she lives, or was living, thereabouts.’ Mr Meagles handed him a slip of paper, on which was written the name of one of the dull by-streets in the Grosvenor region, near Park Lane.

‘Here is no number,’ said Arthur looking over it.

‘No number, my dear Clennam?’ returned his friend. ‘No anything! The very name of the street may have been floating in the air; for, as I tell you, none of my people can say where they got it from. However, it’s worth an inquiry; and as I would rather make it in company than alone, and as you too were a fellow-traveller of that immovable woman’s, I thought perhaps—’ Clennam finished the sentence for him by taking up his hat again, and saying he was ready.

It was now summer-time; a grey, hot, dusty evening. They rode to the top of Oxford Street, and there alighting, dived in among the great streets of melancholy stateliness, and the little streets that try to be as stately and succeed in being more melancholy, of which there is a labyrinth near Park Lane. Wildernesses of corner houses, with barbarous old porticoes and appurtenances; horrors that came into existence under some wrong-headed person in some wrong-headed time, still demanding the blind admiration of all ensuing generations and determined to do so until they tumbled down; frowned upon the twilight. Parasite little tenements, with the cramp in their whole frame, from the dwarf hall-door on the giant model of His Grace’s in the Square to the squeezed window of the boudoir commanding the dunghills in the Mews, made the evening doleful. Rickety dwellings of undoubted fashion, but of a capacity to hold nothing comfortably except a dismal smell, looked like the last result of the great mansions’ breeding in-and-in; and, where their little supplementary bows and balconies were supported on thin iron columns, seemed to be scrofulously resting upon crutches. Here and there a Hatchment, with the whole science of Heraldry in it, loomed down upon the street, like an Archbishop discoursing on Vanity. The shops, few in number, made no show; for popular opinion was as nothing to them. The pastrycook knew who was on his books, and in that knowledge could be calm, with a few glass cylinders of dowager peppermint-drops in his window, and half-a-dozen ancient specimens of currant-jelly. A few oranges formed the greengrocer’s whole concession to the vulgar mind. A single basket made of moss, once containing plovers’ eggs, held all that the poulterer had to say to the rabble. Everybody in those streets seemed (which is always the case at that hour and season) to be gone out to dinner, and nobody seemed to be giving the dinners they had gone to. On the doorsteps there were lounging footmen with bright parti-coloured plumage and white polls, like an extinct race of monstrous birds; and butlers, solitary men of recluse demeanour, each of whom appeared distrustful of all other butlers. The roll of carriages in the Park was done for the day; the street lamps were lighting; and wicked little grooms in the tightest fitting garments, with twists in their legs answering to the twists in their minds, hung about in pairs, chewing straws and exchanging fraudulent secrets. The spotted dogs who went out with the carriages, and who were so associated with splendid equipages that it looked like a condescension in those animals to come out without them, accompanied helpers to and fro on messages. Here and there was a retiring public-house which did not require to be supported on the shoulders of the people, and where gentlemen out of livery were not much wanted.

This last discovery was made by the two friends in pursuing their inquiries. Nothing was there, or anywhere, known of such a person as Miss Wade, in connection with the street they sought. It was one of the parasite streets; long, regular, narrow, dull and gloomy; like a brick and mortar funeral. They inquired at several little area gates, where a dejected youth stood spiking his chin on the summit of a precipitous little shoot of wooden steps, but could gain no information. They walked up the street on one side of the way, and down it on the other, what time two vociferous news-sellers, announcing an extraordinary event that had never happened and never would happen, pitched their hoarse voices into the secret chambers; but nothing came of it. At length they stood at the corner from which they had begun, and it had fallen quite dark, and they were no wiser.

It happened that in the street they had several times passed a dingy house, apparently empty, with bills in the windows, announcing that it was to let. The bills, as a variety in the funeral procession, almost amounted to a decoration. Perhaps because they kept the house separated in his mind, or perhaps because Mr Meagles and himself had twice agreed in passing, ‘It is clear she don’t live there,’ Clennam now proposed that they should go back and try that house before finally going away. Mr Meagles agreed, and back they went.

They knocked once, and they rang once, without any response. ‘Empty,’ said Mr Meagles, listening. ‘Once more,’ said Clennam, and knocked again. After that knock they heard a movement below, and somebody shuffling up towards the door.

The confined entrance was so dark that it was impossible to make out distinctly what kind of person opened the door; but it appeared to be an old woman. ‘Excuse our troubling you,’ said Clennam. ‘Pray can you tell us where Miss Wade lives?’ The voice in the darkness unexpectedly replied, ‘Lives here.’

“Hai idea di dove si possa trovare la signorina Wade?”

“Per dirvi la verità”, riprese il signor Meagles, “è perché ho questa strana idea su quel argomento che mi avete trovato ad aspettare qui. C’è qualcosa di strano nella mia casa, qualcosa che a volte finisce per entrarci in modo misterioso. Nessuno sembra averlo ricevuto direttamente da qualcuno, eppure tutti sembrano averne preso conoscenza in qualche modo e poi l’hanno dimenticata di nuovo. Cioè, sembra che lei viva, o abbia vissuto, in quella zona.” Il signor Meagles gli porse un foglietto su cui era scritto il nome di una delle strade poco note della zona di Grosvenor, vicino a Park Lane.

“Non c’è alcun numero qui,” disse Arthur esaminandolo attentamente.

“Nessun numero, caro Clennam?” rispose il suo amico. “Niente affatto! Anche il nome stesso di quella strada potrebbe essere apparso all’improvviso nell’aria. Perché, come ti dico, nessuno dei miei uomini sa da dove l’abbiano preso. Comunque, vale la pena indagare; e poiché preferisco farlo in compagnia piuttosto che da solo. E dato che anche tu eri un compagno di viaggio di quella donna testarda, ” Clennam completò la frase per lui, prendendo di nuovo il cappello e dicendo di essere pronto.

Era ormai estate; una serata grigia, calda e polverosa. Si diressero verso la cima di Oxford Street; scesi da cavallo, si immersero tra le grandi strade dall’aspetto maestoso, e quelle più piccole che cercavano invano di essere altrettanto imponenti, risultando invece ancora più meste. Ne esisteva un vero labirinto nei pressi di Park Lane: case anguste con vecchi portici barbarici e accessori disordinati; orrori sorti sotto la guida di persone sciocche in epoche altrettanto confuse, che continuavano a suscitare l’ammirazione cieca delle generazioni successive. Quegli edifici ombreggiavano tristemente la sera. Piccoli appartamenti squallidi, con porte d’ingresso minuscole e finestre strette, rendevano l’atmosfera ancora più deprimente. Abitazioni di moda, ma in grado di ospitare al massimo un odore lugubre. Sembravano il risultato finale dell’“incrocio” tra le grandi dimore. E quei balconcini sostenuti da sottili colonne di ferro sembravano appoggiarsi debolmente su stampelle. Qui e là, targhe genealogiche adornate con simboli araldici incomprendibili pendevano dalle facciate delle case, come se vescovi stessero predicando sulla VANITÀ. Poche erano le botteghe aperte; l’opinione pubblica non contava nulla per loro. Il pasticcere conosceva chi acquistava da lui, e poteva stare tranquillo, con pochi vasetti di gocce al mentolo nel suo vetro e mezza dozzina di vecchi campioni di marmellata di uvetta. Qualche arancia rappresentava l’unica offerta del fruttivendolo al pubblico comune. Un unico cesto di muschio, un tempo contenente uova di piviere, era tutto ciò che il pollaiere aveva da offrire alla folla. Tutti in quelle strade sembravano essere usciti a cena. Ma nessuno sembrava davvero occuparsi della preparazione dei pasti. Sui gradini delle case c’erano servitori con piumaggi colorati e colli bianchi, come una specie estinta di enormi UCCELLI; i camerieri, solitari e riservati, sembravano diffidare di tutti gli altri. Il traffico delle carrozze nel parco era diminuito; le luci stradali si accendevano. Giovani domestici in abiti stretti, con movimenti goffi che riflettevano la loro mentalità confusa, passeggiavano a coppie, masticando stuzzicadenti e scambiandosi segreti falsi. I cani maculati che accompagnavano le carrozze sembravano quasi disprezzare l’assenza di queste ultime. Aiutanti andavano avanti e indietro con messaggi. Qui e là, c’erano locande discrete che non avevano bisogno del sostegno della gente. E gentiluomini senza livrea non erano molto desiderati in quei luoghi.

Quest’ultima scoperta fu fatta dai due amici nel corso delle loro indagini. Non esisteva alcuna traccia, né da nessuna parte, di una persona come la signorina Wade in relazione a quella strada che stavano cercando. Si trattava di una di quelle strade desolate e squallide, lunghe, strette e buie; simili a un luogo di lutto solenne. Chiesero informazioni presso diversi ingressi della zona, dove giovani scoraggiati se ne stavano appoggiati al bordo di ripidi gradini di legno, ma non riuscirono a ottenere alcuna notizia utile. Camminarono su un lato della strada e poi sull’altro; in quel momento, due venditori di notizie urlanti, che annunciavano un evento straordinario mai accaduto e mai accadrà, riversarono le loro voci roche nelle strade deserte. Ma nulla risultò. Alla fine si ritrovarono all’angolo da cui avevano iniziato il loro percorso; era ormai completamente buio, e non erano più avanti di prima.

Accadde che in strada fossero già passati più volte davanti a una casa trasandata, apparentemente vuota, con avvisi appesi alle finestre che annunciavano la sua disponibilità in affitto. Gli avvisi, per qualche motivo, sembravano quasi costituire una sorta di decorazione. Forse perché Clennam continuava a considerare quella casa come un elemento importante nella sua mente, o forse perché lui stesso e il signor Meagles avevano già commentato due volte, “È evidente che lei non vi abita”, decise ora di proporre loro di tornare a dare un’altra occhiata a quella casa prima di andarsene definitivamente. Il signor Meagles acconsentì, e così tornarono indietro.

Bussarono una volta, suonarono il campanello una volta, ma non ricevettero alcuna risposta. “Vuoto,” disse il signor Meagles ascoltando. “Ancora una volta,” disse Clennam e bussò di nuovo. Dopo quel bussato, sentirono dei movimenti al piano di sotto; qualcuno si stava avvicinando alla porta.

L’ingresso angusto era così buio che era impossibile distinguere con chiarezza chi avesse aperto la porta; sembrava però trattarsi di una vecchia donna. “Scusate se vi disturbiamo,” disse Clennam. “Potreste dirci dove vive la signorina Wade?” La voce nell’oscurità rispose inaspettatamente: “Vive qui.”

‘Is she at home?’

No answer coming, Mr Meagles asked again. ‘Pray is she at home?’

After another delay, ‘I suppose she is,’ said the voice abruptly; ‘you had better come in, and I’ll ask.’

They were summarily shut into the close black house; and the figure rustling away, and speaking from a higher level, said, ‘Come up, if you please; you can’t tumble over anything.’ They groped their way up-stairs towards a faint light, which proved to be the light of the street shining through a window; and the figure left them shut in an airless room.

‘This is odd, Clennam,’ said Mr Meagles, softly.

‘Odd enough,’ assented Clennam in the same tone, ‘but we have succeeded; that’s the main point. Here’s a light coming!’

The light was a lamp, and the bearer was an old woman: very dirty, very wrinkled and dry. ‘She’s at home,’ she said (and the voice was the same that had spoken before); ‘she’ll come directly.’ Having set the lamp down on the table, the old woman dusted her hands on her apron, which she might have done for ever without cleaning them, looked at the visitors with a dim pair of eyes, and backed out.

The lady whom they had come to see, if she were the present occupant of the house, appeared to have taken up her quarters there as she might have established herself in an Eastern caravanserai. A small square of carpet in the middle of the room, a few articles of furniture that evidently did not belong to the room, and a disorder of trunks and travelling articles, formed the whole of her surroundings. Under some former regular inhabitant, the stifling little apartment had broken out into a pier-glass and a gilt table; but the gilding was as faded as last year’s flowers, and the glass was so clouded that it seemed to hold in magic preservation all the fogs and bad weather it had ever reflected. The visitors had had a minute or two to look about them, when the door opened and Miss Wade came in.

She was exactly the same as when they had parted, just as handsome, just as scornful, just as repressed. She manifested no surprise in seeing them, nor any other emotion. She requested them to be seated; and declining to take a seat herself, at once anticipated any introduction of their business.

‘I apprehend,’ she said, ‘that I know the cause of your favouring me with this visit. We may come to it at once.’

‘The cause then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘is Tattycoram.’

‘So I supposed.’

‘Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘will you be so kind as to say whether you know anything of her?’

‘Surely. I know she is here with me.’

‘Then, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘allow me to make known to you that I shall be happy to have her back, and that my wife and daughter will be happy to have her back. She has been with us a long time: we don’t forget her claims upon us, and I hope we know how to make allowances.’

‘You hope to know how to make allowances?’ she returned, in a level, measured voice. ‘For what?’

‘I think my friend would say, Miss Wade,’ Arthur Clennam interposed, seeing Mr Meagles rather at a loss, ‘for the passionate sense that sometimes comes upon the poor girl, of being at a disadvantage. Which occasionally gets the better of better remembrances.’

The lady broke into a smile as she turned her eyes upon him. ‘Indeed?’ was all she answered.

She stood by the table so perfectly composed and still after this acknowledgment of his remark that Mr Meagles stared at her under a sort of fascination, and could not even look to Clennam to make another move. After waiting, awkwardly enough, for some moments, Arthur said:

‘Perhaps it would be well if Mr Meagles could see her, Miss Wade?’

‘That is easily done,’ said she. ‘Come here, child.’ She had opened a door while saying this, and now led the girl in by the hand. It was very curious to see them standing together: the girl with her disengaged fingers plaiting the bosom of her dress, half irresolutely, half passionately; Miss Wade with her composed face attentively regarding her, and suggesting to an observer, with extraordinary force, in her composure itself (as a veil will suggest the form it covers), the unquenchable passion of her own nature.

‘See here,’ she said, in the same level way as before. ‘Here is your patron, your master. He is willing to take you back, my dear, if you are sensible of the favour and choose to go. You can be, again, a foil to his pretty daughter, a slave to her pleasant wilfulness, and a toy in the house showing the goodness of the family. You can have your droll name again, playfully pointing you out and setting you apart, as it is right that you should be pointed out and set apart. (Your birth, you know; you must not forget your birth.) You can again be shown to this gentleman’s daughter, Harriet, and kept before her, as a living reminder of her own superiority and her gracious condescension. You can recover all these advantages and many more of the same kind which I dare say start up in your memory while I speak, and which you lose in taking refuge with me—you can recover them all by telling these gentlemen how humbled and penitent you are, and by going back to them to be forgiven. What do you say, Harriet? Will you go?’

The girl who, under the influence of these words, had gradually risen in anger and heightened in colour, answered, raising her lustrous black eyes for the moment, and clenching her hand upon the folds it had been puckering up, ‘I’d die sooner!’

Miss Wade, still standing at her side holding her hand, looked quietly round and said with a smile, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’

Poor Mr Meagles’s inexpressible consternation in hearing his motives and actions so perverted, had prevented him from interposing any word until now; but now he regained the power of speech.

‘Tattycoram,’ said he, ‘for I’ll call you by that name still, my good girl, conscious that I meant nothing but kindness when I gave it to you, and conscious that you know it—’

“È a casa?”

Nessuna risposta; il signor Meagles chiese di nuovo: “Per favore, è a casa?”

Dopo un altro ritardo, “Suppongo che lo sia”, disse la voce all’improvviso; “è meglio che tu entri, e io chiederò”.

Furono immediatamente rinchiusi nella buia e stretta >casa; poi una figura, che si allontanava frusciando e parlava da un livello più alto, disse: “Venite su, per favore; non rischierete di inciampare in nulla.” Si avviarono a tentoni verso le scale, guidati da una debole luce che risultò essere quella della strada che filtrava attraverso una finestra; la figura li lasciò poi rinchiusi in una stanza priva di aria.

“È strano, Clennam,” disse gentilmente il signor Meagles.

“Stranamente,” concordò Clennam con lo stesso tono, “ma ci siamo riusciti; questo è l’importante. Ecco, sta arrivando la luce!”

La luce proveniva da una lampada, e la persona che la portava era una vecchia donna: molto sporca, molto rugosa e secca. “È a casa”, disse (e la voce era la stessa di prima); “arriverà subito”. Dopo aver posato la lampada sul tavolo, la vecchia si pulì le mani sul grembiule, avrebbe potuto farlo per sempre senza mai lavarsele davvero. Poi guardò gli ospiti con due occhi deboli e si ritirò.

La signora che erano venuti a vedere, se davvero era l’attuale occupante di quella >casa, sembrava essersi sistemata lì come se si fosse installata in un caravanserrai orientale. Un piccolo tappeto quadrato al centro della stanza, alcuni mobili che chiaramente non appartenevano a quell’ambiente, e una confusione di valigie e oggetti da viaggio costituivano tutto il suo ambiente circostante. Sotto la precedente occupante regolare, quella stanzetta soffocante era stata trasformata in un tavolo con specchio e in un mobile dorato; ma la doratura era sbiadita quanto i fiori dell’anno prima, e lo specchio era così offuscato da sembrare conservare, per magia, tutte le nebbie e il cattivo tempo che aveva sempre riflettuto. I visitatori avevano avuto un minuto o due per guardarsi intorno quando la porta si aprì e Miss Wade entrò.

Era esattamente la stessa di quando si erano separati: altrettanto bella, altrettanto sprezzante, altrettanto trattenuta. Non mostrò alcuna sorpresa nel vederli, né alcun’altra emozione. Li invitò a sedersi; e rifiutando di accomodarsi a sua volta, intuì immediatamente quale fosse l’oggetto della loro visita.

“Credo,” disse lei, “di conoscere il motivo per cui mi avete fatto questa visita. Possiamo affrontare l’argomento subito.”

“Quindi, signora,” disse il signor Meagles, “la causa è Tattycoram.”

“Suppongo di sì.”

“Signorina Wade,” disse il signor Meagles, “le dispiacerebbe dirci se sa qualcosa su di lei?”

“Certo. So io so che è qui con me.”

“Allora, signora,” disse il signor Meagles, “permettetemi di farvi sapere che sarò felice se lei tornerà, e che mia moglie e mia figlia saranno felici anch’esse. È stata con noi per molto tempo: non dimentichiamo i suoi diritti nei nostri confronti, e spero che sappiamo come tenerne conto.”

“Speri davvero di saper come fare delle concessioni?”, rispose lei con voce calma e misurata. “Per cosa?”

“Credo che mia amica direbbe, signorina Wade,” intervenne Arthur Clennam, vedendo il signor Meagles un po’ imbarazzato, “che si tratta di quel sentimento appassionato che a volte assale quella povera ragazza, del senso di essere in svantaggio. Un sentimento che, a volte, prevale anche su ricordi più positivi.”

La signora sorrise non appena lo guardò. “Davvero?” fu tutto ciò che rispose.

Stava in piedi accanto al tavolo, così composta e tranquilla dopo quella risposta alla sua osservazione. Il signor Meagles la fissava con una sorta di fascinazione, senza nemmeno riuscire a guardare Clennam per decidere cosa fare. Dopo aver aspettato, in modo piuttosto imbarazzante, per alcuni momenti, Arthur disse:

“Forse sarebbe meglio se il signor Meagles potesse vederla, signorina Wade, ”

“È facile da fare,” disse lei. “Vieni qui, >bambina.” Mentre parlava, aveva aperto una porta e ora guidò la ragazza all’interno tenendola per mano. Era molto curioso vederle insieme: la ragazza, con le dita distese, intrecciava meccanicamente il bordo della sua gonna, a metà riluttante, a metà appassionata; Miss Wade, con il viso composto, la osservava attentamente, e nella sua stessa compostezza trasmetteva in modo straordinario l’indomabile passione della propria >natura.

“Ecco,” disse lei, con lo stesso tono di prima. “Ecco il tuo protettore, il tuo padrone. È disposto a riprenderti con sé, cara mia, se sei consapevole della grazia che ti sta offrendo e decidi di accettarla. Potrai nuovamente essere lo sfondo alla bella figlia di lui, schiava della sua capricciosa volontà, un giocattolo in questa casa che dimostri la bontà della famiglia. Potrai riavere quel tuo nome buffo, che ti distingue e ti rende speciale. Come è giusto che sia.” “Il tuo lignaggio. Non devi dimenticarlo, sai, ” “Potrai essere di nuovo mostrata alla figlia di questo gentiluomo, Harriet. Tenuta davanti a lei come un vivido ricordo della sua superiorità e della sua magnanimità. Potrai riavere tutte queste opportunità. E molte altre ancora. Che sicuramente stanno già tornando nella tua memoria mentre parlo. Perderle rifugiandoti con me. Le potrai riottenere dicendo a questi signori quanto tu sia umile e pentita. Tornando da loro per essere perdonata, ” “Che ne dici, Harriet? Verrai?”

La ragazza, che sotto l’influenza di queste parole aveva gradualmente provato rabbia e il suo viso si era arrossito, rispose alzando per un momento i suoi luminosi occhi neri e stringendo la mano sulle pieghe del vestito che stava accartocciando: “Morirei prima!”

La signorina Wade, ancora in piedi al suo fianco e tenendole la mano, guardò intorno in silenzio e disse sorridendo: “Signori. Cosa fate voi in quella situazione?”

La profonda costernazione di povero signor Meagles, nel rendersi conto che i suoi motivi e le sue azioni erano stati così distorti, gli aveva impedito di intervenire fino ad ora; ma ora aveva riacquistato la capacità di parlare.

“Tattycoram,” disse lui, “perché continuerò a chiamarti con quel nome, mia cara ragazza. Sono consapevole che non avevo alcuna cattiva intenzione quando te l’ho dato, e so anche che tu lo sai, ”

‘I don’t!’ said she, looking up again, and almost rending herself with the same busy hand.

‘No, not now, perhaps,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘not with that lady’s eyes so intent upon you, Tattycoram,’ she glanced at them for a moment, ‘and that power over you, which we see she exercises; not now, perhaps, but at another time. Tattycoram, I’ll not ask that lady whether she believes what she has said, even in the anger and ill blood in which I and my friend here equally know she has spoken, though she subdues herself, with a determination that any one who has once seen her is not likely to forget. I’ll not ask you, with your remembrance of my house and all belonging to it, whether you believe it. I’ll only say that you have no profession to make to me or mine, and no forgiveness to entreat; and that all in the world that I ask you to do, is, to count five-and-twenty, Tattycoram.’

She looked at him for an instant, and then said frowningly, ‘I won’t. Miss Wade, take me away, please.’

The contention that raged within her had no softening in it now; it was wholly between passionate defiance and stubborn defiance. Her rich colour, her quick blood, her rapid breath, were all setting themselves against the opportunity of retracing their steps. ‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t!’ she repeated in a low, thick voice. ‘I’d be torn to pieces first. I’d tear myself to pieces first!’

Miss Wade, who had released her hold, laid her hand protectingly on the girl’s neck for a moment, and then said, looking round with her former smile and speaking exactly in her former tone, ‘Gentlemen! What do you do upon that?’

‘Oh, Tattycoram, Tattycoram!’ cried Mr Meagles, adjuring her besides with an earnest hand. ‘Hear that lady’s voice, look at that lady’s face, consider what is in that lady’s heart, and think what a future lies before you. My child, whatever you may think, that lady’s influence over you—astonishing to us, and I should hardly go too far in saying terrible to us to see—is founded in passion fiercer than yours, and temper more violent than yours. What can you two be together? What can come of it?’

‘I am alone here, gentlemen,’ observed Miss Wade, with no change of voice or manner. ‘Say anything you will.’

‘Politeness must yield to this misguided girl, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘at her present pass; though I hope not altogether to dismiss it, even with the injury you do her so strongly before me. Excuse me for reminding you in her hearing—I must say it—that you were a mystery to all of us, and had nothing in common with any of us when she unfortunately fell in your way. I don’t know what you are, but you don’t hide, can’t hide, what a dark spirit you have within you. If it should happen that you are a woman, who, from whatever cause, has a perverted delight in making a sister-woman as wretched as she is (I am old enough to have heard of such), I warn her against you, and I warn you against yourself.’

‘Gentlemen!’ said Miss Wade, calmly. ‘When you have concluded—Mr Clennam, perhaps you will induce your friend—’

‘Not without another effort,’ said Mr Meagles, stoutly. ‘Tattycoram, my poor dear girl, count five-and-twenty.’

‘Do not reject the hope, the certainty, this kind man offers you,’ said Clennam in a low emphatic voice. ‘Turn to the friends you have not forgotten. Think once more!’

‘I won’t! Miss Wade,’ said the girl, with her bosom swelling high, and speaking with her hand held to her throat, ‘take me away!’

‘Tattycoram,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Once more yet! The only thing I ask of you in the world, my child! Count five-and-twenty!’

She put her hands tightly over her ears, confusedly tumbling down her bright black hair in the vehemence of the action, and turned her face resolutely to the wall. Miss Wade, who had watched her under this final appeal with that strange attentive smile, and that repressing hand upon her own bosom with which she had watched her in her struggle at Marseilles, then put her arm about her waist as if she took possession of her for evermore.

And there was a visible triumph in her face when she turned it to dismiss the visitors.

‘As it is the last time I shall have the honour,’ she said, ‘and as you have spoken of not knowing what I am, and also of the foundation of my influence here, you may now know that it is founded in a common cause. What your broken plaything is as to birth, I am. She has no name, I have no name. Her wrong is my wrong. I have nothing more to say to you.’

This was addressed to Mr Meagles, who sorrowfully went out. As Clennam followed, she said to him, with the same external composure and in the same level voice, but with a smile that is only seen on cruel faces: a very faint smile, lifting the nostril, scarcely touching the lips, and not breaking away gradually, but instantly dismissed when done with:

‘I hope the wife of your dear friend Mr Gowan, may be happy in the contrast of her extraction to this girl’s and mine, and in the high good fortune that awaits her.’

“Non lo faccio!” disse lei, alzando di nuovo lo sguardo, e con quella stessa mano impegnata quasi si strappò i vestiti.

“No, non ora, forse,” disse il signor Meagles; “non con quegli occhi di quella signora fissi su di te, Tattycoram. Lei li ha posati su di te per un momento. E c’è quel potere che lei esercita su di te. Non ora, forse, ma in un altro momento. Tattycoram, non chiederò a quella signora se crede davvero a ciò che ha detto. Anche se l’ha detto con rabbia e in uno stato d’animo turbato, come io e il mio amico sappiamo bene. Nonostante si controlli, con una determinazione tale che chiunque l’abbia vista una volta difficilmente potrà dimenticarla. Non chiederò nemmeno a te, considerando la tua lealtà verso la mia casa e tutto ciò che vi appartiene, se tu ci creda o meno. Dirò soltanto che non hai alcun dovere da assolvere nei miei confronti, né alcuna perdono da chiedere. E tutto ciò che ti chiedo è di contare fino a venticinque, Tattycoram.”

Lo guardò per un istante, poi disse con espressione preoccupata: “Non lo farò. Signorina Wade, portatemi via, per favore.”

La disputa che infuriava dentro di lei non mostrava alcun segno di attenuarsi; si riduceva esclusivamente a una sfida appassionata e testarda. Il suo bel colore, il suo sangue caldo, il suo respiro affannoso, tutto contribuiva a impedirle di cambiare idea. “Non lo farò. Non lo farò. Mi distruggerei prima!” ripeté con voce bassa e roca. “Mi strapperei i pezzi a pezzi, prima ancora che qualcun altro possa farlo, ”

La signorina Wade, che aveva allentato la presa, posò protettivamente una mano sul collo della ragazza per un momento, poi disse, guardandosi intorno con il suo solito sorriso e usando esattamente lo stesso tono di prima: “Signori. Cosa state facendo?”

‘Oh, Tattycoram, Tattycoram!’ gridò il signor Meagles, implorandola anche con una mano sincera. ‘Ascolta la voce di quella signora, guarda il suo viso, pensa a ciò che c’è nel suo cuore. E rifletti su quale futuro ti aspetta. Mio bambino, qualunque cosa tu possa pensare, l’influenza di quella signora su di te – sorprendente per noi, e forse persino terribile da vedere – si basa su una passione più intensa della tua e su un carattere più violento del tuo. Cosa potreste mai diventare insieme? Che conseguenze ne deriverebbero?’

“Sono qui da sola, signori,” osservò la signorina Wade, senza cambiare tono di voce né modo di comportarsi. “Dite pure ciò che volete.”

“La gentilezza deve cedere di fronte a questa ragazza errata, signora,” disse il signor Meagles, “nel suo attuale stato; anche se spero di non doverla del tutto abbandonare, nonostante il grave danno che le state causando davanti ai miei occhi. Perdonatemi se vi ricordo in sua presenza. Devo dirlo: per noi tutti siete stata un mistero, e non avevate nulla in comune con nessuno di noi quando, purtroppo, lei si è imbattuta in voi. Non so chi siate, ma non nascondete, non potete nascondere, quale oscuro spirito possediate dentro di voi. Se dovesse risultare che siete una donna che, per qualche motivo, trova piacere nel rendere un’altra donna altrettanto infelice, sono abbastanza vecchio da aver sentito parlare di simili cose, vi avverto contro di lei, e vi avverto anche contro di voi stessa.”

“Signori!”, disse tranquillamente la signorina Wade. “Quando avrete finito, forse il signor Clennam potrà convincere il suo amico, ”

“Non senza un altro sforzo,” disse con decisione il signor Meagles. “Tattycoram, mia povera cara ragazza, conta fino a venticinque.”

“Non rifiutare la speranza, questa certezza che quest’uomo gentile ti offre,” disse Clennam con voce bassa e decisa. “Rivolgiti agli amici che non hai dimenticato. Pensaci ancora una volta!”

“Non lo farò! Signorina Wade,” disse la ragazza, con il petto che le si gonfiava e tenendosi una mano sulla gola, “portatemi via!”

“Tattycoram,” disse il signor Meagles. “Ancora una volta! L’unica cosa che ti chiedo al mondo, mia bambina. Conta fino a venticinque!”

Si coprì le orecchie con forza, i suoi lunghi capelli neri si scompigliarono nel movimento frenetico, e girò il viso decisa verso il muro. Miss Wade, che l’aveva osservata in quel momento finale con quell’espressione strana e attenta, e con quella mano che le copriva il petto mentre assisteva alla sua lotta a Marsiglia, le mise allora un braccio intorno alla vita, come se volesse assumersi cura di lei per sempre.

E sul suo viso si leggeva chiaramente un senso di trionfo quando si girò per congedare gli ospiti.

“Poiché questa è l’ultima volta che avrò questo onore”, disse, “e poiché hai detto di non sapere chi io sia, e anche riguardo alle basi della mia influenza qui, ora puoi sapere che essa si fonda su una causa comune. Quello che è il tuo giocattolo rotto in termini di nascita, quello sono io. Lei non ha nome, nemmeno io ho nome. Il suo errore è anche il mio errore. Non ho più nulla da dirti.”

Questa lettera era indirizzata al signor Meagles, il quale se ne andò con aria triste. Mentre Clennam lo seguiva, lei gli disse, con la stessa compostezza esteriore e lo stesso tono di voce, ma con un sorriso che si vede soltanto sui volti crudeli: un sorriso molto tenue, che sollevava il naso, a malapena toccava le labbra, e non svaniva gradualmente, ma scompariva all’istante non appena finiva di essere espresso.

Spero che la moglie del vostro caro amico, il signor Gowan, possa essere felice, considerando la differenza della sua condizione sociale rispetto a quella di questa ragazza e alla mia, nonché la grande fortuna che l’aspetta.

CHAPTER 28. Nobody’s Disappearance

Not resting satisfied with the endeavours he had made to recover his lost charge, Mr Meagles addressed a letter of remonstrance, breathing nothing but goodwill, not only to her, but to Miss Wade too. No answer coming to these epistles, or to another written to the stubborn girl by the hand of her late young mistress, which might have melted her if anything could (all three letters were returned weeks afterwards as having been refused at the house-door), he deputed Mrs Meagles to make the experiment of a personal interview. That worthy lady being unable to obtain one, and being steadfastly denied admission, Mr Meagles besought Arthur to essay once more what he could do. All that came of his compliance was, his discovery that the empty house was left in charge of the old woman, that Miss Wade was gone, that the waifs and strays of furniture were gone, and that the old woman would accept any number of half-crowns and thank the donor kindly, but had no information whatever to exchange for those coins, beyond constantly offering for perusal a memorandum relative to fixtures, which the house-agent’s young man had left in the hall.

Unwilling, even under this discomfiture, to resign the ingrate and leave her hopeless, in case of her better dispositions obtaining the mastery over the darker side of her character, Mr Meagles, for six successive days, published a discreetly covert advertisement in the morning papers, to the effect that if a certain young person who had lately left home without reflection, would at any time apply to his address at Twickenham, everything would be as it had been before, and no reproaches need be apprehended. The unexpected consequences of this notification suggested to the dismayed Mr Meagles for the first time that some hundreds of young persons must be leaving their homes without reflection every day; for shoals of wrong young people came down to Twickenham, who, not finding themselves received with enthusiasm, generally demanded compensation by way of damages, in addition to coach-hire there and back. Nor were these the only uninvited clients whom the advertisement produced. The swarm of begging-letter writers, who would seem to be always watching eagerly for any hook, however small, to hang a letter upon, wrote to say that having seen the advertisement, they were induced to apply with confidence for various sums, ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds: not because they knew anything about the young person, but because they felt that to part with those donations would greatly relieve the advertiser’s mind. Several projectors, likewise, availed themselves of the same opportunity to correspond with Mr Meagles; as, for example, to apprise him that their attention having been called to the advertisement by a friend, they begged to state that if they should ever hear anything of the young person, they would not fail to make it known to him immediately, and that in the meantime if he would oblige them with the funds necessary for bringing to perfection a certain entirely novel description of Pump, the happiest results would ensue to mankind.

Mr Meagles and his family, under these combined discouragements, had begun reluctantly to give up Tattycoram as irrecoverable, when the new and active firm of Doyce and Clennam, in their private capacities, went down on a Saturday to stay at the cottage until Monday. The senior partner took the coach, and the junior partner took his walking-stick.

A tranquil summer sunset shone upon him as he approached the end of his walk, and passed through the meadows by the river side. He had that sense of peace, and of being lightened of a weight of care, which country quiet awakens in the breasts of dwellers in towns. Everything within his view was lovely and placid. The rich foliage of the trees, the luxuriant grass diversified with wild flowers, the little green islands in the river, the beds of rushes, the water-lilies floating on the surface of the stream, the distant voices in boats borne musically towards him on the ripple of the water and the evening air, were all expressive of rest. In the occasional leap of a fish, or dip of an oar, or twittering of a bird not yet at roost, or distant barking of a dog, or lowing of a cow—in all such sounds, there was the prevailing breath of rest, which seemed to encompass him in every scent that sweetened the fragrant air. The long lines of red and gold in the sky, and the glorious track of the descending sun, were all divinely calm. Upon the purple tree-tops far away, and on the green height near at hand up which the shades were slowly creeping, there was an equal hush. Between the real landscape and its shadow in the water, there was no division; both were so untroubled and clear, and, while so fraught with solemn mystery of life and death, so hopefully reassuring to the gazer’s soothed heart, because so tenderly and mercifully beautiful.

Clennam had stopped, not for the first time by many times, to look about him and suffer what he saw to sink into his soul, as the shadows, looked at, seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the water. He was slowly resuming his way, when he saw a figure in the path before him which he had, perhaps, already associated with the evening and its impressions.

Minnie was there, alone. She had some roses in her hand, and seemed to have stood still on seeing him, waiting for him. Her face was towards him, and she appeared to have been coming from the opposite direction. There was a flutter in her manner, which Clennam had never seen in it before; and as he came near her, it entered his mind all at once that she was there of a set purpose to speak to him.

She gave him her hand, and said, ‘You wonder to see me here by myself? But the evening is so lovely, I have strolled further than I meant at first. I thought it likely I might meet you, and that made me more confident. You always come this way, do you not?’

Capitolo 28: La scomparsa di nessuno

Non essendo soddisfatto degli sforzi fatti per recuperare il proprio incarico perso, il signor Meagles scrisse una lettera di rimprovero, esprimendo solo buone intenzioni, non solo nei confronti di lei, ma anche della signorina Wade. Non ricevendo alcuna risposta a queste lettere, né a un’altra inviata direttamente alla testarda ragazza dalla mano della sua defunta giovane padrona – una lettera che forse avrebbe potuto convincerla, se qualcosa fosse stato possibile (tutte e tre le lettere furono restituite poche settimane dopo, con la scusa che non erano state accettate all’ingresso della casa) – il signor Meagles incaricò la signora Meagles di tentare un colloquio personale. Tuttavia, quella gentile donna non riuscì a ottenere l’accesso e le fu categoricamente negato l’ingresso; quindi il signor Meagles chiese ad Arthur di provare ancora una volta a fare qualcosa. L’unica conseguenza della sua iniziativa fu scoprire che la casa vuota era affidata alle cure di quella vecchia donna, che la signorina Wade se n’era andata, che tutti i mobili presenti nella casa erano scomparsi, e che la vecchia accettava volentieri qualsiasi somma in monete, ringraziando il donatore con gentilezza, ma non aveva alcuna informazione da fornire riguardo a quei beni, se non offrire continuamente di mostrare un memoriale relativo agli arredi, lasciato nell’ingresso dal giovane impiegato dell’agenzia immobiliare.

Unwilling, even under this discomfiture, to resign the ingrate and leave her hopeless, in case of her better dispositions obtaining the mastery over the darker side of her character, Mr Meagles, for six successive days, published a discreetly covert advertisement in the morning papers, to the effect that if a certain young person who had lately left home without reflection, would at any time apply to his address at Twickenham, everything would be as it had been before, and no reproaches need be apprehended. The unexpected consequences of this notification suggested to the dismayed Mr Meagles for the first time that some hundreds of young persons must be leaving their homes without reflection every day; for shoals of wrong young people came down to Twickenham, who, not finding themselves received with enthusiasm, generally demanded compensation by way of damages, in addition to coach-hire there and back. Nor were these the only uninvited clients whom the advertisement produced. The swarm of begging-letter writers, who would seem to be always watching eagerly for any hook, however small, to hang a letter upon, wrote to say that having seen the advertisement, they were induced to apply with confidence for various sums, ranging from ten shillings to fifty pounds: not because they knew anything about the young person, but because they felt that to part with those donations would greatly relieve the advertiser’s mind. Several projectors, likewise, availed themselves of the same opportunity to correspond with Mr Meagles; as, for example, to apprise him that their attention having been called to the advertisement by a friend, they begged to state that if they should ever hear anything of the young person, they would not fail to make it known to him immediately, and that in the meantime if he would oblige them with the funds necessary for bringing to perfection a certain entirely novel description of Pump, the happiest results would ensue to mankind.

Il signor Meagles e la sua famiglia, di fronte a tutti questi ostacoli, avevano iniziato a ritenere che Tattycoram fosse irrecuperabile; proprio in quel momento, i nuovi e dinamici soci Doyce e Clennam, in veste privata, decisero di trascorrere il fine settimana nella casetta fino al lunedì. Il socio anziano prese la carrozza, mentre il socio più giovane preferì usare il suo bastone da passeggio.

Un tranquillo tramonto estivo lo avvolgeva mentre terminava il suo cammino, attraversando i prati lungo la riva del fiume. Provava una sensazione di pace, come se fosse stato sollevato da un peso di preoccupazioni. Una quiete tipica della campagna che risveglia nel cuore degli abitanti delle città sentimenti di serenità. Tutto ciò che gli si presentava davanti agli occhi era incantevole e pacifico: il rigoglioso fogliame degli alberi, l’erba lussureggiante punteggiata da fiori selvatici, le piccole isole verdi nel fiume, i ciuffi di canne, i gigli d’acqua che galleggiavano sulla superficie dell’acqua. I suoni lontani provenienti dalle barche, portati dolcemente verso di lui dal vento serale e dalle onde del fiume, contribuivano tutti a creare un’atmosfera di riposo. Anche i rumori occasionali – il balzo di un pesce, il movimento di una pagaia, il canto di un uccello ancora sveglio, il latrato di un cane lontano, il muggito di una mucca, – esprimevano tutti lo stesso senso di tranquillità. Le lunghe strisce rosse e dorate nel cielo, la maestosa traiettoria del sole al tramonto, tutto era di una calma divina. Sui tetti degli alberi lontani, come sulle colline verdi vicine, regnava un silenzio uguale. Tra il paesaggio reale e la sua ombra nell’acqua, non esisteva alcuna distinzione: entrambi erano così sereni e chiari. E, pur pieni di un mistero solenne riguardante la vita e la morte, offrivano al cuore del osservatore una sensazione di conforto, grazie alla loro bellezza dolce e misericordiosa.

Clennam si era fermato, non per la prima volta, ma molte volte ormai, per guardarsi intorno e lasciare che ciò che vedeva penetrasse nella sua ‘anima; le ombre, infatti, sembravano immergersi sempre più profondamente nell’acqua. Mentre riprendeva lentamente il suo cammino, vide una figura sul sentiero davanti a sé, una figura che forse già associava all’atmosfera serale e alle sue impressioni.

Minnie era lì, sola. Aveva alcune rose in mano e sembrava essere rimasta immobile non appena lo aveva visto, aspettandolo. Il suo viso era rivolto verso di lui, e pareva essere arrivata dalla direzione opposta. C’era un certo nervosismo nel suo comportamento, che Clennam non le aveva mai notato prima; e mentre si avvicinava a lei, gli venne improvvisamente in mente che fosse lì con uno scopo preciso: parlare con lui.

Gli tese la mano e disse: “Ti sorprende vedermi qui da sola? Ma la serata è così bella che ho camminato più lontano di quanto avessi intenzione all’inizio. Pensavo fosse possibile incontrarti, ed è questo che mi ha dato maggiore fiducia. Tu vieni sempre da questa parte, vero?”

As Clennam said that it was his favourite way, he felt her hand falter on his arm, and saw the roses shake.

‘Will you let me give you one, Mr Clennam? I gathered them as I came out of the garden. Indeed, I almost gathered them for you, thinking it so likely I might meet you. Mr Doyce arrived more than an hour ago, and told us you were walking down.’

His own hand shook, as he accepted a rose or two from hers and thanked her. They were now by an avenue of trees. Whether they turned into it on his movement or on hers matters little. He never knew how that was.

‘It is very grave here,’ said Clennam, ‘but very pleasant at this hour. Passing along this deep shade, and out at that arch of light at the other end, we come upon the ferry and the cottage by the best approach, I think.’

In her simple garden-hat and her light summer dress, with her rich brown hair naturally clustering about her, and her wonderful eyes raised to his for a moment with a look in which regard for him and trustfulness in him were strikingly blended with a kind of timid sorrow for him, she was so beautiful that it was well for his peace—or ill for his peace, he did not quite know which—that he had made that vigorous resolution he had so often thought about.

She broke a momentary silence by inquiring if he knew that papa had been thinking of another tour abroad? He said he had heard it mentioned. She broke another momentary silence by adding, with some hesitation, that papa had abandoned the idea.

At this, he thought directly, ‘they are to be married.’

‘Mr Clennam,’ she said, hesitating more timidly yet, and speaking so low that he bent his head to hear her. ‘I should very much like to give you my confidence, if you would not mind having the goodness to receive it. I should have very much liked to have given it to you long ago, because—I felt that you were becoming so much our friend.’

‘How can I be otherwise than proud of it at any time! Pray give it to me. Pray trust me.’

‘I could never have been afraid of trusting you,’ she returned, raising her eyes frankly to his face. ‘I think I would have done so some time ago, if I had known how. But I scarcely know how, even now.’

‘Mr Gowan,’ said Arthur Clennam, ‘has reason to be very happy. God bless his wife and him!’

She wept, as she tried to thank him. He reassured her, took her hand as it lay with the trembling roses in it on his arm, took the remaining roses from it, and put it to his lips. At that time, it seemed to him, he first finally resigned the dying hope that had flickered in nobody’s heart so much to its pain and trouble; and from that time he became in his own eyes, as to any similar hope or prospect, a very much older man who had done with that part of life.

He put the roses in his breast and they walked on for a little while, slowly and silently, under the umbrageous trees. Then he asked her, in a voice of cheerful kindness, was there anything else that she would say to him as her friend and her father’s friend, many years older than herself; was there any trust she would repose in him, any service she would ask of him, any little aid to her happiness that she could give him the lasting gratification of believing it was in his power to render?

She was going to answer, when she was so touched by some little hidden sorrow or sympathy—what could it have been?—that she said, bursting into tears again: ‘O Mr Clennam! Good, generous, Mr Clennam, pray tell me you do not blame me.’

‘I blame you?’ said Clennam. ‘My dearest girl! I blame you? No!’

After clasping both her hands upon his arm, and looking confidentially up into his face, with some hurried words to the effect that she thanked him from her heart (as she did, if it be the source of earnestness), she gradually composed herself, with now and then a word of encouragement from him, as they walked on slowly and almost silently under the darkening trees.

‘And, now, Minnie Gowan,’ at length said Clennam, smiling; ‘will you ask me nothing?’

‘Oh! I have very much to ask of you.’

‘That’s well! I hope so; I am not disappointed.’

‘You know how I am loved at home, and how I love home. You can hardly think it perhaps, dear Mr Clennam,’ she spoke with great agitation, ‘seeing me going from it of my own free will and choice, but I do so dearly love it!’

‘I am sure of that,’ said Clennam. ‘Can you suppose I doubt it?’

‘No, no. But it is strange, even to me, that loving it so much and being so much beloved in it, I can bear to cast it away. It seems so neglectful of it, so unthankful.’

‘My dear girl,’ said Clennam, ‘it is in the natural progress and change of time. All homes are left so.’

‘Yes, I know; but all homes are not left with such a blank in them as there will be in mine when I am gone. Not that there is any scarcity of far better and more endearing and more accomplished girls than I am; not that I am much, but that they have made so much of me!’

Pet’s affectionate heart was overcharged, and she sobbed while she pictured what would happen.

‘I know what a change papa will feel at first, and I know that at first I cannot be to him anything like what I have been these many years. And it is then, Mr Clennam, then more than at any time, that I beg and entreat you to remember him, and sometimes to keep him company when you can spare a little while; and to tell him that you know I was fonder of him when I left him, than I ever was in all my life. For there is nobody—he told me so himself when he talked to me this very day—there is nobody he likes so well as you, or trusts so much.’

A clue to what had passed between the father and daughter dropped like a heavy stone into the well of Clennam’s heart, and swelled the water to his eyes. He said, cheerily, but not quite so cheerily as he tried to say, that it should be done—that he gave her his faithful promise.

Mentre Clennam diceva che era il suo modo preferito, sentì la sua mano tremare sul proprio braccio e vide le rose oscillare.

“Mi permetterà di darne una a lei, signor Clennam? Le ho raccolte mentre uscivo dal giardino. Anzi, quasi le avessi raccolte apposta per lei, pensando che fosse molto probabile incontrarla. Il signor Doyce è arrivato più di un’ora fa e ci ha detto che stava scendendo da quella parte.”

La sua stessa mano tremava mentre accettava una o due rosi da lei e le ringraziava. Ora si trovavano accanto a un viale alberato. Non importava se avessero svoltato lì per colpa del suo movimento o del suo. Non lo sapeva mai con certezza.

“È un posto molto grave,” disse Clennam, “ma molto piacevole a quest’ora. Passando attraverso questa fitta ombra e uscendo da quel arco di luce all’altra estremità, si arriva al traghetto e alla capanna nel modo più conveniente, credo.”

Con il suo semplice cappello da giardino e il suo leggero abito estivo, i suoi folti capelli castani che le ricadevano naturalmente intorno al viso, e quegli occhi meravigliosi che per un momento si alzarono verso di lui, pieni di affetto e fiducia, ma anche di una sorta di timida tristezza per lui, era così bella che, forse questo era positivo per la sua serenità, o forse no; lui stesso non ne era del tutto sicuro. Fu proprio per questo che prese quella risoluzione decisa di cui aveva spesso pensato.

Ruppe un breve silenzio chiedendogli se sapesse che papà stava pensando a un altro viaggio all’estero; lui rispose di averne sentito parlare. Poi, dopo un altro breve silenzio, aggiunse con qualche esitazione che papà aveva abbandonato quell’idea.

“Adesso, pensò immediatamente, ‘deveranno sposarsi’.”

“Signor Clennam,” disse lei, esitando ancora di più e parlando così a bassa voce che lui dovette chinare la testa per sentirla. “Mi piacerebbe molto confidarmi in voi, se non vi dispiacesse accettare questa mia fiducia. Avrei voluto farlo molto tempo fa, perché sentivo che stavate diventando sempre di più un nostro amico.”

“Come potrei non esserne orgoglioso in qualsiasi momento? Per favore, dammelo. Per favore, fidati di me.”

“Non avrei mai potuto avere paura di fidarmi di te,” rispose lei, alzando lo sguardo con sincerità sul suo viso. “Penso che l’avrei fatto già da un po’ di tempo, se solo avessi saputo come. Ma anche adesso, in realtà, non ne so ancora molto.”

“Signor Gowan,” disse Arthur Clennam, “ha tutte le ragioni di essere molto felice. Che Dio benedica lui e sua moglie!”

Lei pianse mentre cercava di ringraziarlo. Lui la rassicurò, prese la sua mano – che teneva le rose tremanti – e se la posò sul proprio braccio; poi prese le rose rimanenti e le portò alle labbra. In quel momento, gli sembrò di aver finalmente abbandonato quella debole speranza che aveva appena lampeggiato nel cuore di nessuno, lasciandosi andare al proprio dolore e alle proprie preoccupazioni; da quel momento, ai suoi occhi, riguardo a qualsiasi altra simile speranza o prospettiva, divenne un uomo molto più maturo, uno che aveva ormai concluso quella parte della propria vita.

Mise le rose sul petto e continuarono a camminare per un po’, lentamente e in silenzio, sotto gli alberi ombrosi. Poi le chiese, con una voce gentile e allegra: “C’è qualcos’altro che vorresti dirmi, come sua amica e come amica di suo padre, che è molto più anziano di te? C’è qualche fiducia che potresti riporre in me, qualche favore che potresti chiedermi, o qualche piccolo aiuto per la tua felicità che potrei darti, in modo che tu possa credere con certezza che sia nelle mie possibilità offrirtelo?”

Stava per rispondere, quando fu così commossa da qualche tristezza nascosta o da un sentimento di compassione, cosa poteva essere?, che scoppiò di nuovo in lacrime e disse: “Oh, signor Clennam! Caro, generoso signor Clennam, per favore ditemi che non mi biasimate.”

“Ti incolpo io?”, disse Clennam. “Mia adorata ragazza. Ti incolpo io? No!”

Dopo aver posato entrambe le mani sul suo braccio e averlo guardato con aria confidenziale, pronunciò alcune parole affrettate per ringraziarlo sinceramente. E infatti lo fece davvero, se questa è davvero l’espressione della sincerità. Poi si calmò gradualmente; di tanto in tanto, lui le diceva qualcosa per incoraggiarla mentre camminavano lentamente e quasi in silenzio sotto gli alberi che si oscuravano.

“E ora, Minnie Gowan, ”, disse finalmente Clennam sorridendo, “non mi chiederai nulla?”

“Ah! Ho molte cose da chiederti.”

“È davvero bene! Lo spero anch’io; non sono deluso.”

“Sapete quanto io sia amata a casa, e quanto io ami casa. Forse è difficile da credere, caro signor Clennam,” disse lei con grande agitazione, “visto che me ne sto andando di mia spontanea volontà. Ma la amo davvero molto!”

“Ne sono sicuro,” disse Clennam. “Potreste pensare che io ne dubiti?”

“No, no. Ma è strano, anche per me, che amandola così tanto e essendo così amata da essa, io riesca comunque a gettarla via. Sembra una tale mancanza di rispetto, una tale ingratitudine, ”

“Mia cara ragazza,” disse Clennam, “è nel naturale corso e nei cambiamenti del tempo che tutte le case finiscono così.”

“Sì, lo so; ma non tutte le famiglie lasciano un vuoto dentro di sé come quello che rimarrà nella mia casa quando me ne sarò andato. Non è che manchino ragazze molto migliori, più adorabili e più perfezionate di me; non è che io sia qualcosa di eccezionale. È solo che loro hanno fatto di me qualcosa di davvero speciale!”

Il cuore affettuoso di Pet era straripante di emozioni; mentre immaginava ciò che sarebbe accaduto, scoppiò in lacrime.

“So che papà sentirà un grande cambiamento all’inizio, e so anche che, per il momento, non potrò essere per lui ciò che sono stato in tutti questi anni. Ed è proprio in quel momento, signor Clennam, più che in qualsiasi altro, che vi supplico di ricordarvi di lui e, se possibile, di passare un po’ di tempo con lui; e di dirgli che sapete che, quando l’ho lasciato, lo amavo di più di quanto abbia mai amato nessuno in tutta la mia vita. Perché non c’è nessuno, me lo ha detto lui stesso oggi stesso, nessuno che gli piaccia così tanto o in cui abbia tanta fiducia come voi.”

Un indizio di ciò che era accaduto tra padre e figlia cadde come una pietra pesante nel pozzo del cuore di Clennam, facendo gonfiare le “acque” fino agli occhi. Disse, con allegria, ma non proprio quanto avrebbe voluto, che l’avrebbe fatto, e le diede la sua promessa fedele.

‘If I do not speak of mama,’ said Pet, more moved by, and more pretty in, her innocent grief, than Clennam could trust himself even to consider—for which reason he counted the trees between them and the fading light as they slowly diminished in number—‘it is because mama will understand me better in this action, and will feel my loss in a different way, and will look forward in a different manner. But you know what a dear, devoted mother she is, and you will remember her too; will you not?’

Let Minnie trust him, Clennam said, let Minnie trust him to do all she wished.

‘And, dear Mr Clennam,’ said Minnie, ‘because papa and one whom I need not name, do not fully appreciate and understand one another yet, as they will by-and-by; and because it will be the duty, and the pride, and pleasure of my new life, to draw them to a better knowledge of one another, and to be a happiness to one another, and to be proud of one another, and to love one another, both loving me so dearly; oh, as you are a kind, true man! when I am first separated from home (I am going a long distance away), try to reconcile papa to him a little more, and use your great influence to keep him before papa’s mind free from prejudice and in his real form. Will you do this for me, as you are a noble-hearted friend?’

Poor Pet! Self-deceived, mistaken child! When were such changes ever made in men’s natural relations to one another: when was such reconcilement of ingrain differences ever effected! It has been tried many times by other daughters, Minnie; it has never succeeded; nothing has ever come of it but failure.

So Clennam thought. So he did not say; it was too late. He bound himself to do all she asked, and she knew full well that he would do it.

They were now at the last tree in the avenue. She stopped, and withdrew her arm. Speaking to him with her eyes lifted up to his, and with the hand that had lately rested on his sleeve trembling by touching one of the roses in his breast as an additional appeal to him, she said:

‘Dear Mr Clennam, in my happiness—for I am happy, though you have seen me crying—I cannot bear to leave any cloud between us. If you have anything to forgive me (not anything that I have wilfully done, but any trouble I may have caused you without meaning it, or having it in my power to help it), forgive me to-night out of your noble heart!’

He stooped to meet the guileless face that met his without shrinking. He kissed it, and answered, Heaven knew that he had nothing to forgive. As he stooped to meet the innocent face once again, she whispered, ‘Good-bye!’ and he repeated it. It was taking leave of all his old hopes—all nobody’s old restless doubts. They came out of the avenue next moment, arm-in-arm as they had entered it: and the trees seemed to close up behind them in the darkness, like their own perspective of the past.

The voices of Mr and Mrs Meagles and Doyce were audible directly, speaking near the garden gate. Hearing Pet’s name among them, Clennam called out, ‘She is here, with me.’ There was some little wondering and laughing until they came up; but as soon as they had all come together, it ceased, and Pet glided away.

Mr Meagles, Doyce, and Clennam, without speaking, walked up and down on the brink of the river, in the light of the rising moon, for a few minutes; and then Doyce lingered behind, and went into the house. Mr Meagles and Clennam walked up and down together for a few minutes more without speaking, until at length the former broke silence.

‘Arthur,’ said he, using that familiar address for the first time in their communication, ‘do you remember my telling you, as we walked up and down one hot morning, looking over the harbour at Marseilles, that Pet’s baby sister who was dead seemed to Mother and me to have grown as she had grown, and changed as she had changed?’

‘Very well.’

‘You remember my saying that our thoughts had never been able to separate those twin sisters, and that, in our fancy, whatever Pet was, the other was?’

‘Yes, very well.’

‘Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, much subdued, ‘I carry that fancy further to-night. I feel to-night, my dear fellow, as if you had loved my dead child very tenderly, and had lost her when she was like what Pet is now.’

‘Thank you!’ murmured Clennam, ‘thank you!’ And pressed his hand.

‘Will you come in?’ said Mr Meagles, presently.

‘In a little while.’

Mr Meagles fell away, and he was left alone. When he had walked on the river’s brink in the peaceful moonlight for some half an hour, he put his hand in his breast and tenderly took out the handful of roses. Perhaps he put them to his heart, perhaps he put them to his lips, but certainly he bent down on the shore and gently launched them on the flowing river. Pale and unreal in the moonlight, the river floated them away.

The lights were bright within doors when he entered, and the faces on which they shone, his own face not excepted, were soon quietly cheerful. They talked of many subjects (his partner never had had such a ready store to draw upon for the beguiling of the time), and so to bed, and to sleep. While the flowers, pale and unreal in the moonlight, floated away upon the river; and thus do greater things that once were in our breasts, and near our hearts, flow from us to the eternal seas.

“Se non parlo di mamma,” disse Pet, più commossa e più bella nella sua innocente tristezza, di quanto Clennam potesse osare nemmeno considerare. Per questo motivo iniziò a contare gli alberi intorno a loro e la luce che lentamente svaniva, mentre il loro numero diminuiva, “È perché mamma capirà meglio ciò che sto facendo, proverà la mia perdita in modo diverso e penserà al futuro in un altro modo. Ma voi sapete quanto sia cara e devota. Anche voi vi ricorderete di lei, vero?”

“Lasciate che Minnie abbia fiducia in lui”, disse Clennam, “lasciate che Minnie si fidi che farà tutto ciò che desidera”.

“E poi, caro signor Clennam,” disse Minnie, “poiché papà e quella persona di cui non devo fare il nome ancora non si comprendono del tutto, anche se col tempo capiranno; e poiché sarà mio dovere, mia orgoglio e mia gioia nella nuova vita che sto per iniziare aiutarli a conoscersi meglio, rendere loro la vita più felice, far sì che si amino l’un l’altro. Oh, dato che lei è un uomo gentile e sincero! Quando dovrò lasciare casa (andrò lontano), cerchi di aiutare papà ad avvicinarsi ancora di più a quella persona, e utilizzi la sua grande influenza per far sì che papà la veda per quella che realmente è, senza pregiudizi. Lo farà per me, vero? Lei è un amico dal cuore nobile.”

Povero Pet! Quel bambino ingannato da se stesso, che commetteva errori. Quando mai sono avvenuti cambiamenti nelle relazioni naturali tra gli uomini? Quando mai è stato possibile conciliare differenze profondamente radicate? Altre figlie hanno provato molte volte, Minnie. Ma non c’è mai stato successo; tutto ciò che ne è risultato è stato il fallimento.

“Lo so”, pensò Clennam. Ma non lo disse; era troppo tardi. Si era impegnato a fare tutto ciò che lei chiedeva, e lei ne era pienamente consapevole.

Ora si trovavano all’ultimo albero del viale. Lei si fermò e ritirò il braccio. Guardandolo negli occhi e con la mano che poco prima era stata sulla sua manica, tremante mentre toccava una delle rose sul suo petto come un ulteriore appello a lui, disse:

‘Caro signor Clennam, nella mia felicità – perché sono felice, anche se mi avete visto piangere – non posso sopportare che ci sia alcuna ombra tra di noi. Se c’è qualcosa che dovreste perdonarmi (niente che abbia fatto intenzionalmente, ma eventuali problemi che vi ho causato senza volerlo, o per cui non ero in grado di aiutarvi), perdonatemi, questa notte, dal vostro nobile cuore!’

Si chinò per incontrare quel volto innocente che lo guardava senza timore; lo baciò e rispose: “Solo il cielo sa che non c’è nulla da perdonare”. Mentre si chinava di nuovo verso quel viso innocente, lei sussurrò: “Addio!”, e lui ripeté quelle parole. Era come se stesse dicendo addio a tutte le sue vecchie speranze, e a tutti quei dubbi inquieti del passato. Un attimo dopo uscirono dall’alameda, tenendosi per mano; gli alberi sembravano chiudersi alle loro spalle nell’oscurità, come se rappresentassero il ricordo di quel momento nel passato.

Le voci del signor e della signora Meagles e di Doyce erano chiaramente udibili, poiché parlavano vicino al cancello del giardino. Sentendo il nome di Pet tra di loro, Clennam gridò: “È qui con me.” Ci fu un po’ di meraviglia e risate mentre si avvicinavano; ma non appena si riunirono tutti, quel rumore cessò e Pet scomparve silenziosamente.

Il signor Meagles, Doyce e Clennam, senza dire una parola, camminarono avanti e indietro sul bordo del >fiume, alla luce della crescente luna, per alcuni minuti; poi Doyce rimase indietro ed entrò nella casa. Il signor Meagles e Clennam continuarono a camminare insieme per altri pochi minuti in silenzio, fino a quando infine il primo ruppe il silenzio.

“Arthur,” disse lui, usando quel modo di rivolgersi familiare per la prima volta nella loro comunicazione, “ti ricordi che, mentre camminavamo su e giù in una calda mattina, guardando il porto di Marsiglia, ti ho detto che la sorellina minore di Pet, che era morta, sembrava a me e a tua madre essere cresciuta proprio come aveva fatto lei, e essersi cambiata esattamente come si era trasformata lei?”

Molto bene.

“Ricordi quando ti dissi che i nostri pensieri non erano mai riusciti a separare quelle due sorelle gemelle, e che, nella nostra immaginazione, qualunque fosse una delle due, l’altra era inevitabilmente l’altra?”

“Sì, molto bene.”

‘Arthur,’ disse il signor Meagles, con grande commozione, ‘ho questa idea ancora più forte di notte. Mi sembra, caro amico, che tu abbia amato molto teneramente mia figlia defunta, e che l’abbia persa quando era proprio come Pet è ora.’

“Grazie!” mormorò Clennam, “grazie!” E gli strinse la mano.

“Verrai dentro?” disse poco dopo il signor Meagles.

“In un attimo.”

Il signor Meagles si allontanò, e rimase solo. Dopo aver camminato lungo la riva del >fiume sotto la tranquilla luce della luna per circa mezz’ora, mise una mano sul petto e ne estrasse con tenerezza quel mazzo di rose. Forse se le pose sul cuore, forse sulle labbra, ma di certo si chinò sulla riva e le gettò dolcemente nel corso del >fiume. Pallide e irreali sotto la luce lunare, le rose furono portate via dalla corrente.

Le luci erano accese all’interno delle stanze quando entrò; i volti su cui si riflettevano quelle luci, compreso il suo stesso viso, divennero presto serenamente gioiosi. Parlarono di molti argomenti (la sua compagna non aveva mai avuto a disposizione un tale repertorio per trascorrere piacevolmente il tempo), e poi andarono a letto, addormentandosi. Mentre le >fiori, pallide e irreali sotto la luce della luna, si allontanavano fluttuando sul >fiume; così anche cose più grandi, che un tempo erano nel nostro petto e vicine al nostro cuore, sfuggono da noi per raggiungere i mari eterni.

CHAPTER 29. Mrs Flintwinch goes on Dreaming

The house in the city preserved its heavy dulness through all these transactions, and the invalid within it turned the same unvarying round of life. Morning, noon, and night, morning, noon, and night, each recurring with its accompanying monotony, always the same reluctant return of the same sequences of machinery, like a dragging piece of clockwork.

The wheeled chair had its associated remembrances and reveries, one may suppose, as every place that is made the station of a human being has. Pictures of demolished streets and altered houses, as they formerly were when the occupant of the chair was familiar with them, images of people as they too used to be, with little or no allowance made for the lapse of time since they were seen; of these, there must have been many in the long routine of gloomy days. To stop the clock of busy existence at the hour when we were personally sequestered from it, to suppose mankind stricken motionless when we were brought to a stand-still, to be unable to measure the changes beyond our view by any larger standard than the shrunken one of our own uniform and contracted existence, is the infirmity of many invalids, and the mental unhealthiness of almost all recluses.

What scenes and actors the stern woman most reviewed, as she sat from season to season in her one dark room, none knew but herself. Mr Flintwinch, with his wry presence brought to bear upon her daily like some eccentric mechanical force, would perhaps have screwed it out of her, if there had been less resistance in her; but she was too strong for him. So far as Mistress Affery was concerned, to regard her liege-lord and her disabled mistress with a face of blank wonder, to go about the house after dark with her apron over her head, always to listen for the strange noises and sometimes to hear them, and never to emerge from her ghostly, dreamy, sleep-waking state, was occupation enough for her.

There was a fair stroke of business doing, as Mistress Affery made out, for her husband had abundant occupation in his little office, and saw more people than had been used to come there for some years. This might easily be, the house having been long deserted; but he did receive letters, and comers, and keep books, and correspond. Moreover, he went about to other counting-houses, and to wharves, and docks, and to the Custom House, and to Garraway’s Coffee House, and the Jerusalem Coffee House, and on ‘Change; so that he was much in and out. He began, too, sometimes of an evening, when Mrs Clennam expressed no particular wish for his society, to resort to a tavern in the neighbourhood to look at the shipping news and closing prices in the evening paper, and even to exchange small socialities with mercantile Sea Captains who frequented that establishment. At some period of every day, he and Mrs Clennam held a council on matters of business; and it appeared to Affery, who was always groping about, listening and watching, that the two clever ones were making money.

The state of mind into which Mr Flintwinch’s dazed lady had fallen, had now begun to be so expressed in all her looks and actions that she was held in very low account by the two clever ones, as a person, never of strong intellect, who was becoming foolish. Perhaps because her appearance was not of a commercial cast, or perhaps because it occurred to him that his having taken her to wife might expose his judgment to doubt in the minds of customers, Mr Flintwinch laid his commands upon her that she should hold her peace on the subject of her conjugal relations, and should no longer call him Jeremiah out of the domestic trio. Her frequent forgetfulness of this admonition intensified her startled manner, since Mr Flintwinch’s habit of avenging himself on her remissness by making springs after her on the staircase, and shaking her, occasioned her to be always nervously uncertain when she might be thus waylaid next.

Little Dorrit had finished a long day’s work in Mrs Clennam’s room, and was neatly gathering up her shreds and odds and ends before going home. Mr Pancks, whom Affery had just shown in, was addressing an inquiry to Mrs Clennam on the subject of her health, coupled with the remark that, ‘happening to find himself in that direction,’ he had looked in to inquire, on behalf of his proprietor, how she found herself. Mrs Clennam, with a deep contraction of her brows, was looking at him.

‘Mr Casby knows,’ said she, ‘that I am not subject to changes. The change that I await here is the great change.’

‘Indeed, ma’am?’ returned Mr Pancks, with a wandering eye towards the figure of the little seamstress on her knee picking threads and fraying of her work from the carpet. ‘You look nicely, ma’am.’

‘I bear what I have to bear,’ she answered. ‘Do you what you have to do.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘such is my endeavour.’

‘You are often in this direction, are you not?’ asked Mrs Clennam.

‘Why, yes, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘rather so lately; I have lately been round this way a good deal, owing to one thing and another.’

‘Beg Mr Casby and his daughter not to trouble themselves, by deputy, about me. When they wish to see me, they know I am here to see them. They have no need to trouble themselves to send. You have no need to trouble yourself to come.’

‘Not the least trouble, ma’am,’ said Mr Pancks. ‘You really are looking uncommonly nicely, ma’am.’

‘Thank you. Good evening.’

The dismissal, and its accompanying finger pointed straight at the door, was so curt and direct that Mr Pancks did not see his way to prolong his visit. He stirred up his hair with his sprightliest expression, glanced at the little figure again, said ‘Good evening, ma ‘am; don’t come down, Mrs Affery, I know the road to the door,’ and steamed out. Mrs Clennam, her chin resting on her hand, followed him with attentive and darkly distrustful eyes; and Affery stood looking at her as if she were spell-bound.

CAPITOLO 29. La signora Flintwinch continua a sognare

La casa nella città conservò la sua pesante tristezza attraverso tutte queste transazioni; l’invalido che vi abitava continuava a vivere lo stesso ciclo monotono di sempre: mattina, mezzogiorno e sera, mattina, mezzogiorno e sera; ogni momento si ripeteva con la stessa noia, come se fosse un meccanismo che funzionava sempre allo stesso modo, con lentezza e resistenza.

La sedia a rotelle era associata a ricordi e pensieri lontani nel tempo; si può supporre che lo fossero anche tutti i luoghi frequentati dagli esseri umani. Immagini di strade demolite e case modificate, così come apparivano un tempo quando chi vi abitava le conosceva bene; ritratti di persone com’erano un tempo, senza tenere conto del passare degli anni; di questi ricordi, ne dovevano esserci molti nel corso delle lunghe giornate trascorse in solitudine. Fermare l’“orologio” della vita frenetica nell’istante in cui veniamo isolati da essa, immaginare che l’umanità si fermi completamente quando noi ci troviamo in uno stato di stasi, essere incapaci di misurare i cambiamenti che avvengono al di là del nostro campo visivo con criteri diversi da quelli ristretti della nostra esistenza limitata. Questa è l’indebolimento mentale di molti invalidi e la condizione psicologicamente instabile di quasi tutti i reclusi.

Quali scene e attori quella donna severa criticasse di più, mentre sedeva stagione dopo stagione nella sua stanza buia, nessuno lo sapeva se non lei stessa. Il signor Flintwinch, con la sua presenza strana e ironica che ogni giorno si riversava su di lei come una sorta di forza meccanica eccentrica, forse sarebbe riuscito a farla cedere, se lei avesse opposto meno resistenza. Ma lei era troppo forte per lui. Per quanto riguarda la signorina Affery, considerare il suo padrone e la sua padrona disabile con un’espressione di vago stupore, andare in giro per la casa dopo il tramonto con l’grembiule addosso, ascoltare sempre quei suoni strani, a volte anche udirli, e mai uscire da quello stato di sonnolenza irreale e confusa, era già un’occupazione sufficiente per lei.

Le affari andavano abbastanza bene, come poté constatare la signora Affery: suo marito aveva molto da fare nel suo piccolo ufficio e incontrava più persone di quante ne fossero solite venire lì negli ultimi anni. Questo era facile da spiegare, visto che la casa era stata abbandonata da tempo; tuttavia lui riceveva lettere, aveva visite, teneva registri e si occupava della corrispondenza. Inoltre, andava in altri uffici contabili, nei porti, alle dogane, alla Garraway’s Coffee House, alla Jerusalem Coffee House e anche al mercato finanziario; quindi era spesso via da casa. A volte, la sera, quando la signora Clennam non desiderava la sua compagnia, andava in una taverna vicina per leggere le notizie navali e i prezzi di chiusura pubblicati sui giornali serali, e anche per scambiare qualche parola con i capitani di mare che frequentavano quel luogo. Ogni giorno, a un certo orario, lui e la signora Clennam si riunivano per discutere di affari; e alla signora Affery, che osservava attentamente tutto ciò che accadeva, sembrava che quei due fossero davvero riusciti a guadagnare denaro.

Lo stato d’animo in cui era caduta la confusa signora di Mr Flintwinch iniziava ormai a manifestarsi chiaramente in ogni suo sguardo e azione; per questo i due individui più astuti la consideravano una persona priva di un intelligenza particolarmente spiccata, che stava diventando sempre più sciocca. Forse perché il suo aspetto non era adatto alle esigenze commerciali, o forse perché Mr Flintwinch temeva che sposarla potesse mettere in dubbio la sua capacità di giudizio agli occhi dei clienti, le impose di mantenere il silenzio su questioni relative alle sue relazioni coniugali e di non chiamarlo più “Jeremiah” all’interno della famiglia. La sua frequente negligenza di queste raccomandazioni accentuava ulteriormente il suo comportamento confuso e nervoso, poiché Mr Flintwinch aveva l’abitudine di vendicarsi delle sue trascuratezze inseguendola per le scale e scuotendola, il che la rendeva sempre molto ansiosa riguardo al momento in cui sarebbe stata nuovamente colpita da questa punizione.

Little Dorrit aveva terminato una lunga giornata di lavoro nella stanza di Mrs Clennam e stava mettendo in ordine tutti i suoi oggetti prima di andare a casa. Mr Pancks, che Affery aveva appena fatto entrare, stava ponendo a Mrs Clennam alcune domande riguardo alla sua salute, aggiungendo che, “trovandosi per caso in quella direzione”, era passato a chiedere, a nome del suo datore di lavoro, come stesse. Mrs Clennam lo guardava con le sopracciglia profondamente corrugate.

“Il signor Casby lo sa,” disse lei, “che io non sono soggetta a cambiamenti. Il cambiamento che aspetto qui è il grande cambiamento.”

“Davvero, signora?” rispose Signor Pancks, con lo sguardo che vagava verso la figura della piccola sarta seduta sulle sue ginocchia, intenta a raccogliere i fili e a sistemare i danni causati al tappeto. “Sembrate molto bella, signora.”

“Affronto ciò che devo affrontare,” rispose lei. “Fai tu ciò che devi fare.”

“Grazie, signora,” disse Signor Pancks, “questo è il mio impegno.”

“Vi trovate spesso in questa direzione, non è vero?” chiese Signora Clennam.

“Sì, signora,” disse Pancks, “proprio di recente; ultimamente sono stato spesso da queste parti, per varie ragioni.”

“Per favore, dite al signor Casby e a sua figlia di non preoccuparsi per me, di non mandare nessuno in mio nome. Se desiderano vedermi, sanno che sono qui ad aspettarli. Non c’è bisogno che si disturbino a mandarmi messaggi; né voi avete bisogno di venire qui.”

“Nessun problema, signora,” disse il signor Pancks. “Siete davvero molto bella stasera, signora.”

“Grazie. Buona serata.”

La congedo, accompagnata da un dito puntato direttamente verso la porta, fu così breve e diretta che Mr Pancks non ritenne opportuno prolungare la sua visita. Si sistemò i capelli con un gesto vivace, lanciò un’altra occhiata alla piccola figura, disse “Buonasera, signora; non scendete, Mrs Affery, conosco bene la strada per uscire”, e se ne andò. Mrs Clennam, con il mento appoggiato sulla mano, lo seguì con sguardo attento e pieno di diffidenza; mentre Affery rimase immobile a fissarla, come se fosse incantata.

Slowly and thoughtfully, Mrs Clennam’s eyes turned from the door by which Pancks had gone out, to Little Dorrit, rising from the carpet. With her chin drooping more heavily on her hand, and her eyes vigilant and lowering, the sick woman sat looking at her until she attracted her attention. Little Dorrit coloured under such a gaze, and looked down. Mrs Clennam still sat intent.

‘Little Dorrit,’ she said, when she at last broke silence, ‘what do you know of that man?’

‘I don’t know anything of him, ma’am, except that I have seen him about, and that he has spoken to me.’

‘What has he said to you?’

‘I don’t understand what he has said, he is so strange. But nothing rough or disagreeable.’

‘Why does he come here to see you?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Little Dorrit, with perfect frankness.

‘You know that he does come here to see you?’

‘I have fancied so,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘But why he should come here or anywhere for that, ma’am, I can’t think.’

Mrs Clennam cast her eyes towards the ground, and with her strong, set face, as intent upon a subject in her mind as it had lately been upon the form that seemed to pass out of her view, sat absorbed. Some minutes elapsed before she came out of this thoughtfulness, and resumed her hard composure.

Little Dorrit in the meanwhile had been waiting to go, but afraid to disturb her by moving. She now ventured to leave the spot where she had been standing since she had risen, and to pass gently round by the wheeled chair. She stopped at its side to say ‘Good night, ma’am.’

Mrs Clennam put out her hand, and laid it on her arm. Little Dorrit, confused under the touch, stood faltering. Perhaps some momentary recollection of the story of the Princess may have been in her mind.

‘Tell me, Little Dorrit,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘have you many friends now?’

‘Very few, ma’am. Besides you, only Miss Flora and—one more.’

‘Meaning,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her unbent finger again pointing to the door, ‘that man?’

‘Oh no, ma’am!’

‘Some friend of his, perhaps?’

‘No ma’am.’ Little Dorrit earnestly shook her head. ‘Oh no! No one at all like him, or belonging to him.’

‘Well!’ said Mrs Clennam, almost smiling. ‘It is no affair of mine. I ask, because I take an interest in you; and because I believe I was your friend when you had no other who could serve you. Is that so?’

‘Yes, ma’am; indeed it is. I have been here many a time when, but for you and the work you gave me, we should have wanted everything.’

‘We,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, looking towards the watch, once her dead husband’s, which always lay upon her table. ‘Are there many of you?’

‘Only father and I, now. I mean, only father and I to keep regularly out of what we get.’

‘Have you undergone many privations? You and your father and who else there may be of you?’ asked Mrs Clennam, speaking deliberately, and meditatively turning the watch over and over.

‘Sometimes it has been rather hard to live,’ said Little Dorrit, in her soft voice, and timid uncomplaining way; ‘but I think not harder—as to that—than many people find it.’

‘That’s well said!’ Mrs Clennam quickly returned. ‘That’s the truth! You are a good, thoughtful girl. You are a grateful girl too, or I much mistake you.’

‘It is only natural to be that. There is no merit in being that,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘I am indeed.’

Mrs Clennam, with a gentleness of which the dreaming Affery had never dreamed her to be capable, drew down the face of her little seamstress, and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Now go, Little Dorrit,’ said she, ‘or you will be late, poor child!’

In all the dreams Mistress Affery had been piling up since she first became devoted to the pursuit, she had dreamed nothing more astonishing than this. Her head ached with the idea that she would find the other clever one kissing Little Dorrit next, and then the two clever ones embracing each other and dissolving into tears of tenderness for all mankind. The idea quite stunned her, as she attended the light footsteps down the stairs, that the house door might be safely shut.

On opening it to let Little Dorrit out, she found Mr Pancks, instead of having gone his way, as in any less wonderful place and among less wonderful phenomena he might have been reasonably expected to do, fluttering up and down the court outside the house. The moment he saw Little Dorrit, he passed her briskly, said with his finger to his nose (as Mrs Affery distinctly heard), ‘Pancks the gipsy, fortune-telling,’ and went away. ‘Lord save us, here’s a gipsy and a fortune-teller in it now!’ cried Mistress Affery. ‘What next!’

She stood at the open door, staggering herself with this enigma, on a rainy, thundery evening. The clouds were flying fast, and the wind was coming up in gusts, banging some neighbouring shutters that had broken loose, twirling the rusty chimney-cowls and weather-cocks, and rushing round and round a confined adjacent churchyard as if it had a mind to blow the dead citizens out of their graves. The low thunder, muttering in all quarters of the sky at once, seemed to threaten vengeance for this attempted desecration, and to mutter, ‘Let them rest! Let them rest!’

Mistress Affery, whose fear of thunder and lightning was only to be equalled by her dread of the haunted house with a premature and preternatural darkness in it, stood undecided whether to go in or not, until the question was settled for her by the door blowing upon her in a violent gust of wind and shutting her out. ‘What’s to be done now, what’s to be done now!’ cried Mistress Affery, wringing her hands in this last uneasy dream of all; ‘when she’s all alone by herself inside, and can no more come down to open it than the churchyard dead themselves!’

In this dilemma, Mistress Affery, with her apron as a hood to keep the rain off, ran crying up and down the solitary paved enclosure several times. Why she should then stoop down and look in at the keyhole of the door as if an eye would open it, it would be difficult to say; but it is none the less what most people would have done in the same situation, and it is what she did.

Lentamente e con attenzione, lo sguardo di Signora Clennam si allontanò dalla porta da cui Pancks era uscito, per posarsi su Little Dorrit, che si stava alzando dal tappeto. Con il mento appoggiato più pesantemente sulla mano, gli occhi vigili e abbassati, la donna malata rimase a fissarla fino a quando non attirò la sua attenzione. Little Dorrit arrossì sotto quel sguardo e abbassò lo sguardo a sua volta. Signora Clennam continuava a fissarla con intensità.

“Piccola Dorrit,” disse finalmente, rompendo il silenzio, “cosa sai di quell’uomo?”

“Non so nulla di lui, signora, tranne che l’ho visto alcune volte e che mi ha parlato.”

“Cosa ti ha detto?”

“Non capisco quello che ha detto, è davvero strano. Ma niente di offensivo o sgradevole.”

“Perché viene qui a trovarti?”

“Non lo so, signora,” disse Little Dorrit con perfetta franchezza.

“Lo sai che viene qui apposta per vederti?”

“Lo pensavo anch’io,” disse Little Dorrit. “Ma perché dovrebbe venire qui o da qualche altra parte per farlo, signora, non riesco a capirlo.”

Signora Clennam abbassò lo sguardo a terra; con il suo viso forte e deciso, assorta in un pensiero nel proprio cuore – proprio come poco prima era stata assorta nella figura che sembrava svanire dalla sua vista – rimase immersa in quelle riflessioni. Trascorsero alcuni minuti prima che uscisse da quel stato di meditazione e ripristinasse la propria compostezza solita.

Nel frattempo, Little Dorrit aspettava di poter andarsene, ma aveva paura di disturbare muovendosi. Ora osò lasciare il posto in cui stava da quando si era alzata e passò delicatamente accanto alla sedia a rotelle. Si fermò al suo fianco per dire: “Buona notte, signora.”

Signora Clennam tese la mano e la posò sul suo braccio. La piccola Dorrit, confusa da quel contatto, rimase in piedi, incerta. Forse nella sua mente era appena balenata un ricordo fugace della storia della principessa.

“Dimmi, piccola Dorrit,” disse Signora Clennam, “adesso hai molti amici?”

“Molte poche, signora. Oltre a voi, solo la signorina Flora e, un’altra persona.”

“Voglio dire,” disse Signora Clennam, puntando di nuovo con il dito verso la porta, “quell’uomo?”

‘Oh no, ma’am!’

“Forse un suo amico, ”

“No, signora,” disse seriamente la piccola Dorrit scuotendo la testa. “Oh no. Nessuno che assomigli a lui, o che appartenga a lui.”

“Beh!”, disse Signora Clennam quasi sorridendo. “Non è affar mio. Lo chiedo perché mi interesso a te, e perché credo di essere stata tua amica quando non avevi nessun altro che potesse aiutarti. È vero?”

“Sì, signora; proprio così. Sono stato qui molte volte, e se non fosse stato per lei e per il lavoro che mi ha dato, avremmo avuto bisogno di tutto.”

“Noi,” ripeté Signora Clennam guardando l’orologio, quello di suo defunto marito che era sempre sul suo tavolo. “Siete in molti?”

Solo io e mio padre, ora. Intendo dire, solo noi due dobbiamo assicurarci di non finire mai coinvolti in quelle cose.

“Avete subito molte privazioni? Tu e tuo padre, e chi altro potrebbe esserci tra voi?” chiese Signora Clennam, parlando con deliberazione, mentre girava ripetutamente l’orologio tra le mani.

“A volte è stato davvero difficile vivere,” disse Little Dorrit con la sua voce dolce e il suo modo timido ma senza lamentele; “ma penso che non più difficile di quanto lo trovino molte altre persone.”

“Detto molto bene!” rispose subito Signora Clennam. “È la verità. Sei una ragazza buona e premurosa; sei anche molto grata, altrimenti mi sbaglierei di grosso.”

“È del tutto naturale essere così. Non c’è alcun merito nel comportarsi in quel modo,” disse Little Dorrit. “Infatti, lo sono davvero.”

Signora Clennam, con una dolcezza di cui la sognante Affery non avrebbe mai immaginato che fosse capace, abbassò il viso della sua giovane sarta e le baciò la fronte.

“Ora vai, piccola Dorrit,” le disse, “altrimenti arriverai in ritardo, povera bambina!”

In tutti i sogni che Mistress Affery aveva fatto da quando aveva iniziato a dedicarsi a quella ricerca, non ne aveva mai sognato uno più sorprendente di questo. Le veniva il mal di testa al solo pensiero che potesse trovare l’altra persona intelligente mentre baciava Little Dorrit, e poi che le due persone intelligenti si abbracciassero a vicenda e si trasformassero in lacrime di tenerezza per tutta l’umanità. Quell’idea la lasciò completamente sbalordita, mentre ascoltava i passi leggeri che scendevano le scale, chiedendosi se la porta della casa fosse stata chiusa a chiave.

Aprendola per far uscire Little Dorrit, trovò invece Mr Pancks. Invece di essere andato da qualche altra parte – come ci si sarebbe potuti aspettare in un posto meno meraviglioso, tra fenomeni meno straordinari – lui volava su e giù nel cortile davanti alla casa. Non appena la vide, le passò accanto velocemente, si toccò il naso con un dito (come sentì chiaramente la signora Affery) e disse: “Pancks il gitano, quello che predice il futuro, ”, poi se ne andò. “Signore, salvaci! Ora c’è anche un gitano e una veggente dentro!” esclamò la signora Affery. “Che cosa succederà adesso?”

Stava in piedi alla porta aperta, barcollando sotto l’effetto di questo enigma, in una serata piovosa e tempestosa. Le nuvole volavano velocemente, e il vento soffiava a raffiche, sbattendo contro le persiane vicine che si erano staccate, facendo girare vorticosamente i cappelli di ferro arrugginiti delle ciminiere e gli ornamenti dei camini, e turbinando intorno al cimitero adiacente come se volesse soffiare fuori dalle tombe i cittadini defunti. Il tuono sommesso, che risuonava contemporaneamente in tutte le direzioni del cielo, sembrava minacciare vendetta per questo tentativo di profanazione, e mormorava: “Lasciateli riposare. Lasciateli riposare!”

Signora Affery, la cui paura del tuono e del fulmine era seconda solo alla sua terrore per quella casa infestata, dove regnava un’oscurità prematura e soprannaturale, esitava a decidere se entrare o meno. Finché la questione non fu risolta dal vento che spalancò la porta con violenza, chiudendola fuori. “Cosa devo fare ora? Cosa devo fare?” gridò Signora Affery, stringendo le mani in preda al panico; “Adesso è completamente sola lì dentro, e non può nemmeno uscire, proprio come i morti nel cimitero, ”

In questa situazione di dilemma, Mistress Affery, usando il proprio grembiule come cappuccio per ripararsi dalla pioggia, corse avanti e indietro più volte lungo quel solitario recinto lastricato, piangendo. Perché poi si sia chinata a guardare nella serratura della porta, come se qualcuno potesse aprirla da lì, è difficile dirlo; ma è comunque ciò che avrebbero fatto la maggior parte delle persone al suo posto, ed è esattamente ciò che lei fece.

From this posture she started up suddenly, with a half scream, feeling something on her shoulder. It was the touch of a hand; of a man’s hand.

The man was dressed like a traveller, in a foraging cap with fur about it, and a heap of cloak. He looked like a foreigner. He had a quantity of hair and moustache—jet black, except at the shaggy ends, where it had a tinge of red—and a high hook nose. He laughed at Mistress Affery’s start and cry; and as he laughed, his moustache went up under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked in plain English. ‘What are you frightened at?’

‘At you,’ panted Affery.

‘Me, madam?’

‘And the dismal evening, and—and everything,’ said Affery. ‘And here! The wind has been and blown the door to, and I can’t get in.’

‘Hah!’ said the gentleman, who took that very coolly. ‘Indeed! Do you know such a name as Clennam about here?’

‘Lord bless us, I should think I did, I should think I did!’ cried Affery, exasperated into a new wringing of hands by the inquiry.

‘Where about here?’

‘Where!’ cried Affery, goaded into another inspection of the keyhole. ‘Where but here in this house? And she’s all alone in her room, and lost the use of her limbs and can’t stir to help herself or me, and t’other clever one’s out, and Lord forgive me!’ cried Affery, driven into a frantic dance by these accumulated considerations, ‘if I ain’t a-going headlong out of my mind!’

Taking a warmer view of the matter now that it concerned himself, the gentleman stepped back to glance at the house, and his eye soon rested on the long narrow window of the little room near the hall-door.

‘Where may the lady be who has lost the use of her limbs, madam?’ he inquired, with that peculiar smile which Mistress Affery could not choose but keep her eyes upon.

‘Up there!’ said Affery. ‘Them two windows.’

‘Hah! I am of a fair size, but could not have the honour of presenting myself in that room without a ladder. Now, madam, frankly—frankness is a part of my character—shall I open the door for you?’

‘Yes, bless you, sir, for a dear creetur, and do it at once,’ cried Affery, ‘for she may be a-calling to me at this very present minute, or may be setting herself a fire and burning herself to death, or there’s no knowing what may be happening to her, and me a-going out of my mind at thinking of it!’

‘Stay, my good madam!’ He restrained her impatience with a smooth white hand. ‘Business-hours, I apprehend, are over for the day?’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ cried Affery. ‘Long ago.’

‘Let me make, then, a fair proposal. Fairness is a part of my character. I am just landed from the packet-boat, as you may see.’ He showed her that his cloak was very wet, and that his boots were saturated with water; she had previously observed that he was dishevelled and sallow, as if from a rough voyage, and so chilled that he could not keep his teeth from chattering. ‘I am just landed from the packet-boat, madam, and have been delayed by the weather: the infernal weather! In consequence of this, madam, some necessary business that I should otherwise have transacted here within the regular hours (necessary business because money-business), still remains to be done. Now, if you will fetch any authorised neighbouring somebody to do it in return for my opening the door, I’ll open the door. If this arrangement should be objectionable, I’ll—’ and with the same smile he made a significant feint of backing away.

Mistress Affery, heartily glad to effect the proposed compromise, gave in her willing adhesion to it. The gentleman at once requested her to do him the favour of holding his cloak, took a short run at the narrow window, made a leap at the sill, clung his way up the bricks, and in a moment had his hand at the sash, raising it. His eyes looked so very sinister, as he put his leg into the room and glanced round at Mistress Affery, that she thought with a sudden coldness, if he were to go straight up-stairs to murder the invalid, what could she do to prevent him?

Happily he had no such purpose; for he reappeared, in a moment, at the house door. ‘Now, my dear madam,’ he said, as he took back his cloak and threw it on, ‘if you have the goodness to—what the Devil’s that!’

The strangest of sounds. Evidently close at hand from the peculiar shock it communicated to the air, yet subdued as if it were far off. A tremble, a rumble, and a fall of some light dry matter.

‘What the Devil is it?’

‘I don’t know what it is, but I’ve heard the like of it over and over again,’ said Affery, who had caught his arm.

He could hardly be a very brave man, even she thought in her dreamy start and fright, for his trembling lips had turned colourless. After listening a few moments, he made light of it.

‘Bah! Nothing! Now, my dear madam, I think you spoke of some clever personage. Will you be so good as to confront me with that genius?’ He held the door in his hand, as though he were quite ready to shut her out again if she failed.

‘Don’t you say anything about the door and me, then,’ whispered Affery.

‘Not a word.’

‘And don’t you stir from here, or speak if she calls, while I run round the corner.’

‘Madam, I am a statue.’

Affery had so vivid a fear of his going stealthily up-stairs the moment her back was turned, that after hurrying out of sight, she returned to the gateway to peep at him. Seeing him still on the threshold, more out of the house than in it, as if he had no love for darkness and no desire to probe its mysteries, she flew into the next street, and sent a message into the tavern to Mr Flintwinch, who came out directly. The two returning together—the lady in advance, and Mr Flintwinch coming up briskly behind, animated with the hope of shaking her before she could get housed—saw the gentleman standing in the same place in the dark, and heard the strong voice of Mrs Clennam calling from her room, ‘Who is it? What is it? Why does no one answer? Who is that, down there?’

Da questa posizione si alzò improvvisamente, emettendo un mezzo grido, sentendo qualcosa sulle spalle. Era il tocco di una mano, di una mano maschile.

L’uomo era vestito come un viaggiatore: indossava un cappello foderato di pelliccia e un mantello lungo. Sembrava uno straniero. Aveva una folta chioma e un baffo nero corvino, tranne per le estremità più folte che presentavano una leggera sfumatura rossa; inoltre, aveva il naso adunco e curvo. Rise della reazione spaventata di Mistress Affery; mentre rideva, i suoi baffi si sollevavano verso l’alto e il suo naso sembrava abbassarsi verso di loro.

“Che c’è che non va?” chiese in inglese semplice. “Di cosa hai paura?”

“È il tuo turno,” ansimò Affery.

“Me, signora?”

“E quella triste serata, e tutto il resto,” disse Affery. “E ora eccomi qui! Il vento ha spalancato la porta, e non riesco a entrare.”

“Ah!” disse il gentiluomo, prendendola con estrema calma. “Davvero! Conosci qualcuno di nome Clennam da queste parti?”

“Signore, benedicici. Credo di averlo fatto, credo proprio di sì!”, esclamò Affery, esasperata dal nuovo interrogatorio.

“Che ne dici di qui?”

“Dove!”, gridò Affery, spinta a controllare di nuovo la serratura. “Dove se non in questa casa? E lei è tutta sola nella sua stanza, incapace di muoversi per aiutarsi né aiutarmi. Quell’altra astuta donna se n’è andata. Signore, perdonami!”, esclamò Affery, presa da una frenesia incontrollabile a causa di tutte queste considerazioni. “Se non impazzisco completamente, ”

Adottando ora un punto di vista più positivo, visto che la questione lo riguardava personalmente, il gentiluomo fece un passo indietro per guardare la casa, e i suoi occhi si soffermarono presto sulla lunga e stretta finestra della piccola stanza vicino alla porta d’ingresso.

“Dove potrebbe trovarsi quella signora che ha perso l’uso delle sue membra, signora?” chiese lui, con quel sorriso particolare che Mistress Affery non riuscì a distogliere lo sguardo da.

“Lassù!” disse Affery. “Quei due finestri.”

“Ahah! Sono di statura media, ma non avrei potuto avere l’onore di presentarmi in quella stanza senza una scala. Ora, signora, onestamente – l’onestà fa parte del mio carattere – posso aprire la porta per lei?”

“Sì, vi ringrazio mille, signore, per questo caro essere umano, e fatelo subito,” gridò Affery. “Perché in questo stesso momento potrebbe stare chiamandomi, oppure potrebbe aver acceso un fuoco e bruciarsi viva. Non si sa mai cosa possa esserle successo. E io impazzisco solo a pensarci!”

“Resti qui, mia cara signora!” Le trattenne l’impazienza con una mano bianca e liscia. “Immagino che le ore di lavoro siano già terminate per oggi, ”

“Sì, sì, sì,” gridò Affery. “Molto tempo fa.”

“Allora, lasciate che vi proponga una soluzione equa. L’equità fa parte del mio carattere. Sono appena sbarcato dal battello postale, come potete vedere,” le mostrò il suo mantello completamente bagnato e gli stivali inzuppati d’acqua; lei aveva notato che era trasandato e pallido, come se fosse appena tornato da un viaggio difficile, e così intirrito dal freddo che non riusciva a smettere di battere i denti. “Sono appena sbarcato, signora, e il cattivo tempo mi ha ritardato. Questo maledetto tempo! Di conseguenza, ci sono ancora alcune faccende necessarie che avrei dovuto sbrigare qui entro gli orari normali. Faccende legate al denaro. Ora, se volete chiamare qualcuno del vicinato perché le sbrighi in cambio del mio aiuto ad aprire la porta, lo farò volentieri. Se questa proposta vi sembra inaccettabile, beh, allora, ” e con lo stesso sorriso fece finta di arretrare.

Signora Affery, molto felice di poter attuare il compromesso proposto, vi aderì volentieri. Il gentiluomo le chiese immediatamente di tenergli il mantello; corse verso la stretta finestra, si lanciò sul davanzale, iniziò a salire lungo i mattoni e in un attimo raggiunse la maniglia della finestra, sollevandola. I suoi occhi avevano un’espressione così minacciosa mentre entrava nella stanza e guardava intorno alla signora Affery, che lei pensò con improvvisa apprensione: se avesse deciso di salire direttamente al piano di sopra per uccidere l’infermo, cosa avrebbe potuto fare per impedirglielo?

Fortunatamente non aveva alcun tale scopo; poiché in un attimo ricomparve alla porta della casa. “Ora, mia cara signora,” disse, riprendendo il suo mantello e infilandoselo, “se avete la gentilezza di, ” Ma che diavolo è quello?!

I suoni più strani. Chiaramente vicini, a giudicare dallo shock particolare che provocavano nell’aria, eppure attutiti, come se provenissero da lontano. Un tremore, un rimbombo, e il cadere di qualche sostanza leggera e secca.

“Che diavolo è?”

“Non so di cosa si tratti, ma ho sentito parlare di qualcosa del genere molte volte,” disse Affery, che gli aveva afferrato il braccio.

A malapena poteva essere considerato un uomo molto coraggioso; anche lei lo pensò, nel suo stato di confusione e paura, perché le sue labbra tremanti erano diventate pallide. Dopo aver ascoltato per qualche momento, lui minimizzò la situazione.

“Bah! Niente! Ora, mia cara signora, credo che abbiate parlato di qualche personaggio intelligente. Vorreste avere la gentilezza di presentarmi questo genio?” Teneva la porta in mano, come se fosse pronto a chiuderla di nuovo se lei avesse fallito.

“Allora, non dire nulla riguardo alla porta e a me, va bene?” sussurrò Affery.

‘Niente da dire.’

“E non muoverti da qui, né parlare se lei ti chiama, mentre io vado intorno all’angolo.”

“Signora, sono una statua.”

Affery aveva una tale paura che lui potesse salire di nascosto le scale non appena lei si fosse girata, che, dopo essere corsa via, tornò alla porta d’ingresso per spiagnarlo. Vedendolo ancora sulla soglia, più fuori che dentro la casa, come se non provasse alcun affetto per l’oscurità né desiderio di esplorarne i misteri, fuggì nella strada accanto e inviò un messaggio al signor Flintwinch, il quale uscì immediatamente. I due tornarono insieme: la donna davanti, e il signor Flintwinch che la seguiva di fretta, animato dalla speranza di fermarla prima che riuscisse a rifugiarsi in casa. Videro il gentiluomo ancora fermo nello stesso posto, nell’oscurità, e sentirono la forte voce della signora Clennam chiamare dalla sua stanza: “Chi è? Che cos’è? Perché nessuno risponde? Chi è là sotto?”

CHAPTER 30. The Word of a Gentleman

When Mr and Mrs Flintwinch panted up to the door of the old house in the twilight, Jeremiah within a second of Affery, the stranger started back. ‘Death of my soul!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, how did you get here?’

Mr Flintwinch, to whom these words were spoken, repaid the stranger’s wonder in full. He gazed at him with blank astonishment; he looked over his own shoulder, as expecting to see some one he had not been aware of standing behind him; he gazed at the stranger again, speechlessly, at a loss to know what he meant; he looked to his wife for explanation; receiving none, he pounced upon her, and shook her with such heartiness that he shook her cap off her head, saying between his teeth, with grim raillery, as he did it, ‘Affery, my woman, you must have a dose, my woman! This is some of your tricks! You have been dreaming again, mistress. What’s it about? Who is it? What does it mean! Speak out or be choked! It’s the only choice I’ll give you.’

Supposing Mistress Affery to have any power of election at the moment, her choice was decidedly to be choked; for she answered not a syllable to this adjuration, but, with her bare head wagging violently backwards and forwards, resigned herself to her punishment. The stranger, however, picking up her cap with an air of gallantry, interposed.

‘Permit me,’ said he, laying his hand on the shoulder of Jeremiah, who stopped and released his victim. ‘Thank you. Excuse me. Husband and wife I know, from this playfulness. Haha! Always agreeable to see that relation playfully maintained. Listen! May I suggest that somebody up-stairs, in the dark, is becoming energetically curious to know what is going on here?’

This reference to Mrs Clennam’s voice reminded Mr Flintwinch to step into the hall and call up the staircase. ‘It’s all right, I am here, Affery is coming with your light.’ Then he said to the latter flustered woman, who was putting her cap on, ‘Get out with you, and get up-stairs!’ and then turned to the stranger and said to him, ‘Now, sir, what might you please to want?’

‘I am afraid,’ said the stranger, ‘I must be so troublesome as to propose a candle.’

‘True,’ assented Jeremiah. ‘I was going to do so. Please to stand where you are while I get one.’

The visitor was standing in the doorway, but turned a little into the gloom of the house as Mr Flintwinch turned, and pursued him with his eyes into the little room, where he groped about for a phosphorus box. When he found it, it was damp, or otherwise out of order; and match after match that he struck into it lighted sufficiently to throw a dull glare about his groping face, and to sprinkle his hands with pale little spots of fire, but not sufficiently to light the candle. The stranger, taking advantage of this fitful illumination of his visage, looked intently and wonderingly at him. Jeremiah, when he at last lighted the candle, knew he had been doing this, by seeing the last shade of a lowering watchfulness clear away from his face, as it broke into the doubtful smile that was a large ingredient in its expression.

‘Be so good,’ said Jeremiah, closing the house door, and taking a pretty sharp survey of the smiling visitor in his turn, ‘as to step into my counting-house.—It’s all right, I tell you!’ petulantly breaking off to answer the voice up-stairs, still unsatisfied, though Affery was there, speaking in persuasive tones. ‘Don’t I tell you it’s all right? Preserve the woman, has she no reason at all in her!’

‘Timorous,’ remarked the stranger.

‘Timorous?’ said Mr Flintwinch, turning his head to retort, as he went before with the candle. ‘More courageous than ninety men in a hundred, sir, let me tell you.’

‘Though an invalid?’

‘Many years an invalid. Mrs Clennam. The only one of that name left in the House now. My partner.’

Saying something apologetically as he crossed the hall, to the effect that at that time of night they were not in the habit of receiving any one, and were always shut up, Mr Flintwinch led the way into his own office, which presented a sufficiently business-like appearance. Here he put the light on his desk, and said to the stranger, with his wryest twist upon him, ‘Your commands.’

‘My name is Blandois.’

‘Blandois. I don’t know it,’ said Jeremiah.

‘I thought it possible,’ resumed the other, ‘that you might have been advised from Paris—’

‘We have had no advice from Paris respecting anybody of the name of Blandois,’ said Jeremiah.

‘No?’

‘No.’

Jeremiah stood in his favourite attitude. The smiling Mr Blandois, opening his cloak to get his hand to a breast-pocket, paused to say, with a laugh in his glittering eyes, which it occurred to Mr Flintwinch were too near together:

‘You are so like a friend of mine! Not so identically the same as I supposed when I really did for the moment take you to be the same in the dusk—for which I ought to apologise; permit me to do so; a readiness to confess my errors is, I hope, a part of the frankness of my character—still, however, uncommonly like.’

‘Indeed?’ said Jeremiah, perversely. ‘But I have not received any letter of advice from anywhere respecting anybody of the name of Blandois.’

‘Just so,’ said the stranger.

‘Just so,’ said Jeremiah.

Mr Blandois, not at all put out by this omission on the part of the correspondents of the house of Clennam and Co., took his pocket-book from his breast-pocket, selected a letter from that receptacle, and handed it to Mr Flintwinch. ‘No doubt you are well acquainted with the writing. Perhaps the letter speaks for itself, and requires no advice. You are a far more competent judge of such affairs than I am. It is my misfortune to be, not so much a man of business, as what the world calls (arbitrarily) a gentleman.’

Mr Flintwinch took the letter, and read, under date of Paris, ‘We have to present to you, on behalf of a highly esteemed correspondent of our Firm, M. Blandois, of this city,’ &c. &c. ‘Such facilities as he may require and such attentions as may lie in your power,’ &c. &c. ‘Also have to add that if you will honour M. Blandois’ drafts at sight to the extent of, say Fifty Pounds sterling (50_l_.),’ &c. &c.

CAPITOLO 30. La parola di un gentiluomo

Quando il signor e la signora Flintwinch arrivarono ansimanti alla porta della vecchia >casa al crepuscolo, Jeremiah, appena un secondo dopo Affery, lo sconosciuto iniziò a indietreggiare. “>Morte della mia ‘anima!” esclamò. “Come, come avete fatto ad arrivare qui?”

Il signor Flintwinch, a cui queste parole furono rivolte, ricambiò appieno lo stupore dello sconosciuto. Lo fissò con un’espressione di totale meraviglia; guardò anche lui alle sue spalle, come se si aspettasse di vedere qualcuno che non aveva notato prima; poi osservò di nuovo lo sconosciuto, senza riuscire a pronunciare una parola, completamente confuso su ciò che significassero quelle parole. Chiese spiegazioni a sua moglie, ma non ricevendo alcuna risposta, la afferrò con forza e la scosse così energicamente da farle cadere il cappello; mentre lo faceva, mormorò tra i denti con tono sarcastico: “Affery, mia donna, devi aver preso qualche sostanza stupefacente! Devono essere stati di nuovo i tuoi sogni. Di cosa si tratta? Chi è coinvolto? Cosa significa tutto questo? Parla, altrimenti ti soffocherò. Questa è l’unica scelta che ti lascio.”

Supponendo che Mistress Affery avesse qualche potere decisionale in quel momento, la sua scelta era chiaramente quella di essere soffocata; infatti non rispose nemmeno una parola a quell’invito, ma, scuotendo violentemente la testa avanti e indietro, si rassegnò al suo destino. Tuttavia, lo sconosciuto, raccoltole le sue scarpe con aria galante, intervenne.

“Permettetemi,” disse, posando la mano sulla spalla di Jeremiah, che si fermò e lasciò andare la sua vittima. “Grazie. Scusate. Conosco bene questa natura giocosa tra marito e moglie. Ahah! È sempre piacevole vedere che quel rapporto venga mantenuto in modo così spensierato. Ascoltate. Posso forse suggerire che qualcuno, lassù al piano di sopra, al buio, stia diventando molto curioso di sapere cosa sta succedendo qui?”

Questo riferimento alla voce di Mrs Clennam fece ricordare a Mr Flintwinch di entrare nell’atrio e chiamare qualcuno al piano di sopra. “Va tutto bene, sono qui; Affery sta venendo con la lampada.” Poi disse alla donna agitata che stava mettendosi il cappello: “Vai via subito e sali al piano di sopra!” E infine si rivolse allo sconosciuto: “Ora, signore, in cosa posso esservi d’aiuto?”

“Temo,” disse lo sconosciuto, “di essere così invadente da proporre di accendere una candela.”

“Vero,” concordò Jeremiah. “Intanto avevo intenzione di farlo. Per favore, rimanete dove siete mentre ne prendo uno.”

Il visitatore stava fermo sulla soglia, ma si spostò leggermente nell’oscurità della >casa quando il signor Flintwinch si girò e lo seguì con lo sguardo fino nella piccola stanza, dove lui cercò a tentoni una scatola di fosforo. Quando la trovò, era umida o comunque non funzionava correttamente; una dopo l’altra, le fiammelle che accendeva producevano solo un debole bagliore che illuminava appena il suo viso e lasciava piccole macchie di >fiamma sulle sue mani, ma non abbastanza per accendere la candela. Il forestiero, approfittando di questa luce intermittente, lo osservò attentamente e con curiosità. Quando finalmente Jeremiah riuscì ad accendere la candela, capì che il visitatore lo aveva fatto: vide infatti scomparire quell’aria guardinga dal suo viso, sostituita da un sorriso incerto che ne caratterizzava l’espressione.

“Sei davvero così brava,” disse Jeremiah, chiudendo la porta di casa e osservando a sua volta la visitatrice sorridente, “da poter entrare nella mia, casa dei conti. Va tutto bene, te lo dico io!” interruppe petulantemente per rispondere alla voce al piano di sopra; non era ancora soddisfatto, anche se Affery c’era e parlava con toni persuasivi. “Non ti ho detto che va tutto bene? Bisogna proteggere questa donna. Non ha forse alcun diritto?”

“Timido”, osservò lo sconosciuto.

“Timoroso?”, disse il signor Flintwinch, girando la testa per rispondere mentre procedeva avanti con la candela. “Più coraggioso di novanta uomini su cento, signore, lasciate che ve lo dica.”

“Anche se invalido?”

“Per molti anni è stata una donna invalida. Signora Clennam. L’unica persona con quel nome rimasta ormai in quella >casa. La mia compagna.”

Mentre attraversava il corridoio, disse qualcosa in tono di scusa, spiegando che a quell’ora di notte non erano abituati ad accogliere nessuno e che di solito stavano chiusi in casa. Poi Mr Flintwinch lo guidò nel proprio ufficio, il quale presentava un aspetto decisamente professionale. Lì accese la luce sulla scrivania e, con un sorriso ironico, disse al visitatore: “Allora, ditemi quali sono i vostri ordini.”

“Mi chiamo Blandois.”

“Blandois. Non lo conosco,” disse Jeremiah.

“Pensavo fosse possibile,” continuò l’altro, “che tu avessi ricevuto consigli da Parigi, ”

“Non abbiamo ricevuto alcun consiglio da Parigi riguardo a qualcuno di nome Blandois,” disse Jeremiah.

‘No?’

‘No.’

Jeremiah assunse la sua posizione preferita. Il sorridente signor Blandois, aprendo il suo mantello per raggiungere una tasca sul petto, si fermò e disse, con un sorriso nei suoi occhi scintillanti, che al signor Flintwinch sembravano troppo vicini tra loro.

“Sei proprio come un mio amico! Non esattamente identico a me, come avevo pensato quando, per un momento, ti ho scambiato per qualcuno simile a me al crepuscolo. Per questo dovrei scusarmi; permettimelo. La disponibilità ad ammettere i propri errori, spero, faccia parte della franchezza del mio carattere. Comunque, siamo davvero molto simili.”

“Davvero?” disse Jeremiah, in modo perverso. “Ma non ho ricevuto alcuna lettera di consiglio da nessuna parte riguardo a qualcuno di nome Blandois.”

“Solo per essere sicuri,” disse lo sconosciuto.

“Solo per questo,” disse Jeremiah.

Il signor Blandois, affatto non turbato da questa omissione da parte dei corrispondenti della casa Clennam e Co., tirò fuori il suo portafoglio dalla tasca del petto, ne selezionò una lettera e la porse al signor Flintwinch. “Non c’è dubbio che lei conosca bene questa scrittura. Forse la lettera parla da sé e non richiede alcun consiglio. Lei è sicuramente un giudice molto più competente in queste questioni di quanto lo sia io. È una mia sfortuna essere, piuttosto che un uomo d’affari, ciò che il mondo definisce (arbitrariamente) un gentiluomo.”

Il signor Flintwinch prese la lettera e lesse: “In data di Parigi, dobbiamo presentarvi, a nome di un molto stimato corrispondente della nostra azienda, il signor Blandois di questa città, ” E così via. “Vi chiediamo di fornire tutte le facilitazioni che possa richiedere e di prestare quell’attenzione che sia in vostro potere, ” E ancora: “Inoltre, vi ricordiamo che se vorrete onorare i suoi assegni alla vista per un importo massimo di cinquanta sterline britanniche (50_l._),, ” E così via.

‘Very good, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Take a chair. To the extent of anything that our House can do—we are in a retired, old-fashioned, steady way of business, sir—we shall be happy to render you our best assistance. I observe, from the date of this, that we could not yet be advised of it. Probably you came over with the delayed mail that brings the advice.’

‘That I came over with the delayed mail, sir,’ returned Mr Blandois, passing his white hand down his high-hooked nose, ‘I know to the cost of my head and stomach: the detestable and intolerable weather having racked them both. You see me in the plight in which I came out of the packet within this half-hour. I ought to have been here hours ago, and then I should not have to apologise—permit me to apologise—for presenting myself so unreasonably, and frightening—no, by-the-bye, you said not frightening; permit me to apologise again—the esteemed lady, Mrs Clennam, in her invalid chamber above stairs.’

Swagger and an air of authorised condescension do so much, that Mr Flintwinch had already begun to think this a highly gentlemanly personage. Not the less unyielding with him on that account, he scraped his chin and said, what could he have the honour of doing for Mr Blandois to-night, out of business hours?

‘Faith!’ returned that gentleman, shrugging his cloaked shoulders, ‘I must change, and eat and drink, and be lodged somewhere. Have the kindness to advise me, a total stranger, where, and money is a matter of perfect indifference until to-morrow. The nearer the place, the better. Next door, if that’s all.’

Mr Flintwinch was slowly beginning, ‘For a gentleman of your habits, there is not in this immediate neighbourhood any hotel—’ when Mr Blandois took him up.

‘So much for my habits! my dear sir,’ snapping his fingers. ‘A citizen of the world has no habits. That I am, in my poor way, a gentleman, by Heaven! I will not deny, but I have no unaccommodating prejudiced habits. A clean room, a hot dish for dinner, and a bottle of not absolutely poisonous wine, are all I want tonight. But I want that much without the trouble of going one unnecessary inch to get it.’

‘There is,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with more than his usual deliberation, as he met, for a moment, Mr Blandois’ shining eyes, which were restless; ‘there is a coffee-house and tavern close here, which, so far, I can recommend; but there’s no style about it.’

‘I dispense with style!’ said Mr Blandois, waving his hand. ‘Do me the honour to show me the house, and introduce me there (if I am not too troublesome), and I shall be infinitely obliged.’

Mr Flintwinch, upon this, looked up his hat, and lighted Mr Blandois across the hall again. As he put the candle on a bracket, where the dark old panelling almost served as an extinguisher for it, he bethought himself of going up to tell the invalid that he would not be absent five minutes.

‘Oblige me,’ said the visitor, on his saying so, ‘by presenting my card of visit. Do me the favour to add that I shall be happy to wait on Mrs Clennam, to offer my personal compliments, and to apologise for having occasioned any agitation in this tranquil corner, if it should suit her convenience to endure the presence of a stranger for a few minutes, after he shall have changed his wet clothes and fortified himself with something to eat and drink.’

Jeremiah made all despatch, and said, on his return, ‘She’ll be glad to see you, sir; but, being conscious that her sick room has no attractions, wishes me to say that she won’t hold you to your offer, in case you should think better of it.’

‘To think better of it,’ returned the gallant Blandois, ‘would be to slight a lady; to slight a lady would be to be deficient in chivalry towards the sex; and chivalry towards the sex is a part of my character!’ Thus expressing himself, he threw the draggled skirt of his cloak over his shoulder, and accompanied Mr Flintwinch to the tavern; taking up on the road a porter who was waiting with his portmanteau on the outer side of the gateway.

The house was kept in a homely manner, and the condescension of Mr Blandois was infinite. It seemed to fill to inconvenience the little bar in which the widow landlady and her two daughters received him; it was much too big for the narrow wainscoted room with a bagatelle-board in it, that was first proposed for his reception; it perfectly swamped the little private holiday sitting-room of the family, which was finally given up to him. Here, in dry clothes and scented linen, with sleeked hair, a great ring on each forefinger and a massive show of watch-chain, Mr Blandois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a window-seat with his knees drawn up, looked (for all the difference in the setting of the jewel) fearfully and wonderfully like a certain Monsieur Rigaud who had once so waited for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of the iron grating of a cell in a villainous dungeon at Marseilles.

His greed at dinner, too, was closely in keeping with the greed of Monsieur Rigaud at breakfast. His avaricious manner of collecting all the eatables about him, and devouring some with his eyes while devouring others with his jaws, was the same manner. His utter disregard of other people, as shown in his way of tossing the little womanly toys of furniture about, flinging favourite cushions under his boots for a softer rest, and crushing delicate coverings with his big body and his great black head, had the same brute selfishness at the bottom of it. The softly moving hands that were so busy among the dishes had the old wicked facility of the hands that had clung to the bars. And when he could eat no more, and sat sucking his delicate fingers one by one and wiping them on a cloth, there wanted nothing but the substitution of vine-leaves to finish the picture.

On this man, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down in that most evil of smiles, and with his surface eyes looking as if they belonged to his dyed hair, and had had their natural power of reflecting light stopped by some similar process, Nature, always true, and never working in vain, had set the mark, Beware! It was not her fault, if the warning were fruitless. She is never to blame in any such instance.

“Molto bene, signore,” disse il signor Flintwinch. “Si sieda pure. Nella misura in cui la nostra >Casa possa essere d’aiuto, noi operiamo secondo metodi tradizionali e affidabili, signore, saremo felici di offrirle tutto il nostro sostegno. Noto che, a partire da questa data, non eravamo ancora stati informati della sua richiesta. Probabilmente è arrivata con la posta in ritardo che fornisce tali informazioni.”

“Che sono arrivato con la posta in ritardo, signore,” rispose il signor Blandois, passandosi la mano bianca lungo il naso adunco, “lo so a mie spese: il tempo orribile e insopportabile ne ha colpito entrambi. Vedete in quale stato mi trovo. Sono uscito da quel pacco appena mezz’ora fa. Avrei dovuto essere qui ore fa, e allora non avrei dovuto scusarmi. Permettetemi di scusarmi ancora una volta per essermi presentato in modo così inopportuno e, spaventoso. No, anzi, avete detto che non era spaventoso; permettetemi comunque di scusarmi. La rispettabile signora, la signora Clennam, nella sua stanza al piano di sopra, ”

Lo sfarzo e quell’aria di condiscendenza autorizzata facevano sì che il signor Flintwinch iniziasse già a considerarlo una persona davvero gentiluomo. Tuttavia, non per questo diventava meno inflessibile con lui: si grattò la barba e chiese quale onore avrebbe potuto avere nell’aiutare il signor Blandois quella notte, al di fuori degli orari lavorativi.

“‘Faith!’” rispose quel gentiluomo, scrollando le spalle avvolte nel mantello, “Devo cambiarmi, mangiare, bere e trovare un posto dove dormire. Abbiate la gentilezza di consigliarmi. Sono un perfetto estraneo: l’ubicazione non ha alcuna importanza per me, e il denaro, beh, è del tutto irrilevante fino a domani. Più vicino possibile al luogo dove devo andare, meglio ancora. Anche se fosse proprio accanto, ”

Il signor Flintwinch stava lentamente iniziando a dire: “Per un gentiluomo dalle vostre abitudini, non esiste nessun albergo nelle immediate vicinanze, ” quando il signor Blandois lo interruppe.

“Ecco come stanno le cose con le mie abitudini. Mio caro signore,” disse battendo le dita. “Un cittadino del mondo non ha abitudini. Io, in modo modesto, sono un gentiluomo. Per Dio! Non lo nego, ma non ho alcuna abitudine pregiudiziosa o difficile da soddisfare. Una stanza pulita, un piatto caldo per cena e una bottiglia di vino che non sia del tutto velenoso. Questo è tutto ciò che desidero stasera. Ma lo voglio senza dover compiere il minimo sforzo inutile per ottenerlo.”

“C’è,” disse il signor Flintwinch, con più riflessione del solito,
mentre per un momento incrociò lo sguardo brillante e inquieto del signor Blandois;
“c’è una caffetteria e una taverna qui vicino che, per ora, posso consigliare. Ma non ha certo molto stile.”

“Mi disinteresso dello stile!” disse il signor Blandois, agitando la mano. “Facciatemi l’onore di mostrarmi la casa e di presentarmici lì (se non sono troppo fastidioso), e vi sarò infinitamente grato.”

A questo punto, il signor Flintwinch si alzò in piedi, si mise il cappello e tornò da Mr Blandois, dall’altra parte del corridoio. Mentre posava la candela su un supporto, dove le vecchie assi scure quasi fungevano da estintore, pensò di salire a dire all’infermo che non sarebbe stato assente per più di cinque minuti.

“Per favore, mi obblighi,” disse il visitatore, “presentandomi la mia carta da visita. Le chiedo inoltre di accettare che io sia felice di rendere omaggio a Madame Clennam, di esprimerle i miei personali complimenti e di scusarmi per eventuali disturbi causati in questo angolo tranquillo. Se le fosse possibile sopportare la presenza di uno sconosciuto per qualche minuto, dopo che avrà cambiato i vestiti bagnati e mangiato qualcosa, ”

Jeremiah si affrettò a compiere il suo incarico e, al suo ritorno, disse: “Le farà piacere vedervi, signore; ma, essendo consapevole che la sua stanza da malata non offre nulla di interessante, mi ha chiesto di dirvi che non vi obbligherà ad mantenere la vostra offerta, nel caso in cui cambiate idea.”

“Rifletterci meglio sopra,” rispose il nobile Blandois, “significherebbe mancare di rispetto verso una signora; mancare di rispetto verso una signora equivarrebbe a non essere un vero cavaliere verso il genere femminile; e essere un vero cavaliere verso il genere femminile fa parte del mio carattere!” Dopo aver espresso queste parole, gettò sulla spalla la gonna stracciata del suo mantello e accompagnò il signor Flintwinch alla taverna; lungo la strada, prese con sé un portiere che aspettava con il suo baule sul lato esterno del cancello.

La casa era tenuta in modo molto accogliente, e la gentilezza del signor Blandois era davvero infinita. Sembrava addirittura ingombrare troppo quel piccolo salotto dove la vedova proprietaria di casa e le sue due figlie lo ricevevano; era decisamente troppo grande per quella stanzetta stretta, con i muri rivestiti di pannelli e un piccolo tavolino da gioco, che inizialmente era stata proposta come luogo adatto per accoglierlo. Finì per occupare completamente anche il piccolo salotto privato della famiglia, che alla fine fu messo a sua disposizione. Lì, con indumenti puliti e lenzuola profumate, i capelli ben pettinati, un grosso anello su ogni dito indice e una vistosa catena d’orologio, il signor Blandois aspettava la cena, sdraiato su una poltrona accanto alla finestra con le ginocchia raccolte. E, nonostante le differenze nell’ambiente in cui si trovava, assomigliava terribilmente – e al contempo meravigliosamente – a un certo Monsieur Rigaud che, un tempo, aveva aspettato la colazione sdraiato sul bordo di una grata di ferro, all’interno di una prigione orribile a Marsiglia.

La sua avidità a cena era, in tutto e per tutto, simile all’avidità di Monsieur Rigaud a colazione. Il suo modo avido di raccogliere tutti i cibi intorno a sé, divorando alcuni con gli occhi mentre ne mangiava altri con la bocca, era esattamente lo stesso. La sua totale indifferenza verso gli altri, dimostrata nel modo in cui gettava via quegli oggetti di arredamento così delicati e femminili, nel lanciare i cuscini preferiti sotto le sue scarpe per un riposo più confortevole, e nel schiacciare quelle coperture fragili con il suo grande corpo e la sua enorme testa nera, rifletteva sempre lo stesso egoismo brutale. Le mani agili che si muovevano velocemente tra i piatti possedevano ancora quella stessa abilità malvagia delle mani che un tempo si erano aggrappate alle sbarre. E quando non riusciva più a mangiare, seduto a succhiarsi le dita una per una e ad asciugarle con un panno, mancava soltanto il sostituto delle foglie di vino per completare completamente quell’immagine.

Su quest’uomo, con quel mustache che si sollevava e il naso che si abbassava in quel sorriso estremamente malvagio, e con quegli occhi apparentemente fatti per abbinarsi ai suoi capelli tinti, i cui naturali poteri di riflettere la luce erano stati distrutti da qualche processo simile. Natura, sempre fedele e mai operosa invano, aveva posto quel segnale d’allarme: “Attenzione!”. Non era colpa sua se quell’avvertimento risultava inutile. In nessun caso si poteva biasimarla.

Mr Blandois, having finished his repast and cleaned his fingers, took a cigar from his pocket, and, lying on the window-seat again, smoked it out at his leisure, occasionally apostrophising the smoke as it parted from his thin lips in a thin stream:

‘Blandois, you shall turn the tables on society, my little child. Haha! Holy blue, you have begun well, Blandois! At a pinch, an excellent master in English or French; a man for the bosom of families! You have a quick perception, you have humour, you have ease, you have insinuating manners, you have a good appearance; in effect, you are a gentleman! A gentleman you shall live, my small boy, and a gentleman you shall die. You shall win, however the game goes. They shall all confess your merit, Blandois. You shall subdue the society which has grievously wronged you, to your own high spirit. Death of my soul! You are high spirited by right and by nature, my Blandois!’

To such soothing murmurs did this gentleman smoke out his cigar and drink out his bottle of wine. Both being finished, he shook himself into a sitting attitude; and with the concluding serious apostrophe, ‘Hold, then! Blandois, you ingenious one, have all your wits about you!’ arose and went back to the house of Clennam and Co.

He was received at the door by Mistress Affery, who, under instructions from her lord, had lighted up two candles in the hall and a third on the staircase, and who conducted him to Mrs Clennam’s room. Tea was prepared there, and such little company arrangements had been made as usually attended the reception of expected visitors. They were slight on the greatest occasion, never extending beyond the production of the China tea-service, and the covering of the bed with a sober and sad drapery. For the rest, there was the bier-like sofa with the block upon it, and the figure in the widow’s dress, as if attired for execution; the fire topped by the mound of damped ashes; the grate with its second little mound of ashes; the kettle and the smell of black dye; all as they had been for fifteen years.

Mr Flintwinch presented the gentleman commended to the consideration of Clennam and Co. Mrs Clennam, who had the letter lying before her, bent her head and requested him to sit. They looked very closely at one another. That was but natural curiosity.

‘I thank you, sir, for thinking of a disabled woman like me. Few who come here on business have any remembrance to bestow on one so removed from observation. It would be idle to expect that they should have. Out of sight, out of mind. While I am grateful for the exception, I don’t complain of the rule.’

Mr Blandois, in his most gentlemanly manner, was afraid he had disturbed her by unhappily presenting himself at such an unconscionable time. For which he had already offered his best apologies to Mr—he begged pardon—but by name had not the distinguished honour—

‘Mr Flintwinch has been connected with the House many years.’

Mr Blandois was Mr Flintwinch’s most obedient humble servant. He entreated Mr Flintwinch to receive the assurance of his profoundest consideration.

‘My husband being dead,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and my son preferring another pursuit, our old House has no other representative in these days than Mr Flintwinch.’

‘What do you call yourself?’ was the surly demand of that gentleman. ‘You have the head of two men.’

‘My sex disqualifies me,’ she proceeded with merely a slight turn of her eyes in Jeremiah’s direction, ‘from taking a responsible part in the business, even if I had the ability; and therefore Mr Flintwinch combines my interest with his own, and conducts it. It is not what it used to be; but some of our old friends (principally the writers of this letter) have the kindness not to forget us, and we retain the power of doing what they entrust to us as efficiently as we ever did. This however is not interesting to you. You are English, sir?’

‘Faith, madam, no; I am neither born nor bred in England. In effect, I am of no country,’ said Mr Blandois, stretching out his leg and smiting it: ‘I descend from half-a-dozen countries.’

‘You have been much about the world?’

‘It is true. By Heaven, madam, I have been here and there and everywhere!’

‘You have no ties, probably. Are not married?’

‘Madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with an ugly fall of his eyebrows, ‘I adore your sex, but I am not married—never was.’

Mistress Affery, who stood at the table near him, pouring out the tea, happened in her dreamy state to look at him as he said these words, and to fancy that she caught an expression in his eyes which attracted her own eyes so that she could not get them away. The effect of this fancy was to keep her staring at him with the tea-pot in her hand, not only to her own great uneasiness, but manifestly to his, too; and, through them both, to Mrs Clennam’s and Mr Flintwinch’s. Thus a few ghostly moments supervened, when they were all confusedly staring without knowing why.

‘Affery,’ her mistress was the first to say, ‘what is the matter with you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mistress Affery, with her disengaged left hand extended towards the visitor. ‘It ain’t me. It’s him!’

‘What does this good woman mean?’ cried Mr Blandois, turning white, hot, and slowly rising with a look of such deadly wrath that it contrasted surprisingly with the slight force of his words. ‘How is it possible to understand this good creature?’

‘It’s not possible,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself rapidly in that direction. ‘She don’t know what she means. She’s an idiot, a wanderer in her mind. She shall have a dose, she shall have such a dose! Get along with you, my woman,’ he added in her ear, ‘get along with you, while you know you’re Affery, and before you’re shaken to yeast.’

Mistress Affery, sensible of the danger in which her identity stood, relinquished the tea-pot as her husband seized it, put her apron over her head, and in a twinkling vanished. The visitor gradually broke into a smile, and sat down again.

Il signor Blandois, dopo aver finito di mangiare e pulitosi le dita, tirò fuori un sigaro dalla tasca e, sdraiandosi di nuovo sul sedile accanto alla finestra, lo fumò con calma, apostrofando di tanto in tanto il fumo che usciva dalle sue sottili labbra sotto forma di sottili fili.

‘Blandois, tu riuscirai a ribaltare le regole della società, mio piccolo >bambino. Ahah! Dio mio, hai iniziato davvero bene, Blandois! In caso di necessità, sei un ottimo maestro di inglese o francese; un uomo adatto a entrare nel cuore delle famiglie! Hai una grande intuizione, senso dell’umorismo, disinvoltura, modi affabili e un aspetto gradevole. In breve, sei un vero gentiluomo! Vivrai come un gentiluomo, e morirai come un gentiluomo. Vincerai, qualunque sia l’esito della situazione. Tutti riconosceranno i tuoi meriti, Blandois. Riuscirai a sottomettere quella società che ti ha così gravemente ingiustamente trattato, al tuo nobile spirito. Mio Dio! Sei davvero nato per essere un gentiluomo, mio caro Blandois!’

Mentre ascoltava questi dolci mormori, il signore fumò la sua sigara e bevve tutta la bottiglia di vino. Una volta terminati entrambi gli atti, si raddrizzò e, con un ultimo commento serio: “Ebbene, Blandois, tu geniale individuo, hai davvero tutte le tue facoltà mentali intatte!”, tornò alla casa di Clennam e Co.

Fu accolto alla porta da Mistress Affery, la quale, su istruzioni del suo padrone, aveva acceso due candele nel salone e una terza sulle scale, e lo accompagnò nella stanza di Mrs Clennam. Lì era già pronto il tè, e erano stati fatti quei piccoli preparativi che di solito si adottavano per accogliere visite attese. Anche in questa occasione i preparativi furono semplici: non andarono oltre l’uso della servizio da tè in porcellana cinese e il coprire il letto con una stoffa sobria e triste. Il resto era come sempre: il divano simile a un catafalco, la figura vestita a lutto, come se fosse pronta per l’esecuzione; il camino con la pila di cenere umida; la grata con un’altra piccola pila di cenere; la teiera e l’odore del colore nero. Tutto esattamente come negli ultimi quindici anni.

Il signor Flintwinch presentò il gentiluomo da esaminare a mrs Clennam e ai suoi soci; lei, con la lettera davanti a sé, chinò la testa e gli chiese di sedersi. Si osservarono attentamente a vicenda. Era pura curiosità naturale.

“Grazie, signore, per aver pensato a una donna disabile come me. Pochi di coloro che vengono qui per affari hanno la gentilezza di ricordarsi di qualcuno così lontano dall’attenzione generale. Sarebbe inutile aspettarselo. Fuori dalla vista, fuori dal cuore. Anche se sono grata per questa eccezione, non mi lamento della regola.”

Il signor Blandois, con la sua più gentile cortesia, temeva di averla disturbata presentandosi in un momento così inappropriato. Per questo aveva già offerto le sue scuse più sincere al signor, pregava per il suo perdono, ma non ricordava il nome di quella distinta persona.

‘Il signor Flintwinch è legato a questa casa da molti anni.’

Il signor Blandois era il servitore più obbediente e umile del signor Flintwinch. Lo pregò di accettare le sue più sincere dimostrazioni di rispetto.

“Mio marito è morto,” disse Signora Clennam, “e mio figlio preferisce intraprendere altre strade; quindi, nella nostra vecchia >Casa, al giorno d’oggi non c’è altro rappresentante se non il signor Flintwinch.”

“Come ti chiami?” fu la domanda brusca di quel signore.
“Hai la testa di due uomini.”

“Il mio sesso mi esclude,” proseguì lei, rivolgendo solo un leggero sguardo verso Jeremiah, “dal prendere parte in modo responsabile a queste attività, anche se ne avessi le capacità; ed è per questo che il signor Flintwinch unisce i miei interessi ai suoi e gestisce tutto insieme. Non è più come una volta. Ma alcuni dei nostri vecchi amici (soprattutto gli autori di questa lettera) hanno la gentilezza di non dimenticarci, e noi continuiamo a svolgere con efficacia il compito che ci affidano. Tuttavia, questo non vi interessa. Voi siete inglese, vero?”

“‘Faith, signora, no; non sono né nato né cresciuto in Inghilterra. Di fatto, non appartengo a nessun paese,” disse il signor Blandois, allungando la gamba e battendola: “Sono discendente di mezza dozzina di paesi.”

“Hai viaggiato molto in giro per il mondo?”

“È vero. Per Dio, signora, sono stato dappertutto!”

“Probabilmente non hai legami familiari. Non sei sposato?”

“Signora,” disse il signor Blandois, abbassando orribilmente le sopracciglia, “amo il vostro sesso, ma non sono sposato. Non lo sono mai stato.”

La signora Affery, che stava vicino al tavolo versando il tè, nel suo stato di distrazione lo guardò mentre pronunciava queste parole e le sembrò di notare un’espressione nei suoi occhi che attirò i suoi propri, impedendole di distogliere lo sguardo. Quest’illusione la fece continuare a fissarlo con la teiera in mano, causando grande imbarazzo sia a lei che a lui; e, attraverso entrambi, anche a la signora Clennam e al signor Flintwinch. Così trascorsero alcuni momenti strani, durante i quali tutti fissavano l’uno l’altro senza sapere il motivo.

“Affery,” disse per prima la sua padrona, “che cosa ti è successo?”

“Non lo so,” disse la signora Affery, tendendo con la mano sinistra distesa verso la visitatrice. “Non sono stata io. È stato lui!”

“Cosa intende dire questa brava donna?”, gridò il signor Blandois, impallidendo e arrossendo, alzandosi lentamente con uno sguardo di furia così mortale da contrastare stranamente con la debole forza delle sue parole. “Come è possibile capire questo essere gentile?”

“È impossibile”, disse il signor Flintwinch, girandosi rapidamente in quella direzione. “Non sa nemmeno cosa intenda. È un’idiota, una persona con la mente confusa. Le darò una dose. Una dose forte! Vattene via, mia donna”, le sussurrò all’orecchio, “vattene prima che tu perda completamente il senno.”

Signora Affery, consapevole del pericolo in cui la sua identità si trovava, abbandonò la teiera non appena suo marito la afferrò, si mise il grembiule in testa e scomparve in un attimo. La visita, gradualmente, riprese a sorridere e si sedette di nuovo.

‘You’ll excuse her, Mr Blandois,’ said Jeremiah, pouring out the tea himself, ‘she’s failing and breaking up; that’s what she’s about. Do you take sugar, sir?’

‘Thank you, no tea for me.—Pardon my observing it, but that’s a very remarkable watch!’

The tea-table was drawn up near the sofa, with a small interval between it and Mrs Clennam’s own particular table. Mr Blandois in his gallantry had risen to hand that lady her tea (her dish of toast was already there), and it was in placing the cup conveniently within her reach that the watch, lying before her as it always did, attracted his attention. Mrs Clennam looked suddenly up at him.

‘May I be permitted? Thank you. A fine old-fashioned watch,’ he said, taking it in his hand. ‘Heavy for use, but massive and genuine. I have a partiality for everything genuine. Such as I am, I am genuine myself. Hah! A gentleman’s watch with two cases in the old fashion. May I remove it from the outer case? Thank you. Aye? An old silk watch-lining, worked with beads! I have often seen these among old Dutch people and Belgians. Quaint things!’

‘They are old-fashioned, too,’ said Mrs Clennam.

‘Very. But this is not so old as the watch, I think?’

‘I think not.’

‘Extraordinary how they used to complicate these cyphers!’ remarked Mr Blandois, glancing up with his own smile again. ‘Now is this D. N. F.? It might be almost anything.’

‘Those are the letters.’

Mr Flintwinch, who had been observantly pausing all this time with a cup of tea in his hand, and his mouth open ready to swallow the contents, began to do so: always entirely filling his mouth before he emptied it at a gulp; and always deliberating again before he refilled it.

‘D. N. F. was some tender, lovely, fascinating fair-creature, I make no doubt,’ observed Mr Blandois, as he snapped on the case again. ‘I adore her memory on the assumption. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I adore but too readily. It may be a vice, it may be a virtue, but adoration of female beauty and merit constitutes three parts of my character, madam.’

Mr Flintwinch had by this time poured himself out another cup of tea, which he was swallowing in gulps as before, with his eyes directed to the invalid.

‘You may be heart-free here, sir,’ she returned to Mr Blandois. ‘Those letters are not intended, I believe, for the initials of any name.’

‘Of a motto, perhaps,’ said Mr Blandois, casually.

‘Of a sentence. They have always stood, I believe, for Do Not Forget!’

‘And naturally,’ said Mr Blandois, replacing the watch and stepping backward to his former chair, ‘you do not forget.’

Mr Flintwinch, finishing his tea, not only took a longer gulp than he had taken yet, but made his succeeding pause under new circumstances: that is to say, with his head thrown back and his cup held still at his lips, while his eyes were still directed at the invalid. She had that force of face, and that concentrated air of collecting her firmness or obstinacy, which represented in her case what would have been gesture and action in another, as she replied with her deliberate strength of speech:

‘No, sir, I do not forget. To lead a life as monotonous as mine has been during many years, is not the way to forget. To lead a life of self-correction is not the way to forget. To be sensible of having (as we all have, every one of us, all the children of Adam!) offences to expiate and peace to make, does not justify the desire to forget. Therefore I have long dismissed it, and I neither forget nor wish to forget.’

Mr Flintwinch, who had latterly been shaking the sediment at the bottom of his tea-cup, round and round, here gulped it down, and putting the cup in the tea-tray, as done with, turned his eyes upon Mr Blandois as if to ask him what he thought of that?

‘All expressed, madam,’ said Mr Blandois, with his smoothest bow and his white hand on his breast, ‘by the word “naturally,” which I am proud to have had sufficient apprehension and appreciation (but without appreciation I could not be Blandois) to employ.’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ she returned, ‘if I doubt the likelihood of a gentleman of pleasure, and change, and politeness, accustomed to court and to be courted—’

‘Oh madam! By Heaven!’

‘—If I doubt the likelihood of such a character quite comprehending what belongs to mine in my circumstances. Not to obtrude doctrine upon you,’ she looked at the rigid pile of hard pale books before her, ‘(for you go your own way, and the consequences are on your own head), I will say this much: that I shape my course by pilots, strictly by proved and tried pilots, under whom I cannot be shipwrecked—can not be—and that if I were unmindful of the admonition conveyed in those three letters, I should not be half as chastened as I am.’

It was curious how she seized the occasion to argue with some invisible opponent. Perhaps with her own better sense, always turning upon herself and her own deception.

‘If I forgot my ignorances in my life of health and freedom, I might complain of the life to which I am now condemned. I never do; I never have done. If I forgot that this scene, the Earth, is expressly meant to be a scene of gloom, and hardship, and dark trial, for the creatures who are made out of its dust, I might have some tenderness for its vanities. But I have no such tenderness. If I did not know that we are, every one, the subject (most justly the subject) of a wrath that must be satisfied, and against which mere actions are nothing, I might repine at the difference between me, imprisoned here, and the people who pass that gateway yonder. But I take it as a grace and favour to be elected to make the satisfaction I am making here, to know what I know for certain here, and to work out what I have worked out here. My affliction might otherwise have had no meaning to me. Hence I would forget, and I do forget, nothing. Hence I am contented, and say it is better with me than with millions.’

“Perdonatela, signor Blandois,” disse Jeremiah, versandosi da solo il tè, “sta peggiorando giorno dopo giorno. È proprio questo che sta succedendo. Vi piace lo zucchero, signore?”

“Grazie, non voglio il tè. Scusate se lo dico, ma quell’orologio è davvero notevole!”

Il tavolino da tè era stato messo vicino al divano, con un piccolo spazio tra esso e il tavolo personale di Signora Clennam. Il signor Blandois, per gentilezza, si era alzato per servire la signora il suo tè (il piatto di pane tostato era già lì); mentre sistemava la tazza in modo che fosse facilmente a portata di mano della signora, l’orologio, posizionato come sempre davanti a lei, attirò la sua attenzione. Signora Clennam alzò lo sguardo verso di lui all’improvviso.

“Posso prenderlo? Grazie. Un bell’orologio all’antica,” disse, tenendolo in mano. “Pesante da utilizzare, ma davvero massiccio e autentico. Ho una particolare predilezione per tutto ciò che è genuino. Proprio come me: anch’io sono autentico. Ah! Un orologio da gentiluomo con due cassetti, alla vecchia maniera. Posso toglierlo dal cassetto esterno? Grazie. Sì. Un vecchio rivestimento in seta, lavorato con perle! Ne ho visti spesso tra gli anziani olandesi e belgi. Cose davvero curiose!”

“Anche loro sono vecchio stile,” disse Signora Clennam.

“Molto. Ma non è certo vecchio quanto quell’orologio, vero?”

“Non credo proprio.”

“Straordinario come un tempo si facesse a complicare questi codici!” osservò il signor Blandois, alzando lo sguardo con un altro sorriso. “Ma cos’è questo D.N.F.? Potrebbe significare quasi qualsiasi cosa, ”

“Quei sono proprio le lettere.”

Il signor Flintwinch, che per tutto questo tempo aveva osservato attentamente la scena tenendo in mano una tazza di tè e con la bocca aperta pronta a ingoiarne il contenuto, iniziò finalmente a farlo: riempiva sempre completamente la bocca prima di buttarla giù d’un fiato; e ogni volta rifletteva attentamente prima di riempirla di nuovo.

“D. N. F. era davvero una creatura gentile, adorabile e affascinante. Non ne ho alcun dubbio,” osservò il signor Blandois mentre richiudeva di nuovo la scatola. “Adoro il ricordo che ho di lei. Purtroppo, per la mia tranquillità mentale, l’amo troppo facilmente. Forse è un vizio, forse una virtù. Ma l’ammirazione per la bellezza e i meriti femminili costituisce tre parti fondamentali del mio carattere, signora.”

A quel momento, il signor Flintwinch si era versato un’altra tazza di tè e la stava bevendo a grandi sorsi, come prima, con lo sguardo rivolto verso l’infermo.

“Qui potreste anche non avere un cuore, signore,” rispose lei a Mr Blandois. “Credo che quelle lettere non siano destinate alle iniziali di alcun nome.”

“Forse un motto,” disse casualmente il signor Blandois.

“Di una frase. Credo che abbia sempre significato ‘Non dimenticare’!”

“E naturalmente,” disse il signor Blandois, rimettendo l’orologio al suo posto e facendo un passo indietro verso la sua sedia precedente, “non dimenticate.”

Il signor Flintwinch, finendo il suo tè, non solo ne tracannò una quantità maggiore del solito, ma fece anche una pausa più lunga, questa volta in circostanze diverse: con la testa reclinata all’indietro e la tazza ferma alle labbra, mentre i suoi occhi erano ancora fissi sull’inferma. Lei possedeva quella forza espressiva nel volto, quel modo deciso di raccogliere tutta la propria determinazione o ostinazione; in lei, ciò che in un’altra persona sarebbe stato un gesto o un’azione concreta, si manifestava semplicemente attraverso le parole. Rispose quindi con una voce chiara e decisa.

“No, signore, non dimentico. Vivere una vita così monotona come la mia per molti anni non è certo il modo per dimenticare. Condurre una vita di autocorrezione non è il modo per dimenticare. rendersi conto di aver commesso errori (come tutti noi, ogni singolo figlio di Adamo) da espiare e per cui cercare pace, non giustifica affatto il desiderio di dimenticare. Per questo motivo l’ho da tempo scartato; né dimentico, né desidero dimenticare.”

Il signor Flintwinch, che fino ad allora aveva continuato a scuotere il sedimento sul fondo della sua tazza di tè, lo ingoiò tutto d’un fiato, poi posò la tazza nel vassoio del tè e, guardando il signor Blandois, sembrava chiedergli cosa ne pensasse.

“Tutto ciò che ho detto, signora,” disse il signor Blandois, con il suo inchino più affabile e la mano bianca appoggiata sul petto, “si basa sulla parola ‘naturalmente’, di cui sono orgoglioso di aver compreso appieno il significato e di averla utilizzata con saggezza (poiché senza questa comprensione non potrei essere Blandois)”.

“Perdonatemi, signore,” rispose lei, “se dubito della possibilità che un gentiluomo, abituato alle corti e a essere corteggiato, possa cambiare e diventare più gentile, ”

“Oh madam! By Heaven!”

“–Se dubito che una persona del genere possa davvero comprendere ciò che appartiene a me nelle mie circostanze. Non intendo imporvi alcuna dottrina,” disse, guardando la rigida pila di libri freddi e grigi davanti a lei, “(poiché voi seguite la vostra strada, e le conseguenze ricadono su di voi), dirò soltanto questo: io oriento la mia vita seguendo guide affidabili, persone le cui capacità sono state prove e verificate; sotto di loro non posso naufragare. E se ignorassi gli avvertimenti contenuti in quelle tre lettere, non sarei certo stata così punita come lo sono stata.”

Era curioso come lei approfittasse dell’occasione per discutere con un qualche avversario invisibile. Forse con la propria coscienza più razionale, che finiva sempre per rivolgersi contro di sé stessa e le proprie inganni.

‘Se dimenticassi le mie ignoranze nella mia vita di salute e libertà, potrei lamentarmi della vita a cui sono ora condannato. Ma non lo faccio mai; non l’ho mai fatto. Se dimenticassi che questa terra è espressamente destinata ad essere un luogo di tristezza, difficoltà e prove oscure per le creature create dalla sua polvere, potrei provare qualche tenerezza per le sue vanità. Ma non ne provo alcuna. Se non sapessi che ognuno di noi è l’oggetto (e in modo più che giusto) di una collera che deve essere soddisfatta, e contro cui le semplici azioni non significano nulla, potrei rimpiangere la differenza tra me, imprigionato qui, e le persone che attraversano quella soglia laggiù. Ma considero una grazia e un favore il fatto di essere stato scelto per compiere qui questa “soddisfazione”, per conoscere con certezza ciò che so, e per realizzare ciò che ho realizzato qui. Altrimenti, la mia sofferenza non avrebbe alcun senso per me. Per questo motivo non dimentico nulla; per questo sono soddisfatto, e dico che la mia situazione è migliore di quella di milioni di persone.’

As she spoke these words, she put her hand upon the watch, and restored it to the precise spot on her little table which it always occupied. With her touch lingering upon it, she sat for some moments afterwards, looking at it steadily and half-defiantly.

Mr Blandois, during this exposition, had been strictly attentive, keeping his eyes fastened on the lady, and thoughtfully stroking his moustache with his two hands. Mr Flintwinch had been a little fidgety, and now struck in.

‘There, there, there!’ said he. ‘That is quite understood, Mrs Clennam, and you have spoken piously and well. Mr Blandois, I suspect, is not of a pious cast.’

‘On the contrary, sir!’ that gentleman protested, snapping his fingers. ‘Your pardon! It’s a part of my character. I am sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative. A sensitive, ardent, conscientious, and imaginative man, Mr Flintwinch, must be that, or nothing!’

There was an inkling of suspicion in Mr Flintwinch’s face that he might be nothing, as he swaggered out of his chair (it was characteristic of this man, as it is of all men similarly marked, that whatever he did, he overdid, though it were sometimes by only a hairsbreadth), and approached to take his leave of Mrs Clennam.

‘With what will appear to you the egotism of a sick old woman, sir,’ she then said, ‘though really through your accidental allusion, I have been led away into the subject of myself and my infirmities. Being so considerate as to visit me, I hope you will be likewise so considerate as to overlook that. Don’t compliment me, if you please.’ For he was evidently going to do it. ‘Mr Flintwinch will be happy to render you any service, and I hope your stay in this city may prove agreeable.’

Mr Blandois thanked her, and kissed his hand several times. ‘This is an old room,’ he remarked, with a sudden sprightliness of manner, looking round when he got near the door, ‘I have been so interested that I have not observed it. But it’s a genuine old room.’

‘It is a genuine old house,’ said Mrs Clennam, with her frozen smile. ‘A place of no pretensions, but a piece of antiquity.’

‘Faith!’ cried the visitor. ‘If Mr Flintwinch would do me the favour to take me through the rooms on my way out, he could hardly oblige me more. An old house is a weakness with me. I have many weaknesses, but none greater. I love and study the picturesque in all its varieties. I have been called picturesque myself. It is no merit to be picturesque—I have greater merits, perhaps—but I may be, by an accident. Sympathy, sympathy!’

‘I tell you beforehand, Mr Blandois, that you’ll find it very dingy and very bare,’ said Jeremiah, taking up the candle. ‘It’s not worth your looking at.’But Mr Blandois, smiting him in a friendly manner on the back, only laughed; so the said Blandois kissed his hand again to Mrs Clennam, and they went out of the room together.

‘You don’t care to go up-stairs?’ said Jeremiah, on the landing.

‘On the contrary, Mr Flintwinch; if not tiresome to you, I shall be ravished!’

Mr Flintwinch, therefore, wormed himself up the staircase, and Mr Blandois followed close. They ascended to the great garret bed-room which Arthur had occupied on the night of his return. ‘There, Mr Blandois!’ said Jeremiah, showing it, ‘I hope you may think that worth coming so high to see. I confess I don’t.’

Mr Blandois being enraptured, they walked through other garrets and passages, and came down the staircase again. By this time Mr Flintwinch had remarked that he never found the visitor looking at any room, after throwing one quick glance around, but always found the visitor looking at him, Mr Flintwinch. With this discovery in his thoughts, he turned about on the staircase for another experiment. He met his eyes directly; and on the instant of their fixing one another, the visitor, with that ugly play of nose and moustache, laughed (as he had done at every similar moment since they left Mrs Clennam’s chamber) a diabolically silent laugh.

As a much shorter man than the visitor, Mr Flintwinch was at the physical disadvantage of being thus disagreeably leered at from a height; and as he went first down the staircase, and was usually a step or two lower than the other, this disadvantage was at the time increased. He postponed looking at Mr Blandois again until this accidental inequality was removed by their having entered the late Mr Clennam’s room. But, then twisting himself suddenly round upon him, he found his look unchanged.

‘A most admirable old house,’ smiled Mr Blandois. ‘So mysterious. Do you never hear any haunted noises here?’

‘Noises,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘No.’

‘Nor see any devils?’

‘Not,’ said Mr Flintwinch, grimly screwing himself at his questioner, ‘not any that introduce themselves under that name and in that capacity.’

‘Haha! A portrait here, I see.’

(Still looking at Mr Flintwinch, as if he were the portrait.)

‘It’s a portrait, sir, as you observe.’

‘May I ask the subject, Mr Flintwinch?’

‘Mr Clennam, deceased. Her husband.’

‘Former owner of the remarkable watch, perhaps?’ said the visitor.

Mr Flintwinch, who had cast his eyes towards the portrait, twisted himself about again, and again found himself the subject of the same look and smile. ‘Yes, Mr Blandois,’ he replied tartly. ‘It was his, and his uncle’s before him, and Lord knows who before him; and that’s all I can tell you of its pedigree.’

‘That’s a strongly marked character, Mr Flintwinch, our friend up-stairs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Jeremiah, twisting himself at the visitor again, as he did during the whole of this dialogue, like some screw-machine that fell short of its grip; for the other never changed, and he always felt obliged to retreat a little. ‘She is a remarkable woman. Great fortitude—great strength of mind.’

‘They must have been very happy,’ said Blandois.

‘Who?’ demanded Mr Flintwinch, with another screw at him.

Mentre pronunciava queste parole, posò la mano sull’orologio e lo rimise esattamente nello stesso posto del suo piccolo tavolo, dove si trovava sempre. Tenendo ancora la mano sopra di esso, rimase seduta per qualche momento, guardandolo fissamente, con un certo atteggiamento di sfida.

Durante questa esposizione, il signor Blandois era stato estremamente attento, tenendo gli occhi fissi sulla signora e accarezzando pensierosamente la sua barba con entrambe le mani. Il signor Flintwinch, invece, era un po’ irrequieto e ora intervenne nella conversazione.

“Ecco, ecco, ecco!”, disse lui. “È tutto chiaro, Signora Clennam, e avete parlato in modo pio e corretto. Sospetto che il signor Blandois non appartenga a quella categoria di persone piene di devozione.”

“Al contrario, signore!” protestò quel gentiluomo, schioccando le dita.
“Perdonatemi! Fa parte del mio carattere. Sono sensibile, appassionato, coscienzioso e fantasioso. Un uomo sensibile, appassionato, coscienzioso e fantasioso, signor Flintwinch, deve essere proprio così, altrimenti non sarebbe affatto un uomo!”

Sul volto di Mr Flintwinch si leggeva un’ombra di sospetto: sembrava che potesse non essere affatto ciò che appariva. Mentre si alzava dalla sedia con aria trionfale (era tipico di quest’uomo, come lo è di tutti coloro che hanno questa caratteristica, che qualunque cosa facesse la eseguisse in modo eccessivo, anche se a volte solo di poco), si avvicinò per congedarsi da Mrs Clennam.

“Con ciò che potrebbe sembrarvi l’egoismo di una vecchia donna malata, signore,” disse allora, “sebbene in realtà sia stata proprio la vostra casual menzione ad avermi portato a parlare di me stessa e delle mie debolezze. Poiché siete stato così premuroso da venirmi a trovare, >spero che siate altrettanto gentile nel perdonarmelo. Per favore, non mi lodate, ” Poiché era evidente che stava per farlo. “Il signor Flintwinch sarà felice di esservi d’aiuto in qualsiasi modo, e >spero che il vostro soggiorno in questa >città vi sia piacevole.”

Il signor Blandois le ringraziò e le baciò più volte la mano. “Questa è una stanza vecchia,” osservò, improvvisamente animato, guardandosi intorno mentre si avvicinava alla porta. “Ero così assorto nei miei pensieri che non me ne ero accorto. Ma è davvero una stanza antica.”

“È una vera e propria vecchia >casa,” disse Signora Clennam con il suo sorriso gelido. “Un luogo senza pretese, ma un pezzo di antichità.”

‘Faith!’ esclamò il visitatore. ‘Se il signor Flintwinch potesse avere la gentilezza di accompagnarmi attraverso le stanze mentre me ne vado, mi farebbe un grande favore. Gli antichi casa mi affascinano profondamente. Ho molte debolezze, ma nessuna maggiore di questa. Amo e studio tutto ciò che ha un aspetto pittoresco, in tutte le sue varianti; anzi, a me stesso è stato detto che ho un certo fascino pittoresco. Non è certo un merito essere “pittoreschi”. Forse ho altri meriti maggiori. Ma chissà. Comunque, che simpatia!’

“Vi avverto in anticipo, signor Blandois: troverete che è molto squallido e molto spoglio,” disse Jeremiah prendendo la candela. “Non vale nemmeno la pena di darci un’occhiata.” Ma il signor Blandois, dandogli una pacca amichevole sulla schiena, si limitò a ridere; così il suddetto Blandois baciò nuovamente la mano della signora Clennam e insieme uscirono dalla stanza.

“Non vuoi salire al piano di sopra?” chiese Jeremiah, sulle scale.

“Al contrario, signor Flintwinch: se non vi sembra noioso, per me sarà un vero piacere!”

Quindi, il signor Flintwinch si arrampicò lentamente su per le scale, seguito da vicino dal signor Blandois. Salirono fino alla grande camera da letto situata nel sottotetto, quella che Arthur aveva occupato la notte del suo ritorno. “Eccola, signor Blandois!”, disse Jeremiah mostrandogliela, “spero che pensiate sia degna di tanta fatica per essere vista. Io, personalmente, no.”

Il signor Blandois, completamente affascinato, li accompagnò attraverso altre soffitte e corridoi, fino a scendere nuovamente le scale. A quel punto, il signor Flintwinch osservò che l’ospite, dopo aver dato un rapido sguardo intorno, non aveva mai guardato nessuna stanza in particolare, ma fissava sempre lui stesso. Con questa scoperta in mente, il signor Flintwinch decise di ripetere l’esperimento sulle scale: i loro sguardi si incrociarono direttamente. Nel momento stesso in cui i loro occhi si incontrarono, l’ospite, con quel suo orribile movimento del naso e della barba, rise, una risata silenziosa e demoniaca, proprio come aveva fatto in ogni occasione simile da quando avevano lasciato la stanza della signora Clennam.

Essendo molto più basso dell’ospite, il signor Flintwinch era in svantaggio fisico poiché doveva subire quegli sguardi invadenti da una posizione di superiorità; inoltre, essendo lui ad avanzare per primo lungo la scala – e di solito trovandosi uno o due gradini più in basso dell’altro – questo svantaggio aumentava ulteriormente. Decise quindi di aspettare che quella disparità fisica venisse eliminata una volta entrati nella stanza del defunto signor Clennam, prima di rivolgere nuovamente lo sguardo al signor Blandois. Ma quando finalmente lo fece, scoprì che il suo atteggiamento non era cambiato affatto.

“Una vecchia casa davvero ammirevole,” sorrise il signor Blandois. “Così misteriosa. Non sentite mai rumori spettrali qui dentro?”

“Rumori,” rispose il signor Flintwinch. “No.”

“Né vedere alcun diavolo?”

“No,” disse il signor Flintwinch, stringendosi nervosamente intorno alla domanda del suo interlocutore,
“nessuno che si presenti con quel nome e in quella veste.”

“Ahah! Un ritratto, vedo, ”

(Continuava a guardare il signor Flintwinch, come se fosse un ritratto.)

“È un ritratto, signore, come avete notato.”

“Posso chiedere al soggetto in questione, il signor Flintwinch?”

“Il signor Clennam, deceduto. Suo marito.”

“Forse l’ex proprietario di quell’orologio straordinario?” disse il visitatore.

Il signor Flintwinch, che aveva rivolto lo sguardo verso il ritratto, si girò di nuovo e si trovò ancora una volta oggetto dello stesso sguardo e dello stesso sorriso. “Sì, signor Blandois,” rispose in tono acido. “Apparteneva a lui, e prima a suo zio, e chissà a chi prima ancora; ed è tutto ciò che posso dirvi riguardo alla sua origine.”

“Un personaggio davvero caratteristico, il signor Flintwinch, il nostro amico di sopra.”

“Sì, signore,” disse Jeremiah, girandosi di nuovo verso il visitatore, proprio come aveva fatto per tutta la durata di questo dialogo, come se fosse una sorta di macchina a vite che non riusciva a mantenere la presa; l’altro, infatti, non cambiava mai posizione, e lui si sentiva sempre costretto a fare un passo indietro. “È una donna straordinaria. Grande forza d’animo, grande coraggio.”

“Devono essere stati molto felici,” disse Blandois.

“Chi?” chiese il signor Flintwinch, puntandogli di nuovo un cacciavite addosso.

Mr Blandois shook his right forefinger towards the sick room, and his left forefinger towards the portrait, and then, putting his arms akimbo and striding his legs wide apart, stood smiling down at Mr Flintwinch with the advancing nose and the retreating moustache.

‘As happy as most other married people, I suppose,’ returned Mr Flintwinch. ‘I can’t say. I don’t know. There are secrets in all families.’

‘Secrets!’ cried Mr Blandois, quickly. ‘Say it again, my son.’

‘I say,’ replied Mr Flintwinch, upon whom he had swelled himself so suddenly that Mr Flintwinch found his face almost brushed by the dilated chest. ‘I say there are secrets in all families.’

‘So there are,’ cried the other, clapping him on both shoulders, and rolling him backwards and forwards. ‘Haha! you are right. So there are! Secrets! Holy Blue! There are the devil’s own secrets in some families, Mr Flintwinch!’ With that, after clapping Mr Flintwinch on both shoulders several times, as if in a friendly and humorous way he were rallying him on a joke he had made, he threw up his arms, threw back his head, hooked his hands together behind it, and burst into a roar of laughter. It was in vain for Mr Flintwinch to try another screw at him. He had his laugh out.

‘But, favour me with the candle a moment,’ he said, when he had done. ‘Let us have a look at the husband of the remarkable lady. Hah!’ holding up the light at arm’s length. ‘A decided expression of face here too, though not of the same character. Looks as if he were saying, what is it—Do Not Forget—does he not, Mr Flintwinch? By Heaven, sir, he does!’

As he returned the candle, he looked at him once more; and then, leisurely strolling out with him into the hall, declared it to be a charming old house indeed, and one which had so greatly pleased him that he would not have missed inspecting it for a hundred pounds.

Throughout these singular freedoms on the part of Mr Blandois, which involved a general alteration in his demeanour, making it much coarser and rougher, much more violent and audacious than before, Mr Flintwinch, whose leathern face was not liable to many changes, preserved its immobility intact. Beyond now appearing perhaps, to have been left hanging a trifle too long before that friendly operation of cutting down, he outwardly maintained an equable composure. They had brought their survey to a close in the little room at the side of the hall, and he stood there, eyeing Mr Blandois.

‘I am glad you are so well satisfied, sir,’ was his calm remark. ‘I didn’t expect it. You seem to be quite in good spirits.’

‘In admirable spirits,’ returned Blandois. ‘Word of honour! never more refreshed in spirits. Do you ever have presentiments, Mr Flintwinch?’

‘I am not sure that I know what you mean by the term, sir,’ replied that gentleman.

‘Say, in this case, Mr Flintwinch, undefined anticipations of pleasure to come.’

‘I can’t say I’m sensible of such a sensation at present,’ returned Mr Flintwinch with the utmost gravity. ‘If I should find it coming on, I’ll mention it.’

‘Now I,’ said Blandois, ‘I, my son, have a presentiment to-night that we shall be well acquainted. Do you find it coming on?’

‘N-no,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, deliberately inquiring of himself. ‘I can’t say I do.’

‘I have a strong presentiment that we shall become intimately acquainted.—You have no feeling of that sort yet?’

‘Not yet,’ said Mr Flintwinch.

Mr Blandois, taking him by both shoulders again, rolled him about a little in his former merry way, then drew his arm through his own, and invited him to come off and drink a bottle of wine like a dear deep old dog as he was.

Without a moment’s indecision, Mr Flintwinch accepted the invitation, and they went out to the quarters where the traveller was lodged, through a heavy rain which had rattled on the windows, roofs, and pavements, ever since nightfall. The thunder and lightning had long ago passed over, but the rain was furious. On their arrival at Mr Blandois’ room, a bottle of port wine was ordered by that gallant gentleman; who (crushing every pretty thing he could collect, in the soft disposition of his dainty figure) coiled himself upon the window-seat, while Mr Flintwinch took a chair opposite to him, with the table between them. Mr Blandois proposed having the largest glasses in the house, to which Mr Flintwinch assented. The bumpers filled, Mr Blandois, with a roystering gaiety, clinked the top of his glass against the bottom of Mr Flintwinch’s, and the bottom of his glass against the top of Mr Flintwinch’s, and drank to the intimate acquaintance he foresaw. Mr Flintwinch gravely pledged him, and drank all the wine he could get, and said nothing. As often as Mr Blandois clinked glasses (which was at every replenishment), Mr Flintwinch stolidly did his part of the clinking, and would have stolidly done his companion’s part of the wine as well as his own: being, except in the article of palate, a mere cask.

In short, Mr Blandois found that to pour port wine into the reticent Flintwinch was, not to open him but to shut him up. Moreover, he had the appearance of a perfect ability to go on all night; or, if occasion were, all next day and all next night; whereas Mr Blandois soon grew indistinctly conscious of swaggering too fiercely and boastfully. He therefore terminated the entertainment at the end of the third bottle.

‘You will draw upon us to-morrow, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, with a business-like face at parting.

‘My Cabbage,’ returned the other, taking him by the collar with both hands, ‘I’ll draw upon you; have no fear. Adieu, my Flintwinch. Receive at parting;’ here he gave him a southern embrace, and kissed him soundly on both cheeks; ‘the word of a gentleman! By a thousand Thunders, you shall see me again!’

He did not present himself next day, though the letter of advice came duly to hand. Inquiring after him at night, Mr Flintwinch found, with surprise, that he had paid his bill and gone back to the Continent by way of Calais. Nevertheless, Jeremiah scraped out of his cogitating face a lively conviction that Mr Blandois would keep his word on this occasion, and would be seen again.

Il signor Blandois agitò il dito indice destro verso la stanza del malato e il dito indice sinistro verso il ritratto; poi, incrociando le braccia e allargando bene le gambe, si fermò a guardare il signor Flintwinch con un sorriso, mentre il suo naso sembrava avanzare e i suoi mustacchi retrocedere.

“Probabilmente felice come la maggior parte delle altre coppie sposate,” rispose il signor Flintwinch. “Non posso dirlo. Non lo so. In tutte le famiglie ci sono dei segreti.”

“‘Segreti!’”, esclamò rapidamente il signor Blandois. “Ripetilo, figliolo mio.”

“Dico,” rispose il signor Flintwinch, che si era improvvisamente gonfiato a tal punto che il suo viso quasi toccava il petto dilatato del signor Flintwinch stesso. “Dico che in tutte le famiglie ci sono segreti.”

“Lo so che ci sono,” gridò l’altro, dandogli delle pacche sulle spalle e facendolo dondolare avanti e indietro. “Ahah! Hai ragione. Ci sono davvero! Segreti! Santo cielo. In alcune famiglie esistono veri e propri segreti del diavolo, signor Flintwinch!” Dopo averlo abbracciato più volte, come se stesse scherzando con lui per una battuta che aveva fatto, alzò le braccia, si gettò indietro la testa, incrociò le mani dietro la nuca e scoppiò in una risata fragorosa. Fu inutile che il signor Flintwinch provasse ancora a parlare con lui. Aveva già ottenuto ciò che voleva: farlo ridere.

“Ma, per favore, lasciate che usi la candela per un momento,” disse una volta finito. “Diamo un’occhiata al marito di quella signora straordinaria. Ah!” Alzò la candela a distanza di braccio. “Anche lui ha un’espressione molto decisa sul viso, anche se di tipo diverso. Sembra che stia dicendo: ‘Non dimenticare, ’, non è vero, signor Flintwinch? Per Dio, sì che lo sta dicendo!”

Mentre restituiva la candela, lo guardò ancora una volta; poi, passeggiando tranquillamente con lui nel corridoio, dichiarò che si trattava davvero di una vecchia e incantevole casa, una casa che gli era piaciuta così tanto da non voler perdere l’occasione di visitarla nemmeno per cento sterline.

Durante tutte queste “singolari libertà” da parte di Mr Blandois, che comportavano un cambiamento generale nel suo comportamento – rendendolo molto più ruvido, violento e audace di prima – Mr Flintwinch, il cui volto di cuoio non era soggetto a grandi variazioni, manteneva la sua immobilità inalterata. Ora sembrava forse che quel suo viso fosse rimasto “appeso” lì per troppo tempo, prima di essere sottoposto a quella “operazione amichevole” di riduzione. Ma esteriormente, Mr Flintwinch conservava una calma imperturbabile. Avevano terminato il loro esame nella piccola stanza accanto al corridoio, e lui stava lì, fissando Mr Blandois.

“Sono felice che siate così soddisfatti, signore,” fu la sua risposta calma. “Non me l’aspettavo. Sembrate davvero di buon umore.”

“Nell’umore più eccellente,” rispose Blandois. “Parola d’onore. Non mi sono mai sentito così rinvigorito. Avete mai avuto premonizioni, signor Flintwinch?”

“Non sono sicuro di capire cosa intendiate con questo termine, signore,” rispose quel gentiluomo.

“Diciamo, in questo caso, che il signor Flintwinch nutre aspettative indefinite di piacere futuro.”

“Non posso dire di essere consapevole di tale sensazione in questo momento,” rispose il signor Flintwinch con la massima serietà. “Se dovesse manifestarsi, ne parlerò.”

“Ora io,” disse Blandois, “io, mio figlio, ho la sensazione che, di notte, diventeremo molto amici. Anche tu lo senti?”

“M-mai,” rispose il signor Flintwinch, chiedendoselo deliberatamente. “Non posso dire di sì.”

“Ho un forte presentimento che diventeremo molto intimi. Tu non provi ancora nulla del genere, vero?”

“Non ancora,” disse il signor Flintwinch.

Il signor Blandois, afferrandolo di nuovo per entrambe le spalle, lo fece girare un po’ nel suo solito modo allegro, poi gli mise il braccio intorno al proprio e lo invitò ad andare a bere una bottiglia di vino, come un caro vecchio amico.

Senza un attimo di esitazione, il signor Flintwinch accettò l’invito e insieme si recarono nelle stanze dove soggiornava il viaggiatore, nonostante una pioggia battente che aveva continuato a cadere sin dal tramonto, facendo rumore contro finestre, tetti e strade. Il tuono e i fulmini erano già passati da tempo, ma la pioggia proseguiva impetuosa. Arrivati nella stanza del signor Blandois, quel gentiluomo ordinò una bottiglia di vino porto; poi, schiacciando ogni oggetto grazioso che riusciva a trovare con il suo corpo delicato e snello, si sistemò sul davanzale della finestra, mentre il signor Flintwinch prese una sedia di fronte a lui, con il tavolo tra loro. Il signor Blandois propose di usare i bicchieri più grandi della casa; il signor Flintwinch acconsentì. Quando i bicchieri furono riempiti, il signor Blandois, con grande allegria, fece tintinnare il proprio contro quello del signor Flintwinch e bevve alla loro futura amicizia. Il signor Flintwinch gli promise solennemente fedeltà e bevve tutto il vino che riuscì a ingoiare, senza dire una parola. Ogni volta che il signor Blandois faceva tintinnare i bicchieri (il che accadeva ogni volta che venivano riempiti), il signor Flintwinch ripeteva diligentemente il gesto, pronto anche a bere tutto il vino del suo compagno, se solo avesse potuto farlo. A parte il palato, infatti, il signor Flintwinch non era altro che un semplice “barile”.

In breve, il signor Blandois si rese conto che versare vino di Porto nel riservato Flintwinch non serviva a farlo parlare, ma piuttosto a farlo tacere. Inoltre, Flintwinch sembrava avere la capacità di continuare a parlare per tutta la notte; o, se necessario, anche il giorno seguente e la notte successiva; mentre il signor Blandois iniziò presto a rendersi conto che il suo comportamento era troppo arrogante e presuntuoso. Per questo motivo, interruppe quell’“intrattenimento” alla fine della terza bottiglia.

“Domani avrete bisogno di noi, signore,” disse il signor Flintwinch, con un’espressione seria e professionale al momento dell’addio.

“Mio Cabbage,” rispose l’altro, afferrandolo per il colletto con entrambe le mani, “mi appoggerò a te; non avere paura. Addio, mio Flintwinch. Ricevi questo in segno d’addio, ” Qui gli diede un abbraccio caloroso e lo baciò sulle guance; “La parola di un gentiluomo! Per mille tuoni, ci rivedremo!”

Non si presentò il giorno dopo, nonostante la lettera di consiglio fosse arrivata regolarmente. Alla notte, quando il signor Flintwinch lo cercò, scoprì con sorpresa che aveva pagato il conto e se n’era andato in Europa passando per Calais. Tuttavia, Jeremiah era convinto che il signor Blandois avrebbe mantenuto la sua parola in questa occasione e che si sarebbero rivisti presto.

CHAPTER 31. Spirit

Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed to have dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens dull enough to be suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping along with a scared air, as though bewildered and a little frightened by the noise and bustle. This old man is always a little old man. If he were ever a big old man, he has shrunk into a little old man; if he were always a little old man, he has dwindled into a less old man. His coat is a colour, and cut, that never was the mode anywhere, at any period. Clearly, it was not made for him, or for any individual mortal. Some wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such quality, and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a long unfinished line of many old men. It has always large dull metal buttons, similar to no other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a thumbed and napless and yet an obdurate hat, which has never adapted itself to the shape of his poor head. His coarse shirt and his coarse neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat and hat; they have the same character of not being his—of not being anybody’s. Yet this old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being dressed and elaborated for the public ways; as though he passed the greater part of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the country mouse in the second year of a famine, come to see the town mouse, and timidly threading his way to the town-mouse’s lodging through a city of cats, this old man passes in the streets.

Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist and marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small measure will overset him; he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with a half-pint pot. Some pitying acquaintance—chance acquaintance very often—has warmed up his weakness with a treat of beer, and the consequence will be the lapse of a longer time than usual before he shall pass again. For the little old man is going home to the Workhouse; and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often (though methinks they might, considering the few years he has before him to go out in, under the sun); and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than ever in a grove of two score and nineteen more old men, every one of whom smells of all the others.

Mrs Plornish’s father,—a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like a worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music-binding business, and met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able to make his way, or to see it or to pay it, or to do anything at all with it but find it no thoroughfare,—had retired of his own accord to the Workhouse which was appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his district (without the twopence, which was bad political economy), on the settlement of that execution which had carried Mr Plornish to the Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law’s difficulties coming to that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his legal Retreat, but he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a corner of the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune should smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved an immovable countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these little old men in a grove of little old men with a community of flavour.

But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and no Old Men’s Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter’s admiration. Mrs Plornish was as proud of her father’s talents as she could possibly have been if they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and propriety of his manners as she could possibly have had if he had been Lord Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long out of date, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of Venus; and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself of these ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by a baby. On his ‘days out,’ those flecks of light in his flat vista of pollard old men,’ it was at once Mrs Plornish’s delight and sorrow, when he was strong with meat, and had taken his full halfpenny-worth of porter, to say, ‘Sing us a song, Father.’ Then he would give them Chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits, Phyllis also—Strephon he had hardly been up to since he went into retirement—and then would Mrs Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as Father, and wipe her eyes.

If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart Yard. ‘Here’s Father,’ she would say, presenting him to a neighbour. ‘Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain’t Father looking well? Father’s a sweeter singer than ever; you’d never have forgotten it, if you’d aheard him just now.’ As to Mr Plornish, he had married these articles of belief in marrying Mr Nandy’s daughter, and only wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. ‘For why,’ argued Mr Plornish, ‘why go a-binding music when you’ve got it in yourself? That’s where it is, I consider.’

Capitolo 31. Lo spirito

Chiunque può passare, in qualsiasi giorno, per le affollate strade della metropoli: un vecchio magro, rugoso, dal viso giallastro. Si potrebbe pensare che sia caduto dalle stelle, se mai esistesse una stella nel cielo abbastanza spenta da poter emettere una scintilla così debole. Si muove con aria spaventata, come se fosse confuso e un po’ intimorito dal rumore e dal trambusto. Questo vecchio è sempre stato un vecchio. Se un tempo fosse stato un “grande” vecchio, ora si è ridotto a un piccolo vecchio; se fin dall’inizio era già un piccolo vecchio, allora è diventato ancora più piccolo. Il suo cappotto ha un colore e una forma che non sono mai stati di moda da nessuna parte, in nessun periodo. Chiaramente, non è stato fatto per lui, né per alcun altro essere umano. Qualcuno deve aver calcolato la necessità di cinquemila cappotti di quel tipo. E così il Destino ha prestato questo vecchio cappotto a questo vecchio, come uno dei tanti altri cappotti appartenenti a una lunga serie di vecchi. Ha sempre grandi bottoni di metallo opaco, simili a nessun altro tipo di bottone. Questo vecchio indossa un cappello, un cappello rigido, senza piume, che non si è mai adattato alla forma della sua testa. La sua camicia grossolana e il suo fazzoletto da collo hanno lo stesso carattere: non appartengono a lui, né a nessun altro. Eppure questo vecchio indossa questi abiti con un certo atteggiamento, come se fosse abituato a muoversi tra la folla. Come se trascorresse la maggior parte del suo tempo in vestaglia e berretto da notte. Così, proprio come il topo di campagna che, nel secondo anno di carestia, viene a vedere il topo di città, e si avvicina timidamente al suo rifugio attraverso una città piena di gatti, anche questo vecchio passa per le strade.

A volte, nei giorni festivi verso sera, lo si vede camminare con un’infermità leggermente più evidente; i suoi vecchi occhi brillano di una luce umida e acquosa. Allora il piccolo vecchio è ubriaco. Una quantità molto piccola di alcol basta a farlo barcollare; anche mezzo litro di birra potrebbe farlo cadere dalle sue gambe instabili. Qualche conoscente compassionevole – spesso solo un incontro casuale – lo riscalda con una bevanda alcolica. E la conseguenza è che impiega molto più tempo del solito prima di riprendersi. Perché il piccolo vecchio sta tornando a casa, nell’Ospizio. E se si comporta bene, non gli permettono di uscire spesso (anche se, a mio parere, potrebbero farlo, considerando i pochi anni che gli restano da vivere all’aperto, ); mentre se si comporta male, lo chiudono ancora più a chiave, in mezzo ad altri ventinove vecchi uomini, ognuno dei quali emana lo stesso cattivo odore degli altri.

Il padre di Mrs Plornish, un povero vecchietto magro e tremolante, simile a un uccello logoro; che aveva lavorato nel settore della rilegatura di spartiti musicali, ma aveva incontrato molte sfortune e raramente era riuscito a guadagnarsi da vivere, o a pagare le sue spese, o a fare qualsiasi cosa al riguardo. Alla fine si era ritirato volontariamente nella Casa di Lavoro, istituita per aiutare i bisognosi del suo distretto (senza però quei due penny che avrebbero rappresentato una vera e propria soluzione economica). Tutto ciò era accaduto dopo l’esecuzione che aveva portato il signor Plornish al Marshalsea College. Prima che le difficoltà del genero raggiungessero quel punto estremo, Old Nandy (così lo chiamavano nella Casa di Lavoro; ma tra i membri dell’organizzazione “Bleeding Hearts” era conosciuto come Old Mr Nandy) sedeva spesso accanto al camino dei Plornish, mangiando e bevendo ciò che loro gli offrivano. Sperava ancora di poter riprendere quel ruolo familiare non appena la fortuna avesse sorriso a suo genero; intanto, mentre lei manteneva un atteggiamento impenetrabile, lui continuava a essere, e intendeva rimanere, uno di quei vecchietti solitari, che condividevano lo stesso destino e le stesse esperienze.

Ma nessuna povertà in lui, né un cappotto che non fosse alla moda, né una dimora nel ricovero per anziani potevano spegnere l’ammirazione di sua figlia. La signora Plornish era orgogliosa dei talenti di suo padre tanto quanto lo sarebbe stata se questi lo avessero reso Cancelliere del Regno. Credeva fermamente nella dolcezza e nella correttezza dei suoi modi, proprio come lo avrebbe creduto se fosse stato Ciambellano di Corte. Quel povero vecchino conosceva alcune canzoni banali e prive di significato, ormai obsolete, che parlavano di Chloe, Phyllis e Strephon feriti dal figlio di Venere; per la signora Plornish, nessuna musica all’Opera poteva eguagliare quei suoni flebili e monotoni con cui lui esprimeva quelle canzoni, come un debole organetto giocato da un bambino. Nei suoi “giorni liberi”, quando era in buona forma fisica e aveva bevuto il suo mezzo penny di birra, chiedeva spesso: “Cantaci una canzone, padre”. Allora lui cantava loro di Chloe; se si sentiva particolarmente di buon umore, anche di Phyllis. Di Strephon, invece, quasi non parlava più da quando si era ritirato a vita privata. E la signora Plornish dichiarava sempre che non esisteva un cantante come suo padre, e si asciugava le lacrime.

Se in queste occasioni fosse venuto dal tribunale, anzi, se fosse stato quel nobile signore che tornava trionfante da un estraneo tribunale per essere presentato e lodato dopo il suo ultimo enorme fallimento, la signora Plornish non avrebbe potuto accoglierlo con maggiore orgoglio nel cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard. “Ecco vostro padre,” avrebbe detto presentandolo a un vicino. “Presto nostro padre tornerà per sempre a casa con noi. Non sembra forse in ottima forma? Canta meglio che mai; non lo dimentichereste mai, se l’aveste sentito poco fa.” Per quanto riguarda il signor Plornish, aveva sposato queste convinzioni sposando la figlia del signor Nandy, e si chiedeva soltanto come fosse possibile che un anziano così dotato non avesse fatto fortuna. Dopo molte riflessioni, attribuì questo fatto al fatto che il suo talento musicale non fosse stato sviluppato in modo scientifico durante la sua giovinezza. “Perché,” argomentava il signor Plornish, “perché andare a cercare musica altrove, quando l’hai già dentro di te? È lì, secondo me.”

Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain sumptuous way—an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring audience to witness that he really could not help being more free with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his simplicity and poverty—was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the patronage of the Father of that national institution.

Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner. He had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he could hold up his head at all, poor creature. ‘In the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no speciality. Most deplorable!’

It was Old Nandy’s birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in to see how they all were.

‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘here’s Father! Ain’t he looking nice? And such voice he’s in!’

Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him this long time.

‘No, they’re rather hard on poor Father,’ said Mrs Plornish with a lengthening face, ‘and don’t let him have half as much change and fresh air as would benefit him. But he’ll soon be home for good, now. Won’t you, Father?’

‘Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.’

Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched in the following terms:

‘John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there’s a ounce of wittles or drink of any sort in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. While there’s a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is what I mean and so I don’t deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out is to entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?’

To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish’s father pipingly replied:

‘I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as it’s not to take it out of your children’s mouths, which take it is, and call it by what name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though may they come, and too soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!’

Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable.

Her answer was, ‘I am going straight home, and if he will come with me I shall be so glad to take care of him—so glad,’ said Little Dorrit, always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, ‘of his company.’

‘There, Father!’ cried Mrs Plornish. ‘Ain’t you a gay young man to be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you’re a regular beau yourself, Father, if ever there was one.’

With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit’s.

They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens, and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter), and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street, they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.

‘Why, good gracious me, Amy!’ cried that young lady starting. ‘You never mean it!’

‘Mean what, Fanny dear?’

‘Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,’ returned the young lady with burning indignation, ‘but I don’t think even I could have believed this, of even you!’

‘Fanny!’ cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.

‘Oh! Don’t Fanny me, you mean little thing, don’t! The idea of coming along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!’ (firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun).

‘O Fanny!’

‘I tell you not to Fanny me, for I’ll not submit to it! I never knew such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!’

Il vecchio Nandy aveva un protettore: un solo protettore. Questo protettore, con modi piuttosto sfarzosi – ma anche un po’ imbarazzati, come se volesse dimostrare a un pubblico attento che non poteva fare a meno di trattare quel vecchio con maggiore libertà di quanto ci si sarebbe aspettati, data la sua semplicità e povertà – era davvero molto gentile con lui. Il vecchio Nandy era stato diverse volte al Marshalsea College, dove aveva avuto modo di comunicare con suo genero durante il breve periodo trascorso lì; col tempo, aveva gradualmente conquistato la stima del direttore di quell’istituzione nazionale, e questa stima era poi migliorata ulteriormente nel corso degli anni.

Il signor Dorrit aveva l’abitudine di ricevere quest’uomo anziano come se questi fosse suo vassallo sotto qualche tipo di rapporto feudale. Gli preparava piccoli pasti e tè, come se provenisse da una regione remota dove le condizioni sociali erano ancora primitive. A volte sembrava davvero che quell’uomo fosse un antico fedele servitore del signor Dorrit, le cui fedeltà erano state ampiamente riconosciute. Quando ne parlava, lo faceva in modo casuale, definendolo semplicemente il proprio vecchio pensionato. Provava una grande soddisfazione nel vederlo e nel commentare lo stato di declino in cui si trovava dopo la sua partenza; gli sembrava incredibile che quell’uomo riuscisse ancora a tenere la testa alta. Povero creatura. “Nel ricovero, signore, nessuna privacy, nessun visitatore, nessun rispetto, nessuna dignità. Davvero deplorevole!”

Era il compleanno di Old Nandy, e così lo lasciarono uscire. Lui non disse nulla riguardo al fatto che fosse il suo compleanno; altrimenti forse lo avrebbero tenuto dentro, perché uomini così anziani non dovrebbero nemmeno nascere. Come al solito, percorse le strade fino a Bleeding Heart Yard, dove pranzò con sua figlia e suo genero, e poi li lasciò con Phyllis. Appena finito di mangiare, Little Dorrit venne a vedere come stavano tutti.

“Signorina Dorrit,” disse la signora Plornish, “ecco vostro padre! Non è bellissimo? E che voce meravigliosa ha!”

La piccola Dorrit gli tese la mano e, sorridendo, disse di non averlo visto da molto tempo.

“No, trattano il povero Padre piuttosto duramente,” disse la signora Plornish con un’espressione addolorata, “e non gli permettono nemmeno di godere della metà delle cose che gli farebbero bene, come aria fresca e cibo vario. Ma presto sarà finalmente a casa per sempre, vero, Padre?”

“Sì, caro mio, lo spero davvero. Che ciò avvenga nel miglior tempo, per favore di Dio.”

In quell’occasione, il signor Plornish tenne il solito discorso, sempre uguale parola per parola in ogni simile circostanza. Il testo del discorso era il seguente:

‘John Edward Nandy, Sir. Finché in questo tetto c’è anche solo un pizzico di saggezza o una goccia di qualsiasi bevanda, siete più che benvenuti a condividerla. Finché in questo tetto c’è anche solo un po’ di calore o uno spazio dove riposare, siete più che benvenuti ad averne parte. E se non ci fosse nulla in questo tetto, sareste comunque i benvenuti a condividerlo, come se ci fosse qualcosa, tanto o poco che sia. Questo è ciò che intendo; non vi sto ingannando. Quindi, la mia richiesta è semplice: perché non accettarla?’

A questo discorso chiaro e ben strutturato, che il signor Plornish pronunciava sempre come se lo avesse composto lui stesso (e di certo lo aveva fatto con grande impegno), il padre della signora Plornish rispose in tono acuto:

“Grazie mille, Thomas; conosco bene le tue intenzioni, e sono proprio quelle che apprezzo molto. Ma no, Thomas. Finché quella cosa non verrà tolta dalle bocche dei tuoi figli – e loro la useranno comunque, chiamandola come vorranno – rimarrà sempre lo stesso problema, e continuerà a privarli di qualcosa. Anche se forse arriverà un momento in cui potranno farlo. Ma non ancora, Thomas. No!”

La signora Plornish, che fino ad allora aveva girato leggermente il viso tenendo un angolo del grembiule in mano, tornò di nuovo alla conversazione dicendo alla signorina Dorrit che suo padre stava per attraversare il fiume per rendere omaggio, a meno che lei non conoscesse qualche motivo per cui ciò potesse non essere opportuno.

La sua risposta fu: “Andrò dritta a casa, e se vorrà venire con me, sarò così felice di prendermi cura di lui, davvero molto felice,” disse Little Dorrit, sempre premurosa dei sentimenti dei più deboli, “di averlo accanto a me.”

“Ecco qua, papà!” esclamò la signora Plornish. “Che bel giovane che sei ad andare a fare una passeggiata con la signorina Dorrit! Lascia che ti leghi il fazzoletto al collo in un bellissimo fiocco. Perché tu sei davvero un vero gentiluomo, papà, uno dei veri!”

Con questa battuta filiale, sua figlia lo prese in giro dolcemente, gli diede un abbraccio affettuoso, e rimase sulla porta con il suo piccolo bambino in braccio; mentre il suo altro figlio, più grande, scendeva le scale, lei si prendeva cura di suo padre anziano, che zoppicava via tenendo il braccio intorno a quello di Little Dorrit.

Camminavano ad un passo lento; Little Dorrit lo prese per mano e lo portò sotto il Ponte di Ferro, dove si sedettero a riposare. Guardarono il fiume e parlarono del commercio marittimo. L’uomo anziano raccontò cosa avrebbe fatto se avesse avuto una nave piena d’oro che lo riportasse a casa. Il suo piano era prendere un alloggio elegante per i Plornish e per sé stesso in un ristorante, dove vivere per il resto della loro vita, serviti dal cameriere. Quel giorno era il compleanno speciale dell’uomo anziano. Erano a soli cinque minuti dalla loro destinazione quando, all’angolo di sua strada, incontrarono Fanny con il suo nuovo cappello, diretta verso lo stesso porto.

“Ma mio Dio, Amy!”, esclamò quella giovane signorina. “Non può davvero dirlo!”

“Cosa intendi dire, cara Fanny?”

“Beh! Avrei potuto credere molte delle vostre cose,” rispose la giovane signora con un’indignazione ardente, “ma non credo che nemmeno io avrei potuto credere a una cosa del genere, nemmeno di voi!”

“Fanny!” gridò Little Dorrit, ferita e sorpresa.

“Oh! Non scherzare con me, intendi davvero farlo. L’idea di camminare per le strade aperte, sotto la luce del giorno, insieme a un povero!” (pronunciando l’ultima parola come se fosse una pallina sparata da una pistola ad aria compressa).

“O Fanny!”

“Vi dico di non comportarvi così con me, perché non intendo sopportarlo! Non avevo mai immaginato una cosa del genere. Il modo in cui siete risolute e determinate a metterci in imbarazzo in ogni occasione è davvero vergognoso. Che brutta piccola creatura!”

‘Does it disgrace anybody,’ said Little Dorrit, very gently, ‘to take care of this poor old man?’

‘Yes, miss,’ returned her sister, ‘and you ought to know it does. And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I have. You’ll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way, unmolested.’

With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said, ‘I hope nothing’s wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope there’s nothing the matter in the honoured family?’

‘No, no,’ returned Little Dorrit. ‘No, thank you. Give me your arm again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.’

So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the utmost agitation and despondency of mind; and—altogether regardless of Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as he always did in that gracious presence—turned about, and hurried in at his own doorway and up the staircase.

Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came into the room almost together; and the Father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan.

‘Of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope you believe me, Miss?’

‘What is it, father?’ cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. ‘Have I made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!’

‘You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you’—Fanny paused for a sufficiently strong expression—‘you Common-minded little Amy! You complete prison-child!’

He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger daughter, ‘Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention. But you have cut me to the soul.’

‘Innocent in intention!’ the implacable Fanny struck in. ‘Stuff in intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!’

‘Father!’ cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. ‘I am very sorry. Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!’

‘How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!’ cried Fanny. ‘You know how it is. I have told you already, so don’t fly in the face of Providence by attempting to deny it!’

‘Hush! Amy,’ said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand that dropped across his knee, ‘I have done what I could to keep you select here; I have done what I could to retain you a position here. I may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it; you may not. I give no opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have happily been spared—until this day.’

Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his pocket-handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his pocket-handkerchief once more.

‘Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all my troubles there has been that—Spirit in myself, and that—that submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has spared me—ha—humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly felt it.’

‘Of course! How could it be otherwise?’ exclaimed the irrepressible Fanny. ‘Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!’ (air-gun again).

‘But, dear father,’ cried Little Dorrit, ‘I don’t justify myself for having wounded your dear heart—no! Heaven knows I don’t!’ She clasped her hands in quite an agony of distress. ‘I do nothing but beg and pray you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I would not, indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!’ said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, ‘for anything the world could give me, or anything it could take away.’

Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry herself, and to say—as this young lady always said when she was half in passion and half out of it, half spiteful with herself and half spiteful with everybody else—that she wished she were dead.

The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger daughter to his breast, and patted her head.

‘There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my child. I will forget it as soon as I can. I,’ with hysterical cheerfulness, ‘I—shall soon be able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am always glad to see my old pensioner—as such, as such—and that I do—ha—extend as much protection and kindness to the—hum—the bruised reed—I trust I may so call him without impropriety—as in my circumstances, I can. It is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same time, I preserve in doing this, if I may—ha—if I may use the expression—Spirit. Becoming Spirit. And there are some things which are,’ he stopped to sob, ‘irreconcilable with that, and wound that—wound it deeply. It is not that I have seen my good Amy attentive, and—ha—condescending to my old pensioner—it is not that that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the painful subject by being explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my own daughter, coming into this College out of the public streets—smiling! smiling!—arm in arm with—O my God, a livery!’

“Rende forse vergogna a qualcuno,” disse Little Dorrit con molta dolcezza, “prendersi cura di questo povero vecchio?”

“Sì, signorina,” rispose sua sorella, “e dovreste sapere che è così. E in realtà lo sapete bene, e lo fate perché ne siete consapevoli. Il principale piacere della vostra vita consiste nel ricordare alla vostra famiglia i loro mali fortunati. E il secondo grande piacere della vostra esistenza è frequentare gente di basso rango. Ma, comunque sia, se voi non avete alcun senso del decoro, io sì. Vi prego di lasciarmi passare dall’altra parte, senza essere disturbata.”

Con questo, lei attraversò di corsa la strada opposta. Quell’uomo disonorato, che fino ad allora si era tenuto a una certa distanza (poiché Little Dorrit, nel suo stupore, aveva lasciato andare il suo braccio quando Fanny aveva iniziato), e che era stato spinto e maledetto dai passeggeri impazienti per aver bloccato il passaggio, si riunì al suo compagno, piuttosto stordito, e disse: “Spero che non ci sia nulla di grave con vostro onorevole padre, signorina. Spero davvero che non ci siano problemi nella vostra nobile famiglia.”

“No, no,” rispose Little Dorrit. “No, grazie. Datemi di nuovo il vostro braccio, signor Nandy. Ormai siamo quasi arrivati.”

So che lei parlò con lui come aveva fatto prima, e insieme raggiunsero la Lodge; trovarono il signor Chivery alla porta d’ingresso e entrarono. Proprio in quel momento, il padre del Marshalsea stava passeggiando verso la Lodge; quando li vide uscire, entrando nell’carcere a braccetto. Alla vista di quella scena, mostrò estrema agitazione e disperazione; e, senza curarsi affatto di Old Nandy, che, come al solito, si trovava lì in piedi con il cappello in mano in segno di rispetto, girò sui tacchi e si affrettò a rientrare nella sua stanza, salendo le scale.

Lasciando indietro quella povera donna che, in un momento di sventura, aveva preso sotto la sua protezione, con la promessa affrettata di tornare da lei immediatamente, Little Dorrit si affrettò a seguire suo padre. Sulle scale, trovò Fanny che la stava seguendo e che, con aria offesa e dignitosa, salì rapidamente dietro di lei. Le tre arrivarono quasi contemporaneamente nella stanza; il padre si sedette sulla sua sedia, nascose il viso tra le mani e emise un gemito.

“Certo,” disse Fanny. “Molto appropriato. Povero, sfortunato Pa! Ora, spero che mi crediate, signorina, ”

“Che c’è, padre?” gridò Little Dorrit, chinandosi su di lui. “Vi ho reso infelice, padre? Non io, spero!”

“Tu speri davvero. Oserei dire di sì! Oh, tu, ” Fanny fece una pausa per trovare un’espressione abbastanza efficace, “tu piccola Amy dal modo di pensare così semplice. Tu sei proprio l’incarnazione di quel ‘bambino in prigione’!”

Interruppe queste furiose rimproveri con un gesto della mano e scoppiò in singhiozzi, alzando il viso e scuotendo la sua melanconica testa verso sua figlia minore: “Amy, so che le tue intenzioni sono innocenti. Ma mi hai ferito profondamente nell’anima.”

“‘Innocente nelle intenzioni, ’”, intervenne l’implacabile Fanny. “Che importanza hanno le intenzioni? Le intenzioni meschine. Questo è ciò che distrugge una famiglia!”

“Padre!” gridò la piccola Dorrit, pallida e tremante. “Mi dispiace molto. Per favore perdonami. Dimmi cosa è successo, così non lo farò più!”

“Come può essere, tu, piccola creatura ingannatrice!” esclamò Fanny. “Lo sai benissimo. Te l’ho già detto, quindi non andare contro la Provvidenza cercando di negarlo!”

“Zitta! Amy,” disse il padre, asciugandosi più volte il viso con il fazzoletto di tasca e poi stringendolo convulsivamente nella mano che gli era caduta sul ginocchio, “Ho fatto tutto ciò che potevo per farti restare qui; ho fatto tutto ciò che potevo per mantenerti in questa posizione. Forse ci sono riuscito, forse no. Forse lo sai, forse no. Non voglio dare alcuna opinione. Ho sopportato tutto qui, tranne l’umiliazione. E sono stato felicemente risparmiato, fino a oggi.”

Qui la sua stretta convulsiva si allentò, e lui riprese a coprirsi gli occhi con il fazzoletto. Piccola Dorrit, sdraiata a terra accanto a lui, con la mano supplicante appoggiata al suo braccio, lo osservava con compassione. Uscito da quell’attacco di dolore, strinse nuovamente il fazzoletto tra le mani.

“L’umiliazione, sono stato felicemente risparmiato fino ad oggi. In mezzo a tutte le mie difficoltà, c’è sempre stata quella forza interiore, e quell’atteggiamento di sottomissione verso di essa, se posso usare questo termine, che mi ha protetto dall’umiliazione. Ma oggi, in questo preciso momento, l’ho sentita profondamente.”

“Certo che sì! Come potrebbe essere altrimenti?” esclamò l’irrefrenabile Fanny. “Correre e saltellare in giro con un poveraccio!” (di nuovo, la pistola ad aria compressa).

“Ma, caro padre,” gridò la piccola Dorrit, “non sto cercando di giustificare il fatto di aver ferito il vostro cuore. No! Solo il cielo sa quanto non lo faccia!” Si strinse le mani, in un’angoscia profonda. “Tutto quello che voglio è che vi consoliate e che perdoniate. Ma se non avessi saputo che voi eravate gentile con quell’uomo anziano, che gli prestavate molta attenzione e che eravate sempre felici di vederlo. Non sarei mai venuta qui con lui, padre. Davvero no. Quello che ho fatto è stato un errore. Non avrei mai voluto volontariamente farvi versare una lacrima, caro mio, ” disse la piccola Dorrit, il cuore quasi spezzato, “per nulla al mondo, né per ciò che potrebbe darmi, né per ciò che potrebbe portarmi via.”

Fanny, con un singhiozzo che era in parte di rabbia e in parte di rimorso, cominciò a piangere e disse – come faceva sempre questa giovane donna quando era contemporaneamente presa dalla passione e dal distacco, metà arrabbiata con se stessa e metà con tutti gli altri – che avrebbe voluto essere morta.

Nel frattempo, il Padre di Marshalsea prese in braccio sua figlia minore e le accarezzò la testa.

“Ecco, ecco! Non dire altro, Amy, non dire altro, mio caro bambino. Dimenticherò tutto non appena potrò. Io, ”, con un’isterica allegria, “io presto sarò in grado di ignorare tutto questo. È vero, cara mia, che sono sempre felice di vedere la mia vecchia pensionata, come tale, sì, e che le do tutta la protezione e la gentilezza che posso, nelle mie circostanze. È davvero così, mio caro bambino. Ma allo stesso tempo, nel farlo, conservo, se posso usare questa espressione, il ‘Spirito’. Il vero ‘Spirito’. E ci sono alcune cose che, ”, si interruppe per singhiozzare, “sono incompatibili con questo, e lo feriscono profondamente. Non è che abbia visto la mia cara Amy essere premurosa e, indulgente verso la mia vecchia pensionata. Non è questo che mi fa male. È che, per chiudere questo doloroso argomento in modo esplicito, ho visto la mia bambina, la mia stessa figlia, entrare in questo college, sorridente! Sorridente, con, oh mio Dio, una livrea!”

This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate gentleman gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his clenched pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings might have found some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the door, which had been already twice repeated, and to which Fanny (still wishing herself dead, and indeed now going so far as to add, buried) cried ‘Come in!’

‘Ah, Young John!’ said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice. ‘What is it, Young John?’

‘A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would bring it to your room.’ The speaker’s attention was much distracted by the piteous spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father’s feet, with her head turned away.

‘Indeed, John? Thank you.’

‘The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir—it’s the answer—and the message was, sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he would do himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see you, and likewise,’ attention more distracted than before, ‘Miss Amy.’

‘Oh!’ As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note in it), he reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. ‘Thank you, Young John. Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No one waiting?’

‘No, sir, no one waiting.’

‘Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?’

‘Thank you, sir, she’s not quite as well as we could wish—in fact, we none of us are, except father—but she’s pretty well, sir.’

‘Say we sent our remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you please, Young John.’

‘Thank you, sir, I will.’ And Mr Chivery junior went his way, having spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, to the effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having at such a date, Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And feeling unable to bear the harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable parents, And terminated his existence by his own rash act.

‘There, there, Amy!’ said the Father, when Young John had closed the door, ‘let us say no more about it.’ The last few minutes had improved his spirits remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. ‘Where is my old pensioner all this while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose he is not welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him, my child, or shall I?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, father,’ said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her sobbing to a close.

‘Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red. There! Cheer up, Amy. Don’t be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again, my love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look comfortable and pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.’

‘I would rather stay in my own room, Father,’ returned Little Dorrit, finding it more difficult than before to regain her composure. ‘I would far rather not see Mr Clennam.’

‘Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that’s folly. Mr Clennam is a very gentlemanly man—very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say extremely gentlemanly. I couldn’t think of your not being here to receive Mr Clennam, my dear, especially this afternoon. So go and freshen yourself up, Amy; go and freshen yourself up, like a good girl.’

Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing for a moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of reconciliation. Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for the time worn out the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and executed the brilliant idea of wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he should come bothering there like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and making mischief between two sisters.

The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went down into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in hand just within the gate, as he had stood all this time. ‘Come, Nandy!’ said he, with great suavity. ‘Come up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way; why don’t you come up-stairs?’ He went the length, on this occasion, of giving him his hand and saying, ‘How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty well?’ To which that vocalist returned, ‘I thank you, honoured sir, I am all the better for seeing your honour.’ As they went along the yard, the Father of the Marshalsea presented him to a Collegian of recent date. ‘An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old pensioner.’ And then said, ‘Be covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,’ with great consideration.

His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea ready, and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham, and shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a bank-note for ten pounds, laying strict injunctions on her to be careful of the change. These preparations were in an advanced stage of progress, and his daughter Amy had come back with her work, when Clennam presented himself; whom he most graciously received, and besought to join their meal.

‘Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the happiness of doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr Clennam.’ Fanny acknowledged him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such cases being that there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators. ‘This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old Nandy, a very faithful old man.’ (He always spoke of him as an object of great antiquity, but he was two or three years younger than himself.) ‘Let me see. You know Plornish, I think? I think my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know poor Plornish?’

“Questo riferimento al mantello che non si consuma né con il tempo, ”, esclamò l’infortunato gentiluomo con voce appena percettibile, tenendo sollevato in aria il fazzoletto stretto nel pugno. I suoi sentimenti agitati avrebbero potuto trovare ancora un modo doloroso per esprimersi, se non fosse stato per il bussare alla porta, che si era già ripetuto due volte; Fanny, che continuava a desiderare di morire e ormai arrivava persino ad augurarsi di essere sepolta viva, gridò: “Entrate!”

“Ah, giovane John!” disse il padre, con voce diversa e tranquilla. “Che c’è, giovane John?”

“Una lettera per voi, signore; è stata lasciata nella Loggia proprio adesso, insieme a un messaggio. Poiché mi trovavo lì per caso, ho pensato di portarvela in camera.” L’attenzione del parlante venne notevolmente distratta dal triste spettacolo di Little Dorrit ai piedi di suo padre, con la testa girata da un’altra parte.

“Davvero, John? Grazie.”

“La lettera è del signor Clennam, signore. È la risposta. E il messaggio era che il signor Clennam desiderava anche inviargli i suoi complimenti e comunicava che si sarebbe preso la libertà di venire a trovarvi questo pomeriggio, nella speranza di vedervi. E, allo stesso modo,” proseguì, con un’attenzione ormai più distratta che prima, “anche la signorina Amy.”

“Oh!” Mentre il padre guardava all’interno della lettera (c’era una banconota dentro), arrossì leggermente e accarezzò di nuovo la testa di Amy. “Grazie, giovane John. Molto bene, ti sono davvero grato per la tua attenzione. Nessuno sta aspettando?”

“No, signore, nessuno sta aspettando.”

“Grazie, John. Come sta tua madre, giovane John?”

“Grazie, signore. Non è esattamente così in buona salute come vorremmo, anzi, nessuno di noi lo è, tranne il padre, ma sta abbastanza bene, signore.”

“Dica che abbiamo inviato i nostri ricordi, va bene? Dica che sono ricordi gentili, per favore, giovane John.”

“Grazie, signore, lo farò.” E il giovane Mr Chivery se ne andò, avendo improvvisato sul momento un epitaffio completamente nuovo per sé stesso: “Qui giace il corpo di John Chivery, che, in quel giorno, vedendo l’idolo della sua vita, piangente e distrutto dal dolore, non riuscendo a sopportare quella vista straziante, si recò immediatamente presso la dimora dei suoi genitori disperati e pose fine alla propria vita con un atto avventato.”

“Ecco, ecco, Amy!” disse il padre, quando Young John ebbe chiuso la porta. “Non parliamone più.” Gli ultimi minuti avevano migliorato notevolmente il suo umore; era davvero di buon spirito. “Dove è finita la mia vecchia pensionata in tutto questo tempo? Non dobbiamo lasciarla da sola, altrimenti comincerà a pensare di non essere benvenuta. E questo mi farebbe molto male. Vuoi andarla a prendere tu, mio bambino, o devo farlo io?”

“Se non vi dispiace, padre,” disse Little Dorrit, cercando di fermare i suoi singhiozzi.

“Certo che andrò, carina mia. Me n’ero dimenticata. I tuoi occhi sono un po’ rossi. Ecco! Rilassati, Amy. Non preoccuparti per me. Sono di nuovo me stessa, il mio amore, completamente me stessa. Vai nella tua stanza, Amy, e preparati bene ad accogliere il signor Clennam.”

“Preferirei rimanere nella mia stanza, Padre,” rispose Little Dorrit, trovando ancora più difficile riprendere il controllo di sé. “Mi sarebbe molto meglio non vedere il signor Clennam.”

“Oh, no, no, cara mia, che sciocchezza. Il signor Clennam è un uomo davvero molto gentiluomo. Molto, molto gentiluomo. A volte un po’ riservato, ma devo dire assolutamente estremamente gentiluomo. Non riesco proprio a immaginare che tu non sia qui ad accogliere il signor Clennam, cara mia, soprattutto questo pomeriggio. Quindi vai a rinfrescarti un po’, Amy; vai a rinfrescarti, come una brava ragazza.”

Così guidata, Little Dorrit obbedì diligentemente: si fermò solo per un momento prima di uscire dalla stanza, per dare alla sorella un bacio di riconciliazione. A quel punto, quella giovane signorina, sentendosi molto turbata nella mente e avendo ormai esaurito il desiderio con cui solitamente si consolava, concepì ed attuò l’idea geniale di augurare la morte a Old Nandy, piuttosto che vederlo continuare a disturbare lì, come un essere disgustoso, noioso e malvagio, creando problemi tra due sorelle.

Il Padre della Marshalsea, anche se canticchiava una canzone e indossava il suo cappello di velluto nero leggermente storto da un lato, aveva davvero un aspetto molto più sereno. Scese nel cortile e trovò il suo vecchio pensionato fermo lì, con il cappello in mano, proprio dove si era sempre trovato in tutto quel tempo. “Vieni, Nandy!”, disse con grande gentilezza. “Vieni su per le scale, Nandy; conosci la strada. Perché non vieni?” Questa volta gli tese persino la mano e chiese: “Come stai, Nandy? Stai bene?” Il pensionato rispose: “Grazie, signore onorato. Sto molto meglio ora che ho visto il vostro onore.” Mentre camminavano per il cortile, il Padre della Marshalsea lo presentò a un collega appena arrivato lì. “Un vecchio conoscente mio, signore. Un altro pensionato”, disse. Poi aggiunse: “Metti il cappello, caro Nandy. Fallo con cura.”

Il suo patrocinio non si fermò qui: ordinò infatti a Maggy di preparare il tè e le diede istruzioni per acquistare alcune tortine al tè, burro fresco, uova, prosciutto freddo e gamberi; per pagare tutto ciò le diede una banconota da dieci sterline, imponendole severamente di fare attenzione al resto. Queste preparazioni erano ormai a un avanzato stadio di completamento, quando Clennam si presentò da lui; fu accolto con grande gentilezza e invitato a partecipare al loro pasto.

“Amy, mio amore, tu conosci il signor Clennam molto meglio di quanto io abbia la fortuna di farlo. Fanny, cara mia, tu lo conosci già.” Fanny lo riconobbe con aria sprezzante; la posizione che assumeva tacitamente in simili situazioni era quella di una persona coinvolta in una vasta cospirazione volta ad insultare la sua famiglia, ignorandola o non rispettandola a sufficienza. E ecco qui uno dei complici. “Questo, signor Clennam, deve sapere che è un mio vecchio pensionato: il povero Old Nandy, un uomo molto fedele.” (Lui lo parlava sempre come di una persona estremamente anziana, ma in realtà Old Nandy era due o tre anni più giovane di lui.) “Ah. Conosci Plornish, vero? Penso che mia figlia Amy mi abbia detto che tu conosci il povero Plornish, ”

‘O yes!’ said Arthur Clennam.

‘Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish’s father.’

‘Indeed? I am glad to see him.’

‘You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr Clennam.’

‘I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,’ said Arthur, secretly pitying the bowed and submissive figure.

‘It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are always glad to see him,’ observed the Father of the Marshalsea. Then he added behind his hand, [‘Union, poor old fellow. Out for the day.’)

By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had spread the board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison very close, the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. ‘If Maggy will spread that newspaper on the window-sill, my dear,’ remarked the Father complacently and in a half whisper to Little Dorrit, ‘my old pensioner can have his tea there, while we are having ours.’

So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in width, standard measure, Mrs Plornish’s father was handsomely regaled. Clennam had never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that other Father, he of the Marshalsea; and was lost in the contemplation of its many wonders.

The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he remarked on the pensioner’s infirmities and failings, as if he were a gracious Keeper making a running commentary on the decline of the harmless animal he exhibited.

‘Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His last teeth,’ he explained to the company, ‘are going, poor old boy.’)

At another time, he said, ‘No shrimps, Nandy?’ and on his not instantly replying, observed, [‘His hearing is becoming very defective. He’ll be deaf directly.’)

At another time he asked him, ‘Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard within the walls of that place of yours?’

‘No, sir; no. I haven’t any great liking for that.’

‘No, to be sure,’ he assented. ‘Very natural.’ Then he privately informed the circle [‘Legs going.’)

Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was?

‘John Edward,’ said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork to consider. ‘How old, sir? Let me think now.’

The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead [‘Memory weak.’)

‘John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn’t say at this minute, sir, whether it’s two and two months, or whether it’s two and five months. It’s one or the other.’

‘Don’t distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,’ he returned, with infinite forbearance. [‘Faculties evidently decaying—old man rusts in the life he leads!’)

The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got out of his chair after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his intimating that he feared, honoured sir, his time was running out, he made himself look as erect and strong as possible.

‘We don’t call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,’ he said, putting one in his hand. ‘We call it tobacco.’

‘Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to Miss Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr Clennam.’

‘And mind you don’t forget us, you know, Nandy,’ said the Father. ‘You must come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come out without seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be very careful how you descend the stairs, Nandy; they are rather uneven and worn.’ With that he stood on the landing, watching the old man down: and when he came into the room again, said, with a solemn satisfaction on him, ‘A melancholy sight that, Mr Clennam, though one has the consolation of knowing that he doesn’t feel it himself. The poor old fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone—pulverised—crushed out of him, sir, completely!’

As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive to these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator, while Maggy and her Little Mother washed the tea-service and cleared it away. He noticed that his companion stood at the window with the air of an affable and accessible Sovereign, and that, when any of his people in the yard below looked up, his recognition of their salutes just stopped short of a blessing.

When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the bedstead, Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her departure. Arthur, still having his purpose, still remained. At this time the door opened, without any notice, and Mr Tip came in. He kissed Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded to Fanny, nodded to his father, gloomed on the visitor without further recognition, and sat down.

‘Tip, dear,’ said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, ‘don’t you see—’

‘Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have here—I say, if you refer to that,’ answered Tip, jerking his head with emphasis towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, ‘I see!’

‘Is that all you say?’

‘That’s all I say. And I suppose,’ added the lofty young man, after a moment’s pause, ‘that visitor will understand me, when I say that’s all I say. In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn’t used me like a gentleman.’

‘I do not understand that,’ observed the obnoxious personage referred to with tranquillity.

‘No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know that when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and an urgent appeal, and a delicate appeal, to an individual, for a small temporary accommodation, easily within his power—easily within his power, mind!—and when that individual writes back word to me that he begs to be excused, I consider that he doesn’t treat me like a gentleman.’

“O sì!”, disse Arthur Clennam.

“Beh, signore, questo è il padre della signora Plornish.”

“Davvero? Sono felice di vederlo.”

“Sareste molto più soddisfatto se conosceste le sue molte qualità positive, signor Clennam.”

“Spero di poterli conoscere attraverso lui,” disse Arthur, provando in segreto compassione per quella figura curva e sottomessa.

“È una giornata di festa per lui; viene a trovare i suoi vecchi amici, che sono sempre felici di vederlo,” osservò il Padre di Marshalsea. Poi aggiunse sottovoce: “Union, povero vecchio. È uscito per la giornata.”

A quell’ora, Maggy, con l’aiuto silenzioso della sua “Piccola Madre”, aveva già preparato il tavolo e il pasto era pronto. Poiché faceva caldo e la prigione si trovava molto vicina, la finestra era stata aperta al massimo. “Se Maggy mettesse quel giornale sul davanzale della finestra, cara, ” disse il Padre in tono compiaciuto e sussurrando a Little Dorrit, “il mio vecchio pensionato potrebbe bere il tè lì, mentre noi lo facciamo qui.”

Così, con un abisso di circa un piede di larghezza tra lui e la “buona compagnia” intorno a lui – una misura standard, insomma – il padre della signora Plornish fu generosamente intrattenuto. Clennam non aveva mai visto nulla del genere: quella protezione magnanima da parte di quell’altro “padre”, quello di Marshalsea. E rimase incantato ad ammirarne le molte meraviglie.

Il più sorprendente di tutto questo era forse il modo in cui commentava con piacere le debolezze e gli errori del pensionato, come se fosse un gentile custode che osservava con attenzione il declino di quell’animale innocuo che aveva sotto la sua cura.

“Non sei ancora pronto per un’altra dose di cibo, Nandy? Ma che lentezza, (I suoi ultimi denti,” spiegò alla compagnia, “stanno per cadere, povero vecchio ragazzo.”)

In un altro momento, disse: “Niente gamberetti, Nandy?”, e quando quest’ultimo non rispose immediatamente, osservò: “La sua udizione sta peggiorando molto. Presto diventerà sordo”.

In un altro momento, gli chiese: “Cammini spesso per il cortile, all’interno delle mura di quel posto dove vivi?”

“No, signore; no. Non mi piace affatto.”

“No, sicuramente,” convenne. “Del tutto naturale.” Poi, in privato, comunicò al gruppo: [‘Le gambe si muovono.’]

Una volta chiese all’anziano, con quella gentilezza che lo spingeva a chiedere qualsiasi cosa pur di non cadere nel disastro, quanti anni avesse il suo nipotino più giovane.

“John Edward,” disse il pensionato, posando lentamente forchetta e coltello per riflettere. “Quanti anni ha, signore? Lasciate che ci pensi un attimo.”

Il Padre della Marshalsea si batté la fronte, dicendo: ‘Memoria debole.’]

“John Edward, signore? Beh, davvero non me lo ricordo. In questo momento non potrei dire con certezza se siano due mesi e venti giorni, o due mesi e cinque giorni. Sono una delle due possibilità.”

“Non angosciarti troppo preoccupandotene,” rispose lui, con infinita pazienza. [“Le facoltà mentali stanno chiaramente declinando, un vecchio che si consuma nella vita che conduce!”]

Più scoperte di queste riusciva a convincersi di aver fatto nel pensionato, più sembrava apprezzarlo; e quando, dopo il tè, si alzò dalla sedia per salutarlo, e lui accennò al timore che il suo tempo stesse per scadere, fece del proprio meglio per apparire il più eretto e forte possibile.

“Non lo chiamiamo uno scellino, Nandy, lo sai,” disse, mettendogliene uno in mano. “Lo chiamiamo tabacco.”

‘Onorevole signore, vi ringrazio. Questi soldi serviranno per comprare tabacco. Rendo omaggio a Miss Amy e Miss Fanny. Vi auguro una buona notte, signor Clennam.’

“E ricorda di non dimenticarci, sai, Nandy,” disse il Padre. “Devi tornare ogni volta che hai un pomeriggio libero. Non devi andartene senza salutarci, altrimenti ci sentiremo gelosi. Buona notte, Nandy. Stai molto attento quando scendi le scale: sono piuttosto irregolari e consumate.” Detto questo, rimase sul pianerottolo a guardare il vecchio mentre scendeva; quando rientrò in stanza, disse con un senso di solenne soddisfazione: “Una vista davvero triste, signor Clennam. Anche se si ha la consolazione di sapere che lui stesso non la prova. Povero vecchio. Il suo spirito è distrutto, completamente annientato, ”

Poiché Clennam aveva un motivo per rimanere, disse tutto ciò che poté in risposta a questi sentimenti, e rimase davanti alla finestra insieme al loro interlocutore, mentre Maggy e sua madre lavavano i piatti del tè e li mettevano via. Notò che il suo compagno stava davanti alla finestra con l’aria di un sovrano affabile e accessibile; inoltre, quando qualcuno dei suoi servitori nel cortile sottostante alzava lo sguardo, lui rispondeva ai loro saluti senza mai arrivare a pronunciare una benedizione.

Quando Little Dorrit ebbe il suo lavoro pronto sul tavolo e Maggy il suo sul letto, Fanny iniziò a legarsi il cappello come preparazione per la partenza. Arthur, ancora con i suoi compiti da svolgere, rimase lì. In quel momento la porta si aprì all’improvviso e entrò Mr Tip. Baciò Amy mentre lei si alzava per andargli incontro, salutò Fanny e suo padre, lanciò uno sguardo cupo alla nuova arrivata senza riconoscerla e poi si sedette.

“Tesoro,” disse dolcemente Little Dorrit, sorpresa da questa reazione, “non capisci forse, ”

“Sì, capisco, Amy. Se ti riferisci alla presenza di qualche visitatore che hai qui. Voglio dire, se parli di questo,” rispose Tip, scuotendo la testa con enfasi verso la spalla più vicina a Clennam, “capisco!”

“È tutto quello che hai da dire?”

“Questo è tutto ciò che ho da dire. E suppongo,” aggiunse il giovane arrogante dopo un momento di pausa, “che quel visitatore capirà ciò che intendo quando dico che questo è tutto ciò che ho da dire. In breve, credo che quel visitatore comprenderà che non mi ha trattato come si conviene a un gentiluomo.”

“Non capisco quello,” osservò con tranquillità quella persona odiosa di cui si parlava.

“No? Allora, per essere ancora più chiaro, signore, le permetto di sapere che quando rivolgo a una persona ciò che definisco un appello ben formulato, un appello urgente e delicato, chiedendo un piccolo aiuto temporaneo facilmente alla sua portata, facilmente, intendo!, e quando quella persona mi risponde dicendo di scusarla, ritengo che non mi tratti come un gentiluomo.”

The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no sooner heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:—

‘How dare you—’ But his son stopped him.

‘Now, don’t ask me how I dare, father, because that’s bosh. As to the fact of the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual present, you ought to be proud of my showing a proper spirit.’

‘I should think so!’ cried Fanny.

‘A proper spirit?’ said the Father. ‘Yes, a proper spirit; a becoming spirit. Is it come to this that my son teaches me—me—spirit!’

‘Now, don’t let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the subject. I have fully made up my mind that the individual present has not treated me like a gentleman. And there’s an end of it.’

‘But there is not an end of it, sir,’ returned the Father. ‘But there shall not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You have made up your mind?’

‘Yes, I have. What’s the good of keeping on like that?’

‘Because,’ returned the Father, in a great heat, ‘you had no right to make up your mind to what is monstrous, to what is—ha—immoral, to what is—hum—parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don’t ask me to desist; there is a—hum—a general principle involved here, which rises even above considerations of—ha—hospitality. I object to the assertion made by my son. I—ha—I personally repel it.’

‘Why, what is it to you, father?’ returned the son, over his shoulder.

‘What is it to me, sir? I have a—hum—a spirit, sir, that will not endure it. I,’ he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and dabbed his face. ‘I am outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I myself may at a certain time—ha—or times, have made a—hum—an appeal, and a properly-worded appeal, and a delicate appeal, and an urgent appeal to some individual for a small temporary accommodation. Let me suppose that that accommodation could have been easily extended, and was not extended, and that that individual informed me that he begged to be excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore received treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I—ha—I submitted to it?’

His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any account be calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn’t endure this.

Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on his own hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by his own blood?

‘You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this injury of your own accord!’ said the young gentleman morosely. ‘What I have made up my mind about has nothing to do with you. What I said had nothing to do with you. Why need you go trying on other people’s hats?’

‘I reply it has everything to do with me,’ returned the Father. ‘I point out to you, sir, with indignation, that—hum—the—ha—delicacy and peculiarity of your father’s position should strike you dumb, sir, if nothing else should, in laying down such—ha—such unnatural principles. Besides; if you are not filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you are at least—hum—not a Christian? Are you—ha—an Atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatise and denounce an individual for begging to be excused this time, when the same individual may—ha—respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the part of a Christian not to—hum—not to try him again?’ He had worked himself into quite a religious glow and fervour.

‘I see precious well,’ said Mr Tip, rising, ‘that I shall get no sensible or fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I can do is to cut. Good night, Amy. Don’t be vexed. I am very sorry it happens here, and you here, upon my soul I am; but I can’t altogether part with my spirit, even for your sake, old girl.’

With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss Fanny; who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of Clennam with any less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing that she had always known him for one of the large body of conspirators.

When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first inclined to sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that a gentleman opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to the Snuggery. It was the gentleman Clennam had seen on the night of his own accidental detention there, who had that impalpable grievance about the misappropriated Fund on which the Marshal was supposed to batten. He presented himself as deputation to escort the Father to the Chair, it being an occasion on which he had promised to preside over the assembled Collegians in the enjoyment of a little Harmony.

‘Such, you see, Mr Clennam,’ said the Father, ‘are the incongruities of my position here. But a public duty! No man, I am sure, would more readily recognise a public duty than yourself.’

Clennam besought him not to delay a moment.

‘Amy, my dear, if you can persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can leave the honours of our poor apology for an establishment with confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do something towards erasing from Mr Clennam’s mind the—ha—untoward and unpleasant circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.’

Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and therefore required no erasure.

‘My dear sir,’ said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and a grasp of Clennam’s hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his note and enclosure that afternoon, ‘Heaven ever bless you!’

So, at last, Clennam’s purpose in remaining was attained, and he could speak to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as nobody, and she was by.

Il Padre di Marshalsea, che aveva osservato suo figlio in silenzio, non appena udì queste parole iniziò a parlare con voce arrabbiata:–

“Come osi, ” Ma suo figlio lo fermò.

“Ora, non chiedetemi come osi farlo, padre, perché sarebbe assurdo. Per quanto riguarda il modo in cui ho deciso di comportarmi con questa persona qui presente, dovreste essere orgogliosi del fatto che mostri un atteggiamento appropriato.”

“Certo che sì!” esclamò Fanny.

“Uno spirito degno di questo nome?” disse il Padre. “Sì, uno spirito davvero degno; uno spirito appropriato. È arrivato al punto che mio figlio mi insegna, a me, lo spirito!”

“Ora, non vogliamo più occuparcene, padre, né discutere ancora sull’argomento. Ho preso una decisione definitiva: quest’uomo non si è comportato come un gentiluomo con me. E basta.”

“Ma non finirà mai, signore,” rispose il Padre. “Ma non finirà mai. Avete preso una decisione? Avete deciso?”

“Sì, lo ho fatto. A che serve continuare così?”

“Perché,” rispose il Padre, con grande fervore, “non avevi il diritto di decidere qualcosa che fosse orribile, immorale, o addirittura parricida. No, signor Clennam, la prego: non mi chieda di desistere. Qui è in gioco un principio generale, che va ben oltre le considerazioni legate all’ospitalità. Obietto fermamente all’affermazione fatta da mio figlio. La rifiuto personalmente.”

“Perché, che importanza ha per te, padre?” rispose il figlio, voltandosi indietro.

‘Cosa significa tutto questo per me, signore? Ho un, ehm, uno spirito, signore, che non può sopportarlo. Io, ’ Prese di nuovo il fazzoletto di tasca e si asciugò il viso. ‘Sono offeso e umiliato da questa situazione. Supponiamo che io stesso, in un certo momento, abbia fatto una richiesta, una richiesta formulata con cura, delicatamente e con urgenza, a qualcuno per ottenere un piccolo aiuto temporaneo. Supponiamo che quell’aiuto potesse essere facilmente esteso, ma non lo sia stato, e che quella persona mi abbia detto di scusarla. Devo forse credere che mio stesso figlio sostenga che io abbia ricevuto un trattamento indegno di un gentiluomo, e che io, l’abbia accettato?’

Sua figlia Amy cercò con dolcezza di calmarlo, ma lui non voleva assolutamente calmarsi. Disse che il suo spirito era eccitato e che non poteva sopportare quella situazione.

Gli doveva essere detto davvero tutto ciò? Voleva saperlo di nuovo, dal proprio figlio, nel proprio focolare, in faccia a lui stesso. Doveva subire una tale umiliazione da parte del proprio stesso >sangue?

“È tu stesso a causarti tutto questo dolore, padre. Lo stai facendo di tua volontà!” disse il giovane gentiluomo con tono cupo. “Quello che ho deciso non ha nulla a che fare con te. Quello che ho detto non aveva nulla a che fare con te. Perché dovresti cercare di indossare i cappelli degli altri?”

“Rispondo che tutto ciò ha a che fare con me,” replicò il Padre. “Vi faccio notare, signore, con indignazione, che, l’ delicatezza e la particolarità della posizione di vostro padre dovrebbero bastare a farvi tacere, se non altro, quando enuncia principi così, innaturali. Inoltre: se non siete un figlio devoto, se rifiutate questo dovere, allora almeno, non siete cristiani, vero? Siete atei? E vi chiedo: è davvero cristiano denunciare e stigmatizzare una persona perché questa volta chiede scusa, quando la stessa persona potrebbe, l’indomani mostrarsi disponibile ad adeguarsi alle richieste? Non è forse dovere di un cristiano provare ancora a comprenderla?” Si era infervorito davvero nel suo discorso religioso.

“Vedo bene che non otterrò alcun argomento sensato o giusto qui stasera,” disse il signor Tip alzandosi, “quindi la cosa migliore da fare è andarmene. Buona notte, Amy. Non arrabbiarti. Mi dispiace molto che sia successo proprio qui, e soprattutto a te. Ma non posso certo rinunciare del tutto al mio spirito, nemmeno per te, vecchia mia.”

Con quelle parole si mise il cappello e uscì, accompagnato da Miss Fanny; la quale non ritenne opportuno salutare Clennam con un gesto diverso da uno sguardo pieno di disapprovazione, come a voler significare che lo aveva sempre considerato parte di quella vasta rete di cospiratori.

Quando se ne furono andati, il Padre della Marshalsea fu in un primo momento incline a cadere di nuovo nella disperazione; stava per farlo, quando poco dopo arrivò un gentiluomo che lo accompagnò nella “Snuggery”. Era lo stesso signor Clennam che aveva visto la notte del proprio improvviso arresto lì; quell’uomo nutriva un profondo risentimento riguardo al fondo finanziario sottratto indebitamente, da cui il Marshal si supponeva dipendesse. Si presentò come rappresentante incaricato di scortare il Padre fino alla “Sedia”, poiché quella era l’occasione in cui aveva promesso di presiedere la riunione dei colleghi per creare un’atmosfera di armonia.

“Ecco, vedete, signor Clennam,” disse il Padre, “le contraddizioni della mia posizione qui. Ma si tratta di un dovere pubblico! Sono certo che nessuno riconoscerebbe più volentieri un dovere pubblico di voi.”

Clennam lo pregò di non indugiare nemmeno un attimo.

“Amy, mia cara, se riuscissi a convincere il signor Clennam a trattenersi ancora un po’, potrei affidare con fiducia a te l’onore di presentargli le nostre scuse per questa situazione imbarazzante. Forse tu potresti anche aiutare a cancellare dalla mente del signor Clennam quell’incidente spiacevole che è accaduto dopo il tè, ”

Clennam gli assicurò che non aveva lasciato alcuna impressione nella sua mente, e quindi non era necessario cancellarlo.

“Mio caro signore,” disse il Padre, togliendosi il cappello nero e stringendo la mano di Clennam, nel modo che voleva esprimere di aver ricevuto con sicurezza la sua lettera e l’allegato quel pomeriggio, “Che il cielo vi benedica!”

Finalmente, Clennam raggiunse lo scopo per cui era rimasto e poté parlare con Little Dorrit senza che nessuno fosse presente. Maggy, considerata “nessuno”, in realtà c’era.

CHAPTER 32. More Fortune-Telling

Maggy sat at her work in her great white cap with its quantity of opaque frilling hiding what profile she had (she had none to spare), and her serviceable eye brought to bear upon her occupation, on the window side of the room. What with her flapping cap, and what with her unserviceable eye, she was quite partitioned off from her Little Mother, whose seat was opposite the window. The tread and shuffle of feet on the pavement of the yard had much diminished since the taking of the Chair, the tide of Collegians having set strongly in the direction of Harmony. Some few who had no music in their souls, or no money in their pockets, dawdled about; and the old spectacle of the visitor-wife and the depressed unseasoned prisoner still lingered in corners, as broken cobwebs and such unsightly discomforts draggle in corners of other places. It was the quietest time the College knew, saving the night hours when the Collegians took the benefit of the act of sleep. The occasional rattle of applause upon the tables of the Snuggery, denoted the successful termination of a morsel of Harmony; or the responsive acceptance, by the united children, of some toast or sentiment offered to them by their Father. Occasionally, a vocal strain more sonorous than the generality informed the listener that some boastful bass was in blue water, or in the hunting field, or with the reindeer, or on the mountain, or among the heather; but the Marshal of the Marshalsea knew better, and had got him hard and fast.

As Arthur Clennam moved to sit down by the side of Little Dorrit, she trembled so that she had much ado to hold her needle. Clennam gently put his hand upon her work, and said, ‘Dear Little Dorrit, let me lay it down.’

She yielded it to him, and he put it aside. Her hands were then nervously clasping together, but he took one of them.

‘How seldom I have seen you lately, Little Dorrit!’

‘I have been busy, sir.’

‘But I heard only to-day,’ said Clennam, ‘by mere accident, of your having been with those good people close by me. Why not come to me, then?’

‘I—I don’t know. Or rather, I thought you might be busy too. You generally are now, are you not?’

He saw her trembling little form and her downcast face, and the eyes that drooped the moment they were raised to his—he saw them almost with as much concern as tenderness.

‘My child, your manner is so changed!’

The trembling was now quite beyond her control. Softly withdrawing her hand, and laying it in her other hand, she sat before him with her head bent and her whole form trembling.

‘My own Little Dorrit,’ said Clennam, compassionately.

She burst into tears. Maggy looked round of a sudden, and stared for at least a minute; but did not interpose. Clennam waited some little while before he spoke again.

‘I cannot bear,’ he said then, ‘to see you weep; but I hope this is a relief to an overcharged heart.’

‘Yes it is, sir. Nothing but that.’

‘Well, well! I feared you would think too much of what passed here just now. It is of no moment; not the least. I am only unfortunate to have come in the way. Let it go by with these tears. It is not worth one of them. One of them? Such an idle thing should be repeated, with my glad consent, fifty times a day, to save you a moment’s heart-ache, Little Dorrit.’

She had taken courage now, and answered, far more in her usual manner, ‘You are so good! But even if there was nothing else in it to be sorry for and ashamed of, it is such a bad return to you—’

‘Hush!’ said Clennam, smiling and touching her lips with his hand. ‘Forgetfulness in you who remember so many and so much, would be new indeed. Shall I remind you that I am not, and that I never was, anything but the friend whom you agreed to trust? No. You remember it, don’t you?’

‘I try to do so, or I should have broken the promise just now, when my mistaken brother was here. You will consider his bringing-up in this place, and will not judge him hardly, poor fellow, I know!’ In raising her eyes with these words, she observed his face more nearly than she had done yet, and said, with a quick change of tone, ‘You have not been ill, Mr Clennam?’

‘No.’

‘Nor tried? Nor hurt?’ she asked him, anxiously.

It fell to Clennam now, to be not quite certain how to answer. He said in reply:

‘To speak the truth, I have been a little troubled, but it is over. Do I show it so plainly? I ought to have more fortitude and self-command than that. I thought I had. I must learn them of you. Who could teach me better!’

He never thought that she saw in him what no one else could see. He never thought that in the whole world there were no other eyes that looked upon him with the same light and strength as hers.

‘But it brings me to something that I wish to say,’ he continued, ‘and therefore I will not quarrel even with my own face for telling tales and being unfaithful to me. Besides, it is a privilege and pleasure to confide in my Little Dorrit. Let me confess then, that, forgetting how grave I was, and how old I was, and how the time for such things had gone by me with the many years of sameness and little happiness that made up my long life far away, without marking it—that, forgetting all this, I fancied I loved some one.’

‘Do I know her, sir?’ asked Little Dorrit.

‘No, my child.’

‘Not the lady who has been kind to me for your sake?’

‘Flora. No, no. Do you think—’

‘I never quite thought so,’ said Little Dorrit, more to herself than him. ‘I did wonder at it a little.’

‘Well!’ said Clennam, abiding by the feeling that had fallen on him in the avenue on the night of the roses, the feeling that he was an older man, who had done with that tender part of life, ‘I found out my mistake, and I thought about it a little—in short, a good deal—and got wiser. Being wiser, I counted up my years and considered what I am, and looked back, and looked forward, and found that I should soon be grey. I found that I had climbed the hill, and passed the level ground upon the top, and was descending quickly.’

CAPITOLO 32. Ancora Predizioni del Futuro

Maggy sedeva al suo lavoro, con quel grande cappello bianco la cui abbondante frangia opaca nascondeva del tutto il profilo del suo viso (non ne aveva affatto da mostrare), e il suo occhio “funzionante” era concentrato sul suo compito, rivolto verso il lato della stanza vicino alla finestra. Con quel cappello che le ondeggiava sopra la testa e con quell’occhio inutilizzabile, era praticamente completamente isolata dalla sua “Piccola Madre”, la cui sedia si trovava di fronte alla finestra. Il rumore dei passi sul selciato del cortile era molto diminuito da quando il “Seggio” era stato preso in carico; la maggior parte degli studenti tendeva ormai verso l’armonia. Alcuni, però, che non avevano musica nel cuore né denaro in tasca, si attardavano ancora lì intorno; e quella vecchia scena della moglie dei visitatori e del prigioniero depresso continuava a persistere negli angoli, proprio come ragnatele rotte o altri dettagli sgradevoli che si trovano spesso in certi luoghi. Era il momento più tranquillo che il College conoscesse, tranne le ore di notte, quando gli studenti approfittavano del sonno per riposare. Di tanto in tanto, il suono degli applausi alle tavole della “Snuggery” indicava la conclusione positiva di qualche momento di armonia, o l’accettazione entusiasta da parte dei bambini di qualche brindisi o di qualche parole dolci offerte loro dal loro “Padre”. Di tanto in tanto, però, una voce più sonora del solito rivelava che qualcuno stava cantando in un contesto romantico, magari in mezzo ai boschi, o tra le montagne, o tra l’erica. Ma il “Maresciallo di Marshalsea” sapeva bene cosa stesse succedendo, e aveva preso tutte le misure necessarie per impedirlo.

Mentre Arthur Clennam si avvicinava per sedersi accanto a Little Dorrit, lei tremava così tanto che faticava a tenere in mano l’ago. Clennam le posò dolcemente la mano sul lavoro e disse: “Carina Little Dorrit, lascia che io ti aiuti.”

Gliela diede, e lui la mise da parte. Le sue mani erano intrecciate nervosamente, ma lui ne prese una.

“Quanto di rado ti ho visto ultimamente, piccola Dorrit!”

“Sono stato molto impegnato, signore.”

“Ma l’ho saputo solo oggi,” disse Clennam, “per puro caso, che eri con quelle brave persone vicino a me. Allora perché non sei venuto da me?”

“Non, non lo so. O meglio, pensavo che anche tu potessi essere occupato. Di solito lo sei, vero?”

Vide il suo piccolo corpo tremante e il suo viso abbassato; vide anche quegli occhi che si abbassavano non appena venivano sollevati verso di lui. Li guardò con tanto preoccupazione quanto tenerezza.

“Mio bambino, il tuo comportamento è davvero cambiato!”

Il tremore ormai era completamente al di fuori del suo controllo. Ritirando dolcemente la mano e posandola nell’altra, si sedette davanti a lui con la testa china e tutto il corpo che tremava.

“La mia piccola Dorrit, ”, disse Clennam con compassione.

Lei scoppiò in lacrime. All’improvviso, Maggy guardò intorno e fissò la scena per almeno un minuto, ma non intervenne. Clennam aspettò qualche istante prima di parlare di nuovo.

“Non posso sopportarlo,” disse allora, “vederti piangere; ma spero che questo possa alleviare un cuore troppo oppresso.”

“Sì, signore. Nient’altro che questo.”

‘Beh, beh! Temevo che poteste dare troppo peso a ciò che è appena accaduto qui. Non ha alcuna importanza; davvero nessuna. Sono solo sfortunato ad essere intervenuto in mezzo. Lasciate che tutto vada via con queste lacrime. Non vale nemmeno una di esse. Una sola? Una cosa così insignificante potrebbe essere ripetuta, con la mia più grande gioia, cinquanta volte al giorno, pur di risparmiarvi anche solo un momento di dolore, piccola Dorrit.’

Ora aveva raccolto il proprio coraggio e rispose, nel suo solito modo:
“Sei davvero così buono! Ma anche se non ci fosse nulla altro di cui vergognarsi o per cui rimproverarsi, è comunque una risposta terribile da parte tua, ”

“Zitta!” disse Clennam, sorridendo e toccandole le labbra con la mano.
“Dimenticare qualcosa da parte tua, che ricordi così tante cose, sarebbe davvero strano. Devo forse ricordarti che io non sono mai stato, e non sarò mai, nient’altro che l’amico di cui hai deciso di fidarti? No. Lo ricordi, vero?”

“Cerco di farlo. Altrimenti avrei dovuto rompere la promessa che ho fatto poco fa, quando mio fratello errato era qui. Prenderete in considerazione il modo in cui è stato cresciuto in questo posto e non lo giudicherete troppo severamente. Povero ragazzo, ” Alzando lo sguardo mentre pronunciava queste parole, osservò il suo volto più da vicino di quanto avesse fatto fino ad allora, e aggiunse, cambiando rapidamente tono: “Non vi sentite male, signor Clennam?”

‘No.’

“Né provato? Né fatto del male?” gli chiese lei, ansiosamente.

“Ora toccava a Clennam decidere come rispondere. Lui disse in risposta, ”

‘Per dire la verità, sono stato un po’ turbato, ma ora è finito. Lo mostro così chiaramente? Dovrei avere più forza d’animo e autocontrollo. Pensavo di averli. Devo impararli da te. Chi potrebbe insegnarmeli meglio?’

Non avrebbe mai pensato che lei vedesse in lui ciò che nessun altro riusciva a vedere. Non avrebbe mai immaginato che, in tutto il mondo, non esistessero altri occhi che lo guardassero con la stessa luce e la stessa intensità dei suoi.

“Ma questo mi porta a qualcosa che desidero dire,” continuò, “e quindi non mi disputerò nemmeno con il mio stesso ‘io’ per aver raccontato storie e per essere stato infedele a me stesso. Inoltre, è un privilegio e un piacere confidarsi in mia Little Dorrit. Lasciate che confessi allora: dimenticando quanto fossi grave, quanto fossi vecchio, e come il momento adatto per queste cose fosse ormai passato, a causa degli anni di monotonia e di poche gioie che hanno composto la mia lunga vita, dimenticando tutto ciò, ho immaginato di amare qualcuno.”

“La conosco, signore?”, chiese Little Dorrit.

“No, mio bambino.”

“Non è proprio la signora che si è presa cura di me per il tuo bene?”

“Flora. No, no. Credi davvero che, ”

“Non ci avevo mai pensato davvero,” disse Little Dorrit, più a se stessa che a lui. “In realtà me lo ero chiesto un po’.”

“Beh!”, disse Clennam, seguendo il sentimento che lo aveva assalito in quell’avenue la notte delle rose, quel sentimento di essere ormai un uomo più anziano, che aveva già vissuto quella parte tenera della vita, “Ho capito il mio errore e ci ho pensato a lungo. In breve, molto a lungo. E sono diventato più saggio. Essendo più saggio, ho contato i miei anni, ho riflettuto su ciò che sono, ho guardato indietro e avanti. E ho capito che presto i miei capelli diventeranno grigi. Ho realizzato di aver già scalato quella collina, di essere passato oltre la pianura in cima. E ora sto scendendo rapidamente.”

If he had known the sharpness of the pain he caused the patient heart, in speaking thus! While doing it, too, with the purpose of easing and serving her.

‘I found that the day when any such thing would have been graceful in me, or good in me, or hopeful or happy for me or any one in connection with me, was gone, and would never shine again.’

O! If he had known, if he had known! If he could have seen the dagger in his hand, and the cruel wounds it struck in the faithful bleeding breast of his Little Dorrit!

‘All that is over, and I have turned my face from it. Why do I speak of this to Little Dorrit? Why do I show you, my child, the space of years that there is between us, and recall to you that I have passed, by the amount of your whole life, the time that is present to you?’

‘Because you trust me, I hope. Because you know that nothing can touch you without touching me; that nothing can make you happy or unhappy, but it must make me, who am so grateful to you, the same.’

He heard the thrill in her voice, he saw her earnest face, he saw her clear true eyes, he saw the quickened bosom that would have joyfully thrown itself before him to receive a mortal wound directed at his breast, with the dying cry, ‘I love him!’ and the remotest suspicion of the truth never dawned upon his mind. No. He saw the devoted little creature with her worn shoes, in her common dress, in her jail-home; a slender child in body, a strong heroine in soul; and the light of her domestic story made all else dark to him.

‘For those reasons assuredly, Little Dorrit, but for another too. So far removed, so different, and so much older, I am the better fitted for your friend and adviser. I mean, I am the more easily to be trusted; and any little constraint that you might feel with another, may vanish before me. Why have you kept so retired from me? Tell me.’

‘I am better here. My place and use are here. I am much better here,’ said Little Dorrit, faintly.

‘So you said that day upon the bridge. I thought of it much afterwards. Have you no secret you could entrust to me, with hope and comfort, if you would!’

‘Secret? No, I have no secret,’ said Little Dorrit in some trouble.

They had been speaking in low voices; more because it was natural to what they said to adopt that tone, than with any care to reserve it from Maggy at her work. All of a sudden Maggy stared again, and this time spoke:

‘I say! Little Mother!’

‘Yes, Maggy.’

‘If you an’t got no secret of your own to tell him, tell him that about the Princess. She had a secret, you know.’

‘The Princess had a secret?’ said Clennam, in some surprise. ‘What Princess was that, Maggy?’

‘Lor! How you do go and bother a gal of ten,’ said Maggy, ‘catching the poor thing up in that way. Whoever said the Princess had a secret? I never said so.’

‘I beg your pardon. I thought you did.’

‘No, I didn’t. How could I, when it was her as wanted to find it out? It was the little woman as had the secret, and she was always a spinning at her wheel. And so she says to her, why do you keep it there? And so the t’other one says to her, no I don’t; and so the t’other one says to her, yes you do; and then they both goes to the cupboard, and there it is. And she wouldn’t go into the Hospital, and so she died. You know, Little Mother; tell him that. For it was a reg’lar good secret, that was!’ cried Maggy, hugging herself.

Arthur looked at Little Dorrit for help to comprehend this, and was struck by seeing her so timid and red. But, when she told him that it was only a Fairy Tale she had one day made up for Maggy, and that there was nothing in it which she wouldn’t be ashamed to tell again to anybody else, even if she could remember it, he left the subject where it was.

However, he returned to his own subject by first entreating her to see him oftener, and to remember that it was impossible to have a stronger interest in her welfare than he had, or to be more set upon promoting it than he was. When she answered fervently, she well knew that, she never forgot it, he touched upon his second and more delicate point—the suspicion he had formed.

‘Little Dorrit,’ he said, taking her hand again, and speaking lower than he had spoken yet, so that even Maggy in the small room could not hear him, ‘another word. I have wanted very much to say this to you; I have tried for opportunities. Don’t mind me, who, for the matter of years, might be your father or your uncle. Always think of me as quite an old man. I know that all your devotion centres in this room, and that nothing to the last will ever tempt you away from the duties you discharge here. If I were not sure of it, I should, before now, have implored you, and implored your father, to let me make some provision for you in a more suitable place. But you may have an interest—I will not say, now, though even that might be—may have, at another time, an interest in some one else; an interest not incompatible with your affection here.’

She was very, very pale, and silently shook her head.

‘It may be, dear Little Dorrit.’

‘No. No. No.’ She shook her head, after each slow repetition of the word, with an air of quiet desolation that he remembered long afterwards. The time came when he remembered it well, long afterwards, within those prison walls; within that very room.

‘But, if it ever should be, tell me so, my dear child. Entrust the truth to me, point out the object of such an interest to me, and I will try with all the zeal, and honour, and friendship and respect that I feel for you, good Little Dorrit of my heart, to do you a lasting service.’

‘O thank you, thank you! But, O no, O no, O no!’ She said this, looking at him with her work-worn hands folded together, and in the same resigned accents as before.

‘I press for no confidence now. I only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me.’

Se avesse saputo quanto fosse intensa la dolore che causava al cuore della paziente, parlando in quel modo. Anche se lo faceva con l’intento di confortarla e aiutarla.

“Ho capito che il giorno in cui una cosa del genere avrebbe potuto essere elegante per me, o positiva per me, o piena di speranza o felicità per me o per chiunque fosse legato a me, era ormai passato e non sarebbe mai più tornato.”

Oh! Se solo lo avesse saputo. Se solo avesse potuto vedere il pugnale nella sua mano, e le ferite crudeli che causò nel petto sanguinante della fedele Little Dorrit.

Tutto ciò è finito, e io ho voltato le spalle a esso. Perché dovrei parlare di questo con Little Dorrit? Perché dovrei mostrarti, mio bambino, l’enorme distanza temporale che c’è tra noi, e ricordarti che io ho vissuto, per tutta la durata della tua vita, il periodo di tempo che tu stai vivendo ora?

“Perché mi fidi, io spero. Perché sai che nulla può toccarti senza toccare anche me; che nulla può renderti felice o infelice, se non deve renderlo anche a me, che ti sono così grato.”

Sentì l’emozione nella sua voce, vide il suo viso sincero, i suoi occhi chiari e veri; vide il suo petto che si sollevava rapidamente, pronto a gettarsi felicemente davanti a lui per ricevere una ferita mortale diretta al suo cuore, con l’ultimo grido: “Lo amo!”. E nemmeno la più remota possibilità di comprendere la verità gli attraversò mai la mente. No. Vide quella piccola creatura devota, con i suoi scarponi logori, il suo abito semplice, nella sua “casa” di prigione; una bambina snella nel corpo, ma un’eroina forte nell’anima. E la luce della sua storia d’amore rese tutto il resto oscuro ai suoi occhi.

“Per queste ragioni, sicuramente, Little Dorrit, ma anche per un’altra ancora. Così lontana, così diversa, e tanto più anziana di te, io sono la persona più adatta a essere tua amica e tua consigliera. Voglio dire, io sono quella in cui si può avere maggiore fiducia; e qualsiasi imbarazzo tu possa provare con un’altra persona, potrebbe svanire davanti a me. Perché ti sei tenuta così distante da me? Dimmelo.”

“Sono meglio qui. Il mio posto e il mio scopo nella vita sono qui. Sono molto più felice qui,” disse Little Dorrit, con voce debole.

“Lo hai detto quel giorno sul ponte. Ci ho pensato molto in seguito. Non hai forse qualche segreto che potresti confidarmi, con speranza e conforto, se lo volessi?”

“Segreto? No, non ho segreti,” disse Little Dorrit, con un certo imbarazzo.

Parlavano a voce bassa; più perché era naturale adottare quel tono per ciò che dicevano, che per volerlo tenere nascosto a Maggy mentre lavorava. All’improvviso, Maggy fissò di nuovo loro, e questa volta parlò:

“Ahimè! Piccola Madre, ”

“Sì, Maggy.”

“Se non hai nessun segreto personale da raccontargli, parlagli della Principessa. Lei aveva un segreto, sai.”

“La principessa aveva un segreto?” disse Clennam, con una certa sorpresa. “Di quale principessa si trattava, Maggy?”

“Ma che cosa state facendo a disturbare una ragazza di dieci anni in questo modo,” disse Maggy, “prendendola in quel modo. Chi ha detto che la Principessa avesse un segreto? Io non l’ho mai detto.”

“Mi scusi. Pensavo che lo avesse fatto.”

“No, non l’ho fatto. Come avrei potuto, se era proprio lei che voleva scoprirlo? Era quella piccola donna ad avere il segreto. Lei stava sempre a filare alla sua ruota di filato. Allora una le chiede: ‘Perché lo tieni lì?’ L’altra risponde: ‘No, non lo tengo.’ E poi ancora: ‘Sì, invece lo tieni.’ Alla fine vanno entrambe nell’armadio. Ed eccolo lì. Lei non voleva andare in ospedale. E così è morta. Tu lo sai, Piccola Madre. Diglielo. Perché era davvero un segreto molto bello, ” gridò Maggy, abbracciandosi.

Arthur chiese aiuto a Little Dorrit per capire tutto ciò, e rimase sorpreso nel vederla così timida e arrossita. Ma quando lei gli spiegò che si trattava soltanto di una fiaba che un giorno aveva inventato per Maggy, e che non c’era nulla in essa di cui potesse vergognarsi se dovesse raccontarla di nuovo a qualcun altro, anche se riuscisse a ricordarla, lui lasciò cadere l’argomento.

Tuttavia, tornò al suo argomento principale invitandola prima di tutto a incontrarlo più spesso e ricordandole che non esisteva interesse più profondo per il suo benessere di quello che lui provava, né desiderio più forte di promuoverlo. Quando lei rispose con fervore, sapeva bene – e non lo dimenticò mai – che lui avrebbe affrontato il secondo e più delicato argomento: il sospetto che aveva formato.

“Piccola Dorrit,” disse, prendendole di nuovo la mano e parlando a voce ancora più bassa del solito, tanto che nemmeno Maggy, nella stanza accanto, riusciva a sentirlo, “una parola ancora. Ho desiderato molto dirti questo; ho cercato le occasioni giuste per farlo. Non badare a me. Che, in fondo, potrei essere tuo padre o tuo zio. Pensami sempre come a un vecchio uomo. So che tutta la tua devozione è concentrata in questa stanza, e che nulla al mondo riuscirebbe mai a farti abbandonare i doveri che svolgi qui. Se non ne fossi sicuro, avrei già implorato te e tuo padre di permettermi di provvedere a te in un luogo più adatto. Ma forse, non ora, però, forse in un altro momento, potresti avere interesse per qualcun altro. Un interesse che non sia incompatibile con il tuo affetto per me, ”

Era molto, molto pallida e scosse silenziosamente la testa.

“Forse sì, cara Piccola Dorrit.”

“No. No. No.” Scuoteva la testa, ad ogni lenta ripetizione di quella parola, con un’espressione di silenziosa desolazione che lui ricordò a lungo dopo. Arrivò il momento in cui se ne ricordò molto chiaramente, molto tempo dopo, all’interno di quelle mura di prigione; in quella stessa stanza.

“Ma, se mai dovesse accadere, dimmelo, mio caro bambino. Confida a me la verità, indica a me l’oggetto di un tale interesse, e io cercherò, con tutto lo zelo, l’onore, l’amicizia e il rispetto che provo per te, cara piccola Dorrit del mio cuore, di renderti un servizio duraturo.”

“Oh, grazie, grazie! Ma, oh no, oh no, oh no!” disse lei, guardandolo con le mani stanche e incrociate, usando lo stesso tono rassegnato di prima.

“Ora non chiedo alcuna forma di fiducia da parte vostra. Vi supplico soltanto di affidarvi a me senza esitazione.”

‘Can I do less than that, when you are so good!’

‘Then you will trust me fully? Will have no secret unhappiness, or anxiety, concealed from me?’

‘Almost none.’

‘And you have none now?’

She shook her head. But she was very pale.

‘When I lie down to-night, and my thoughts come back—as they will, for they do every night, even when I have not seen you—to this sad place, I may believe that there is no grief beyond this room, now, and its usual occupants, which preys on Little Dorrit’s mind?’

She seemed to catch at these words—that he remembered, too, long afterwards—and said, more brightly, ‘Yes, Mr Clennam; yes, you may!’

The crazy staircase, usually not slow to give notice when any one was coming up or down, here creaked under a quick tread, and a further sound was heard upon it, as if a little steam-engine with more steam than it knew what to do with, were working towards the room. As it approached, which it did very rapidly, it laboured with increased energy; and, after knocking at the door, it sounded as if it were stooping down and snorting in at the keyhole.

Before Maggy could open the door, Mr Pancks, opening it from without, stood without a hat and with his bare head in the wildest condition, looking at Clennam and Little Dorrit, over her shoulder. He had a lighted cigar in his hand, and brought with him airs of ale and tobacco smoke.

‘Pancks the gipsy,’ he observed out of breath, ‘fortune-telling.’

He stood dingily smiling, and breathing hard at them, with a most curious air; as if, instead of being his proprietor’s grubber, he were the triumphant proprietor of the Marshalsea, the Marshal, all the turnkeys, and all the Collegians. In his great self-satisfaction he put his cigar to his lips (being evidently no smoker), and took such a pull at it, with his right eye shut up tight for the purpose, that he underwent a convulsion of shuddering and choking. But even in the midst of that paroxysm, he still essayed to repeat his favourite introduction of himself, ‘Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling.’

‘I am spending the evening with the rest of ‘em,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve been singing. I’ve been taking a part in White sand and grey sand. I don’t know anything about it. Never mind. I’ll take any part in anything. It’s all the same, if you’re loud enough.’

At first Clennam supposed him to be intoxicated. But he soon perceived that though he might be a little the worse (or better) for ale, the staple of his excitement was not brewed from malt, or distilled from any grain or berry.

‘How d’ye do, Miss Dorrit?’ said Pancks. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind my running round, and looking in for a moment. Mr Clennam I heard was here, from Mr Dorrit. How are you, Sir?’

Clennam thanked him, and said he was glad to see him so gay.

‘Gay!’ said Pancks. ‘I’m in wonderful feather, sir. I can’t stop a minute, or I shall be missed, and I don’t want ‘em to miss me.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

He seemed to have an insatiate delight in appealing to her and looking at her; excitedly sticking his hair up at the same moment, like a dark species of cockatoo.

‘I haven’t been here half an hour. I knew Mr Dorrit was in the chair, and I said, “I’ll go and support him!” I ought to be down in Bleeding Heart Yard by rights; but I can worry them to-morrow.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

His little black eyes sparkled electrically. His very hair seemed to sparkle as he roughened it. He was in that highly-charged state that one might have expected to draw sparks and snaps from him by presenting a knuckle to any part of his figure.

‘Capital company here,’ said Pancks.—‘Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

She was half afraid of him, and irresolute what to say. He laughed, with a nod towards Clennam.

‘Don’t mind him, Miss Dorrit. He’s one of us. We agreed that you shouldn’t take on to mind me before people, but we didn’t mean Mr Clennam. He’s one of us. He’s in it. An’t you, Mr Clennam?—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

The excitement of this strange creature was fast communicating itself to Clennam. Little Dorrit with amazement, saw this, and observed that they exchanged quick looks.

‘I was making a remark,’ said Pancks, ‘but I declare I forget what it was. Oh, I know! Capital company here. I’ve been treating ‘em all round.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

‘Very generous of you,’ she returned, noticing another of the quick looks between the two.

‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Don’t mention it. I’m coming into my property, that’s the fact. I can afford to be liberal. I think I’ll give ‘em a treat here. Tables laid in the yard. Bread in stacks. Pipes in faggots. Tobacco in hayloads. Roast beef and plum-pudding for every one. Quart of double stout a head. Pint of wine too, if they like it, and the authorities give permission.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

She was thrown into such a confusion by his manner, or rather by Clennam’s growing understanding of his manner (for she looked to him after every fresh appeal and cockatoo demonstration on the part of Mr Pancks), that she only moved her lips in answer, without forming any word.

‘And oh, by-the-bye!’ said Pancks, ‘you were to live to know what was behind us on that little hand of yours. And so you shall, you shall, my darling.—Eh, Miss Dorrit?’

He had suddenly checked himself. Where he got all the additional black prongs from, that now flew up all over his head like the myriads of points that break out in the large change of a great firework, was a wonderful mystery.

‘But I shall be missed;’ he came back to that; ‘and I don’t want ‘em to miss me. Mr Clennam, you and I made a bargain. I said you should find me stick to it. You shall find me stick to it now, sir, if you’ll step out of the room a moment. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good night. Miss Dorrit, I wish you good fortune.’

He rapidly shook her by both hands, and puffed down stairs. Arthur followed him with such a hurried step, that he had very nearly tumbled over him on the last landing, and rolled him down into the yard.

“Come potrei fare di meno, quando tu sei così meravigliosa!”

“Allora mi crederai completamente? Non avrai alcuna tristezza segreta, né alcuna ansia che nasconderai da me?”

“Quasi nessuno.”

“E ora non ne hai più nessuna?”

Scosse la testa. Ma era molto pallida.

‘Quando mi sdraio di notte e i miei pensieri ritornano – come inevitabilmente accade ogni notte, anche quando non ti ho visto – in questo triste luogo, posso forse credere che non esista alcun dolore al di là di questa stanza, né dei suoi soliti occupanti, che continuano a tormentare la mente di Little Dorrit?’

Sembrò cogliere il significato di queste parole – che lui stesso ricordava, anche molto tempo dopo – e disse, con maggiore entusiasmo: “Sì, signor Clennam; sì, potete farlo!”

La folle scala, che di solito non esitava a far sentire il proprio rumore quando qualcuno la saliva o la scendeva, questa volta scricchiolava sotto i passi rapidi; si udì poi un altro suono, come se una piccola macchina a vapore, con più vapore di quanto ne potesse gestire, stesse avanzando verso la stanza. Mentre si avvicinava – e lo faceva molto velocemente – emetteva rumori sempre più intensi; dopo aver bussato alla porta, sembrò persino chinarsi e annusare attraverso la serratura.

Prima che Maggy potesse aprire la porta, Signor Pancks, aprendola dall’esterno, si presentò senza cappello, con la testa scoperta e in uno stato piuttosto disordinato; guardava Clennam e Little Dorrit da dietro le spalle di lei. Teneva in mano un sigaro acceso e intorno a lui aleggiavano gli odori della birra e del fumo di tabacco.

“Pancks il gitano, predice il futuro”, osservò ansimando.

Stava lì in piedi, sorridendo in modo strano e respirando affannosamente, con un’aria davvero curiosa; come se, invece di essere il semplice addetto alle pulizie del suo padrone, fosse lui stesso il vero proprietario della Marshalsea, del maresciallo, di tutti i secondini e di tutti gli studenti dell’università. Nella sua grande soddisfazione di sé, si portò la sigara alle labbra (evidentemente non fumava) e tirò una boccata così forte, tenendo ben chiuso l’occhio destro per quel scopo, che ebbe un attacco di tremori e soffocamento. Ma anche nel mezzo di quell’attacco, cercò comunque di ripetere la sua frase preferita per presentarsi: “Pa-ancks the gi-ipsy, fortune-telling”.

“Sto trascorrendo la serata con gli altri,” disse Pancks. “Ho cantato. Ho partecipato a ‘White Sand and Grey Sand’. Non so nulla di tutto questo. Ma non importa: parteciperò a qualsiasi cosa. Basta che si faccia abbastanza rumore.”

All’inizio, Clennam pensò che fosse ubriaco. Ma presto si rese conto che, anche se forse era un po’ peggio (o meglio) a causa della birra, la vera causa del suo stato di eccitazione non derivava dal malto né da alcun tipo di grano o frutto.

“Come state, signorina Dorrit?” disse Pancks. “Pensavo che non vi dispiacesse se venivo a farvi visita per un momento. Ho sentito dire che il signor Clennam è qui, su invito del signor Dorrit. Come state voi, signore?”

Clennam gli ringraziò e disse di essere felice di vederlo così sereno.

“Gay!” disse Pancks. “Sono in una situazione meravigliosa, signore. Non posso fermarmi nemmeno per un minuto, altrimenti mi cercheranno, e non voglio che mi cercino.” – Eh, signorina Dorrit?

Sembrava provare un piacere insaziabile nel rivolgersi a lei e guardarla; allo stesso tempo, eccitato, si sistemava i capelli all’indietro, come una sorta di pappagallo scuro.

“Non sono qui da nemmeno mezz’ora. Sapevo che il signor Dorrit era nella sedia a rotelle, quindi ho pensato: ‘Vado ad aiutarlo!’ In realtà dovrei essere già in Bleeding Heart Yard, ma posso preoccuparmene domani. Eh, signorina Dorrit?”

I suoi piccoli occhi neri scintillavano intensamente. Anche i suoi capelli sembravano brillare quando li arruffava. Era in quello stato di eccitazione estrema che si sarebbe potuto pensare provocasse scintille e rumori se si avesse sfiorato qualsiasi parte del suo corpo.

“Una società per azioni, ecco,” disse Pancks. “Ehm, signorina Dorrit?”

Era un po’ spaventata di lui e incerta su cosa dire. Lui rise, facendo un cenno verso Clennam.

“Non badate a lui, signorina Dorrit. È uno di noi. Abbiamo concordato che non dovreste preoccuparvi per me davanti agli altri, ma non ci riferivamo al signor Clennam. Lui è uno di noi, vero? Non è così, signor Clennam?”

L’emozione di questa strana creatura si stava rapidamente trasmettendo a Clennam. La piccola Dorrit, stupita, vide tutto ciò e notò che i due si scambiavano sguardi frettolosi.

“Stavo facendo un commento,” disse Pancks, “ma devo ammettere di aver dimenticato cosa fosse. Ah, ora ricordo! Si tratta di una società per azioni. Li ho trattati tutti con gentilezza. Eh, signorina Dorrit?”

“Molto generoso da parte tua,” rispose lei, notando un altro di quei rapidi sguardi scambiati tra i due.

“Assolutamente no,” disse Pancks. “Non parliamone nemmeno. Sto per entrare in possesso della mia proprietà, è questo il fatto. Posso permettermi di essere generoso. Penso che darò loro una bella festa: tavoli allestiti nel cortile, pane in mucchi, pipe e tabacco in abbondanza. Manzo arrosto e budino di prugne per tutti. Un quarto di birra forte a testa. E anche una pinta di vino, se lo desiderano, purché le autorità lo permettano. Eh, signorina Dorrit?”

Fu gettata in una tale confusione dal suo comportamento, o meglio, dalla crescente comprensione che Clennam aveva di quel comportamento (poiché ogni volta che il signor Pancks faceva qualche nuova richiesta o dimostrazione stravagante, lei guardava verso di lui), che riuscì solo a muovere le labbra in risposta, senza pronunciare una parola.

“Ah, e a proposito!”, disse Pancks, “dovrai vivere abbastanza a lungo per scoprire cosa c’era dietro quella tua manina. E lo farai, sicuramente lo farai, mia cara. Eh, signorina Dorrit?”

All’improvviso si era fermato a riflettere. Da dove provenissero tutte quelle estremità nere che ora gli volavano intorno alla testa, come i milioni di punti che emergono durante l’esplosione di un enorme fuoco d’artificio, restava un mistero davvero meraviglioso.

“Ma mi mancheranno, ”, tornò su questo argomento; “e non voglio che mi manchino loro. Signor Clennam, abbiamo fatto un accordo: ho detto che lei mi avrebbe trovato. E lo troverà anche ora, signore, se vuole uscire per un momento dalla stanza. Signorina Dorrit, le auguro una buona notte. Le auguro buona fortuna.”

Le scosse rapidamente entrambe le mani e poi scese di corsa le scale. Arthur lo seguì con passi così affrettati che per poco non lo urtava all’ultimo gradino, facendolo rotolare giù nel cortile.

‘What is it, for Heaven’s sake!’ Arthur demanded, when they burst out there both together.

‘Stop a moment, sir. Mr Rugg. Let me introduce him.’

With those words he presented another man without a hat, and also with a cigar, and also surrounded with a halo of ale and tobacco smoke, which man, though not so excited as himself, was in a state which would have been akin to lunacy but for its fading into sober method when compared with the rampancy of Mr Pancks.

‘Mr Clennam, Mr Rugg,’ said Pancks. ‘Stop a moment. Come to the pump.’

They adjourned to the pump. Mr Pancks, instantly putting his head under the spout, requested Mr Rugg to take a good strong turn at the handle. Mr Rugg complying to the letter, Mr Pancks came forth snorting and blowing to some purpose, and dried himself on his handkerchief.

‘I am the clearer for that,’ he gasped to Clennam standing astonished. ‘But upon my soul, to hear her father making speeches in that chair, knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress, knowing what we know, is enough to—give me a back, Mr Rugg—a little higher, sir,—that’ll do!’

Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the shades of evening, did Mr Pancks, of all mankind, fly over the head and shoulders of Mr Rugg of Pentonville, General Agent, Accountant, and Recoverer of Debts. Alighting on his feet, he took Clennam by the button-hole, led him behind the pump, and pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers.

Mr Rugg, also, pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of papers.

‘Stay!’ said Clennam in a whisper.’You have made a discovery.’

Mr Pancks answered, with an unction which there is no language to convey, ‘We rather think so.’

‘Does it implicate any one?’

‘How implicate, sir?’

‘In any suppression or wrong dealing of any kind?’

‘Not a bit of it.’

‘Thank God!’ said Clennam to himself. ‘Now show me.’

‘You are to understand’—snorted Pancks, feverishly unfolding papers, and speaking in short high-pressure blasts of sentences, ‘Where’s the Pedigree? Where’s Schedule number four, Mr Rugg? Oh! all right! Here we are.—You are to understand that we are this very day virtually complete. We shan’t be legally for a day or two. Call it at the outside a week. We’ve been at it night and day for I don’t know how long. Mr Rugg, you know how long? Never mind. Don’t say. You’ll only confuse me. You shall tell her, Mr Clennam. Not till we give you leave. Where’s that rough total, Mr Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There sir! That’s what you’ll have to break to her. That man’s your Father of the Marshalsea!’

“Che cos’è, per l’amor del cielo!”, esclamò Arthur quando loro due apparvero all’improvviso insieme.

“Un attimo, signore. Il signor Rugg. Lasciate che ve lo presenti.”

Con quelle parole presentò un altro uomo senza cappello, anch’egli con una sigara in bocca e circondato da un alone di fumo di birra e tabacco. Quell’uomo, sebbene non altrettanto eccitato quanto lui, si trovava in uno stato che avrebbe potuto essere paragonato alla follia, se non fosse per il fatto che tale stato, rispetto all’isteria di Mr Pancks, tendeva verso la calma e la razionalità.

“Signor Clennam, signor Rugg,” disse Pancks. “Un attimo, venite qui vicino alla pompa.”

Si trasferirono vicino alla pompa. Signor Pancks, mettendo immediatamente la testa sotto lo scarico, chiese a Signor Rugg di girare con forza la maniglia. Signor Rugg obbedì alla lettera dell’invito; Signor Pancks uscì sbuffando e soffiando rumorosamente, poi si asciugò con il fazzoletto.

“Adesso capisco tutto molto meglio,” disse ansimando a Clennam, che stava in piedi, sbalordito.
“Ma per la mia ‘anima, ascoltare suo padre fare discorsi su quella sedia, sapendo ciò che sappiamo, e vederla lì dentro, con quel vestito, sapendo ciò che sappiamo, è abbastanza per, mi aiuti un po’, signor Rugg, sollevami leggermente, per favore, ”

Proprio lì, su quel marciapiede di Marshalsea, nell’oscurità della sera,
Mr Pancks, tra tutte le persone possibili, superò con un balzo Mr Rugg di Pentonville – agente generale, contabile e riscuotitore di debiti.
Una volta a terra, afferrò Clennam per il bocchino della giacca, lo portò dietro la fontana e, ansimando, tirò fuori dalla tasca un mazzo di documenti.

Anche il signor Rugg, ansimando, tirò fuori dalla tasca un mazzo di fogli.

“Fermati!” sussurrò Clennam. “Hai fatto una scoperta.”

Signor Pancks rispose, con un tono talmente complesso da essere impossibile da tradurre in alcuna lingua: “Piuttosto lo pensiamo.”

“Implica qualcuno in particolare?”

“Come posso essere implicato in questa faccenda, signore?”

“Nella repressione o nel trattamento ingiusto di qualsiasi tipo?”

“Nemmeno per sogno.”

“Grazie al cielo!”, si disse Clennam. “Ora dimostramelo.”

“Dovete capire, ” sbuffò Pancks, mentre apriva freneticamente i documenti e pronunciava frasi brevi e concise, “Dove è il pedigree? Dove si trova il piano numero quattro, signor Rugg? Oh! Ecco qui. Dovete capire che oggi stesso siamo praticamente pronti. Legalmente saremo completi tra un giorno o due. Direi al massimo una settimana. Lavoriamo notte e giorno da chissà quanto tempo. Signor Rugg, lo sapete quanto? Lasciate perdere. Non dite nulla: mi confondereste solo. Sarà lei a saperlo, signor Clennam. Ma solo quando ve lo permetteremo noi. Dove è quella stima approssimativa, signor Rugg? Oh! Ecco qui. Questo è ciò che dovrete dirle. Quell’uomo è il vostro ‘Padre di Marshalsea’, ”

CHAPTER 33. Mrs Merdle’s Complaint

Resigning herself to inevitable fate by making the best of those people, the Miggleses, and submitting her philosophy to the draught upon it, of which she had foreseen the likelihood in her interview with Arthur, Mrs Gowan handsomely resolved not to oppose her son’s marriage. In her progress to, and happy arrival at, this resolution, she was possibly influenced, not only by her maternal affections but by three politic considerations.

Of these, the first may have been that her son had never signified the smallest intention to ask her consent, or any mistrust of his ability to dispense with it; the second, that the pension bestowed upon her by a grateful country (and a Barnacle) would be freed from any little filial inroads, when her Henry should be married to the darling only child of a man in very easy circumstances; the third, that Henry’s debts must clearly be paid down upon the altar-railing by his father-in-law. When, to these three-fold points of prudence there is added the fact that Mrs Gowan yielded her consent the moment she knew of Mr Meagles having yielded his, and that Mr Meagles’s objection to the marriage had been the sole obstacle in its way all along, it becomes the height of probability that the relict of the deceased Commissioner of nothing particular, turned these ideas in her sagacious mind.

Among her connections and acquaintances, however, she maintained her individual dignity and the dignity of the blood of the Barnacles, by diligently nursing the pretence that it was a most unfortunate business; that she was sadly cut up by it; that this was a perfect fascination under which Henry laboured; that she had opposed it for a long time, but what could a mother do; and the like. She had already called Arthur Clennam to bear witness to this fable, as a friend of the Meagles family; and she followed up the move by now impounding the family itself for the same purpose. In the first interview she accorded to Mr Meagles, she slided herself into the position of disconsolately but gracefully yielding to irresistible pressure. With the utmost politeness and good-breeding, she feigned that it was she—not he—who had made the difficulty, and who at length gave way; and that the sacrifice was hers—not his. The same feint, with the same polite dexterity, she foisted on Mrs Meagles, as a conjuror might have forced a card on that innocent lady; and, when her future daughter-in-law was presented to her by her son, she said on embracing her, ‘My dear, what have you done to Henry that has bewitched him so!’ at the same time allowing a few tears to carry before them, in little pills, the cosmetic powder on her nose; as a delicate but touching signal that she suffered much inwardly for the show of composure with which she bore her misfortune.

Among the friends of Mrs Gowan (who piqued herself at once on being Society, and on maintaining intimate and easy relations with that Power), Mrs Merdle occupied a front row. True, the Hampton Court Bohemians, without exception, turned up their noses at Merdle as an upstart; but they turned them down again, by falling flat on their faces to worship his wealth. In which compensating adjustment of their noses, they were pretty much like Treasury, Bar, and Bishop, and all the rest of them.

To Mrs Merdle, Mrs Gowan repaired on a visit of self-condolence, after having given the gracious consent aforesaid. She drove into town for the purpose in a one-horse carriage irreverently called at that period of English history, a pill-box. It belonged to a job-master in a small way, who drove it himself, and who jobbed it by the day, or hour, to most of the old ladies in Hampton Court Palace; but it was a point of ceremony, in that encampment, that the whole equipage should be tacitly regarded as the private property of the jobber for the time being, and that the job-master should betray personal knowledge of nobody but the jobber in possession. So the Circumlocution Barnacles, who were the largest job-masters in the universe, always pretended to know of no other job but the job immediately in hand.

Mrs Merdle was at home, and was in her nest of crimson and gold, with the parrot on a neighbouring stem watching her with his head on one side, as if he took her for another splendid parrot of a larger species. To whom entered Mrs Gowan, with her favourite green fan, which softened the light on the spots of bloom.

‘My dear soul,’ said Mrs Gowan, tapping the back of her friend’s hand with this fan after a little indifferent conversation, ‘you are my only comfort. That affair of Henry’s that I told you of, is to take place. Now, how does it strike you? I am dying to know, because you represent and express Society so well.’

Mrs Merdle reviewed the bosom which Society was accustomed to review; and having ascertained that show-window of Mr Merdle’s and the London jewellers’ to be in good order, replied:

‘As to marriage on the part of a man, my dear, Society requires that he should retrieve his fortunes by marriage. Society requires that he should gain by marriage. Society requires that he should found a handsome establishment by marriage. Society does not see, otherwise, what he has to do with marriage. Bird, be quiet!’

For the parrot on his cage above them, presiding over the conference as if he were a judge (and indeed he looked rather like one), had wound up the exposition with a shriek.

‘Cases there are,’ said Mrs Merdle, delicately crooking the little finger of her favourite hand, and making her remarks neater by that neat action; ‘cases there are where a man is not young or elegant, and is rich, and has a handsome establishment already. Those are of a different kind. In such cases—’

Capitolo 33: La lamentela della signora Merdle

Rassegnandosi al destino inevitabile e sfruttando al meglio quelle persone, i Miggles, e adattando la propria filosofia alle circostanze – di cui aveva previsto la possibilità durante il suo incontro con Arthur – la signora Gowan decise con fermezza di non opporsi al matrimonio di suo figlio. Nel raggiungere questa decisione e nell’attuarla felicemente, fu probabilmente influenzata non solo dai propri sentimenti materni, ma anche da tre considerazioni pratiche.

Di questi motivi, il primo potrebbe essere stato che suo figlio non aveva mai mostrato la minima intenzione di chiederle il consenso, o forse un certo scetticismo riguardo alla sua capacità di farlo senza tale richiesta; il secondo, che la pensione che le veniva concessa da una nazione riconoscente (e da un certo signor Barnacle) sarebbe rimasta intatta, se solo Henry si fosse sposato con l’unica figlia di un uomo in condizioni economiche molto agiate; il terzo, che i debiti di Henry avrebbero sicuramente dovuto essere saldati dal suocero prima del matrimonio. Quando a questi tre motivi di prudenza si aggiunge il fatto che la signora Gowan acconsentì non appena seppe che anche il signor Meagles aveva dato il suo consenso, e che l’obiezione del signor Meagles al matrimonio era stata l’unica barriera che lo aveva ostacolato fino ad allora, diventa estremamente probabile che questa vedova, con la sua saggezza, abbia ponderato attentamente tutti questi aspetti.

Tra le sue conoscenze e i suoi contatti, tuttavia, manteneva la propria dignità individuale nonché quella del sangue della famiglia Barnacles, fingendo con diligenza che si trattasse di una situazione molto sfortunata; che ne fosse profondamente addolorata; che Henry fosse vittima di un’illusione totale; che lei avesse cercato a lungo di opporsi, ma che cosa poteva fare una madre. E così via. Aveva già chiesto a Arthur Clennam di confermare questa «faccenda» in qualità di amico della famiglia Meagles; e ora proseguiva nella stessa strategia, utilizzando addirittura la famiglia stessa come strumento per i suoi scopi. Nel primo incontro con il signor Meagles, si presentò come una donna che, sebbene riluttante, cedeva di fronte a una pressione insormontabile. Con estrema cortesia e buone maniere, fingeva che fosse lei – e non lui – ad aver creato i problemi, e che fosse stata lei ad arrendersi infine; sosteneva inoltre che il sacrificio fatto fosse suo, non suo marito’s. Lo stesso stratagemma, eseguito con la stessa abilità e cortesia, lo applicò anche con la signora Meagles. Come se un mago potesse costringere una donna innocente ad accettare qualcosa contro la sua volontà. Quando le fu presentata la futura nuora da suo figlio, l’abbracciò dicendo: «Mia cara, che cosa hai fatto a Henry per incantarlo così?» e nel frattempo lasciava che alcune lacrime scorressero lungo il suo viso, come se fossero piccole pillole di trucco che nascondevano la sua vera sofferenza. Un segnale delicato ma commovente del dolore interiore che provava per l’immagine di compostezza che cercava di mantenere di fronte alla propria sfortuna.

Tra gli amici della signora Gowan (che si considerava immediatamente parte dell’alta società e desiderava mantenere relazioni intime e cordiali con quel mondo), la signora Merdle occupava una posizione di primo piano. È vero che i bohémien del Court di Hampton, senza eccezione, disprezzavano Merdle considerandola un arrivista; ma allo stesso tempo si prostravano davanti alla sua ricchezza. In questo modo, il loro atteggiamento rappresentava in qualche modo una sorta di equilibrio: erano più o meno come il Tesoro, la Legge e l’Episcopato, insomma, come tutti gli altri membri della società aristocratica.

Per la signora Merdle, la signora Gowan si recò in visita con le sue condoglianze, dopo aver dato il consenso suddetto. Per questo scopo si recò in città in una carrozza a cavallo, che all’epoca della storia inglese veniva irrispettosamente chiamata “scatola di pillole”. Apparteneva a un piccolo impresario che la guidava personalmente e la noleggiava per giornate o ore alle maggior parte delle anziane signore del palazzo Hampton Court Palace; tuttavia, in quel ambiente, era considerata una questione di cerimonia: l’intero equipaggiamento veniva tacitamente ritenuto proprietà privata dell’impresario per il periodo in cui veniva noleggiato, e l’impresario stesso non doveva conoscere nessun altro, se non chi lo utilizzava. Così anche i più grandi impresari del mondo fingevano sempre di non conoscere altri lavori se non quello che stavano svolgendo in quel momento.

La signora Merdle era a >casa, immersa nel suo ambiente decorato in colori cremisi e oro; il pappagallo, appollaiato su un ramo vicino, la osservava inclinando la testa da una parte, come se la considerasse un altro splendido esemplare di pappagallo di una specie più grande. In quel momento entrò la signora Gowan, con il suo ventaglio verde preferito, che attenuava la luce sui boccioli fioriti.

“Mia cara ‘anima”, disse la signora Gowan, battendo leggermente il dorso della mano della sua amica con questo ventaglio dopo una breve conversazione piuttosto indifferente, “tu sei il mio unico conforto. Quella faccenda di Henry di cui ti ho parlato avverrà davvero. Ora, che ne pensi? Non vedo l’ora di saperlo, perché tu rappresenti e esprimi così bene la Società”.

La signora Merdle esaminò attentamente quel “dipinto” del petto che la società era abituata a osservare; e dopo essersi assicurata che quella vetrina espositiva di il signor Merdle e degli altri gioiellieri di )Londra fosse in ottimo ordine, rispose:

“Per quanto riguarda il matrimonio da parte di un uomo, cara mia, la Società richiede che egli recuperi le proprie fortune attraverso il matrimonio. La Società richiede che egli traggia vantaggio dal matrimonio. La Società richiede che egli possa stabilire una solida posizione sociale attraverso il matrimonio. Altrimenti, la Società non vede quale sia lo scopo del matrimonio. Bird, taci!”

Per il pappagallo nella gabbia sopra di loro, che presiedeva la “conferenza” come se fosse un giudice (e in effetti sembrava proprio tale), l’esposizione si era conclusa con uno strillo.

“Ci sono casi del genere,” disse la signora Merdle, piegando delicatamente il mignolo della mano che preferiva e rendendo così le sue osservazioni ancora più precise; “ci sono casi in cui un uomo non è giovane né elegante, ma è ricco e possiede già una bella casa. Questi sono di un altro tipo. In tali casi, ”

Mrs Merdle shrugged her snowy shoulders and put her hand upon the jewel-stand, checking a little cough, as though to add, ‘why, a man looks out for this sort of thing, my dear.’ Then the parrot shrieked again, and she put up her glass to look at him, and said, ‘Bird! Do be quiet!’

‘But, young men,’ resumed Mrs Merdle, ‘and by young men you know what I mean, my love—I mean people’s sons who have the world before them—they must place themselves in a better position towards Society by marriage, or Society really will not have any patience with their making fools of themselves. Dreadfully worldly all this sounds,’ said Mrs Merdle, leaning back in her nest and putting up her glass again, ‘does it not?’

‘But it is true,’ said Mrs Gowan, with a highly moral air.

‘My dear, it is not to be disputed for a moment,’ returned Mrs Merdle; ‘because Society has made up its mind on the subject, and there is nothing more to be said. If we were in a more primitive state, if we lived under roofs of leaves, and kept cows and sheep and creatures instead of banker’s accounts (which would be delicious; my dear, I am pastoral to a degree, by nature), well and good. But we don’t live under leaves, and keep cows and sheep and creatures. I perfectly exhaust myself sometimes, in pointing out the distinction to Edmund Sparkler.’

Mrs Gowan, looking over her green fan when this young gentleman’s name was mentioned, replied as follows:

‘My love, you know the wretched state of the country—those unfortunate concessions of John Barnacle’s!—and you therefore know the reasons for my being as poor as Thingummy.’

‘A church mouse?’ Mrs Merdle suggested with a smile.

‘I was thinking of the other proverbial church person—Job,’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Either will do. It would be idle to disguise, consequently, that there is a wide difference between the position of your son and mine. I may add, too, that Henry has talent—’

‘Which Edmund certainly has not,’ said Mrs Merdle, with the greatest suavity.

‘—and that his talent, combined with disappointment,’ Mrs Gowan went on, ‘has led him into a pursuit which—ah dear me! You know, my dear. Such being Henry’s different position, the question is what is the most inferior class of marriage to which I can reconcile myself.’

Mrs Merdle was so much engaged with the contemplation of her arms (beautiful-formed arms, and the very thing for bracelets), that she omitted to reply for a while. Roused at length by the silence, she folded the arms, and with admirable presence of mind looked her friend full in the face, and said interrogatively, ‘Ye-es? And then?’

‘And then, my dear,’ said Mrs Gowan not quite so sweetly as before, ‘I should be glad to hear what you have to say to it.’

Here the parrot, who had been standing on one leg since he screamed last, burst into a fit of laughter, bobbed himself derisively up and down on both legs, and finished by standing on one leg again, and pausing for a reply, with his head as much awry as he could possibly twist it.

‘Sounds mercenary to ask what the gentleman is to get with the lady,’ said Mrs Merdle; ‘but Society is perhaps a little mercenary, you know, my dear.’

‘From what I can make out,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘I believe I may say that Henry will be relieved from debt—’

‘Much in debt?’ asked Mrs Merdle through her eyeglass.

‘Why tolerably, I should think,’ said Mrs Gowan.

‘Meaning the usual thing; I understand; just so,’ Mrs Merdle observed in a comfortable sort of way.

‘And that the father will make them an allowance of three hundred a-year, or perhaps altogether something more, which, in Italy-’

‘Oh! Going to Italy?’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘For Henry to study. You need be at no loss to guess why, my dear. That dreadful Art—’

True. Mrs Merdle hastened to spare the feelings of her afflicted friend. She understood. Say no more!

‘And that,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her despondent head, ‘that’s all. That,’ repeated Mrs Gowan, furling her green fan for the moment, and tapping her chin with it (it was on the way to being a double chin; might be called a chin and a half at present), ‘that’s all! On the death of the old people, I suppose there will be more to come; but how it may be restricted or locked up, I don’t know. And as to that, they may live for ever. My dear, they are just the kind of people to do it.’

Now, Mrs Merdle, who really knew her friend Society pretty well, and who knew what Society’s mothers were, and what Society’s daughters were, and what Society’s matrimonial market was, and how prices ruled in it, and what scheming and counter-scheming took place for the high buyers, and what bargaining and huckstering went on, thought in the depths of her capacious bosom that this was a sufficiently good catch. Knowing, however, what was expected of her, and perceiving the exact nature of the fiction to be nursed, she took it delicately in her arms, and put her required contribution of gloss upon it.

‘And that is all, my dear?’ said she, heaving a friendly sigh. ‘Well, well! The fault is not yours. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You must exercise the strength of mind for which you are renowned, and make the best of it.’

‘The girl’s family have made,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of course, the most strenuous endeavours to—as the lawyers say—to have and to hold Henry.’

‘Of course they have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘I have persisted in every possible objection, and have worried myself morning, noon, and night, for means to detach Henry from the connection.’

‘No doubt you have, my dear,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘And all of no use. All has broken down beneath me. Now tell me, my love. Am I justified in at last yielding my most reluctant consent to Henry’s marrying among people not in Society; or, have I acted with inexcusable weakness?’

La signora Merdle alzò le sue spalle innevate e posò la mano sul vassoio dove erano esposti i jewelli, tossendo leggermente, come per aggiungere: “Beh, un uomo deve prendersi cura di queste cose, cara mia.” Poi il pappagallo strillò di nuovo; lei alzò il bicchiere per guardarlo e disse: “Povero uccellino. Sta’ zitto, per favore!”

“Ma, giovani uomini,” riprese la signora Merdle, “e con ‘giovani uomini’ intendo proprio quelli che voi capite, i figli delle persone che hanno tutto davanti a sé, devono mettersi in una posizione migliore nella società attraverso il matrimonio; altrimenti la società non avrà alcuna pazienza con loro se continueranno a comportarsi come sciocchi. Sembra davvero molto mondano tutto questo,” disse la signora Merdle, appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia e sollevando di nuovo il suo bicchiere, “non è vero?”

“Ma è vero,” disse la signora Gowan con un tono estremamente morale.

“Mio caro, non c’è nemmeno il minimo dubbio al riguardo,” rispose la signora Merdle; “perché la Società ha già preso una decisione in merito, e non c’è nulla da aggiungere. Se vivessimo in un contesto più primitivo, se abitassimo sotto tetti di fronde e allevassimo mucche, pecore e altre creature al posto dei conti bancari, (che sarebbe delizioso; mio caro, per natura sono piuttosto incline a uno stile di vita pastorale), allora sì che andrebbe tutto bene. Ma non viviamo sotto fronde, né alleviamo mucche o pecore. A volte mi sforzo davvero molto nel cercare di spiegare questa differenza a Edmund Sparkler, ”

La signora Gowan, mentre esaminava il suo ventaglio verde quando fu menzionato il nome di questo giovane gentiluomo, rispose nel seguente modo:

“Mio amore, tu conosci lo stato disastroso del paese, quelle sfortunate concessioni di John Barnacle. E quindi conosci anche le ragioni per cui sono così povero.”

“Una topolina di chiesa?” suggerì la signora Merdle sorridendo.

“Stavo pensando all’altro esempio tipico di persona “religiosa”. Giobbe,” disse la signora Gowan. “Qualsiasi dei due esempi va bene. Sarebbe inutile nascondere il fatto che ci sia una grande differenza tra la posizione di vostro figlio e la mia. Posso anche aggiungere che Henry ha del talento, ”

“Cosa che Edmund certamente non ha,” disse la signora Merdle con la massima dolcezza.

“E poi il suo talento, unito alla delusione, ” continuò la signora Gowan, “lo ha portato a intraprendere una strada, ah, mio caro! Sai, tesoro. Data la diversa posizione sociale di Henry, la domanda è: quale sia il tipo di matrimonio il più inferiore che io possa accettare.”

La signora Merdle era così assorta nella contemplazione delle sue braccia – braccia di bell’aspetto, perfette per i braccialetti – che per un po’ dimenticò di rispondere. Alla fine, richiamata all’attenzione dal silenzio, incrociò le braccia e, con notevole presenza di spirito, guardò il suo amico dritto negli occhi e chiese: “E poi?”

“E poi, mio caro,” disse la signora Gowan, non più con quella dolcezza di prima, “mi piacerebbe molto sentire cosa hai da dire al riguardo.”

Ecco il pappagallo: da quando aveva urlato l’ultima volta, stava in piedi su una sola gamba; ora scoppiò a ridere, dondolandosi derisoriamente avanti e indietro su entrambe le gambe, per poi tornare di nuovo a stare su una sola gamba e fermarsi in attesa di una risposta, torcendo la testa il più possibile.

“Chiedere quale sia lo scopo del gentiluomo nel frequentare questa signora sembra un po’ meschino,” disse la signora Merdle; “ma sai, cara mia, forse anche la società è un po’ meschina, in fondo.”

“Da quanto posso capire,” disse la signora Gowan, “credo di poter dire che Henry sarà liberato dai debiti, ”

“Molto indebitato?” chiese la signora Merdle attraverso i suoi occhiali.

“Perché dovrebbe essere tollerabile, penso”, disse la signora Gowan.

“Voglio dire la solita cosa; capisco; è solo così,” osservò la signora Merdle in tono rilassato.

E che il padre gli concederà un mensile di trecento, o forse anche di più; il che, in Italia.

“Ah! Andate in Italia?” disse la signora Merdle.

“Per che Henry possa studiare. Non è difficile indovinare il motivo, cara mia. Quell’orribile arte, ”

Vero. La signora Merdle si affrettò a rispettare i sentimenti della sua amica in difficoltà. Lei capiva. Non c’è bisogno di aggiungere altro!

“E basta,” disse la signora Gowan scuotendo la testa desolata, “è tutto qui. Questo, ” ripeté, mettendo da parte per un momento il suo ventaglio verde e battendoselo contro il mento (il mento stava iniziando a diventare doppio; al momento poteva essere considerato un mezzo mento), “è tutto qui! Alla morte di quelle persone anziane, forse ci saranno altre conseguenze, ma come queste possano essere limitate o controllate, non lo so. E comunque, potrebbero vivere per sempre. Cara mia, sono proprio il tipo di persone capaci di farlo.”

Ora, la signora Merdle, che conosceva davvero molto bene la società in cui viveva, e sapeva perfettamente cosa fossero le madri della società, cosa fossero le figlie della società, quale fosse il mercato matrimoniale della società, come vi regnassero i principi del mercato, quali intrighi e contromisure avvenissero tra i potenti acquirenti, e quali trattative e manovre commerciali si svolgessero in quel contesto, pensò nel profondo del suo cuore che si trattasse di un’ottima opportunità. Tuttavia, conoscendo ciò che si aspettava da lei e comprendendo esattamente la natura della finzione che doveva essere alimentata, prese con delicatezza in considerazione questa possibilità e aggiunse il tocco di “gloria” necessario per renderla accettabile.

“E tutto qui, caro mio?” disse lei, emettendo un sospiro cordiale. “Beh, non è certo colpa tua. Non hai nulla di cui rimproverarti. Devi fare appello alla forza d’animo di cui sei rinomato e sfruttarla al meglio.”

“La famiglia della ragazza ha fatto,” disse la signora Gowan, “naturalmente tutti gli sforzi possibili per, come dicono gli avvocati, ottenere e mantenere Henry.”

“Certo che ce l’hanno, caro mio,” disse la signora Merdle.

Ho insistito su ogni possibile obiezione e mi sono preoccupato mattina, mattina, e sera, cercando modi per allontanare Henry da quella relazione.

“Non hai alcun dubbio, cara mia,” disse la signora Merdle.

“E tutto è stato inutile. Tutto mi è crollato addosso. Ora dimmi, mio amore. Ho ragione ad acconsentire finalmente, anche se a malincuore, al matrimonio di Henry con una persona che non appartiene alla Società. Oppure ho agito con una debolezza inescusabile?”

In answer to this direct appeal, Mrs Merdle assured Mrs Gowan (speaking as a Priestess of Society) that she was highly to be commended, that she was much to be sympathised with, that she had taken the highest of parts, and had come out of the furnace refined. And Mrs Gowan, who of course saw through her own threadbare blind perfectly, and who knew that Mrs Merdle saw through it perfectly, and who knew that Society would see through it perfectly, came out of this form, notwithstanding, as she had gone into it, with immense complacency and gravity.

The conference was held at four or five o’clock in the afternoon, when all the region of Harley Street, Cavendish Square, was resonant of carriage-wheels and double-knocks. It had reached this point when Mr Merdle came home from his daily occupation of causing the British name to be more and more respected in all parts of the civilised globe capable of the appreciation of world-wide commercial enterprise and gigantic combinations of skill and capital. For, though nobody knew with the least precision what Mr Merdle’s business was, except that it was to coin money, these were the terms in which everybody defined it on all ceremonious occasions, and which it was the last new polite reading of the parable of the camel and the needle’s eye to accept without inquiry.

For a gentleman who had this splendid work cut out for him, Mr Merdle looked a little common, and rather as if, in the course of his vast transactions, he had accidentally made an interchange of heads with some inferior spirit. He presented himself before the two ladies in the course of a dismal stroll through his mansion, which had no apparent object but escape from the presence of the chief butler.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, stopping short in confusion; ‘I didn’t know there was anybody here but the parrot.’

However, as Mrs Merdle said, ‘You can come in!’ and as Mrs Gowan said she was just going, and had already risen to take her leave, he came in, and stood looking out at a distant window, with his hands crossed under his uneasy coat-cuffs, clasping his wrists as if he were taking himself into custody. In this attitude he fell directly into a reverie from which he was only aroused by his wife’s calling to him from her ottoman, when they had been for some quarter of an hour alone.

‘Eh? Yes?’ said Mr Merdle, turning towards her. ‘What is it?’

‘What is it?’ repeated Mrs Merdle. ‘It is, I suppose, that you have not heard a word of my complaint.’

‘Your complaint, Mrs Merdle?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I didn’t know that you were suffering from a complaint. What complaint?’

‘A complaint of you,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Oh! A complaint of me,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘What is the—what have I—what may you have to complain of in me, Mrs Merdle?’

In his withdrawing, abstracted, pondering way, it took him some time to shape this question. As a kind of faint attempt to convince himself that he was the master of the house, he concluded by presenting his forefinger to the parrot, who expressed his opinion on that subject by instantly driving his bill into it.

‘You were saying, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, with his wounded finger in his mouth, ‘that you had a complaint against me?’

‘A complaint which I could scarcely show the justice of more emphatically, than by having to repeat it,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘I might as well have stated it to the wall. I had far better have stated it to the bird. He would at least have screamed.’

‘You don’t want me to scream, Mrs Merdle, I suppose,’ said Mr Merdle, taking a chair.

‘Indeed I don’t know,’ retorted Mrs Merdle, ‘but that you had better do that, than be so moody and distraught. One would at least know that you were sensible of what was going on around you.’

‘A man might scream, and yet not be that, Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, heavily.

‘And might be dogged, as you are at present, without screaming,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘That’s very true. If you wish to know the complaint I make against you, it is, in so many plain words, that you really ought not to go into Society unless you can accommodate yourself to Society.’

Mr Merdle, so twisting his hands into what hair he had upon his head that he seemed to lift himself up by it as he started out of his chair, cried:

‘Why, in the name of all the infernal powers, Mrs Merdle, who does more for Society than I do? Do you see these premises, Mrs Merdle? Do you see this furniture, Mrs Merdle? Do you look in the glass and see yourself, Mrs Merdle? Do you know the cost of all this, and who it’s all provided for? And yet will you tell me that I oughtn’t to go into Society? I, who shower money upon it in this way? I, who might always be said—to—to—to harness myself to a watering-cart full of money, and go about saturating Society every day of my life.’

‘Pray, don’t be violent, Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Violent?’ said Mr Merdle. ‘You are enough to make me desperate. You don’t know half of what I do to accommodate Society. You don’t know anything of the sacrifices I make for it.’

‘I know,’ returned Mrs Merdle, ‘that you receive the best in the land. I know that you move in the whole Society of the country. And I believe I know (indeed, not to make any ridiculous pretence about it, I know I know) who sustains you in it, Mr Merdle.’

‘Mrs Merdle,’ retorted that gentleman, wiping his dull red and yellow face, ‘I know that as well as you do. If you were not an ornament to Society, and if I was not a benefactor to Society, you and I would never have come together. When I say a benefactor to it, I mean a person who provides it with all sorts of expensive things to eat and drink and look at. But, to tell me that I am not fit for it after all I have done for it—after all I have done for it,’ repeated Mr Merdle, with a wild emphasis that made his wife lift up her eyelids, ‘after all—all!—to tell me I have no right to mix with it after all, is a pretty reward.’

In risposta a questo appello diretto, la signora Merdle assicurò alla signora Gowan (parlando come una “sacerdotessa della società”) che lei meritava davvero grandi lodi, che suscitava grande simpatia, che aveva assunto il ruolo più nobile e ne era uscita purificata. E la signora Gowan, che naturalmente vedeva perfettamente attraverso tutte le sue menzogne banali, e che sapeva che anche la signora Merdle e tutta la società le avrebbero viste chiaramente, uscì da questa situazione con la stessa immensa compiaciuta gravità con cui vi era entrata.

La conferenza si tenne alle quattro o cinque del pomeriggio; in quel momento l’intera zona di Harley Street e Cavendish Square risuonava del rumore delle ruote dei carri e dei colpi secchi battuti sulle porte. Fu proprio in quel momento che il signor Merdle tornò a casa, dopo la sua quotidiana attività volta a far sì che il nome britannico fosse sempre più rispettato in tutte le parti del mondo civile capaci di apprezzare le imprese commerciali su larga scala e le gigantesche combinazioni di competenza e capitale. Infatti, anche se nessuno conosceva con precisione quale fosse l’attività del signor Merdle – se non che consistesse nel “far soldi” – era proprio con questi termini che tutti lo definivano in tutte le occasioni formali, e queste erano le interpretazioni accettate senza alcun dubbio, come se si trattasse di una parte fondamentale della “parabola” del cammello e dell’occhio della aguglia.

Per un gentiluomo che aveva davanti a sé una carriera così splendida, Mr Merdle sembrava piuttosto ordinario; quasi come se, nel corso delle sue vaste attività commerciali, avesse accidentalmente scambiato la propria testa con quella di qualche essere inferiore. Si presentò davanti alle due signore durante una noiosa passeggiata per la sua dimora, la quale non aveva apparentemente alcuno scopo se non quello di sfuggire alla presenza del maggiordomo capo.

“Mi scusi,” disse, fermandosi di colpo per la confusione; “non sapevo che ci fosse qualcun altro qui oltre al pappagallo.”

Tuttavia, come disse la signora Merdle: “Potete entrare!”, e come disse anche la signora Gowan che stava proprio per andarsene e si era già alzata per congedarsi, lui entrò e rimase in piedi a guardare fuori da una finestra lontana, con le mani incrociate sotto i polsini del suo cappotto, stringendosi i polsi come se stesse assumendo su di sé la responsabilità delle proprie azioni. In questa posizione cadde immediatamente in un sogno a occhi aperti, dal quale fu riscosso solo quando sua moglie lo chiamò dal divano su cui era seduta; erano ormai da circa quindici minuti soli.

“Eh? Sì?” disse Signor Merdle, voltandosi verso di lei. “Di cosa si tratta?”

“Di cosa si tratta?” ripeté la signora Merdle. “Suppongo che non abbiate sentito nemmeno una parola della mia lamentela.”

“La sua lamentela, signora Merdle?” disse il signor Merdle. “Non sapevo che soffrisse di qualche problema. Di quale lamentela si tratta?”

“Una tua lamentela, ”, disse la signora Merdle.

“Oh! Una lamentela su di me, ”, disse Signor Merdle. “Di cosa si tratta. Cosa ho fatto. Di cosa potreste lamentarvi riguardo a me, signora Merdle?”

Con il suo modo distaccato, riflessivo e contemplativo, gli ci volle del tempo per formulare questa domanda. Come una sorta di debole tentativo di convincersi che fosse il padrone di quella casa, alla fine puntò l’indice verso il pappagallo, il quale esprime la sua opinione su quell’argomento conficcandogli immediatamente il becco nell’indice.

“Stavate dicendo, signora Merdle,” disse il signor Merdle, tenendosi il dito ferito in bocca, “che avevate un reclamo contro di me?”

“Una lamentela la cui giustizia potrei dimostrare in modo ancora più evidente soltanto ripetendola,” disse la signora Merdle. “Avrei potuto dirla anche al muro. O meglio, all’uccello: almeno quello avrebbe strillato.”

“Immagino che non voglia che gridi, signora Merdle,” disse il signor Merdle, prendendo una sedia.

“Infatti, non lo so,” ribatté la signora Merdle, “ma sarebbe meglio che lo facessi, piuttosto che essere così malinconica e distratta. Almeno si saprebbe che sei consapevole di ciò che sta accadendo intorno a te.”

“Un uomo potrebbe urlare, eppure non essere davvero un uomo, signora Merdle,” disse il signor Merdle con voce grave.

“E potresti anche essere ostinato, come lo sei adesso, senza però gridare,” rispose la signora Merdle. “È vero. Se vuoi sapere quale sia la mia lamentela nei tuoi confronti, in parole molto semplici, non dovresti assolutamente frequentare la società, a meno che non sappia adattarti alle sue regole.”

Signor Merdle, torcendo così tanto le mani attorno ai pochi capelli che aveva in testa da sembrare che si sollevasse proprio grazie a loro mentre si alzava dalla sedia, gridò:

“Perché, in nome di tutte le potenze infernali, signora Merdle. Chi fa di più per la Società di quanto non faccia io? Vede queste stanze, signora Merdle? Vede questi mobili? Si guarda nello specchio e si vede, vero, signora Merdle? Sa a quanto ammonta il costo di tutto questo, e chi lo paga? Eppure vuole dirmi che non dovrei partecipare alla Società. Io, che ci investo così tanto denaro. Io, che potrei essere paragonata a una carriola piena di soldi, utilizzata ogni giorno per “inumidire” la Società, ”

“Prega, non essere violento, Signor Merdle,” disse la signora Merdle.

“Violento?” disse Signor Merdle. “Siete davvero capace di farmi perdere la speranza. Non sapete nemmeno la metà di ciò che faccio per compiacere la Società. Non conoscete assolutamente i sacrifici che compio per essa.”

“Lo so,” rispose la signora Merdle, “che ricevi le cose migliori di questo paese. So che frequenti l’alta società di tutta la nazione. E credo di sapere (davvero, senza fare alcuna presunzione ridicola, lo so davvero) chi ti sostiene in tutto ciò, il signor Merdle.”

“Signora Merdle,” ribatté quel gentiluomo, asciugandosi il viso pallido e giallastro, “lo so altrettanto bene quanto lei. Se lei non fosse un ornamento per la Società, e se io non fossi un benefattore della Società, noi due non ci saremmo mai incontrati. Quando dico ‘benefattore’, intendo una persona che fornisce alla Società ogni sorta di cose costose da mangiare, da bere e da ammirare. Ma dire che non sono adatto a far parte di essa, dopo tutto quello che ho fatto per lei, dopo tutto quello che ho fatto, ” ripeté il signor Merdle con un’enfasi selvaggia che fece alzare le palpebre a sua moglie, “dire che non ho alcun diritto di frequentarla, è davvero una bella ricompensa.”

‘I say,’ answered Mrs Merdle composedly, ‘that you ought to make yourself fit for it by being more degage, and less preoccupied. There is a positive vulgarity in carrying your business affairs about with you as you do.’

‘How do I carry them about, Mrs Merdle?’ asked Mr Merdle.

‘How do you carry them about?’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Look at yourself in the glass.’

Mr Merdle involuntarily turned his eyes in the direction of the nearest mirror, and asked, with a slow determination of his turbid blood to his temples, whether a man was to be called to account for his digestion?

‘You have a physician,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘He does me no good,’ said Mr Merdle.

Mrs Merdle changed her ground.

‘Besides,’ said she, ‘your digestion is nonsense. I don’t speak of your digestion. I speak of your manner.’

‘Mrs Merdle,’ returned her husband, ‘I look to you for that. You supply manner, and I supply money.’

‘I don’t expect you,’ said Mrs Merdle, reposing easily among her cushions, ‘to captivate people. I don’t want you to take any trouble upon yourself, or to try to be fascinating. I simply request you to care about nothing—or seem to care about nothing—as everybody else does.’

‘Do I ever say I care about anything?’ asked Mr Merdle.

‘Say? No! Nobody would attend to you if you did. But you show it.’

‘Show what? What do I show?’ demanded Mr Merdle hurriedly.

‘I have already told you. You show that you carry your business cares an projects about, instead of leaving them in the City, or wherever else they belong to,’ said Mrs Merdle. ‘Or seeming to. Seeming would be quite enough: I ask no more. Whereas you couldn’t be more occupied with your day’s calculations and combinations than you habitually show yourself to be, if you were a carpenter.’

‘A carpenter!’ repeated Mr Merdle, checking something like a groan. ‘I shouldn’t so much mind being a carpenter, Mrs Merdle.’

‘And my complaint is,’ pursued the lady, disregarding the low remark, ‘that it is not the tone of Society, and that you ought to correct it, Mr Merdle. If you have any doubt of my judgment, ask even Edmund Sparkler.’ The door of the room had opened, and Mrs Merdle now surveyed the head of her son through her glass. ‘Edmund; we want you here.’

Mr Sparkler, who had merely put in his head and looked round the room without entering (as if he were searching the house for that young lady with no nonsense about her), upon this followed up his head with his body, and stood before them. To whom, in a few easy words adapted to his capacity, Mrs Merdle stated the question at issue.

The young gentleman, after anxiously feeling his shirt-collar as if it were his pulse and he were hypochondriacal, observed, ‘That he had heard it noticed by fellers.’

‘Edmund Sparkler has heard it noticed,’ said Mrs Merdle, with languid triumph. ‘Why, no doubt everybody has heard it noticed!’ Which in truth was no unreasonable inference; seeing that Mr Sparkler would probably be the last person, in any assemblage of the human species, to receive an impression from anything that passed in his presence.

‘And Edmund Sparkler will tell you, I dare say,’ said Mrs Merdle, waving her favourite hand towards her husband, ‘how he has heard it noticed.’

‘I couldn’t,’ said Mr Sparkler, after feeling his pulse as before, ‘couldn’t undertake to say what led to it—‘cause memory desperate loose. But being in company with the brother of a doosed fine gal—well educated too—with no biggodd nonsense about her—at the period alluded to—’

‘There! Never mind the sister,’ remarked Mrs Merdle, a little impatiently. ‘What did the brother say?’

‘Didn’t say a word, ma’am,’ answered Mr Sparkler. ‘As silent a feller as myself. Equally hard up for a remark.’

‘Somebody said something,’ returned Mrs Merdle. ‘Never mind who it was.’

[‘Assure you I don’t in the least,’ said Mr Sparkler.)

‘But tell us what it was.’

Mr Sparkler referred to his pulse again, and put himself through some severe mental discipline before he replied:

‘Fellers referring to my Governor—expression not my own—occasionally compliment my Governor in a very handsome way on being immensely rich and knowing—perfect phenomenon of Buyer and Banker and that—but say the Shop sits heavily on him. Say he carried the Shop about, on his back rather—like Jew clothesmen with too much business.’

‘Which,’ said Mrs Merdle, rising, with her floating drapery about her, ‘is exactly my complaint. Edmund, give me your arm up-stairs.’

Mr Merdle, left alone to meditate on a better conformation of himself to Society, looked out of nine windows in succession, and appeared to see nine wastes of space. When he had thus entertained himself he went down-stairs, and looked intently at all the carpets on the ground-floor; and then came up-stairs again, and looked intently at all the carpets on the first-floor; as if they were gloomy depths, in unison with his oppressed soul. Through all the rooms he wandered, as he always did, like the last person on earth who had any business to approach them. Let Mrs Merdle announce, with all her might, that she was at Home ever so many nights in a season, she could not announce more widely and unmistakably than Mr Merdle did that he was never at home.

At last he met the chief butler, the sight of which splendid retainer always finished him. Extinguished by this great creature, he sneaked to his dressing-room, and there remained shut up until he rode out to dinner, with Mrs Merdle, in her own handsome chariot. At dinner, he was envied and flattered as a being of might, was Treasuried, Barred, and Bishoped, as much as he would; and an hour after midnight came home alone, and being instantly put out again in his own hall, like a rushlight, by the chief butler, went sighing to bed.

“Dico,” rispose la signora Merdle con calma, “che dovresti prepararti adeguatamente a questa situazione diventando più disinvolto e meno assorbito dai tuoi affari. È davvero volgare portarsi dietro tutte queste questioni pratiche in ogni momento.”

“Come faccio a portarle in giro, signora Merdle?”, chiese il signor Merdle.

“Come fai a portarle con te?” chiese la signora Merdle. “Guardati nello specchio.”

Mr Merdle involontariamente rivolse lo sguardo verso lo specchio più vicino e chiese, con una lenta consapevolezza del proprio sangue torbido che gli pulsava nelle tempie, se fosse possibile chiedere conto a qualcuno dei propri problemi digestivi.

“Hai un medico,” disse la signora Merdle.

“Non mi fa alcun bene,” disse Signor Merdle.

La signora Merdle cambiò tattica.

“Oltre a questo,” disse lei, “la tua digestione è un problema serio. Non mi riferisco alla tua digestione. Mi riferisco al tuo comportamento.”

“Signora Merdle,” rispose suo marito, “mi affido a voi per questo. Voi fornite le buone maniere, e io fornisco i soldi.”

“Non mi aspetto che tu riesca a incantare le persone,” disse la signora Merdle, sdraiata comodamente tra i suoi cuscini. “Non voglio che ti dia alcuna pena, né che cerchi di essere affascinante. Ti chiedo semplicemente di non curarti di nulla, o di sembrare non curarti di nulla, proprio come fanno tutti gli altri.”

“Ho mai detto che mi importi di qualcosa?”, chiese Signor Merdle.

“Dici? No! Nessuno ti darebbe retta se lo facessi. Ma tu lo fai comunque.”

“Mostrare cosa? Cosa devo mostrare?” chiese in fretta Signor Merdle.

“Gliel’ho già detto. Dimostrate di occuparvi delle vostre faccende e dei vostri progetti, invece di lasciarli in Città, o ovunque appartengano,” disse la signora Merdle. “O almeno di sembrarlo. Basta che sembri: non chiedo di più. Invece, non potreste essere più impegnati con i vostri calcoli e le vostre combinazioni quotidiane di quanto di solito facciate credere, anche se foste carpentieri.”

“Un falegname!” ripeté Signor Merdle con un suono che sembrava un lamento.
“Non mi dispiacerebbe affatto essere un falegname, signora Merdle.”

“E la mia lamentela è,” proseguì la signora, ignorando quel commento offensivo, “che questo tono non è conforme alle usanze della società, e che dovreste correggerlo, Signor Merdle. Se avete qualche dubbio sulla mia valutazione, chiedetelo pure a Edmund Sparkler.” La porta della stanza si era aperta, e la signora Merdle osservò ora il figlio attraverso il suo monocolo. “Edmund; ti vogliamo qui.”

Il signor Sparkler, che aveva semplicemente messo la testa dentro e guardato intorno nella stanza senza entrare (come se stesse cercando in tutta la >casa quella giovane donna senza perdere tempo), alla fine fece uscire anche il resto del corpo e si presentò davanti a loro. La signora Merdle, usando poche parole semplici adatte alle sue capacità mentali, gli espresse quindi la domanda in questione.

Il giovane gentiluomo, dopo aver controllato ansiosamente il colletto della sua camicia come se fosse il proprio polso e temesse di soffrire di ipocondria, osservò: “Ho sentito dire che anche altri l’hanno notato.”

“‘Edmund Sparkler’ l’ha sentito dire,” disse la signora Merdle con un tono di languido trionfo. “Beh, non c’è alcun >dubbio che tutti l’abbiano sentito dire!” Il che, in realtà, non era affatto una conclusione irragionevole; visto che il signor Sparkler probabilmente sarebbe stato l’ultima persona, in qualsiasi assemblea di esseri umani, ad essere influenzato da ciò che avveniva davanti ai suoi occhi.

“E credo che anche Edmund Sparkler vi possa raccontare,” disse la signora Merdle, agitando la sua mano preferita verso suo marito, “come ha sentito dire che questa cosa è stata notata.”

“Non avrei potuto,” disse il signor Sparkler, dopo aver controllato di nuovo il proprio polso come prima, “non sarei in grado di dire cosa ne sia la causa, perché la memoria è completamente andata persa. Ma essendo in compagnia del fratello di una ragazza davvero bella e ben educata, senza alcuna sciocchezza riguardo a lei, nel periodo di cui si parla, ”

“Ecco! Lasciate perdere quella sorella,” osservò la signora Merdle, con un po’ di impazienza. “Cosa ha detto il fratello?”

“Non ho detto una parola, signora,” rispose il signor Sparkler. “Un tipo altrettanto silenzioso quanto me. Anch’io non sapevo cosa dire.”

“Qualcuno ha detto qualcosa, ”, rispose la signora Merdle. “Non importa chi sia stato.”

“Vi assicuro che affatto no,” disse il signor Sparkler.

“Ma diteci di cosa si trattava.”

Il signor Sparkler controllò di nuovo il proprio polso e si sottopose a una severa disciplina mentale prima di rispondere:

“Gli amici che si riferiscono al mio Governatore – un’espressione non mia – a volte lodano il mio Governatore in modo molto lusinghiero per la sua immensa ricchezza e per le sue conoscenze. Un perfetto esempio di come funzionino i rapporti tra acquirenti e banchieri. Ma dicono anche che il negozio rappresenti un grosso onere per lui. Come se lo portasse sulle spalle, in qualche modo. Proprio come quei commercianti ebrei con troppi affari da gestire, ”

“Ecco esattamente il mio problema,” disse la signora Merdle alzandosi, con le sue vesti che fluttuavano intorno a lei. “Edmund, dammi il braccio per salire le scale.”

Signor Merdle, lasciato da solo a riflettere su come potersi adattare meglio alla Società, guardò fuori da nove finestre una dopo l’altra, e sembrò vedere soltanto spazi vuoti e inutilizzati. Dopo essersi divertito così, scese le scale e osservò attentamente tutti i tappeti al piano terra; poi risalì e esaminò con lo stesso interesse quelli al primo piano, come se rappresentassero abissi oscuri, in armonia con la sua anima oppressa. Percorse tutte le stanze, come faceva sempre, come l’ultima persona al mondo che avesse motivo di entrarvi. Che anche la signora Merdle dichiarasse a gran voce di essere a casa molte sere all’anno, non potrebbe farlo in modo più chiaro e inequivocabile di quanto lo facesse Signor Merdle, che in realtà non era mai a casa.

Finalmente incontrò il maggiordomo capo; la vista di quel servitore splendido lo lasciava sempre senza parole. Sconfitto da quella figura imponente, si nascose nella sua stanza da vestire e vi rimase chiuso fino al momento in cui uscì a cena con la signora Merdle, nella sua bella carrozza. A tavola fu invidiato e lusingato come un essere potente; gli vennero conferiti titoli onorifici a piacimento. Un’ora dopo mezzanotte tornò da solo a casa e, subito dopo, il maggiordomo capo lo congedò di nuovo nel suo salone, come se fosse una semplice candela, e lui andò a letto sospirando.

CHAPTER 34. A Shoal of Barnacles

Mr Henry Gowan and the dog were established frequenters of the cottage, and the day was fixed for the wedding. There was to be a convocation of Barnacles on the occasion, in order that that very high and very large family might shed as much lustre on the marriage as so dim an event was capable of receiving.

To have got the whole Barnacle family together would have been impossible for two reasons. Firstly, because no building could have held all the members and connections of that illustrious house. Secondly, because wherever there was a square yard of ground in British occupation under the sun or moon, with a public post upon it, sticking to that post was a Barnacle. No intrepid navigator could plant a flag-staff upon any spot of earth, and take possession of it in the British name, but to that spot of earth, so soon as the discovery was known, the Circumlocution Office sent out a Barnacle and a despatch-box. Thus the Barnacles were all over the world, in every direction—despatch-boxing the compass.

But, while the so-potent art of Prospero himself would have failed in summoning the Barnacles from every speck of ocean and dry land on which there was nothing (except mischief) to be done and anything to be pocketed, it was perfectly feasible to assemble a good many Barnacles. This Mrs Gowan applied herself to do; calling on Mr Meagles frequently with new additions to the list, and holding conferences with that gentleman when he was not engaged (as he generally was at this period) in examining and paying the debts of his future son-in-law, in the apartment of scales and scoop.

One marriage guest there was, in reference to whose presence Mr Meagles felt a nearer interest and concern than in the attendance of the most elevated Barnacle expected; though he was far from insensible of the honour of having such company. This guest was Clennam. But Clennam had made a promise he held sacred, among the trees that summer night, and, in the chivalry of his heart, regarded it as binding him to many implied obligations. In forgetfulness of himself, and delicate service to her on all occasions, he was never to fail; to begin it, he answered Mr Meagles cheerfully, ‘I shall come, of course.’

His partner, Daniel Doyce, was something of a stumbling-block in Mr Meagles’s way, the worthy gentleman being not at all clear in his own anxious mind but that the mingling of Daniel with official Barnacleism might produce some explosive combination, even at a marriage breakfast. The national offender, however, lightened him of his uneasiness by coming down to Twickenham to represent that he begged, with the freedom of an old friend, and as a favour to one, that he might not be invited. ‘For,’ said he, ‘as my business with this set of gentlemen was to do a public duty and a public service, and as their business with me was to prevent it by wearing my soul out, I think we had better not eat and drink together with a show of being of one mind.’ Mr Meagles was much amused by his friend’s oddity; and patronised him with a more protecting air of allowance than usual, when he rejoined: ‘Well, well, Dan, you shall have your own crotchety way.’

To Mr Henry Gowan, as the time approached, Clennam tried to convey by all quiet and unpretending means, that he was frankly and disinterestedly desirous of tendering him any friendship he would accept. Mr Gowan treated him in return with his usual ease, and with his usual show of confidence, which was no confidence at all.

‘You see, Clennam,’ he happened to remark in the course of conversation one day, when they were walking near the Cottage within a week of the marriage, ‘I am a disappointed man. That you know already.’

‘Upon my word,’ said Clennam, a little embarrassed, ‘I scarcely know how.’

‘Why,’ returned Gowan, ‘I belong to a clan, or a clique, or a family, or a connection, or whatever you like to call it, that might have provided for me in any one of fifty ways, and that took it into its head not to do it at all. So here I am, a poor devil of an artist.’

Clennam was beginning, ‘But on the other hand—’ when Gowan took him up.

‘Yes, yes, I know. I have the good fortune of being beloved by a beautiful and charming girl whom I love with all my heart.’

[‘Is there much of it?’ Clennam thought. And as he thought it, felt ashamed of himself.)

‘And of finding a father-in-law who is a capital fellow and a liberal good old boy. Still, I had other prospects washed and combed into my childish head when it was washed and combed for me, and I took them to a public school when I washed and combed it for myself, and I am here without them, and thus I am a disappointed man.’

Clennam thought (and as he thought it, again felt ashamed of himself), was this notion of being disappointed in life, an assertion of station which the bridegroom brought into the family as his property, having already carried it detrimentally into his pursuit? And was it a hopeful or a promising thing anywhere?

‘Not bitterly disappointed, I think,’ he said aloud.

‘Hang it, no; not bitterly,’ laughed Gowan. ‘My people are not worth that—though they are charming fellows, and I have the greatest affection for them. Besides, it’s pleasant to show them that I can do without them, and that they may all go to the Devil. And besides, again, most men are disappointed in life, somehow or other, and influenced by their disappointment. But it’s a dear good world, and I love it!’

‘It lies fair before you now,’ said Arthur.

‘Fair as this summer river,’ cried the other, with enthusiasm, ‘and by Jove I glow with admiration of it, and with ardour to run a race in it. It’s the best of old worlds! And my calling! The best of old callings, isn’t it?’

‘Full of interest and ambition, I conceive,’ said Clennam.

CAPITOLO 34. UN BANCHETTO DI POLIPI DI MARE

Il signor Henry Gowan e il cane divennero frequenti ospiti di quella casetta; fu fissata la data per il matrimonio. Per l’occasione si tenne una riunione dei Barnacles, affinché quella famiglia così nobile e numerosa potesse conferire al matrimonio tutto lo splendore che un evento del genere poteva ricevere.

Riuscire a riunire tutta la famiglia Barnacle sarebbe stato impossibile per due motivi. Primo, perché nessun edificio avrebbe potuto contenere tutti i membri e le connessioni di quella illustre >famiglia. Secondo, perché ovunque ci fosse un pezzo di terra sotto il dominio britannico, su cui si trovasse una cabina postale pubblica, lì c’era sempre un membro della famiglia Barnacle. Nessun navigatore intrepido avrebbe potuto piantare una bandiera su qualsiasi punto della terra e occuparlo in nome britannico; non appena la scoperta veniva comunicata, l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni inviava immediatamente un membro della famiglia Barnacle insieme a una scatola per le lettere. Così i membri della famiglia Barnacle si trovarono in tutto il mondo, in ogni direzione, diffondendosi ovunque come i punti cardinali su una bussola.

Ma sebbene l’arte così potente di Prospero stesso avrebbe fallito nel richiamare tutti quei “Barnacles” da ogni angolo dell’oceano e della terraferma – dove non c’era nulla, se non guai, da fare, e tutto ciò che poteva essere sottratto – era comunque del tutto possibile raccogliere un buon numero di questi “Barnacles”. La signora Gowan si dedicò proprio a farlo: chiamava spesso il signor Meagles per aggiungere nuovi nomi alla lista, e teneva colloqui con lui quando non era impegnato (il che accadeva di solito in quel periodo) ad esaminare e pagare i debiti del futuro genero, nell’ambiente caratterizzato da bilance e cucchiai.

C’era lì un ospite al matrimonio il cui arrivo suscitava in Mr Meagles un interesse e una preoccupazione maggiori rispetto alla presenza di qualsiasi altro invitato importante; sebbene non ignorasse affatto l’onore di avere tale compagnia. Questo ospite era Clennam. Ma Clennam aveva fatto una promessa che considerava sacra; l’aveva fatta tra gli alberi, in quella sera d’estate, e, per nobiltà d’animo, la riteneva vincolante verso molte obbligazioni implicithe. Per non tradirla, era determinato a prestare attenzione a lei in ogni occasione; così, rispose allegramente a Mr Meagles: “Certo che verrò.”

Il suo compagno, Daniel Doyce, rappresentava in qualche modo un ostacolo nel cammino del signor Meagles: quel gentiluomo, infatti, non era affatto sicuro riguardo alle possibili conseguenze dell’incontro tra Daniel e i membri del movimento Barnacleism, soprattutto durante una colazione di nozze. Tuttavia, il “criminale nazionale” in questione lo rassicurò, recandosi a Twickenham per dichiarare che, con la “libertà” di un vecchio amico e come favore verso di lui, avrebbe preferito non essere invitato. “Perché,” disse, “il mio compito nei confronti di questi signori era svolgere un dovere pubblico e prestare un servizio alla comunità; il loro compito, invece, era impedirmelo, logorando la mia ‘anima’. Penso quindi che sia meglio non mangiare e bere insieme, fingendo di essere d’accordo.” Il signor Meagles trovò molto divertente l’stranezza del suo amico e, con un tono più protettivo del solito, gli disse: “Beh, Dan, potrai pur seguire il tuo strambo modo di fare.”

A Mr Henry Gowan, man mano che il momento si avvicinava, Clennam cercò di fargli capire, con ogni mezzo discreto e senza alcuna pretesa, che desiderava sinceramente offrirgli la sua amicizia, se solo lui fosse stato disposto ad accettarla. Mr Gowan lo trattò a sua volta con la solita disinvoltura e con quell’atteggiamento di fiducia che in realtà non era affatto tale.

“Vedi, Clennam,” gli disse un giorno durante una conversazione, mentre camminavano vicino alla Casa di Cottages, meno di una settimana dopo il matrimonio, “sono un uomo deluso. Lo sai già.”

“Per la mia parola,” disse Clennam, un po’ imbarazzato, “quasi non so come farlo.”

“Perché,” rispose Gowan, “appartengo a un clan, o a un gruppo, o a una famiglia, o a qualche legame, o come vuoi chiamarlo, che avrebbe potuto aiutarmi in cinquanta modi diversi, e invece ha deciso di non farlo affatto. E così eccomi qui, povero diavolo d’un artista.”

Clennam stava per iniziare a dire: “Ma d’altra parte–” quando Gowan lo interruppe.

“Sì, sì, lo so. Ho la fortuna di essere amato da una ragazza bella e affascinante che amo con tutto il mio cuore.”

“Ce n’è molto?” pensò Clennam. E mentre lo pensava, si sentì in colpa per se stesso.

‘E poi c’è stato trovare un suocero che è davvero una brava persona, generoso e gentile. Comunque, quando ero bambino, avevo già altre idee in testa. Idee che ho portato avanti quando sono cresciuto. E ora sono qui, senza di esse. E quindi sono un uomo deluso.’

Clennam pensò (e mentre lo faceva, si sentì di nuovo imbarazzato per se stesso): “Questa idea di essere delusi nella vita, è forse un’affermazione riguardo al proprio status sociale che lo sposo porta in famiglia come sua proprietà, e che già prima ha avuto effetti negativi sulle sue scelte? E poi, è davvero qualcosa di positivo o promettente?”

“Non credo di essere profondamente deluso,” disse ad alta voce.

“Lascia perdere, no, non con rancore,” rise Gowan. “La mia gente non merita una cosa del genere, anche se sono persone davvero carine, e provo per loro un grande affetto. Inoltre, è piacevole dimostrare loro che posso fare a meno di loro, e che possono pure andare tutti all’inferno. E poi, ancora, la maggior parte delle persone, in qualche modo o altro, rimane delusa nella vita, e questa delusione le influenza. Ma il mondo è comunque un posto meraviglioso, e io lo amo!”

“È davanti a te, bellissimo,” disse Arthur.

“Bello come questo fiume d’estate,” esclamò l’altro con entusiasmo, “e per Giove, ne sono pieno di ammirazione. E non vedo l’ora di gareggiarci! È il più bel fiume che esista. E la mia vocazione. La migliore delle vecchie vocazioni, non è vero?”

“Ricco di interesse e ambizione, penso,” disse Clennam.

‘And imposition,’ added Gowan, laughing; ‘we won’t leave out the imposition. I hope I may not break down in that; but there, my being a disappointed man may show itself. I may not be able to face it out gravely enough. Between you and me, I think there is some danger of my being just enough soured not to be able to do that.’

‘To do what?’ asked Clennam.

‘To keep it up. To help myself in my turn, as the man before me helps himself in his, and pass the bottle of smoke. To keep up the pretence as to labour, and study, and patience, and being devoted to my art, and giving up many solitary days to it, and abandoning many pleasures for it, and living in it, and all the rest of it—in short, to pass the bottle of smoke according to rule.’

‘But it is well for a man to respect his own vocation, whatever it is; and to think himself bound to uphold it, and to claim for it the respect it deserves; is it not?’ Arthur reasoned. ‘And your vocation, Gowan, may really demand this suit and service. I confess I should have thought that all Art did.’

‘What a good fellow you are, Clennam!’ exclaimed the other, stopping to look at him, as if with irrepressible admiration. ‘What a capital fellow! You have never been disappointed. That’s easy to see.’

It would have been so cruel if he had meant it, that Clennam firmly resolved to believe he did not mean it. Gowan, without pausing, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and laughingly and lightly went on:

‘Clennam, I don’t like to dispel your generous visions, and I would give any money (if I had any), to live in such a rose-coloured mist. But what I do in my trade, I do to sell. What all we fellows do, we do to sell. If we didn’t want to sell it for the most we can get for it, we shouldn’t do it. Being work, it has to be done; but it’s easily enough done. All the rest is hocus-pocus. Now here’s one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of knowing a disappointed man. You hear the truth.’

Whatever he had heard, and whether it deserved that name or another, it sank into Clennam’s mind. It so took root there, that he began to fear Henry Gowan would always be a trouble to him, and that so far he had gained little or nothing from the dismissal of Nobody, with all his inconsistencies, anxieties, and contradictions. He found a contest still always going on in his breast between his promise to keep Gowan in none but good aspects before the mind of Mr Meagles, and his enforced observation of Gowan in aspects that had no good in them. Nor could he quite support his own conscientious nature against misgivings that he distorted and discoloured himself, by reminding himself that he never sought those discoveries, and that he would have avoided them with willingness and great relief. For he never could forget what he had been; and he knew that he had once disliked Gowan for no better reason than that he had come in his way.

Harassed by these thoughts, he now began to wish the marriage over, Gowan and his young wife gone, and himself left to fulfil his promise, and discharge the generous function he had accepted. This last week was, in truth, an uneasy interval for the whole house. Before Pet, or before Gowan, Mr Meagles was radiant; but Clennam had more than once found him alone, with his view of the scales and scoop much blurred, and had often seen him look after the lovers, in the garden or elsewhere when he was not seen by them, with the old clouded face on which Gowan had fallen like a shadow. In the arrangement of the house for the great occasion, many little reminders of the old travels of the father and mother and daughter had to be disturbed and passed from hand to hand; and sometimes, in the midst of these mute witnesses, to the life they had had together, even Pet herself would yield to lamenting and weeping. Mrs Meagles, the blithest and busiest of mothers, went about singing and cheering everybody; but she, honest soul, had her flights into store rooms, where she would cry until her eyes were red, and would then come out, attributing that appearance to pickled onions and pepper, and singing clearer than ever. Mrs Tickit, finding no balsam for a wounded mind in Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, suffered greatly from low spirits, and from moving recollections of Minnie’s infancy. When the latter was powerful with her, she usually sent up secret messages importing that she was not in parlour condition as to her attire, and that she solicited a sight of ‘her child’ in the kitchen; there, she would bless her child’s face, and bless her child’s heart, and hug her child, in a medley of tears and congratulations, chopping-boards, rolling-pins, and pie-crust, with the tenderness of an old attached servant, which is a very pretty tenderness indeed.

But all days come that are to be; and the marriage-day was to be, and it came; and with it came all the Barnacles who were bidden to the feast.

There was Mr Tite Barnacle, from the Circumlocution Office, and Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, with the expensive Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, who made the Quarter Days so long in coming, and the three expensive Miss Tite Barnacles, double-loaded with accomplishments and ready to go off, and yet not going off with the sharpness of flash and bang that might have been expected, but rather hanging fire. There was Barnacle junior, also from the Circumlocution Office, leaving the Tonnage of the country, which he was somehow supposed to take under his protection, to look after itself, and, sooth to say, not at all impairing the efficiency of its protection by leaving it alone. There was the engaging Young Barnacle, deriving from the sprightly side of the family, also from the Circumlocution Office, gaily and agreeably helping the occasion along, and treating it, in his sparkling way, as one of the official forms and fees of the Church Department of How not to do it. There were three other Young Barnacles from three other offices, insipid to all the senses, and terribly in want of seasoning, doing the marriage as they would have ‘done’ the Nile, Old Rome, the new singer, or Jerusalem.

“E poi c’è l’imposizione,” aggiunse Gowan ridendo; “non possiamo certo trascurare l’aspetto dell’imposizione. Spero di riuscire a gestirla, ma chissà, essendo un uomo deluso, forse non sarò in grado di farlo con la dovuta serietà. Tra te e me, credo ci sia il rischio che io diventi semplicemente troppo amareggiato per riuscirci.”

“Fare cosa?” chiese Clennam.

‘Continuare così. Aiutarmi a mia volta, proprio come l’uomo davanti a me si aiuta a sua volta; passarsi la bottiglia di fumo secondo le regole stabilite. Continuare a fingere di lavorare, studiare, essere paziente, dedicarsi alla mia arte, dedicarvi molti giorni solitari, rinunciare a molte gioie per essa, vivere interamente per essa. In breve, continuare a seguire le regole stabilite.’

“Ma è certamente giusto che un uomo rispetti la propria vocazione, qualunque essa sia; e che si senta obbligato a difenderla e a chiederle il rispetto che merita, non è vero?” ragionò Arthur. “E la tua vocazione, Gowan, potrebbe davvero richiedere questo abito e questi servizi. Ammetto di non averci pensato anch’io, riguardo a tutta l’arte.”

“Che bravo ragazzo sei, Clennam!” esclamò l’altro, fermandosi per guardarlo, con un’ammirazione incontenibile. “Che persona meravigliosa. Tu non hai mai deluso nessuno. È facile capirlo.”

Sarebbe stato davvero crudele se l’avesse detto sul serio; perciò Clennam decise con fermezza di credere che non lo avesse fatto. Gowan, senza esitazione, posò una mano sulla sua spalla e continuò a parlare in tono scherzoso e leggero:

“Clennam, non mi piace deludere le tue generose illusioni, e darei qualsiasi somma di denaro (se ne avessi) per vivere in una tale nebbia color rosa. Ma quello che faccio nel mio lavoro lo faccio per vendere; tutti noi lo facciamo per vendere. Se non volessimo vendere al prezzo più alto possibile, non dovremmo nemmeno farlo. Poiché si tratta di lavoro, deve essere svolto. E in realtà è abbastanza facile da fare. Tutto il resto sono solo sciocchezze. Ora, ecco uno dei vantaggi, o degli svantaggi, di conoscere un uomo deluso: si ascolta finalmente la verità.”

Qualunque cosa avesse sentito, e indipendentemente dal fatto che quel nome fosse appropriato o meno, si insediò nella mente di Clennam. Radicò così profondamente che iniziò a temere che Henry Gowan continuasse sempre a rappresentare un problema per lui, e che, nonostante tutte le contraddizioni, le ansie e le incongruenze di Nobody, non avesse ottenuto quasi nulla dalla sua eliminazione. Nel suo cuore continuava ad esserci uno scontro costante tra la promessa fatta a se stesso di presentare Gowan solo sotto aspetti positivi agli occhi del signor Meagles, e la realtà delle sue osservazioni su aspetti negativi di quel ragazzo. Inoltre, non riusciva affatto a contrastare le proprie convinzioni morali con i dubbi che lo assalivano, dubbi legati al fatto che potesse essersi distorto e compromesso nella sua valutazione di Gowan; si ripeteva infatti di non aver mai cercato quelle scoperte, e che avrebbe evitato volentieri di farle, con grande sollievo. Perché non riusciva mai a dimenticare ciò che era stato in passato. E sapeva di aver disprezzato Gowan una volta soltanto perché questi gli aveva intralciato la strada.

Perseguitato da questi pensieri, iniziò ora a desiderare che quel matrimonio fosse già finito, che Gowan e sua moglie giovane se ne andassero, lasciandolo libero di mantenere la promessa fatta e ad adempiere al ruolo generoso che aveva accettato. Quella settimana fu, in verità, un periodo molto difficile per tutta la famiglia. Davanti a Pet o davanti a Gowan, il signor Meagles sembrava sempre radioso; ma Clennam lo aveva più volte visto da solo, con lo sguardo confuso e perso tra le bilance e gli strumenti di misura, e spesso lo aveva visto osservare i “due innamorati” nel giardino o in altri luoghi, quando loro non potevano vederlo; il suo volto, solitamente cupo, sembrava allora avvolto da un’ombra. Durante i preparativi per quell’importante occasione, molte piccole cose che ricordavano i vecchi viaggi del padre, della madre e della figlia dovettero essere spostate da un posto all’altro; a volte, tra quei “silenziosi testimoni” di una vita condivisa, anche Pet stessa non poteva fare a meno di piangere. La signora Meagles, la madre più allegra e impegnata del mondo, continuava a cantare e incoraggiare tutti; ma lei, povera ‘anima, si rifugiava spesso nelle stanze dove teneva le provviste, piangendo fino a quando gli occhi non diventavano rossi, per poi uscire di nuovo attribuendo quel colore agli odori forti degli ortaggi in salamoia e al pepe, e continuando a cantare più allegramente che mai. La signora Tickit, non trovando alcun rimedio efficace nel “Medicina domestica” di Buchan per alleviare il proprio dolore, soffriva molto a causa del malumore e dei ricordi dolorosi legati all’infanzia di Minnie. Quando questi ricordi diventavano troppo intensi, Minnie inviava spesso messaggi segreti in cui diceva di non essere in condizioni addeguate per ricevere visite nel salotto e chiedeva di poter vedere “il suo bambino” in cucina; lì, baciava il viso del proprio figlio, benediceva il suo cuore e lo abbracciava tra lacrime e parole di felicità, mentre intorno a lei c’erano tagliere da cucina, pinze per impastare e ingredienti per le torte, con la tenerezza tipica di una vecchia domestica devota, davvero una tenerezza molto bella.

Ma tutti i giorni che devono arrivare arriveranno; e il giorno del matrimonio sarebbe arrivato, ed effettivamente arrivò; e con esso arrivarono anche tutti coloro che erano stati invitati a quella festa.

C’era il signor Tite Barnacle, dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, e la costosa signora Tite Barnacle – da nubile Stiltstalking – che rendevano le celebrazioni dei giorni festivi particolarmente lunghe e complesse. C’erano anche tre altre giovani donne di nome Tite Barnacle, ricche di talenti ma per qualche motivo incapaci di metterli a frutto in modo efficace. C’era poi il giovane Barnacle, anch’egli dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni; lasciava che le istituzioni del paese si prendessero cura da sole, senza minimamente comprometterne l’efficienza. C’erano inoltre altri tre giovani Barnacle provenienti da altri uffici: insipidi e privi di qualsiasi carattere distintivo. Si celebravano i matrimoni nello stesso modo in cui si sarebbero potuti “celebrare” il Nilo, l’antica Roma o la nuova cantante.

But there was greater game than this. There was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself, in the odour of Circumlocution—with the very smell of Despatch-Boxes upon him. Yes, there was Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle, who had risen to official heights on the wings of one indignant idea, and that was, My Lords, that I am yet to be told that it behoves a Minister of this free country to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. That was, in other words, that this great statesman was always yet to be told that it behoved the Pilot of the ship to do anything but prosper in the private loaf and fish trade ashore, the crew being able, by dint of hard pumping, to keep the ship above water without him. On this sublime discovery in the great art How not to do it, Lord Decimus had long sustained the highest glory of the Barnacle family; and let any ill-advised member of either House but try How to do it by bringing in a Bill to do it, that Bill was as good as dead and buried when Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle rose up in his place and solemnly said, soaring into indignant majesty as the Circumlocution cheering soared around him, that he was yet to be told, My Lords, that it behoved him as the Minister of this free country, to set bounds to the philanthropy, to cramp the charity, to fetter the public spirit, to contract the enterprise, to damp the independent self-reliance, of its people. The discovery of this Behoving Machine was the discovery of the political perpetual motion. It never wore out, though it was always going round and round in all the State Departments.

And there, with his noble friend and relative Lord Decimus, was William Barnacle, who had made the ever-famous coalition with Tudor Stiltstalking, and who always kept ready his own particular recipe for How not to do it; sometimes tapping the Speaker, and drawing it fresh out of him, with a ‘First, I will beg you, sir, to inform the House what Precedent we have for the course into which the honourable gentleman would precipitate us;’ sometimes asking the honourable gentleman to favour him with his own version of the Precedent; sometimes telling the honourable gentleman that he (William Barnacle) would search for a Precedent; and oftentimes crushing the honourable gentleman flat on the spot by telling him there was no Precedent. But Precedent and Precipitate were, under all circumstances, the well-matched pair of battle-horses of this able Circumlocutionist. No matter that the unhappy honourable gentleman had been trying in vain, for twenty-five years, to precipitate William Barnacle into this—William Barnacle still put it to the House, and (at second-hand or so) to the country, whether he was to be precipitated into this. No matter that it was utterly irreconcilable with the nature of things and course of events that the wretched honourable gentleman could possibly produce a Precedent for this—William Barnacle would nevertheless thank the honourable gentleman for that ironical cheer, and would close with him upon that issue, and would tell him to his teeth that there Was NO Precedent for this. It might perhaps have been objected that the William Barnacle wisdom was not high wisdom or the earth it bamboozled would never have been made, or, if made in a rash mistake, would have remained blank mud. But Precedent and Precipitate together frightened all objection out of most people.

And there, too, was another Barnacle, a lively one, who had leaped through twenty places in quick succession, and was always in two or three at once, and who was the much-respected inventor of an art which he practised with great success and admiration in all Barnacle Governments. This was, when he was asked a Parliamentary question on any one topic, to return an answer on any other. It had done immense service, and brought him into high esteem with the Circumlocution Office.

And there, too, was a sprinkling of less distinguished Parliamentary Barnacles, who had not as yet got anything snug, and were going through their probation to prove their worthiness. These Barnacles perched upon staircases and hid in passages, waiting their orders to make houses or not to make houses; and they did all their hearing, and ohing, and cheering, and barking, under directions from the heads of the family; and they put dummy motions on the paper in the way of other men’s motions; and they stalled disagreeable subjects off until late in the night and late in the session, and then with virtuous patriotism cried out that it was too late; and they went down into the country, whenever they were sent, and swore that Lord Decimus had revived trade from a swoon, and commerce from a fit, and had doubled the harvest of corn, quadrupled the harvest of hay, and prevented no end of gold from flying out of the Bank. Also these Barnacles were dealt, by the heads of the family, like so many cards below the court-cards, to public meetings and dinners; where they bore testimony to all sorts of services on the part of their noble and honourable relatives, and buttered the Barnacles on all sorts of toasts. And they stood, under similar orders, at all sorts of elections; and they turned out of their own seats, on the shortest notice and the most unreasonable terms, to let in other men; and they fetched and carried, and toadied and jobbed, and corrupted, and ate heaps of dirt, and were indefatigable in the public service. And there was not a list, in all the Circumlocution Office, of places that might fall vacant anywhere within half a century, from a lord of the Treasury to a Chinese consul, and up again to a governor-general of India, but as applicants for such places, the names of some or of every one of these hungry and adhesive Barnacles were down.

Ma c’era qualcosa di ancora più importante di questo. C’era Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle stesso, impregnato dell’odore della prolissità e del ritardo nei procedimenti. Sì, era proprio lui: un uomo che aveva raggiunto alte cariche ufficiali grazie a un’unica idea. E cioè, Signori, che non gli fosse mai stato detto che spettasse a un Ministro di questo paese libero porre limiti alla filantropia, restringere l’attività della carità, incatenare lo spirito pubblico, ostacolare l’iniziativa privata e soffocare l’indipendenza del proprio popolo. In altre parole, a questo grande statista non era mai stato detto che il compito di un Ministro fosse quello di limitare le attività benefiche del paese. Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle aveva da tempo raggiunto la massima gloria della sua famiglia grazie a questa “scoperta”. E se qualche membro imprudente di una delle due Camere avesse provato ad introdurre un disegno di legge in questo senso, quel disegno sarebbe stato immediatamente bocciato. Non appena Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle interveniva e dichiarava solennemente, circondato da tutti coloro che applaudivano le sue parole prolisse, che non gli era mai stato detto che spettasse a lui, in qualità di Ministro di questo paese libero, porre limiti alla filantropia. Questa “scoperta” rappresentava, in sostanza, la scoperta del moto perpetuo nella politica. Non si consumava mai. Anzi, continuava sempre ad agire in tutti i dipartimenti governativi.

E lì, insieme al suo nobile amico e parente Lord Decimus, c’era William Barnacle, colui che aveva formato quella famosa coalizione con Tudor Stiltstalking, e che sempre teneva a disposizione la sua particolare “ricetta” su come non farle le cose. A volte si rivolgeva al Presidente della Camera per ottenere informazioni utili; altre volte chiedeva direttamente all’interessato di fornirgli la sua versione dei fatti; ancora altre volte affermava di voler cercare personalmente un precedente. Ma spesso, con poche parole, liquidava ogni obiezione, sostenendo che semplicemente non esistesse alcun precedente. Tuttavia, “precedente” e “precipitazione” erano, in ogni circostanza, gli strumenti principali di questo abile manipolatore. Non importava quanto l’infelice gentiluomo si sforzasse invano, da ventiquattro anni, di costringere William Barnacle ad agire in un certo modo: lui continuava comunque a presentare la cosa alla Camera, e, indirettamente, al pubblico. Non importava quanto fosse assurdo o impossibile che esistesse davvero un precedente per quella situazione: William Barnacle ringraziava l’interessato per quell’ironico “contributo” e concludeva sempre sostenendo che, semplicemente, non c’era alcun precedente. Forse si potrebbe obiettare che la saggezza di William Barnacle non fosse davvero saggezza, o che il mondo intero sarebbe mai stato creato, se non per essere ingannato da lui. Ma “precedente” e “precipitazione”, insieme, spaventavano tutte le obiezioni della maggior parte delle persone.

E lì c’era anche un altro Barnacle, uno vivace, che aveva saltato in venti posti uno dopo l’altro, e che era sempre presente in due o tre luoghi contemporaneamente; era il molto rispettato inventore di un’arte che praticava con grande successo e ammirazione in tutti i governi dei Barnacle. Si trattava dell’abitudine, quando gli veniva posta una domanda parlamentare su un certo argomento, di rispondere invece su un altro. Questa pratica aveva reso un enorme servizio e gli aveva valso grande stima presso l’Ufficio della Circumlocuzione.

E lì c’erano anche alcuni membri del Parlamento meno influenti, che ancora non avevano ottenuto alcun incarico importante e stavano attraversando un periodo di prova per dimostrare la loro idoneità. Questi membri si posizionavano sulle scale o si nascondevano nei corridoi, in attesa di ordini per decidere se costruire nuovi uffici o meno; eseguivano ogni tipo di compito, ascoltando, commentando e facendo il loro dovere sotto la direzione dei capifamiglia. Inoltre, imitavano con gesti artificiali le azioni degli altri membri del Parlamento, rinviavano argomenti scomodi fino a tarda notte o alla fine della sessione parlamentare, per poi dichiarare con falso patriottismo che era ormai troppo tardi. Quando venivano inviati in campagna, giuravano che Lord Decimus avesse risollevato l’economia dal declino, raddoppiato i raccolti di grano e quadruplicato quelli di fieno, impedendo anche che il denaro uscisse dalla Banca. I capifamiglia utilizzavano questi membri del Parlamento come “carte” da presentare alle riunioni pubbliche e ai banchetti: testimoniavano sulle varie azioni compiute dai loro nobili parenti e partecipavano attivamente a tutti i brindisi. Durante le elezioni, si alzavano dai loro posti all’istante, per permettere ad altri di entrare; facevano di tutto pur di ottenere favori e corrompevano chiunque fosse necessario. Non esisteva alcuna lista, presso l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, che elencasse i posti che potessero diventare disponibili entro mezzo secolo – da un lord del Tesoro a un console cinese, fino a un governatore generale dell’India – eppure i nomi di questi membri del Parlamento erano sempre presenti tra gli aspiranti.

It was necessarily but a sprinkling of any class of Barnacles that attended the marriage, for there were not two score in all, and what is that subtracted from Legion! But the sprinkling was a swarm in the Twickenham cottage, and filled it. A Barnacle (assisted by a Barnacle) married the happy pair, and it behoved Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle himself to conduct Mrs Meagles to breakfast.

The entertainment was not as agreeable and natural as it might have been. Mr Meagles, hove down by his good company while he highly appreciated it, was not himself. Mrs Gowan was herself, and that did not improve him. The fiction that it was not Mr Meagles who had stood in the way, but that it was the Family greatness, and that the Family greatness had made a concession, and there was now a soothing unanimity, pervaded the affair, though it was never openly expressed. Then the Barnacles felt that they for their parts would have done with the Meagleses when the present patronising occasion was over; and the Meagleses felt the same for their parts. Then Gowan asserting his rights as a disappointed man who had his grudge against the family, and who, perhaps, had allowed his mother to have them there, as much in the hope it might give them some annoyance as with any other benevolent object, aired his pencil and his poverty ostentatiously before them, and told them he hoped in time to settle a crust of bread and cheese on his wife, and that he begged such of them as (more fortunate than himself) came in for any good thing, and could buy a picture, to please to remember the poor painter. Then Lord Decimus, who was a wonder on his own Parliamentary pedestal, turned out to be the windiest creature here: proposing happiness to the bride and bridegroom in a series of platitudes that would have made the hair of any sincere disciple and believer stand on end; and trotting, with the complacency of an idiotic elephant, among howling labyrinths of sentences which he seemed to take for high roads, and never so much as wanted to get out of. Then Mr Tite Barnacle could not but feel that there was a person in company, who would have disturbed his life-long sitting to Sir Thomas Lawrence in full official character, if such disturbance had been possible: while Barnacle junior did, with indignation, communicate to two vapid gentlemen, his relatives, that there was a feller here, look here, who had come to our Department without an appointment and said he wanted to know, you know; and that, look here, if he was to break out now, as he might you know (for you never could tell what an ungentlemanly Radical of that sort would be up to next), and was to say, look here, that he wanted to know this moment, you know, that would be jolly; wouldn’t it?

The pleasantest part of the occasion by far, to Clennam, was the painfullest. When Mr and Mrs Meagles at last hung about Pet in the room with the two pictures (where the company were not), before going with her to the threshold which she could never recross to be the old Pet and the old delight, nothing could be more natural and simple than the three were. Gowan himself was touched, and answered Mr Meagles’s ‘O Gowan, take care of her, take care of her!’ with an earnest ‘Don’t be so broken-hearted, sir. By Heaven I will!’

And so, with the last sobs and last loving words, and a last look to Clennam of confidence in his promise, Pet fell back in the carriage, and her husband waved his hand, and they were away for Dover; though not until the faithful Mrs Tickit, in her silk gown and jet black curls, had rushed out from some hiding-place, and thrown both her shoes after the carriage: an apparition which occasioned great surprise to the distinguished company at the windows.

The said company being now relieved from further attendance, and the chief Barnacles being rather hurried (for they had it in hand just then to send a mail or two which was in danger of going straight to its destination, beating about the seas like the Flying Dutchman, and to arrange with complexity for the stoppage of a good deal of important business otherwise in peril of being done), went their several ways; with all affability conveying to Mr and Mrs Meagles that general assurance that what they had been doing there, they had been doing at a sacrifice for Mr and Mrs Meagles’s good, which they always conveyed to Mr John Bull in their official condescension to that most unfortunate creature.

A miserable blank remained in the house and in the hearts of the father and mother and Clennam. Mr Meagles called only one remembrance to his aid, that really did him good.

‘It’s very gratifying, Arthur,’ he said, ‘after all, to look back upon.’

‘The past?’ said Clennam.

‘Yes—but I mean the company.’

It had made him much more low and unhappy at the time, but now it really did him good. ‘It’s very gratifying,’ he said, often repeating the remark in the course of the evening. ‘Such high company!’

Erano necessariamente solo pochi rappresentanti di quella classe di individui presenti al matrimonio, perché in totale non ce n’erano nemmeno venti. E che cosa significa questo rispetto alla “Legione” intera? Ma quei pochi presenti riempirono completamente la casetta a Twickenham. Un rappresentante di quella classe (assistito da un altro) celebrò il matrimonio della coppia felice, e fu proprio Lord Decimus Tite Barnacle ad accompagnare la signora Meagles a colazione.

L’intrattenimento non era così piacevole e naturale come avrebbe potuto essere. Il signor Meagles, pur apprezzandolo molto, non era se stesso in quella situazione; la signora Gowan, invece, era se stessa, ma questo non migliorava affatto le cose. Si diffondeva l’idea che non fosse stato il signor Meagles ad ostacolare tutto, bensì la “grandezza” della famiglia, e che questa famiglia avesse fatto una concessione, anche se mai espresso apertamente. I Barnacle pensavano che, una volta terminata quell’occasione di “patronaggio”, non volessero più avere a che fare con i Meagles; gli stessi Meagles provavano la stessa cosa. Poi il signor Gowan, rivendicando i propri diritti come un uomo deluso e pieno di rancore verso quella famiglia – forse anche perché aveva permesso a sua madre di partecipare a quell’evento, nella speranza che potesse causare loro qualche fastidio – espose pubblicamente la propria povertà davanti a tutti, dicendo di sperare un giorno di poter fornire del cibo e del formaggio alla moglie. E chiese a coloro che erano più fortunati di lui e potevano permettersi qualcosa di buono, come comprare un dipinto, di ricordarsi di quel povero pittore. Infine, il lord Decimus – che sembrava davvero una figura straordinaria sul suo piedistallo parlamentare – si rivelò essere la persona più insopportabile lì presente: proponeva felicità alla coppia con frasi banali e insincere, e si muoveva tra complessi labirinti di frasi, come se fossero strade principali, senza mai cercare davvero di uscirne. Il signor Tite Barnacle non poté fare a meno di pensare che quella persona presente lì avrebbe disturbato anche la sua vita quotidiana, se solo fosse stato possibile. Mentre il giovane Barnacle comunicò con indignazione ai suoi due parenti vuoti e insipidi che c’era un tizio lì che era entrato senza essere invitato e aveva detto di voler sapere qualcosa. E che, se avesse iniziato a comportarsi in modo scortese, sarebbe stato davvero imbarazzante. Non è vero?

Per Clennam, la parte più piacevole di quell’occasione era anche quella più dolorosa. Quando finalmente il signor e la signora Meagles rimasero nella stanza con Pet, insieme alle due foto (dove non c’era nessun altro), prima di accompagnarla alla soglia che lei non avrebbe mai più potuto attraversare per tornare ad essere la vecchia Pet, quella gioia di un tempo, nulla poteva essere più naturale e semplice di ciò che accadde in quel momento. Anche Gowan ne fu commosso; rispose alle parole del signor Meagles “Oh Gowan, prenditi cura di lei, ” con sincera determinazione: “Non siate così addolorati, signore. Per Dio, lo farò!”

E così, con gli ultimi singhiozzi e le ultime parole d’amore, e un ultimo sguardo pieno di fiducia verso Clennam e la sua promessa, Pet si sdraiò nuovamente nella carrozza; suo marito le fece un cenno con la mano e partirono per Dover. Tuttavia, solo quando la fedele signora Tickit, con il suo abito di seta e i suoi riccioli neri come l’inchiostro, uscì improvvisamente da qualche nascondiglio e lanciò entrambe le sue scarpe dietro la carrozza. Quell’apparizione causò grande sorpresa tra i presenti alle finestre.

La suddetta compagnia, essendo ora libera da ulteriori impegni, e il capo del personale essendo piuttosto di fretta (poiché aveva proprio allora l’opportunità di inviare uno o due messaggi che rischiavano di non arrivare a destinazione, vagando per i mari come il “Vento Fantasma”), si separò e andò ciascuno per la propria strada; con grande gentilezza rassicurarono il signor e la signora Meagles sul fatto che tutto ciò che avevano fatto lì lo avevano fatto a beneficio loro, un’affermazione che ripetevano sempre al signor John Bull, nella loro ufficiale condiscendenza verso quella creatura così sfortunata.

Nella >casa e nei cuori del padre, della madre e di Clennam rimase un vuoto desolato. Il signor Meagles chiamò in suo aiuto un solo ricordo, quello che davvero gli fu d’aiuto.

“È molto gratificante, Arthur,” disse, “dopo tutto, ripensandoci.”

“Il passato?” disse Clennam.

“Sì, ma intendo la compagnia.”

A quel tempo gli aveva causato molta tristezza e infelicità, ma ora davvero gli faceva bene. “È molto gratificante”, diceva, ripetendo spesso questa frase durante la serata. “Che compagnia così nobile!”

CHAPTER 35. What was behind Mr Pancks on Little Dorrit’s Hand

It was at this time that Mr Pancks, in discharge of his compact with Clennam, revealed to him the whole of his gipsy story, and told him Little Dorrit’s fortune. Her father was heir-at-law to a great estate that had long lain unknown of, unclaimed, and accumulating. His right was now clear, nothing interposed in his way, the Marshalsea gates stood open, the Marshalsea walls were down, a few flourishes of his pen, and he was extremely rich.

In his tracking out of the claim to its complete establishment, Mr Pancks had shown a sagacity that nothing could baffle, and a patience and secrecy that nothing could tire. ‘I little thought, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘when you and I crossed Smithfield that night, and I told you what sort of a Collector I was, that this would come of it. I little thought, sir, when I told you you were not of the Clennams of Cornwall, that I was ever going to tell you who were of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire.’ He then went on to detail. How, having that name recorded in his note-book, he was first attracted by the name alone. How, having often found two exactly similar names, even belonging to the same place, to involve no traceable consanguinity, near or distant, he did not at first give much heed to this, except in the way of speculation as to what a surprising change would be made in the condition of a little seamstress, if she could be shown to have any interest in so large a property. How he rather supposed himself to have pursued the idea into its next degree, because there was something uncommon in the quiet little seamstress, which pleased him and provoked his curiosity. How he had felt his way inch by inch, and ‘Moled it out, sir’ (that was Mr Pancks’s expression), grain by grain. How, in the beginning of the labour described by this new verb, and to render which the more expressive Mr Pancks shut his eyes in pronouncing it and shook his hair over them, he had alternated from sudden lights and hopes to sudden darkness and no hopes, and back again, and back again. How he had made acquaintances in the Prison, expressly that he might come and go there as all other comers and goers did; and how his first ray of light was unconsciously given him by Mr Dorrit himself and by his son; to both of whom he easily became known; with both of whom he talked much, casually [‘but always Moleing you’ll observe,’ said Mr Pancks): and from whom he derived, without being at all suspected, two or three little points of family history which, as he began to hold clues of his own, suggested others. How it had at length become plain to Mr Pancks that he had made a real discovery of the heir-at-law to a great fortune, and that his discovery had but to be ripened to legal fulness and perfection. How he had, thereupon, sworn his landlord, Mr Rugg, to secrecy in a solemn manner, and taken him into Moleing partnership. How they had employed John Chivery as their sole clerk and agent, seeing to whom he was devoted. And how, until the present hour, when authorities mighty in the Bank and learned in the law declared their successful labours ended, they had confided in no other human being.

‘So if the whole thing had broken down, sir,’ concluded Pancks, ‘at the very last, say the day before the other day when I showed you our papers in the Prison yard, or say that very day, nobody but ourselves would have been cruelly disappointed, or a penny the worse.’

Clennam, who had been almost incessantly shaking hands with him throughout the narrative, was reminded by this to say, in an amazement which even the preparation he had had for the main disclosure smoothed down, ‘My dear Mr Pancks, this must have cost you a great sum of money.’

‘Pretty well, sir,’ said the triumphant Pancks. ‘No trifle, though we did it as cheap as it could be done. And the outlay was a difficulty, let me tell you.’

‘A difficulty!’ repeated Clennam. ‘But the difficulties you have so wonderfully conquered in the whole business!’ shaking his hand again.

‘I’ll tell you how I did it,’ said the delighted Pancks, putting his hair into a condition as elevated as himself. ‘First, I spent all I had of my own. That wasn’t much.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ said Clennam: ‘not that it matters now, though. Then, what did you do?’

‘Then,’ answered Pancks, ‘I borrowed a sum of my proprietor.’

‘Of Mr Casby?’ said Clennam. ‘He’s a fine old fellow.’

‘Noble old boy; an’t he?’ said Mr Pancks, entering on a series of the dryest snorts. ‘Generous old buck. Confiding old boy. Philanthropic old buck. Benevolent old boy! Twenty per cent. I engaged to pay him, sir. But we never do business for less at our shop.’

Arthur felt an awkward consciousness of having, in his exultant condition, been a little premature.

‘I said to that boiling-over old Christian,’ Mr Pancks pursued, appearing greatly to relish this descriptive epithet, ‘that I had got a little project on hand; a hopeful one; I told him a hopeful one; which wanted a certain small capital. I proposed to him to lend me the money on my note. Which he did, at twenty; sticking the twenty on in a business-like way, and putting it into the note, to look like a part of the principal. If I had broken down after that, I should have been his grubber for the next seven years at half wages and double grind. But he’s a perfect Patriarch; and it would do a man good to serve him on such terms—on any terms.’

Arthur for his life could not have said with confidence whether Pancks really thought so or not.

‘When that was gone, sir,’ resumed Pancks, ‘and it did go, though I dribbled it out like so much blood, I had taken Mr Rugg into the secret. I proposed to borrow of Mr Rugg (or of Miss Rugg; it’s the same thing; she made a little money by a speculation in the Common Pleas once). He lent it at ten, and thought that pretty high. But Mr Rugg’s a red-haired man, sir, and gets his hair cut. And as to the crown of his hat, it’s high. And as to the brim of his hat, it’s narrow. And there’s no more benevolence bubbling out of him, than out of a ninepin.’

CAPITOLO 35. Cosa c’era dietro il signor Pancks sulla mano di Little Dorrit

Fu in questo momento che Mr Pancks, adempiendo al suo impegno con Clennam, gli rivelò tutta la storia legata ai suoi antenati zingari e gli spiegò quale fosse la fortuna di Little Dorrit. Suo padre era l’erede legittimo di un enorme patrimonio che da tempo rimaneva sconosciuto, inutilizzato e accumulato nel corso degli anni. Ora il suo diritto era chiaro; nulla gli ostacolava più la strada: le porte di Marshalsea erano aperte, le mura erano state demolite. Bastarono poche mosse della sua penna per renderlo estremamente ricco.

Nel suo percorso per verificare fino in fondo la validità di quella informazione, il signor Pancks aveva dimostrato una saggezza che nulla poteva confondere, nonché una pazienza e un riserbo tali da non stancarsi mai. “Non avrei mai pensato, signore,” disse Pancks, “quando quella notte io e lei attraversammo Smithfield e io le dissi quale tipo di incarico svolgevo, che sarebbe finito tutto così. Non avrei mai immaginato, signore, quando le dissi che non apparteneva alla famiglia Clennam del Cornovaglia, che un giorno le avrei rivelato chi invece appartiene alla famiglia Dorrit del Dorsetshire.” Poi continuò a spiegare in dettaglio: come, dopo aver annotato quel nome nel suo taccuino, fosse stato attratto per primo proprio da quel nome in sé; come, avendo spesso trovato due nomi identici, anche provenienti dalla stessa zona, senza alcun legame di parentela, all’inizio non vi avesse dato troppo peso, se non come oggetto di speculazioni su quale sorprendente cambiamento potesse subire la vita di una semplice sarta se si fosse scoperto che possedeva un tale patrimonio; come invece avesse iniziato a indagare seriamente, perché c’era qualcosa di insolito in quella tranquilla ragazza che lo affascinava e stimolava la sua curiosità; come avesse proceduto passo dopo passo, con estrema attenzione; come, all’inizio di quel percorso, avesse alternato momenti di speranza a momenti di disperazione. Come avesse fatto conoscenza in prigione, proprio per poter andare e venire lì come tutti gli altri; e come la prima pista concreta gli fosse stata fornita dallo stesso signor Dorrit e suo figlio, persone alle quali si era facilmente fatto conoscere e con le quali aveva parlato molto. Da loro aveva ottenuto alcune informazioni sulla storia della famiglia, che, unite alle sue indagini personali, gli avevano fornito nuovi indizi. Alla fine, per il signor Pancks era diventato evidente che aveva effettivamente scoperto l’erede legittimo di un enorme patrimonio. E che tutto ciò che restava da fare era rendere quella scoperta legalmente valida e completa. Così aveva giurato al suo padrone di casa, il signor Rugg, di mantenere il segreto in modo solenne, e lo aveva coinvolto nella sua indagine. Avevano poi assunto John Chivery come loro unico impiegato e agente, dato che lui era molto devoto a quel lavoro. E fino ad ora, nessun altro essere umano era stato informato dei loro progressi.

“So che, se tutto fosse andato storto, signore,” concluse Pancks, “all’ultimo momento, diciamo il giorno prima di quando vi ho mostrato i nostri documenti nel cortile della Prigione, o addirittura quel giorno stesso, nessuno oltre a noi sarebbe stato crudelmente deluso, né ci sarebbe stata alcuna conseguenza negativa.”

Clennam, che aveva quasi continuamente stretto la mano a Pancks per tutta la durata della narrazione, si trovò a dire, con un’espressione di stupore tale da far dimenticare persino le parole che si era preparato a pronunciare per l’annuncio principale: “Mio caro Signor Pancks, questo deve esservi costato una somma considerevole di denaro.”

“Abbastanza bene, signore,” disse il trionfante Pancks. “Niente di trascurabile, anche se l’abbiamo fatto al minor costo possibile. E le spese sono state davvero un problema, credetemi.”

“Una difficoltà!”, ripeté Clennam. “Ma le difficoltà che avete superato con tale meraviglia in tutto questo processo, ” e scosse di nuovo la sua mano.

“Vi dirò come l’ho fatto,” disse il felice Pancks, sistemandosi i capelli in modo altrettanto elegante di sé stesso. “Prima di tutto, ho speso tutto ciò che avevo. E non era molto.”

“Mi dispiace molto,” disse Clennam, “anche se ormai non ha più importanza. Allora, cosa hai fatto?”

“Allora,” rispose Pancks, “ho preso in prestito una somma di denaro dal mio datore di lavoro.”

“Di Mr Casby?”, disse Clennam. “È un brav’uomo anziano.”

“Un nobile vecchio amico, vero?” disse Mr Pancks, iniziando una serie di colpi di naso secchi e sonori. “Un generoso vecchio signore, un uomo affidabile, filantropo e benevolo. Gli ho promesso il venti per cento. Ma nel nostro negozio non facciamo mai affari a meno del dovuto.”

Arthur provò un senso di imbarazzo nel rendersi conto che, nella sua condizione di euforia, aveva forse agito un po’ troppo in fretta.

“Ho detto a quel vecchio cristiano irascibile,” continuò Mr Pancks, godendo chiaramente di quell’epiteto descrittivo, “che avevo un piccolo progetto in mente; uno promettente. Gli ho spiegato che richiedeva una certa somma di denaro. Gli ho proposto di prestarmelo sotto forma di nota promissoria. Lui l’ha fatto, a interesse del venti percento; ha aggiunto quella cifra alla nota in modo molto pratico, facendola sembrare parte del capitale principale. Se dopo avessi fallito, sarei stato costretto a lavorare per lui per altri sette anni, ricevendo la metà dello stipendio e lavorando il doppio. Ma lui è davvero un vero patriarca; servirlo in queste condizioni, o in qualsiasi altra condizione, del resto, sarebbe davvero vantaggioso per una persona.”

Arthur, per quanto ne sapeva, non avrebbe potuto affermare con certezza se Pancks lo pensasse davvero o meno.

“Quando tutto quello fu sparito, signore,” continuò Pancks, “e infatti scomparve, anche se ne versai via un po’ come se fosse stato sangue, rivelai il segreto a Mr Rugg. Gli proposi di prendergli in prestito i soldi (o a Miss Rugg; è la stessa cosa; una volta aveva guadagnato un po’ di denaro con un investimento nel tribunale della Corona). Lui me li prestò al dieci percento, ritenendo che fosse un tasso abbastanza alto. Ma Mr Rugg è un uomo dai capelli rossi, signore, e si fa tagliare i capelli. E per quanto riguarda la ‘corona’ del suo cappello, beh, è alta; e il bordo del cappello è stretto. In lui non c’è più alcuna traccia di benevolenza, proprio come in un gioco da nove palle, ”

‘Your own recompense for all this, Mr Pancks,’ said Clennam, ‘ought to be a large one.’

‘I don’t mistrust getting it, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I have made no bargain. I owed you one on that score; now I have paid it. Money out of pocket made good, time fairly allowed for, and Mr Rugg’s bill settled, a thousand pounds would be a fortune to me. That matter I place in your hands. I authorize you now to break all this to the family in any way you think best. Miss Amy Dorrit will be with Mrs Finching this morning. The sooner done the better. Can’t be done too soon.’

This conversation took place in Clennam’s bed-room, while he was yet in bed. For Mr Pancks had knocked up the house and made his way in, very early in the morning; and, without once sitting down or standing still, had delivered himself of the whole of his details (illustrated with a variety of documents) at the bedside. He now said he would ‘go and look up Mr Rugg’, from whom his excited state of mind appeared to require another back; and bundling up his papers, and exchanging one more hearty shake of the hand with Clennam, he went at full speed down-stairs, and steamed off.

Clennam, of course, resolved to go direct to Mr Casby’s. He dressed and got out so quickly that he found himself at the corner of the patriarchal street nearly an hour before her time; but he was not sorry to have the opportunity of calming himself with a leisurely walk.

When he returned to the street, and had knocked at the bright brass knocker, he was informed that she had come, and was shown up-stairs to Flora’s breakfast-room. Little Dorrit was not there herself, but Flora was, and testified the greatest amazement at seeing him.

‘Good gracious, Arthur—Doyce and Clennam!’ cried that lady, ‘who would have ever thought of seeing such a sight as this and pray excuse a wrapper for upon my word I really never and a faded check too which is worse but our little friend is making me, not that I need mind mentioning it to you for you must know that there are such things a skirt, and having arranged that a trying on should take place after breakfast is the reason though I wish not so badly starched.’

‘I ought to make an apology,’ said Arthur, ‘for so early and abrupt a visit; but you will excuse it when I tell you the cause.’

‘In times for ever fled Arthur,’ returned Mrs Finching, ‘pray excuse me Doyce and Clennam infinitely more correct and though unquestionably distant still ‘tis distance lends enchantment to the view, at least I don’t mean that and if I did I suppose it would depend considerably on the nature of the view, but I’m running on again and you put it all out of my head.’

She glanced at him tenderly, and resumed:

‘In times for ever fled I was going to say it would have sounded strange indeed for Arthur Clennam—Doyce and Clennam naturally quite different—to make apologies for coming here at any time, but that is past and what is past can never be recalled except in his own case as poor Mr F. said when he was in spirits Cucumber and therefore never ate it.’

She was making the tea when Arthur came in, and now hastily finished that operation.

‘Papa,’ she said, all mystery and whisper, as she shut down the tea-pot lid, ‘is sitting prosingly breaking his new laid egg in the back parlour over the City article exactly like the Woodpecker Tapping and need never know that you are here, and our little friend you are well aware may be fully trusted when she comes down from cutting out on the large table overhead.’

Arthur then told her, in the fewest words, that it was their little friend he came to see; and what he had to announce to their little friend. At which astounding intelligence, Flora clasped her hands, fell into a tremble, and shed tears of sympathy and pleasure, like the good-natured creature she really was.

‘For gracious sake let me get out of the way first,’ said Flora, putting her hands to her ears and moving towards the door, ‘or I know I shall go off dead and screaming and make everybody worse, and the dear little thing only this morning looking so nice and neat and good and yet so poor and now a fortune is she really and deserves it too! and might I mention it to Mr F.’s Aunt Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once or if objectionable not on any account.’

Arthur nodded his free permission, since Flora shut out all verbal communication. Flora nodded in return to thank him, and hurried out of the room.

Little Dorrit’s step was already on the stairs, and in another moment she was at the door. Do what he could to compose his face, he could not convey so much of an ordinary expression into it, but that the moment she saw it she dropped her work, and cried, ‘Mr Clennam! What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing, nothing. That is, no misfortune has happened. I have come to tell you something, but it is a piece of great good-fortune.’

‘Good-fortune?’

‘Wonderful fortune!’

They stood in a window, and her eyes, full of light, were fixed upon his face. He put an arm about her, seeing her likely to sink down. She put a hand upon that arm, partly to rest upon it, and partly so to preserve their relative positions as that her intent look at him should be shaken by no change of attitude in either of them. Her lips seemed to repeat ‘Wonderful fortune?’ He repeated it again, aloud.

‘Dear Little Dorrit! Your father.’

The ice of the pale face broke at the word, and little lights and shoots of expression passed all over it. They were all expressions of pain. Her breath was faint and hurried. Her heart beat fast. He would have clasped the little figure closer, but he saw that the eyes appealed to him not to be moved.

‘Your father can be free within this week. He does not know it; we must go to him from here, to tell him of it. Your father will be free within a few days. Your father will be free within a few hours. Remember we must go to him from here, to tell him of it!’

“La vostra stessa ricompensa per tutto questo, Signor Pancks”, disse Clennam, “dovrebbe essere considerevole.”

“Non ho alcun dubbio riguardo a riceverlo, signore,” disse Pancks. “Non ho fatto nessun accordo. In quel senso vi dovevo qualcosa; ora l’ho ripagato. Soldi spesi di tasca mia, tempo sufficientemente concesso, e il conto del signor Rugg saldato. Mille sterline sarebbero una fortuna per me. Lascio questa questione nelle vostre mani. Vi autorizzo ora a rivelare tutto alla famiglia nel modo che ritenete migliore. La signorina Amy Dorrit sarà da Mrs Finching stamattina. Più presto si fa, meglio è. Non può mai essere troppo presto.”

Questa conversazione ebbe luogo nella camera da letto di Clennam, mentre lui era ancora a letto. Infatti, Mr Pancks aveva già fatto irruzione in casa molto presto quella mattina; senza nemmeno sedersi o fermarsi un attimo, gli aveva esposto tutti i dettagli del caso (illustrati con una serie di documenti) accanto al letto. Ora disse che avrebbe “andato a cercare Mr Rugg”, dal quale il suo stato mentale agitato sembrava richiedere ulteriori spiegazioni; quindi, raccolti i suoi documenti e scambiato un altro vigoroso stretta di mano con Clennam, se ne andò a tutta velocità giù per le scale e sparì.

Clennam, naturalmente, decise di andare direttamente da Mr Casby. Si vestì e uscì così in fretta che si trovò all’angolo di quella strada quasi un’ora prima dell’orario previsto per il suo incontro; tuttavia, non gli dispiacque avere l’opportunità di calmarsi con una lunga passeggiata.

Quando tornò in strada e bussò alla lucida campanella di ottone, gli fu detto che lei era arrivata; lo accompagnarono al piano di sopra, nella sala da pranzo di Flora. La piccola Dorrit non c’era, ma Flora sì, e manifestò la massima sorpresa nel vederlo.

“Mio Dio, Arthur. Doyce e Clennam!” esclamò quella signora. “Chi avrebbe mai pensato di vedere una scena del genere? Perdonate il mio aspetto disordinato: vi giuro che davvero non me ne sono mai curata. E poi c’è anche quel fazzoletto sbiadito. Ma la nostra piccola amica mi sta aiutando. Anche se, a dire il vero, non avrei bisogno di parlarvene, visto che sicuramente lo sapete già: esistono cose del genere. Una gonna, per esempio. E ho deciso che l’abbigliamento venga provato dopo colazione. Anche se, in realtà, non vorrei che fosse così stirata, ”

“Dovrei scusarmi,” disse Arthur, “per questa visita così improvvisa e anticipata; ma capirete se vi spiego il motivo.”

“Nei tempi lontani in cui Arthur se n’era andato,” riprese la signora Finching, “perdonatemi, Doyce e Clennam. Certo, le parole di Arthur erano infinitamente più corrette, e anche se indubbiamente distanti, è proprio la distanza a conferire fascino a quelle parole. Almeno, non intendo dire questo. E comunque, se lo dicessi, credo che dipenderebbe molto dalla >natura di quelle parole stesse. Ma sto di nuovo divagando; vi state sicuramente confondendo le idee.”

Lo guardò con tenerezza e poi continuò:

“In tempi ormai lontani, avrei detto che sarebbe suonato davvero strano per Arthur Clennam – Doyce e Clennam, naturalmente, erano persone molto diverse – scusarsi per essere venuto qui in qualsiasi momento. Ma ormai è passato, e ciò che è passato non può mai essere ricordato, tranne nel suo caso. Come disse quel povero signor F., quando era di buon umore: ‘Cetriolo’, e quindi non lo mangiava mai.”

Stava preparando il tè quando Arthur entrò, quindi finì rapidamente quel compito.

“Papà,” disse lei, con tono misterioso e sussurrando, mentre chiudeva il coperchio della teiera, “sta tranquillamente mangiando la sua nuova uova nel salotto posteriore, leggendo l’articolo sulla Città, proprio come il Picchio che batte sul tronco. Non deve mai sapere che sei qui. E la nostra piccola amica, di cui sai benissimo, può essere completamente fidata quando scenderà dal tavolo grande lassù.”

Arthur le spiegò allora, in poche parole, che era venuto a vedere il loro piccolo amico e cosa aveva da comunicargli. Alla notizia sorprendente, Flora si strinse le mani, iniziò a tremare e versò lacrime di commozione e gioia, proprio come la brava persona che era davvero.

“Per l’amor del cielo, lasciate che mi sposti prima,” disse Flora, mettendosi le mani sulle orecchie e dirigendosi verso la porta. “Altrimenti so che morirò urlando, peggiorando ancora di più le cose per tutti. Quel caro piccolo angelo, stamattina sembrava così bello, ordinato e gentile. Eppure è così povero. Ora invece possiede una fortuna vera e propria, e se la merita davvero! Posso forse parlarne un’altra volta alla zia di Mr F., quella signora Arthur. Non Doyce né Clennam. Anche se potrebbe essere inopportuno, ”

Arthur annuì, dando il suo permesso, poiché Flora aveva rifiutato qualsiasi forma di comunicazione verbale. Anche Flora annuì in segno di ringraziamento e uscì rapidamente dalla stanza.

I passi leggeri di Little Dorrit già risuonavano sulle scale; in un attimo fu alla porta. Per quanto si sforzasse di mantenere un’espressione normale, non riuscì a nascondere la sua emozione. Non appena la vide, lei lasciò cadere il lavoro che stava facendo e gridò: “Signor Clennam! Che cosa è successo?”

‘Niente, niente. Cioè, non è successo nessun disastro. Sono venuto a dirvi qualcosa, ma si tratta di una grande notizia positiva.’

“Buona fortuna?”

“Una fortuna meravigliosa!”

Stavano davanti a una finestra, e i suoi occhi, pieni di luce, erano fissi sul suo viso. Lui le mise un braccio intorno alle spalle, vedendo che sembrava sul punto di cadere. Lei posò una mano su quel braccio: in parte per appoggiarsi, e in parte per mantenere quella posizione, in modo che il suo sguardo intenso verso di lui non venisse alterato da alcun cambiamento nella loro postura. Le sue labbra sembravano ripetere “Che fortuna meravigliosa, ”. Lui lo ripeté ad alta voce.

“Carina piccola Dorrit. Tuo padre.”

Il ghiaccio del suo pallido viso si sciolse al suono di quelle parole; piccoli lampi e sfumature di espressione apparvero sul suo volto. Tutti segni di dolore. Il suo respiro era debole e affannoso, il cuore batteva velocemente. Avrebbe voluto stringere più forte quella piccola figura. Ma nei suoi occhi leggeva un messaggio chiaro: non voleva che si commuovesse.

“Tuo padre potrà essere libero entro questa settimana. Lui non lo sa; dobbiamo andare da lui subito per dirglielo. Tuo padre sarà libero tra pochi giorni. Forse anche tra poche ore. Ricorda: dobbiamo assolutamente andare da lui immediatamente!”

That brought her back. Her eyes were closing, but they opened again.

‘This is not all the good-fortune. This is not all the wonderful good-fortune, my dear Little Dorrit. Shall I tell you more?’

Her lips shaped ‘Yes.’

‘Your father will be no beggar when he is free. He will want for nothing. Shall I tell you more? Remember! He knows nothing of it; we must go to him, from here, to tell him of it!’

She seemed to entreat him for a little time. He held her in his arm, and, after a pause, bent down his ear to listen.

‘Did you ask me to go on?’

‘Yes.’

‘He will be a rich man. He is a rich man. A great sum of money is waiting to be paid over to him as his inheritance; you are all henceforth very wealthy. Bravest and best of children, I thank Heaven that you are rewarded!’

As he kissed her, she turned her head towards his shoulder, and raised her arm towards his neck; cried out ‘Father! Father! Father!’ and swooned away.

Upon which Flora returned to take care of her, and hovered about her on a sofa, intermingling kind offices and incoherent scraps of conversation in a manner so confounding, that whether she pressed the Marshalsea to take a spoonful of unclaimed dividends, for it would do her good; or whether she congratulated Little Dorrit’s father on coming into possession of a hundred thousand smelling-bottles; or whether she explained that she put seventy-five thousand drops of spirits of lavender on fifty thousand pounds of lump sugar, and that she entreated Little Dorrit to take that gentle restorative; or whether she bathed the foreheads of Doyce and Clennam in vinegar, and gave the late Mr F. more air; no one with any sense of responsibility could have undertaken to decide. A tributary stream of confusion, moreover, poured in from an adjoining bedroom, where Mr F.’s Aunt appeared, from the sound of her voice, to be in a horizontal posture, awaiting her breakfast; and from which bower that inexorable lady snapped off short taunts, whenever she could get a hearing, as, ‘Don’t believe it’s his doing!’ and ‘He needn’t take no credit to himself for it!’ and ‘It’ll be long enough, I expect, afore he’ll give up any of his own money!’ all designed to disparage Clennam’s share in the discovery, and to relieve those inveterate feelings with which Mr F.’s Aunt regarded him.

But Little Dorrit’s solicitude to get to her father, and to carry the joyful tidings to him, and not to leave him in his jail a moment with this happiness in store for him and still unknown to him, did more for her speedy restoration than all the skill and attention on earth could have done. ‘Come with me to my dear father. Pray come and tell my dear father!’ were the first words she said. Her father, her father. She spoke of nothing but him, thought of nothing but him. Kneeling down and pouring out her thankfulness with uplifted hands, her thanks were for her father.

Flora’s tenderness was quite overcome by this, and she launched out among the cups and saucers into a wonderful flow of tears and speech.

‘I declare,’ she sobbed, ‘I never was so cut up since your mama and my papa not Doyce and Clennam for this once but give the precious little thing a cup of tea and make her put it to her lips at least pray Arthur do, not even Mr F.’s last illness for that was of another kind and gout is not a child’s affection though very painful for all parties and Mr F. a martyr with his leg upon a rest and the wine trade in itself inflammatory for they will do it more or less among themselves and who can wonder, it seems like a dream I am sure to think of nothing at all this morning and now Mines of money is it really, but you must know my darling love because you never will be strong enough to tell him all about it upon teaspoons, mightn’t it be even best to try the directions of my own medical man for though the flavour is anything but agreeable still I force myself to do it as a prescription and find the benefit, you’d rather not why no my dear I’d rather not but still I do it as a duty, everybody will congratulate you some in earnest and some not and many will congratulate you with all their hearts but none more so I do assure you from the bottom of my own I do myself though sensible of blundering and being stupid, and will be judged by Arthur not Doyce and Clennam for this once so good-bye darling and God bless you and may you be very happy and excuse the liberty, vowing that the dress shall never be finished by anybody else but shall be laid by for a keepsake just as it is and called Little Dorrit though why that strangest of denominations at any time I never did myself and now I never shall!’

Thus Flora, in taking leave of her favourite. Little Dorrit thanked her, and embraced her, over and over again; and finally came out of the house with Clennam, and took coach for the Marshalsea.

It was a strangely unreal ride through the old squalid streets, with a sensation of being raised out of them into an airy world of wealth and grandeur. When Arthur told her that she would soon ride in her own carriage through very different scenes, when all the familiar experiences would have vanished away, she looked frightened. But when he substituted her father for herself, and told her how he would ride in his carriage, and how great and grand he would be, her tears of joy and innocent pride fell fast. Seeing that the happiness her mind could realise was all shining upon him, Arthur kept that single figure before her; and so they rode brightly through the poor streets in the prison neighbourhood to carry him the great news.

When Mr Chivery, who was on duty, admitted them into the Lodge, he saw something in their faces which filled him with astonishment. He stood looking after them, when they hurried into the prison, as though he perceived that they had come back accompanied by a ghost a-piece. Two or three Collegians whom they passed, looked after them too, and presently joining Mr Chivery, formed a little group on the Lodge steps, in the midst of which there spontaneously originated a whisper that the Father was going to get his discharge. Within a few minutes, it was heard in the remotest room in the College.

Quello la riportò in sé. I suoi occhi stavano per chiudersi, ma si aprirono di nuovo.

“Non è tutta questa fortuna. Non è tutta questa meravigliosa fortuna, cara piccola Dorrit. Devo raccontarti di altro?”

Sì, davvero.

“Tuo padre non sarà più un mendicante quando sarà libero. Non gli mancherà nulla. Devo dirti di più? Ricorda: lui non ne sa nulla; dobbiamo andare da lui, subito, per dirgli la verità!”

Sembrava supplicarlo di concederle un po’ di tempo. Lui la tenne tra le braccia e, dopo una pausa, si chinò per ascoltare.

“Mi hai chiesto di continuare?”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Diventerà un uomo ricco. È già un uomo ricco. Una grande somma di denaro lo aspetta per essere pagata come eredità; da ora in poi sarete tutti molto ricchi. Figli miei più coraggiosi e migliori, ringrazio il Cielo che siate stati premiati!”

Mentre la baciava, lei girò la testa verso la sua spalla e alzò il braccio verso il suo collo; gridò “Padre! Padre! Padre!” e svenne.

Allora Flora tornò a prendersi cura di lei, sedendosi accanto a lei sul divano e mescolando attenzioni gentili con frammenti di conversazioni incoerenti, in modo così confuso da rendere impossibile capire se stesse incoraggiando Marshalsea a prendere un cucchiaio di dividendi non reclamati – poiché gli sarebbero stati utili – o se stesse congratulandosi con il padre di Little Dorrit per aver ottenuto centomila bottiglie profumate; oppure se stesse spiegando che aveva aggiunto settantacinquemila gocce di essenza di lavanda a cinquantamila libbre di zucchero grezzo, e invitava Little Dorrit ad assumerne un po’ per ristorarsi. O ancora, se stesse immergendo le fronti di Doyce e Clennam nel aceto, o dando al defunto signor F. più aria. Nessuno con un minimo di senso della responsabilità avrebbe potuto tentare di risolvere quella situazione. Inoltre, un altro flusso di confusione proveniva dalla camera da letto adiacente: dalla voce della zia del signor F. sembrava che fosse sdraiata in attesa della colazione. E da quel luogo, quella donna inflessibile lanciava continui insulti, ogni volta che riusciva a farsi sentire: “Non credete che sia stato lui a farlo!”, “Non ha certo bisogno di prendersi il merito per questo!”, “Ci vorrà ancora molto tempo prima che decida di dare via anche solo un po’ del suo denaro, ”. Tutti questi commenti avevano lo scopo di sminuire la parte avuta da Clennam in quella scoperta, e di alimentare i pregiudizi profondamente radicati che la zia del signor F. nutriva nei suoi confronti.

Ma l’impegno di Little Dorrit nel raggiungere suo padre e portargli questa gioiosa notizia, nel non lasciarlo in prigione nemmeno per un momento mentre quella felicità gli era destinata ma ancora sconosciuta, fu più efficace di qualsiasi intervento umano per il suo rapido rilascio. “Vieni con me dal mio caro padre. Ti prego, vieni a dirgli tutto!” furono le prime parole che pronunciò. Suo padre. Non parlava d’altro, non pensava ad altro. Inginocchiandosi e levando le mani in segno di ringraziamento, i suoi ringraziamenti erano rivolti a suo padre.

La tenerezza di Flora fu completamente sopraffatta da questo evento; iniziò quindi a versare lacrime e a parlare con grande emozione, tra tazze e piattini.

“Lo giuro,” singhiozzò, “non sono mai stata così addolorata da quando tua madre e mio padre, non Doyce e Clennam, questa volta, ma almeno datele una tazza di tè, fatele bere anche solo un sorso. Per favore, Arthur, fatelo. Anche se non fosse per l’ultima malattia del signor F., perché quella era di altro genere. E l’ gotta, dopotutto, non è certo una ‘malattia da bambini’, anche se molto dolorosa per tutti. Il signor F. è stato un martire. Con la gamba immobilizzata. E il commercio del vino, in sé, è così provocatorio. Che le persone continuano a farlo, più o meno. Chi potrebbe mai immaginarlo? Sembra davvero un sogno. Questa mattina, sono sicura di non ricordarmi nulla di tutto questo. Ma ‘Le miniere d’oro’. Davvero esistono? Devi sapere, mio caro, perché tu non sarai mai abbastanza forte da raccontargli tutto. Forse sarebbe meglio provare le indicazioni del mio medico personale. Anche se il sapore non è affatto gradevole. Ma devo farlo, come prescrizione medica. Preferiresti di no? No, mio caro. Ma lo faccio per dovere. Alcuni ti ringrazieranno sinceramente, altri no. Molti ti ringrazieranno con tutto il cuore. Ma nessuno più di me. Te lo assicuro, dal profondo del mio cuore. Anche se so di poter commettere errori e sembrare stupida. E sarò giudicata da Arthur. Non da Doyce e Clennam, questa volta. Addio, caro. Che Dio ti benedica. E che tu sia molto felice. Scusa questa libertà che mi prendo. Giuro che quel vestito non sarà mai finito da nessun altro. Sarà conservato così com’è, come ricordo. Chiamato ‘Little Dorrit’. Anche se, perché un nome così strano? In ogni caso. Non l’ho mai fatto io stessa. E ora, non lo farò mai più, ”

Così Flora, salutando la sua preferita, fu ringraziata e abbracciata più volte da Little Dorrit; infine uscì di casa con Clennam e prese la carrozza per il Marshalsea.

Fu un viaggio stranamente irreale attraverso quelle vecchie e squallide strade, con la sensazione di essere sollevati da esse verso un mondo di ricchezza e maestosità. Quando Arthur le disse che presto avrebbe viaggiato nella sua stessa carrozza attraverso scene molto diverse, quando tutte quelle esperienze familiari sarebbero scomparse, lei sembrò spaventata. Ma quando lui la sostituì con suo padre e le descrisse come quest’ultimo avrebbe viaggiato nella sua carrozza, e quanto fosse grande e maestoso, le sue lacrime di gioia e la sua innocente orgoglio iniziarono a scorrere. Vedendo che tutta la felicità che la sua mente poteva immaginare si rifletteva su di lui, Arthur mantenne quell’immagine davanti ai suoi occhi; e così viaggiarono luminosamente attraverso quelle strade povere, nel quartiere della prigione, per portargli quella grande notizia.

Quando il signor Chivery, che era di servizio, li fece entrare nella Loggia, notò qualcosa nei loro volti che lo lasciò esterrefatto. Rimase lì a guardarli mentre si affrettavano a entrare nella prigione, come se avesse percepito che fossero tornati accompagnati da un fantasma. Due o tre studenti che li incrociarono osservarono anche loro la scena, e poco dopo si unirono al signor Chivery formando un piccolo gruppo sulle scale della Loggia. Tra di loro iniziò spontaneamente a circolare la voce che il “Padre” avrebbe ottenuto la sua liberazione. In pochi minuti, quella notizia raggiunse anche la stanza più remota del College.

Little Dorrit opened the door from without, and they both entered. He was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap, in the sunlight by the window, reading his newspaper. His glasses were in his hand, and he had just looked round; surprised at first, no doubt, by her step upon the stairs, not expecting her until night; surprised again, by seeing Arthur Clennam in her company. As they came in, the same unwonted look in both of them which had already caught attention in the yard below, struck him. He did not rise or speak, but laid down his glasses and his newspaper on the table beside him, and looked at them with his mouth a little open and his lips trembling. When Arthur put out his hand, he touched it, but not with his usual state; and then he turned to his daughter, who had sat down close beside him with her hands upon his shoulder, and looked attentively in her face.

‘Father! I have been made so happy this morning!’

‘You have been made so happy, my dear?’

‘By Mr Clennam, father. He brought me such joyful and wonderful intelligence about you! If he had not with his great kindness and gentleness, prepared me for it, father—prepared me for it, father—I think I could not have borne it.’

Her agitation was exceedingly great, and the tears rolled down her face. He put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at Clennam.

‘Compose yourself, sir,’ said Clennam, ‘and take a little time to think. To think of the brightest and most fortunate accidents of life. We have all heard of great surprises of joy. They are not at an end, sir. They are rare, but not at an end.’

‘Mr Clennam? Not at an end? Not at an end for—’ He touched himself upon the breast, instead of saying ‘me.’

‘No,’ returned Clennam.

‘What surprise,’ he asked, keeping his left hand over his heart, and there stopping in his speech, while with his right hand he put his glasses exactly level on the table: ‘what such surprise can be in store for me?’

‘Let me answer with another question. Tell me, Mr Dorrit, what surprise would be the most unlooked for and the most acceptable to you. Do not be afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be.’

He looked steadfastly at Clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to change into a very old haggard man. The sun was bright upon the wall beyond the window, and on the spikes at top. He slowly stretched out the hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall.

‘It is down,’ said Clennam. ‘Gone!’

He remained in the same attitude, looking steadfastly at him.

‘And in its place,’ said Clennam, slowly and distinctly, ‘are the means to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out. Mr Dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will be free, and highly prosperous. I congratulate you with all my soul on this change of fortune, and on the happy future into which you are soon to carry the treasure you have been blest with here—the best of all the riches you can have elsewhere—the treasure at your side.’

With those words, he pressed his hand and released it; and his daughter, laying her face against his, encircled him in the hour of his prosperity with her arms, as she had in the long years of his adversity encircled him with her love and toil and truth; and poured out her full heart in gratitude, hope, joy, blissful ecstasy, and all for him.

‘I shall see him as I never saw him yet. I shall see my dear love, with the dark cloud cleared away. I shall see him, as my poor mother saw him long ago. O my dear, my dear! O father, father! O thank God, thank God!’

He yielded himself to her kisses and caresses, but did not return them, except that he put an arm about her. Neither did he say one word. His steadfast look was now divided between her and Clennam, and he began to shake as if he were very cold. Explaining to Little Dorrit that he would run to the coffee-house for a bottle of wine, Arthur fetched it with all the haste he could use. While it was being brought from the cellar to the bar, a number of excited people asked him what had happened; when he hurriedly informed them that Mr Dorrit had succeeded to a fortune.

On coming back with the wine in his hand, he found that she had placed her father in his easy chair, and had loosened his shirt and neckcloth. They filled a tumbler with wine, and held it to his lips. When he had swallowed a little, he took the glass himself and emptied it. Soon after that, he leaned back in his chair and cried, with his handkerchief before his face.

After this had lasted a while Clennam thought it a good season for diverting his attention from the main surprise, by relating its details. Slowly, therefore, and in a quiet tone of voice, he explained them as best he could, and enlarged on the nature of Pancks’s service.

‘He shall be—ha—he shall be handsomely recompensed, sir,’ said the Father, starting up and moving hurriedly about the room. ‘Assure yourself, Mr Clennam, that everybody concerned shall be—ha—shall be nobly rewarded. No one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an unsatisfied claim against me. I shall repay the—hum—the advances I have had from you, sir, with peculiar pleasure. I beg to be informed at your earliest convenience, what advances you have made my son.’

He had no purpose in going about the room, but he was not still a moment.

‘Everybody,’ he said, ‘shall be remembered. I will not go away from here in anybody’s debt. All the people who have been—ha—well behaved towards myself and my family, shall be rewarded. Chivery shall be rewarded. Young John shall be rewarded. I particularly wish, and intend, to act munificently, Mr Clennam.’

‘Will you allow me,’ said Arthur, laying his purse on the table, ‘to supply any present contingencies, Mr Dorrit? I thought it best to bring a sum of money for the purpose.’

Little Dorrit aprì la porta dall’esterno e entrarono entrambi. Lui era seduto nel suo vecchio abito grigio e con il suo vecchio cappello nero, al sole vicino alla finestra, intento a leggere il giornale. Aveva gli occhiali in mano e aveva appena guardato intorno; all’inizio sorpreso, ma senza alcun dubbio, dal suono dei suoi passi sulle scale, non si aspettava di vederla fino a notte; poi fu sorpreso ancora di vedere Arthur Clennam insieme a lei. Mentre entravano, lo stesso sguardo insolito che aveva già attirato l’attenzione nel cortile sottostante colpì lui. Non si alzò né parlò, ma posò gli occhiali e il giornale sul tavolo accanto a sé e li guardò con la bocca leggermente aperta e le labbra tremanti. Quando Arthur gli tese la mano, la toccò, ma non come al solito; poi si rivolse a sua figlia, che si era seduta accanto a lui con le mani sulle sue spalle, e la guardò attentamente in faccia.

“Padre! Questa mattina sono stata così felice, ”

“Sei davvero così felice, mia cara?”

“È stato il signor Clennam, padre. Mi ha portato notizie così gioiose e meravigliose su di te! Se non fosse stato per la sua grande gentilezza e premura nel prepararmi a riceverle, padre, penso che non avrei potuto sopportarlo.”

La sua agitazione era estremamente intensa; le lacrime le scorrevano lungo il viso. Lui si portò improvvisamente la mano al cuore e guardò Clennam.

“Calmatevi, signore,” disse Clennam, “e prendetevi un po’ di tempo per riflettere. Riflettete sugli eventi più felici e fortunati della vita. Abbiamo tutti sentito parlare di grandi sorprese gioiose; non sono certo finite, signore. Sono rare, ma non estinte.”

“Signor Clennam? Non è ancora finita? Non è ancora finita per, ” Si toccò il petto, invece di dire “me”.

“No,” rispose Clennam.

“Che sorpresa, ”, chiese, tenendo la mano sinistra sul petto e interrompendosi lì nel suo discorso; con la destra sistemò gli occhiali perfettamente dritti sul tavolo: “Che tipo di sorpresa potrebbe esserci in serbo per me?”

“Lasciate che risponda con un’altra domanda. Ditemi, signor Dorrit, quale sorpresa sarebbe la più inaspettata e al contempo la più gradita per voi. Non esitate a immaginarla, o a dire qual è.”

Lo guardò fissamente in volto, e mentre lo faceva, sembrò trasformarsi in un uomo molto anziano e segnato dal tempo. Il sole splendeva intensamente sul muro dietro la finestra e sui pali in cima ad esso. Lentamente, tese la mano che fino a quel momento aveva tenuto premuta sul petto e indicò il muro.

“È finito,” disse Clennam. “Scomparso!”

Rimase nella stessa posizione, guardandolo fissamente.

“E al suo posto,” disse Clennam, lentamente e chiaramente, “ci sono i mezzi per possedere e godere di tutto ciò che fino ad ora vi è stato negato. Signor Dorrit, non esiste la minima dubbio che entro pochi giorni sarete libero e molto prospero. Vi congratulo con tutta la mia ‘anima per questo cambiamento di fortuna, e per il felice futuro verso cui state per portare il tesoro che vi è stato donato qui: il meglio di tutte le ricchezze che potreste avere altrove, il tesoro che avete accanto a voi.”

Con quelle parole, strinse la sua mano e poi la lasciò; sua figlia, appoggiando il viso contro il suo, lo avvolse con le braccia in quell’ora di prosperità, proprio come aveva fatto negli anni difficili, quando lo circondava con il suo amore, il suo impegno e la sua verità; e riversò nel suo cuore tutta la sua gratitudine, la sua speranza, la sua gioia, la sua estrema felicità, tutto per lui.

“Lo vedrò come non l’ho mai visto prima. Vedrò il mio caro amore, ora che le nuvole scure sono state spazzate via. Lo vedrò così com’era visto da mia povera madre tanto tempo fa. Oh mio caro, oh mio caro! Oh padre, padre! Oh, grazie a Dio, grazie a Dio!”

Si lasciò baciare e accarezzare da lei, ma non ricambiò nulla, se non che le mise un braccio intorno alle spalle. Non disse nemmeno una parola; il suo sguardo fermo era ora diviso tra lei e Clennam, e iniziò a tremare come se avesse molto freddo. Spiegando a Little Dorrit che sarebbe andato alla caffetteria a prendere una bottiglia di vino, Arthur la portò via il più velocemente possibile. Mentre veniva portata dal seminterrato al bancone, diverse persone eccitate gli chiesero cosa fosse successo; lui rispose in fretta che il signor Dorrit aveva ereditato una grande fortuna.

Tornando con il vino in mano, scoprì che lei aveva fatto sedere suo padre nella poltrona comoda e gli aveva allentato la camicia e il fazzoletto da collo. Riempirono un bicchiere di vino e lo portarono alle sue labbra; dopo averne bevuto un po’, prese lui stesso il bicchiere e lo svuotò. Poco dopo, si appoggiò allo schienale della poltrona e pianse, tenendosi il fazzoletto davanti al viso.

Dopo che questa situazione era durata per un po’, Clennam pensò che fosse il momento giusto per distogliere l’attenzione da quella sorpresa principale, raccontandone i dettagli. Così, lentamente e con voce tranquilla, li spiegò nel miglior modo possibile, approfondendo anche la natura del ruolo svolto da Pancks.

“Verrà, verrà ampiamente ricompensato, signore,” disse il Padre, alzandosi e muovendosi in fretta per la stanza. “Si assicuri, signor Clennam, che tutti coloro coinvolti riceveranno, verranno onorevolmente ricompensati. Nessuno, mio caro signore, potrà dire di avere un diritto non soddisfatto nei miei confronti. Rimborserò con particolare piacere i prestiti che ho ricevuto da lei, signore. La prego di comunicarmi al più presto quali siano stati questi prestiti fatti a mio figlio.”

Non aveva alcun motivo preciso per muoversi nella stanza, ma non stava fermo nemmeno un attimo.

“Tutti,” disse, “saranno ricordati. Non me ne andrò da qui lasciando qualcuno in debito con me. Tutte le persone che si sono comportate bene verso di me e la mia famiglia riceveranno una ricompensa. Chivery riceverà una ricompensa. Anche il giovane John riceverà una ricompensa. In particolare, desidero e intendo agire con generosità, signor Clennam.”

“Le permetterà,” disse Arthur posando la sua borsa sul tavolo, “di far fronte a eventuali imprevisti, signor Dorrit? Ho ritenuto opportuno portare con me una somma di denaro a tale scopo.”

‘Thank you, sir, thank you. I accept with readiness, at the present moment, what I could not an hour ago have conscientiously taken. I am obliged to you for the temporary accommodation. Exceedingly temporary, but well timed—well timed.’ His hand had closed upon the money, and he carried it about with him. ‘Be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to those former advances to which I have already referred; being careful, if you please, not to omit advances made to my son. A mere verbal statement of the gross amount is all I shall—ha—all I shall require.’

His eye fell upon his daughter at this point, and he stopped for a moment to kiss her, and to pat her head.

‘It will be necessary to find a milliner, my love, and to make a speedy and complete change in your very plain dress. Something must be done with Maggy too, who at present is—ha—barely respectable, barely respectable. And your sister, Amy, and your brother. And my brother, your uncle—poor soul, I trust this will rouse him—messengers must be despatched to fetch them. They must be informed of this. We must break it to them cautiously, but they must be informed directly. We owe it as a duty to them and to ourselves, from this moment, not to let them—hum—not to let them do anything.’

This was the first intimation he had ever given, that he was privy to the fact that they did something for a livelihood.

He was still jogging about the room, with the purse clutched in his hand, when a great cheering arose in the yard. ‘The news has spread already,’ said Clennam, looking down from the window. ‘Will you show yourself to them, Mr Dorrit? They are very earnest, and they evidently wish it.’

‘I—hum—ha—I confess I could have desired, Amy my dear,’ he said, jogging about in a more feverish flutter than before, ‘to have made some change in my dress first, and to have bought a—hum—a watch and chain. But if it must be done as it is, it—ha—it must be done. Fasten the collar of my shirt, my dear. Mr Clennam, would you oblige me—hum—with a blue neckcloth you will find in that drawer at your elbow. Button my coat across at the chest, my love. It looks—ha—it looks broader, buttoned.’

With his trembling hand he pushed his grey hair up, and then, taking Clennam and his daughter for supporters, appeared at the window leaning on an arm of each. The Collegians cheered him very heartily, and he kissed his hand to them with great urbanity and protection. When he withdrew into the room again, he said ‘Poor creatures!’ in a tone of much pity for their miserable condition.

Little Dorrit was deeply anxious that he should lie down to compose himself. On Arthur’s speaking to her of his going to inform Pancks that he might now appear as soon as he would, and pursue the joyful business to its close, she entreated him in a whisper to stay with her until her father should be quite calm and at rest. He needed no second entreaty; and she prepared her father’s bed, and begged him to lie down. For another half-hour or more he would be persuaded to do nothing but go about the room, discussing with himself the probabilities for and against the Marshal’s allowing the whole of the prisoners to go to the windows of the official residence which commanded the street, to see himself and family depart for ever in a carriage—which, he said, he thought would be a Sight for them. But gradually he began to droop and tire, and at last stretched himself upon the bed.

She took her faithful place beside him, fanning him and cooling his forehead; and he seemed to be falling asleep (always with the money in his hand), when he unexpectedly sat up and said:

‘Mr Clennam, I beg your pardon. Am I to understand, my dear sir, that I could—ha—could pass through the Lodge at this moment, and—hum—take a walk?’

‘I think not, Mr Dorrit,’ was the unwilling reply. ‘There are certain forms to be completed; and although your detention here is now in itself a form, I fear it is one that for a little longer has to be observed too.’

At this he shed tears again.

‘It is but a few hours, sir,’ Clennam cheerfully urged upon him.

‘A few hours, sir,’ he returned in a sudden passion. ‘You talk very easily of hours, sir! How long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a man who is choking for want of air?’

It was his last demonstration for that time; as, after shedding some more tears and querulously complaining that he couldn’t breathe, he slowly fell into a slumber. Clennam had abundant occupation for his thoughts, as he sat in the quiet room watching the father on his bed, and the daughter fanning his face.

Little Dorrit had been thinking too. After softly putting his grey hair aside, and touching his forehead with her lips, she looked towards Arthur, who came nearer to her, and pursued in a low whisper the subject of her thoughts.

‘Mr Clennam, will he pay all his debts before he leaves here?’

‘No doubt. All.’

‘All the debts for which he had been imprisoned here, all my life and longer?’

‘No doubt.’

There was something of uncertainty and remonstrance in her look; something that was not all satisfaction. He wondered to detect it, and said:

‘You are glad that he should do so?’

‘Are you?’ asked Little Dorrit, wistfully.

‘Am I? Most heartily glad!’

‘Then I know I ought to be.’

‘And are you not?’

‘It seems to me hard,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘that he should have lost so many years and suffered so much, and at last pay all the debts as well. It seems to me hard that he should pay in life and money both.’

‘My dear child—’ Clennam was beginning.

‘Yes, I know I am wrong,’ she pleaded timidly, ‘don’t think any worse of me; it has grown up with me here.’

The prison, which could spoil so many things, had tainted Little Dorrit’s mind no more than this. Engendered as the confusion was, in compassion for the poor prisoner, her father, it was the first speck Clennam had ever seen, it was the last speck Clennam ever saw, of the prison atmosphere upon her.

He thought this, and forbore to say another word. With the thought, her purity and goodness came before him in their brightest light. The little spot made them the more beautiful.

Worn out with her own emotions, and yielding to the silence of the room, her hand slowly slackened and failed in its fanning movement, and her head dropped down on the pillow at her father’s side. Clennam rose softly, opened and closed the door without a sound, and passed from the prison, carrying the quiet with him into the turbulent streets.

“Grazie, signore, grazie mille. Accetto con piacere, in questo momento, ciò che un’ora fa non avrei potuto accettare per motivi di coscienza. Sono in debito con voi per l’alloggio temporaneo offertomi. Estremamente temporaneo, ma davvero tempestivo.” La sua mano aveva già afferrato i soldi e li portava con sé. “Per favore, aggiungete anche questa somma alle precedenti anticipazioni di cui ho già parlato; fate attenzione, però, a non omettere quelle fatte a mio figlio. Mi basterà semplicemente una dichiarazione verbale della somma totale, ”

In quel momento i suoi occhi si posarono sulla figlia; si fermò per un attimo per baciarla e accarezzarle la testa.

“Dovremo trovare una modista, mio amore, e apportare rapidamente dei cambiamenti al tuo abito così semplice. Dobbiamo anche occuparci di Maggy: in questo momento è, beh, a malapena presentabile. E poi tua sorella Amy, tuo fratello. E mio fratello, tuo zio. Povero anima; spero che questa notizia lo risvegli. Dobbiamo inviare messaggeri per chiamarli qui: devono essere informati immediatamente. Dobbiamo dirlo loro con cautela, ma senza indugi. È un dovere nei loro confronti, e anche nei nostri. Da questo momento in poi, non dobbiamo permettere che facciano nulla di sbagliato.”

Questa fu la prima volta che diede indicazioni del fatto che fosse a conoscenza del fatto che loro facessero qualcosa per guadagnarsi da vivere.

Stava ancora correndo avanti e indietro per la stanza, tenendo la borsa in mano, quando nel cortile si levò un grande clamore di gioia. “La notizia è già arrivata”, disse Clennam guardando fuori dalla finestra. “Vorrebbe farsi vedere da loro, signor Dorrit? Sono molto desiderosi di vederla”.

“Ehm, ammetto che avrei potuto desiderarlo, Amy mia cara,” disse lui, agitandosi ancora di più del solito, “di cambiarmi d’abito prima e di comprare un orologio con la catena. Ma se deve essere fatto così, allora va fatto. Aggancia il colletto della mia camicia, per favore. Signor Clennam, potrebbe gentilmente darmi un fazzoletto blu che troverà in quel cassetto lì vicino? E abbottonami il cappotto sul petto, mia adorata. Sembra, ehm, sembra più largo, ora che è abbottonato.”

Con la sua mano tremante si sistemò i capelli grigi all’indietro, poi, affiancato da Clennam e sua figlia, apparve alla finestra appoggiandosi al braccio di ciascuno di loro. Gli studenti lo acclamarono con grande entusiasmo, e lui baciò loro la mano con grande cortesia e affetto. Quando tornò nella stanza, esclamò: “Povere creature!”, con un tono pieno di compassione per la loro misera condizione.

Little Dorrit era profondamente preoccupata che suo padre si sdraiasse per riposare. Quando Arthur le disse che avrebbe informato Pancks del fatto che ora poteva presentarsi in qualsiasi momento e portare a termine quella gioiosa faccenda, lei lo pregò sottovoce di restare con lei finché suo padre non si fosse completamente calmato. Non ebbe bisogno di altre suppliche; lei preparò il letto di suo padre e gli chiese di sdraiarsi. Per un’altra mezz’ora circa, riuscì a convincerlo a non fare altro che camminare avanti e indietro nella stanza, riflettendo sulle probabilità che il Maresciallo permettesse a tutti i prigionieri di andare alle finestre della residenza ufficiale che si affacciava sulla strada, per assistere alla loro partenza definitiva in carrozza. Una scena, secondo lui, molto significativa per loro. Ma gradualmente iniziò ad appassionarsi e a stancarsi; alla fine si sdraiò sul letto.

Si mise al suo fianco, fedele come sempre, accarezzandolo e rinfrescandogli la fronte; sembrava che stesse per addormentarsi (con i soldi ancora in mano), quando all’improvviso si sedette dritto e disse:

“Signor Clennam, mi scusi. Devo intendere, caro signore, che in questo momento potrei, ehm, passare attraverso la Loggia e, fare una passeggiata?”

“Non credo proprio, signor Dorrit,” fu la risposta riluttante. “Ci sono alcune procedure da completare; e anche se il vostro soggiorno qui rappresenta di per sé una di queste procedure, temo che dovrà essere rispettata ancora per un po’.”

In quel momento, iniziò di nuovo a versare lacrime.

“Sono solo poche ore, signore,” insistette allegramente Clennam.

“Alcune ore, signore,” rispose lui con improvvisa passione. “Parlate molto facilmente di ore, signore. Ma quanto tempo credete che rappresenti un’ora per una persona che sta soffocando per mancanza d’aria?”

Quella fu la sua ultima dimostrazione di quel tempo; dopo aver versato ancora qualche lacrima e aver si lamentato con voce querula di non riuscire a respirare, lentamente cadde in un sonno profondo. Clennam aveva molto su cui riflettere mentre sedeva nella stanza silenziosa, osservando il padre a letto e la figlia che gli ventilava il viso.

Anche Little Dorrit aveva riflettuto su tutto ciò. Dopo aver delicatamente messo da parte i suoi capelli grigi e aver baciato la sua fronte con le labbra, guardò verso Arthur, che si avvicinò a lei e continuò a sussurrarle a voce bassa l’argomento dei suoi pensieri.

“Signor Clennam, pagherà tutti i suoi debiti prima di andarsene da qui?”

“Nessun dubbio. Assolutamente.”

“Tutti i debiti per cui è stato imprigionato qui, per tutta la mia vita e anche oltre?”

“Nessun dubbio.”

Nel suo sguardo c’era qualcosa di incertezza e rimprovero; qualcosa che non era esclusivamente soddisfazione. Lui cercò di coglierlo e disse:

“Sei contento che abbia fatto così?”

“Sei davvero tu?”, chiese Little Dorrit con aria malinconica.

“Davvero? Sono estremamente felice!”

“Allora so di doverlo essere.”

“E tu no, davvero?”

“Mi sembra difficile,” disse Little Dorrit, “che abbia perso così tanti anni e sofferto tanto, per poi alla fine rimborsare tutti i debiti in modo così buono. Mi sembra difficile che debba pagare sia con la vita che con i soldi.”

“Mio caro bambino, ” iniziò a dire Clennam.

“Sì, so di aver sbagliato,” disse timidamente, “per favore non pensate male di me; è cresciuta con me qui.”

La prigione, che avrebbe potuto rovinare molte cose, non aveva contaminato la mente di Little Dorrit più di quanto avesse fatto in altri casi. Quella confusione era nata dalla compassione per il povero prigioniero, suo padre; fu l’unica traccia dell’atmosfera tipica della prigione che Clennam riuscì mai a notare in lei.

Pensò così, e si trattenne dal dire una parola in più. Con quel pensiero, la sua purezza e bontà gli apparvero nella loro luce più splendente; quella piccola macchia rendeva tutto ancora più bello.

Esausta dalle proprie emozioni e cedendo al silenzio della stanza, la sua mano si rilassò lentamente, smettendo di muoversi; la sua testa cadde sul cuscino accanto a quella di suo padre. Clennam si alzò silenziosamente, aprì e chiuse la porta senza fare rumore, e uscì da quella prigione, portando con sé quel silenzio nelle tumultuose strade.

CHAPTER 36. The Marshalsea becomes an Orphan

And now the day arrived when Mr Dorrit and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.

The interval had been short, but he had greatly complained of its length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching the delay. He had been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not submit to imposition. On that gentleman’s humbly representing that he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he forgot whom he talked to.

Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years’ standing, and with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr Dorrit’s occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate the Marshal’s offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested character and its perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded.

Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering of interest in their altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them, Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers, tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great fashion and elegance; and the three passed this interval together at the best hotel in the neighbourhood—though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom, a very neat turn out, which was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the Borough High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there; in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the Marshal’s daughters by the display of inaccessible bonnets.

A great deal of business was transacted in this short period. Among other items, Messrs Peddle and Pool, solicitors, of Monument Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest computed at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this communication and remittance, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly proffered in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing to appoint a time at which the applicant might wait upon him in his room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such case, ‘it is a donation, not a loan’) with a great deal of good counsel: to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and the general respect even there.

The Collegians were not envious. Besides that they had a personal and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years’ standing, the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery of chances have happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge the family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from hand to mouth—from the pawnbroker’s hand to the day’s dinner.

They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion or preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he received the profession of their attachment with a full conviction of its sincerity; and again generally exhorted them to follow his example—which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took the same occasion of inviting them to a comprehensive entertainment, to be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind.

CAPITOLO 36. La Marshalsea diventa un orfano

E ora era arrivato il giorno in cui il signor Dorrit e la sua famiglia avrebbero lasciato per sempre quella prigione, e le pietre del suo selciato calpestato non li avrebbero più conosciuti.

L’intervallo era stato breve, ma lui si era lamentato molto della sua durata e aveva trattato Mr Rugg in modo autoritario riguardo al ritardo. Si era mostrato molto irritato con lui e aveva minacciato di assumere qualcun altro. Gli aveva chiesto di non approfittare della posizione che occupava, ma di svolgere il proprio dovere con rapidità. Gli aveva detto chiaramente che sapeva cosa fossero avvocati e agenti legali, e che non avrebbe tollerato alcuna prepotenza da parte sua. Quando quel gentiluomo aveva umilmente spiegato di aver fatto del proprio meglio, Miss Fanny si era arrabbiata ancora di più; gli aveva chiesto cosa altro potesse fare, visto che gli era stato ripetuto un’infinità di volte che i soldi non rappresentavano un problema, e aveva espresso il sospetto che avesse dimenticato con chi stava parlando.

Verso il Maresciallo, che era un ufficiale di grande anzianità e con il quale non aveva mai avuto alcun dissidio in precedenza, il signor Dorrit si comportò in modo molto severo. Quell’ufficiale, presentandogli personalmente le sue congratulazioni, gli offrì l’uso gratuito di due stanze nella sua >casa fino al suo ritorno. Il signor Dorrit ringraziò all’istante, rispondendo che ci avrebbe pensato; ma non appena l’ufficiale se ne fu andato, si sedette e gli scrisse una lettera molto dura, nella quale affermava di non aver mai ricevuto prima le sue congratulazioni (il che era vero, anche se in realtà non c’era nulla di particolare per cui congratularsi), e chiedeva, a nome proprio e della sua famiglia, di rifiutare l’offerta del Maresciallo, con tutti i ringraziamenti che il carattere disinteressato e l’assoluta indipendenza da qualsiasi considerazione mondana richiedevano.

Sebbene suo fratello mostrasse un debolissimo interesse per le loro mutate condizioni finanziarie, tanto da far dubitare che le comprendesse davvero, il signor Dorrit fece misurare al fratello dei nuovi abiti dai calzolai, dai sarti, dai cappellai e dai ciabattini che aveva chiamato personalmente; inoltre ordinò che i suoi vecchi vestiti venissero tolti e bruciati. La signorina Fanny e il signor Tip non avevano bisogno di alcuna indicazione per apparire con grande eleganza; i tre trascorsero quindi questo periodo insieme nel miglior hotel della zona, anche se, come diceva la signorina Fanny, “il migliore” in realtà era piuttosto mediocre. Per quanto riguarda quell’hotel, il signor Tip noleggiò una carrozza scoperta, un cavallo e un cocchiere; questa comoda vettura veniva spesso fatta apparire per due o tre ore al giorno in Borough High Street, davanti al cortile del Marshalsea Court. Lì si vedeva anche spesso una modesta carrozza noleggiata; ogni volta che la signorina Fanny ne scendeva o vi saliva, faceva ammirare alle figlie del magistrato i suoi cappelli eleganti e inaccessibili.

In questo breve lasso di tempo vennero svolte molte transazioni commerciali. Tra le altre cose, i signori Peddle e Pool, avvocati di Monument Yard, ricevettero l’incarico dal loro cliente Edward Dorrit di inviare una lettera al signor Arthur Clennam, allegando la somma di ventiquattro sterline nove scellini e otto pence: si trattava dell’importo del capitale principale più gli interessi calcolati al tasso dello 5% annuo; il loro cliente riteneva di essere debitore di tale somma al signor Clennam. Nella redazione e nell’invio di questa comunicazione, i signori Peddle e Pool ricevettero inoltre l’ordine di ricordare al signor Clennam che il favore dell’avanzamento di denaro ora restituito (compresi i costi per l’utilizzo delle strutture) non era mai stato chiesto esplicitamente da loro, e che tale somma non sarebbe stata accettata nemmeno se offerta apertamente a suo nome. Per questo motivo chiesero un ricevuto timbrato e rimasero i suoi fedeli servitori. Anche nel Marshalsea, ormai destinato ad diventare un orfanotrofio, il signor Dorrit dovette occuparsi di molte questioni: principalmente si trattava di richieste da parte di studenti che gli chiedevano piccole somme di denaro. A queste richieste rispondeva con grande generosità e senza trascurare le formalità; prima scriveva per fissare un’ora in cui l’interessato potesse recarsi nel suo ufficio, poi lo riceveva tra una vasta quantità di documenti e, accompagnando la donazione (poiché in ogni caso affermava: “Si tratta di una donazione, non di un prestito”), gli forniva anche molti consigli utili. In questo modo, il signor Dorrit sperava che venisse ricordato a lungo come un esempio di persona capace di mantenere il rispetto sia proprio che generale, anche in un ambiente come quello del Marshalsea.

Gli studenti del collegio non erano invidiosi. Oltre al rispetto personale e tradizionale che provavano per uno studente con tanti anni di anzianità nel collegio, l’evento era un onore per tutto il collegio stesso e lo rese famoso sui giornali. Forse molti di loro pensavano, anche se non se ne rendevano pienamente conto, che una cosa del genere avrebbe potuto accadere anche a loro, o che forse un giorno sarebbe successo lo stesso. Lo accolsero molto bene. Alcuni, però, si sentivano tristi all’idea di essere lasciati indietro e di rimanere poveri; ma nemmeno questi invidiavano alla famiglia quella fortuna improvvisa. In posti più raffinati, probabilmente ci sarebbe stata molta più invidia. Sembra probabile che le persone con fortune mediocri avrebbero mostrato meno magnanimità degli studenti del collegio, che vivevano giorno per giorno, dalla casa di pegni al pasto di quel giorno stesso.

Riservarono per lui un messaggio che presentarono in un bel quadro incorniciato e protetto da vetro (sebbene in seguito non venisse esposto nella residenza di famiglia né conservato tra i documenti familiari); egli rispose loro con gentilezza. In quel documento, con toni regali, li assicurò di ricevere con piena convinzione la dichiarazione del loro affetto per lui; e li esortò nuovamente a seguire il suo esempio – cosa che, almeno per quanto riguardava l’ereditare una grande fortuna, non c’era alcun >dubbio che avrebbero volentieri fatto. Approfittò dell’occasione per invitarli a un evento festivo organizzato per tutto il collegio nel cortile, e durante tale evento dichiarò di voler brindare alla salute e al benessere di tutti coloro che stava per lasciare indietro.

He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands were of the quality he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a baron of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper of old Madeira; and told them that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them well; and that he bade them welcome. His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial after all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the manner of a mere serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before them all. After this great success, which he supposed to be a failure, he gave them ‘Mr Chivery and his brother officers;’ whom he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke to the toast, saying, What you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the words of the fettered African, a man and a brother ever. The list of toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely went through the motions of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions.

But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.

Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds and ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a serious but graceful dignity. Much of his great attention was given to his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.

‘My dear Frederick,’ said he, ‘if you will give me your arm we will pass among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.’

‘Hah!’ said Frederick. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’

‘And if, my dear Frederick—if you could, without putting any great constraint upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a little polish into your usual demeanour—’

‘William, William,’ said the other, shaking his head, ‘it’s for you to do all that. I don’t know how. All forgotten, forgotten!’

‘But, my dear fellow,’ returned William, ‘for that very reason, if for no other, you must positively try to rouse yourself. What you have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your position—’

‘Eh?’ said Frederick.

‘Your position, my dear Frederick.’

‘Mine?’ He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother’s, and then, drawing a long breath, cried, ‘Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes, yes.’

‘Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs to your conscientious nature to try to become worthy of it, my dear Frederick, and to try to adorn it. To be no discredit to it, but to adorn it.’

‘William,’ said the other weakly, and with a sigh, ‘I will do anything you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as to recollect what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.’

‘My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a heart as yours with.’

‘Pray trouble it,’ returned the other. ‘It finds it no trouble, William, to do anything it can for you.’

William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august satisfaction, ‘Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!’ Then he said aloud, ‘Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion—that you think about it—’

‘What would you advise me to think about it?’ returned his submissive brother.

‘Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in leaving these good people, I think myself.’

‘That’s it!’ cried his brother. ‘That will help me.’

‘I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in which a softened compassion predominates, What will they do without me!’

‘True,’ returned his brother. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll think that as we go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do without him!’

Twelve o’clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs arm-in-arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister Fanny followed, also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had been entrusted the removal of such of the family effects as were considered worth removing, followed, bearing bundles and burdens to be packed in a cart.

In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were Mr Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their work. In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself, on the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent that many enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently by the hand, and the wives and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, nothing doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man with the shadowy grievance respecting the Fund which the Marshal embezzled, who had got up at five in the morning to complete the copying of a perfectly unintelligible history of that transaction, which he had committed to Mr Dorrit’s care, as a document of the last importance, calculated to stun the Government and effect the Marshal’s downfall. In the yard, was the insolvent whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt, who broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the insolvent at his elbow—a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman, half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt—found it a hard matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner to release him with much reproof and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many children and many burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There, were the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting it off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who were much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than the seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit, cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family; there, were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the gloom of their imprisonment and poverty, could not support the light of such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into his pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now obtrusively Hail fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that assistance. It was rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that they were a little shy of the bird about to be so grandly free, and that they had a tendency to withdraw themselves towards the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he passed.

Lui stesso non partecipò personalmente a questo banchetto pubblico (si svolgeva alle due del pomeriggio, mentre i suoi pasti venivano ora serviti dall’hotel alle sei), ma suo figlio ebbe la gentilezza di occupare il posto d’onore al centro della tavola, comportandosi con grande disinvoltura e affabilità. Lui stesso si mescolò tra gli ospiti, prestando attenzione a ciascuno di loro; verificò che i piatti serviti fossero di qualità conforme alle sue richieste e che tutto fosse stato preparato con cura. Nel complesso, si comportava come un vero barone dell’antica epoca, in uno stato d’animo davvero ottimista. Alla fine del banchetto, brindò con i suoi ospiti con del vecchio Madeira, augurando loro che avessero tratto piacere dall’incontro e che continuassero a divertirsi per il resto della serata; desiderava loro ogni bene e li invitava calorosamente a proseguire la festa. Quando le acclamazioni degli ospiti risuonarono, sembrò davvero un vero barone, ma nel tentativo di ringraziare tutti, scoppiò in lacrime, come un semplice servo con un cuore sincero. Dopo questo “grande successo”, che in realtà si rivelò essere un fallimento, presentò loro “Mr Chivery e i suoi fratelli ufficiali”, a cui aveva precedentemente dato dieci sterline ciascuno; tutti erano presenti all’evento. Mr Chivery tenne un discorso durante il brindisi, dicendo: “Quello che promettete di custodire, custoditelo bene, ma ricordatevi sempre che siete, con le parole di quel africano incatenato, uomini e fratelli l’uno per l’altro.” Dopo aver terminato i brindisi, Mr Dorrit giocò gentilmente a skittles con il collega più anziano di lui; poi lasciò gli ospiti alle loro attività.

Ma tutte queste esperienze precedettero il giorno finale. E ora era arrivato il momento in cui lui e la sua famiglia avrebbero lasciato per sempre quella prigione, e in cui le pietre del suo selciato calpestato non li avrebbero più conosciuti.

Mezogiorno era l’ora fissata per la partenza. Man mano che si avvicinava, non c’era nessun studente all’interno dell’edificio, né alcun custode assente. Questi ultimi erano vestiti con i loro abiti domenicali, e la maggior parte degli studenti si era adornata nel miglior modo possibile, date le circostanze. Furono persino esposte due o tre bandiere, e i bambini indossarono nastri di tutti i colori. Anche il signor Dorrit, in questo momento così importante, mantenne una dignità seria ma elegante. La sua grande attenzione era rivolta a suo fratello, per il cui comportamento in questa occasione importante nutriva molta preoccupazione.

“Mio caro Frederick,” disse lui, “se mi darai il braccio, passeremo insieme tra i nostri amici. Penso che sia giusto uscire mano nella mano, mio caro Frederick.”

“Ahah!” disse Frederick. “Sì, sì, sì, sì.”

“E se, caro Frederick, se potessi, senza metterti troppa pressione, dare un po’ più di cura al tuo solito modo di comportarti, ”

“William, William,” disse l’altro scuotendo la testa, “tocca a te fare tutto questo. Non so come. Tutto dimenticato, completamente dimenticato!”

“Ma, caro amico,” rispose William, “proprio per questo motivo, se non per altro, devi assolutamente cercare di riprenderti. Quello che hai dimenticato ora devi iniziare a ricordarlo, mio caro Frederick. La tua situazione, ”

“Eh?”, disse Frederick.

“La tua posizione, caro Frederick.”

“Mie?” Guardò prima la propria figura, poi quella di suo fratello, e poi, dopo aver tratto un lungo respiro, esclamò: “Ah, certo! Sì, sì, sì.”

“La tua posizione, caro Frederick, è ora davvero eccellente. La tua posizione, in quanto mio fratello, è assolutamente nobile. So che è proprio della tua natura coscienziosa cercare di essere all’altezza di essa, caro Frederick, e di renderla ancora più illustre. Non doverne subire alcun disonore, ma piuttosto contribuire a renderla ancora più prestigiosa.”

“William,” disse l’altro con voce debole e sospirando, “farò qualsiasi cosa tu desideri, mio fratello, purché sia entro le mie possibilità. Per favore, ricorda quanto limitata sia la mia forza. Cosa vorresti che facessi oggi, fratello? Dimmelo, ti prego.”

“Mio carissimo Frederick, nulla. Non vale la pena disturbare un cuore così buono come il tuo con queste cose.”

“Prega che ci siano problemi,” rispose l’altro. “A William non costa alcuno sforzo fare qualsiasi cosa possa per te.”

William si passò la mano sugli occhi e mormorò con profonda soddisfazione: “Che benedizioni ci siano nel tuo attaccamento, mio povero caro amico!” Poi disse ad alta voce: “Bene, mio caro Frederick, se solo provassi, mentre usciamo, a dimostrare che tieni davvero conto di questa occasione, che ci pensi seriamente, ”

“Che cosa mi consiglieresti di pensare al riguardo?” rispose suo fratello sottomesso.

“Oh, mio caro Frederick, come posso risponderti? Posso solo dire ciò che penso mentre lascio queste brave persone.”

“Ecco fatto!”, esclamò suo fratello. “Questo mi aiuterà”.

“Scopro di pensare, mio caro Frederick, con emozioni contrastanti nelle quali prevale una compassione più tenera. Cosa faranno senza di me?”

“Vero,” rispose suo fratello. “Sì, sì, sì. Ci penserò lungo la strada. Cosa faranno senza mio fratello? Poverini. Cosa faranno senza di lui!”

Appena suonarono le dodici, e si comunicò che la carrozza era pronta nel cortile esterno, i fratelli scesero le scale tenendosi per mano. Edward Dorrit, gentiluomo (un tempo chiamato Tip), e sua sorella Fanny li seguirono anch’essi tenendosi per mano; Mr Plornish e Maggy, a cui era stato affidato il compito di portare via gli oggetti della famiglia che si ritenevano degni di essere conservati, li seguirono, trasportando pacchi e bagagli da caricare sulla carrozza.

Nel cortile c’erano i membri del Collegio e i carcerieri; nel cortile c’erano il signor Pancks e il signor Rugg, venuti a vedere come veniva dato l’ultimo tocco al loro lavoro. Nel cortile c’era il giovane John, che stava scrivendo un nuovo epitaffio per sé stesso, in occasione della sua morte causata da un cuore spezzato. Nel cortile c’era il patriarca Casby, che sembrava così estremamente benevolo che molti membri del Collegio gli afferrarono con fervore la mano; le mogli e le parenti di molti altri membri del Collegio baciarono anch’esse la sua mano, senza dubitare minimamente che fosse stato lui ad aver fatto tutto ciò. Nel cortile c’era l’uomo che aveva un rimorso segreto riguardo al fondo di denaro che il maresciallo aveva sottratto; quell’uomo si era alzato alle cinque del mattino per completare la copia di una storia assolutamente incomprensibile su quella transazione, e l’aveva affidata al signor Dorrit come documento di estrema importanza, destinato a sconvolgere il Governo e causare la rovina del maresciallo. Nel cortile c’era anche l’insolvente che faceva di tutto per indebitarsi sempre di più; quell’uomo era entrato in prigione con lo stesso impegno con cui altri ne uscivano, e veniva continuamente rilasciato senza alcuna conseguenza negativa. Mentre l’insolvente al suo fianco – un piccolo commerciante che si sforzava disperatamente di non finire in debito – trovava davvero molto difficile convincere un funzionario a rilasciarlo, nonostante le sue suppliche. Nel cortile c’era l’uomo con molti figli e molte responsabilità, il cui fallimento sorprendeva tutti; nel cortile c’era anche l’uomo senza figli ma con grandi risorse, il cui fallimento, invece, non sorprendeva nessuno. Lì c’erano persone che continuavano a rimandare sempre tutto al giorno dopo; lì c’erano persone che erano arrivate il giorno prima e che provavano ancora più invidia e rancore verso quel cambiamento improvviso nella loro sorte, rispetto agli “esperti” nel manipolare le circostanze. Lì c’erano persone che, per pura meschinità d’animo, si inchinavano davanti al membro del Collegio arricchito e alla sua famiglia; altre lo facevano davvero perché i loro occhi, abituati all’oscurità della prigione e della povertà, non riuscivano a sopportare la luce di una vita così privilegiata. Lì c’erano molte persone le cui monete erano finite nelle tasche di quel membro del Collegio, per comprargli cibo e bevande, ma nessuno osava ora salutarlo apertamente, in segno di gratitudine per quell’aiuto ricevuto. Piuttosto sorprendente era il comportamento degli uccelli chiusi nelle gabbie: sembravano un po’ timidi di fronte all’uccello che stava per essere liberato, e tendevano a ritirarsi verso le sbarre, mostrando segni di nervosismo ogni volta che quell’uccello passava loro accanto.

Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the head like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, he spoke to people in the background by their Christian names, he condescended to all present, and seemed for their consolation to walk encircled by the legend in golden characters, ‘Be comforted, my people! Bear it!’

At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and that the Marshalsea was an orphan. Before they had ceased to ring in the echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into their carriage, and the attendant had the steps in his hand.

Then, and not before, ‘Good Gracious!’ cried Miss Fanny all at once, ‘Where’s Amy!’

Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had thought she was ‘somewhere or other.’ They had all trusted to finding her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment. This going away was perhaps the very first action of their joint lives that they had got through without her.

A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining of these points, when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage, commanded the long narrow passage leading to the Lodge, flushed indignantly.

‘Now I do say, Pa,’ cried she, ‘that this is disgraceful!’

‘What is disgraceful, Fanny?’

‘I do say,’ she repeated, ‘this is perfectly infamous! Really almost enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was dead! Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so obstinate about, Pa, which I over and over again begged and prayed her to change, and which she over and over again objected to, and promised to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as long as ever she remained in there with you—which was absolutely romantic nonsense of the lowest kind—here is that child Amy disgracing us to the last moment and at the last moment, by being carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr Clennam too!’

The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment. Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in his arms.

‘She has been forgotten,’ he said, in a tone of pity not free from reproach. ‘I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear child. She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have sunk down overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have happened sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don’t let it fall.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. ‘I believe I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open your eyes, that’s a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed and ashamed! Do rouse yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive on!’

The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp ‘By your leave, sir!’ bundled up the steps, and they drove away.

Attraverso quei spettatori, la piccola processione, guidata dai due fratelli, si muoveva lentamente verso il cancello. Il signor Dorrit, preoccupato da come quelle povere creature avrebbero fatto a cavarsela senza di lui, era molto turbato e triste, ma non completamente assorbito da questi pensieri. Dava pacche sulla testa dei bambini, proprio come Sir Roger de Coverley quando andava in chiesa; parlava alle persone in secondo piano usando i loro nomi cristiani, si comportava con gentilezza verso tutti presenti, e sembrava voler consolarli camminando circondato da quella scritta dorata che recitava: “Consolatevi, mio popolo. Resistete!”

Finalmente, tre calorosi applausi annunciarono che aveva superato il cancello e che il Marshalsea era ormai un orfano. Prima ancora che gli echi di quegli applausi si spegnessero tra le mura della prigione, la famiglia era già salita in carrozza, e l’accompagnatore teneva pronti i gradini per aiutarli a salire.

“Allora, e solo allora, ‘Per l’amor del cielo!’ esclamò improvvisamente la signorina Fanny, ‘Dove è Amy?’”

Suo padre pensava che fosse con sua sorella; sua sorella credeva che fosse “da qualche parte”. Tutti si fidavano di riuscire a trovarla, come avevano sempre fatto: silenziosamente, nel posto giusto, al momento giusto. Questo allontanamento fu forse la prima azione della loro vita condivisa che avvenne senza di lei.

Potrebbe essere servita un minuto per accertare questi dettagli, quando la signorina Fanny, dalla sua posizione nella carrozza che dominava il lungo e stretto passaggio che conduceva alla Lodge, arrossì di indignazione.

“Ora dico davvero, papà”, gridò lei, “che questo è vergognoso!”

“Cosa è vergognoso, Fanny?”

“Dico davvero,” ripeté, “che questa è una situazione assolutamente vergognosa! Davvero, anche in un momento come questo, è quasi sufficiente per far desiderare a qualcuno di essere morto. Ecco quella >bambina Amy, con quel brutto vestito vecchio e logoro di cui era così ostinata; io le avevo ripetutamente chiesto di cambiarlo, ma lei si opponeva sempre e oggi ha promesso di farlo, dicendo che voleva indossarlo finché fosse rimasta lì con voi. Che assoluta sciocchezza romantica. Ecco quella >bambina Amy che ci umilia fino all’ultimo momento. E proprio all’ultimo momento, alla fine, ha deciso di indossare quel vestito, ” “E anche per colpa di quel signor Clennam!”

L’offesa fu provata, poiché lei presentò l’accusa ufficiale. Clennam apparve alla porta della carrozza, tenendo tra le braccia quella piccola figura priva di sensi.

“È stata dimenticata,” disse lui, con un tono di compassione che non era privo di rimprovero. “Sono corso nella sua stanza (che il signor Chivery mi aveva indicato) e ho trovato la porta aperta; lei era svenuta per terra, povera bambina. Sembrava fosse andata a cambiarsi e poi si era accasciata a causa dello sforzo. Forse è stata colpita dal clamore della folla, o forse è successo prima ancora. Prenda cura di questa povera mano fredda, signorina Dorrit. Non lasci che cada.”

“Grazie, signore,” rispose Miss Dorrit, scoppiando in lacrime. “Credo di sapere cosa fare, se mi date il permesso. Cara Amy, apri gli occhi. Quello è davvero amore! Oh, Amy, sono così angosciata e imbarazzata. Svegliati, tesoro! Per favore, papà, andiamo avanti!”

Il cameriere, mettendosi tra Clennam e la porta della carrozza, disse con un deciso “Con il suo permesso, signore!”, poi salì rapidamente i gradini e loro partirono.

BOOK THE SECOND: RICHES CHAPTER 1. Fellow Travellers

In the autumn of the year, Darkness and Night were creeping up to the highest ridges of the Alps.

It was vintage time in the valleys on the Swiss side of the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, and along the banks of the Lake of Geneva. The air there was charged with the scent of gathered grapes. Baskets, troughs, and tubs of grapes stood in the dim village doorways, stopped the steep and narrow village streets, and had been carrying all day along the roads and lanes. Grapes, split and crushed under foot, lay about everywhere. The child carried in a sling by the laden peasant woman toiling home, was quieted with picked-up grapes; the idiot sunning his big goitre under the leaves of the wooden chalet by the way to the Waterfall, sat munching grapes; the breath of the cows and goats was redolent of leaves and stalks of grapes; the company in every little cabaret were eating, drinking, talking grapes. A pity that no ripe touch of this generous abundance could be given to the thin, hard, stony wine, which after all was made from the grapes!

The air had been warm and transparent through the whole of the bright day. Shining metal spires and church-roofs, distant and rarely seen, had sparkled in the view; and the snowy mountain-tops had been so clear that unaccustomed eyes, cancelling the intervening country, and slighting their rugged heights for something fabulous, would have measured them as within a few hours easy reach. Mountain-peaks of great celebrity in the valleys, whence no trace of their existence was visible sometimes for months together, had been since morning plain and near in the blue sky. And now, when it was dark below, though they seemed solemnly to recede, like spectres who were going to vanish, as the red dye of the sunset faded out of them and left them coldly white, they were yet distinctly defined in their loneliness above the mists and shadows.

Seen from these solitudes, and from the Pass of the Great Saint Bernard, which was one of them, the ascending Night came up the mountain like a rising water. When it at last rose to the walls of the convent of the Great Saint Bernard, it was as if that weather-beaten structure were another Ark, and floated on the shadowy waves.

Darkness, outstripping some visitors on mules, had risen thus to the rough convent walls, when those travellers were yet climbing the mountain. As the heat of the glowing day when they had stopped to drink at the streams of melted ice and snow, was changed to the searching cold of the frosty rarefied night air at a great height, so the fresh beauty of the lower journey had yielded to barrenness and desolation. A craggy track, up which the mules in single file scrambled and turned from block to block, as though they were ascending the broken staircase of a gigantic ruin, was their way now. No trees were to be seen, nor any vegetable growth save a poor brown scrubby moss, freezing in the chinks of rock. Blackened skeleton arms of wood by the wayside pointed upward to the convent as if the ghosts of former travellers overwhelmed by the snow haunted the scene of their distress. Icicle-hung caves and cellars built for refuges from sudden storms, were like so many whispers of the perils of the place; never-resting wreaths and mazes of mist wandered about, hunted by a moaning wind; and snow, the besetting danger of the mountain, against which all its defences were taken, drifted sharply down.

The file of mules, jaded by their day’s work, turned and wound slowly up the deep ascent; the foremost led by a guide on foot, in his broad-brimmed hat and round jacket, carrying a mountain staff or two upon his shoulder, with whom another guide conversed. There was no speaking among the string of riders. The sharp cold, the fatigue of the journey, and a new sensation of a catching in the breath, partly as if they had just emerged from very clear crisp water, and partly as if they had been sobbing, kept them silent.

At length, a light on the summit of the rocky staircase gleamed through the snow and mist. The guides called to the mules, the mules pricked up their drooping heads, the travellers’ tongues were loosened, and in a sudden burst of slipping, climbing, jingling, clinking, and talking, they arrived at the convent door.

Other mules had arrived not long before, some with peasant riders and some with goods, and had trodden the snow about the door into a pool of mud. Riding-saddles and bridles, pack-saddles and strings of bells, mules and men, lanterns, torches, sacks, provender, barrels, cheeses, kegs of honey and butter, straw bundles and packages of many shapes, were crowded confusedly together in this thawed quagmire and about the steps. Up here in the clouds, everything was seen through cloud, and seemed dissolving into cloud. The breath of the men was cloud, the breath of the mules was cloud, the lights were encircled by cloud, speakers close at hand were not seen for cloud, though their voices and all other sounds were surprisingly clear. Of the cloudy line of mules hastily tied to rings in the wall, one would bite another, or kick another, and then the whole mist would be disturbed: with men diving into it, and cries of men and beasts coming out of it, and no bystander discerning what was wrong. In the midst of this, the great stable of the convent, occupying the basement story and entered by the basement door, outside which all the disorder was, poured forth its contribution of cloud, as if the whole rugged edifice were filled with nothing else, and would collapse as soon as it had emptied itself, leaving the snow to fall upon the bare mountain summit.

While all this noise and hurry were rife among the living travellers, there, too, silently assembled in a grated house half-a-dozen paces removed, with the same cloud enfolding them and the same snow flakes drifting in upon them, were the dead travellers found upon the mountain. The mother, storm-belated many winters ago, still standing in the corner with her baby at her breast; the man who had frozen with his arm raised to his mouth in fear or hunger, still pressing it with his dry lips after years and years. An awful company, mysteriously come together! A wild destiny for that mother to have foreseen! ‘Surrounded by so many and such companions upon whom I never looked, and never shall look, I and my child will dwell together inseparable, on the Great Saint Bernard, outlasting generations who will come to see us, and will never know our name, or one word of our story but the end.’

Libro secondo: Ricchezze
Capitolo 1. Compagni di viaggio

Nell’autunno di quell’anno, l’Oscurità e la Notte iniziavano ad avvicinarsi alle cime più alte delle Alpi.

Era l’epoca d’oro, nei valli sul versante svizzero del Passo del Grande San Bernardo, e lungo le rive del Lago di Ginevra. L’aria era impregnata dal profumo dei grappoli raccolti. Cesti, secchi e vasi pieni di uva si trovavano davanti alle porte delle case, bloccando le strette strade del villaggio; tutto il giorno, lungo i sentieri, venivano trasportati verso casa. I grappoli, schiacciati sotto i piedi, giacevano ovunque. Il bambino veniva portato a spalla da una contadina impegnata nel lavoro; con qualche acino di uva, si calmava facilmente. L’idiota, che si scaldava al sole sotto le foglie del chalet in legno lungo il cammino verso la cascata, mangiava tranquillamente grappoli. Anche l’alito delle mucche e delle capre profumava di foglie e steli d’uva; in ogni piccolo ristorante, tutti mangiavano, bevevano, e parlavano di uva. Peccato che nessun tocco di questa abbondanza potesse migliorare quel vino aspro e secco, prodotto comunque dai grappoli!

L’aria era stata calda e trasparente per tutta la giornata luminosa. Gli spigoli metallici scintillanti e i tetti delle chiese, lontani e raramente visibili, brillavano nel paesaggio; inoltre, le cime innevate delle montagne erano così chiare che occhi non abituati, ignorando la terra intermedia e sopravvalutando la loro asperità, avrebbero potuto pensare di raggiungerle facilmente in poche ore. Vette montane molto note nelle valli, le cui tracce a volte sparivano per mesi interi, ora apparivano chiaramente nel cielo azzurro. E ora, quando era sceso il buio, sebbene sembrassero allontanarsi solennemente, come spettri sul punto di scomparire, mentre il colore rosso del tramonto svaniva lasciandole di un bianco freddo, rimanevano comunque ben definite nella loro solitudine sopra le nebbie e le ombre.

Visto da queste solitudini, e dal Passo del Grande San Bernardo, che ne faceva parte, l’Notte in salita risaliva la montagna come un’acqua che si alza. Quando finalmente raggiunse le mura del convento del Grande San Bernardo, sembrava che quella struttura logora dal tempo fosse un’altra Arca, che galleggiava sulle onde oscure della notte.

L’oscurità, che aveva già raggiunto le ruvide mura del convento, mentre quei viaggiatori stavano ancora scalando la montagna, si era diffusa rapidamente. Come il calore cocente della giornata, durante la quale si erano fermati a bere dalle sorgenti di ghiaccio fuso e neve, era stato sostituito dal freddo pungente dell’aria notturna rarefatta e gelida, così anche la fresca bellezza dei primi tratti del viaggio aveva lasciato il posto alla desolazione. Un sentiero accidentato, su cui i muli procedevano uno dopo l’altro, serpeggiando tra blocchi di roccia come se stessero salendo le scale spezzate di un enorme rudere, era ora la loro strada. Non si vedeva alcun albero, né alcuna forma di vegetazione, tranne una misera erba bruna e spinosa che si congelava nelle fessure delle rocce. Gli scheletri neri degli alberi lungo il cammino puntavano verso l’alto, verso il convento, come se gli “spiriti” di viaggiatori passati, sopraffatti dalla neve, infestassero quel luogo di dolore. Caverne e cantine costruite per ripararsi dalle tempeste improvvisse sembravano mormorare dei pericoli di quella terra; corone di neve e labirinti di foschia vagavano ovunque, inseguiti da un vento lamentoso. La neve, il pericolo costante di quella montagna contro cui tutte le difese sembravano inutili, cadeva giù con violenza.

Il gruppo di muli, stanchi per il lavoro della giornata, si voltò e iniziò lentamente a salire la ripida pendenza; in testa c’era un guida a piedi, con il suo cappello a tesa larga e il giubbotto rotondo, che portava sulle spalle uno o due bastoni da montagna; un altro guida conversava con lui. Non si udiva alcun suono tra i cavalieri. Il freddo pungente, la fatica del viaggio e una nuova sensazione di difficoltà nel respirare – in parte perché sembravano appena usciti da acqua molto limpida e fresca, in parte perché forse avevano pianto – li tenevano in silenzio.

Finalmente, una luce sulla cima della ripida scalinata di pietra brillò attraverso la neve e la nebbia. I guide chiamarono i muli; questi sollevarono le loro teste abbassate, e i viaggiatori, finalmente rilassati, iniziarono a salire velocemente, con suoni di tintinnii e voci che si sovrapponevano, fino ad arrivare alla porta del convento.

Altri muli erano arrivati poco prima: alcuni con cavalieri contadini, altri con merci; avevano calpestato la neve intorno alla porta, trasformandola in una pozzanghera di fango. Selle da cavalcata e briglie, selle da carico e catene di campane, muli e uomini, lanterne, torce, sacchi, provviste, barili, formaggi, giare di miele e burro, mucchi di paglia e pacchi di ogni forma, tutto era ammassato in modo confusionario in quella palude appena sciolta, intorno ai gradini. Lassù, tra le nuvole, tutto sembrava sfocarsi e dissolversi nel bianco delle nuvole stesse: il respiro degli uomini, quello dei muli, le luci erano avvolte nella nebbia; persone vicine non si vedevano a causa della nebbia, ma le loro voci e tutti gli altri suoni risuonavano stranamente chiari. Tra quei muli legati in fretta ai anelli fissati sul muro, alcuni mordevano o calciavano gli altri. E allora tutta quella confusione si agitava: uomini ci si tuffavano dentro, e urla umane e animali ne provenivano. Nessun spettatore riusciva a capire cosa stesse succedendo. In mezzo a tutto questo, il grande stallone del convento, situato al piano interrato e accessibile dalla porta sotterranea, versava la sua “parte” di nebbia in quel caos. Come se l’intero edificio ruvido fosse riempito soltanto da quella nebbia. E sembrava che sarebbe crollato non appena si fosse svuotato, lasciando che la neve ricadesse sulla cima nuda della montagna.

Mentre tutto questo rumore e affanno regnavano tra i viaggiatori vivi, lì, anch’essi raccolti in silenzio all’interno di una casa grigia, a pochi passi di distanza, avvolti dallo stesso cielo nuvoloso e sotto gli stessi fiocchi di neve che li circondavano, si trovavano i viaggiatori morti della montagna. La madre, uccisa da una tempesta molti inverni prima, era ancora lì, in un angolo, con il suo bambino al seno; l’uomo che era morto di freddo con il braccio sollevato verso la bocca per paura o fame, continuava a premerselo contro le labbra secche, dopo anni e anni. Una compagnia terribile, unita in modo misterioso. Un destino spaventoso che quella madre aveva previsto, “Rintracciata da così tanti compagni di cui non ho mai visto il volto, e di cui non vedrò mai il volto. Io e mio figlio vivremo insieme, inseparabili, sul Monte San Bernardo. Per sempre. Generazioni future ci vedranno, ma non conosceranno mai il nostro nome, né una parola della nostra storia. Solo la fine, ”

The living travellers thought little or nothing of the dead just then. They thought much more of alighting at the convent door, and warming themselves at the convent fire. Disengaged from the turmoil, which was already calming down as the crowd of mules began to be bestowed in the stable, they hurried shivering up the steps and into the building. There was a smell within, coming up from the floor, of tethered beasts, like the smell of a menagerie of wild animals. There were strong arched galleries within, huge stone piers, great staircases, and thick walls pierced with small sunken windows—fortifications against the mountain storms, as if they had been human enemies. There were gloomy vaulted sleeping-rooms within, intensely cold, but clean and hospitably prepared for guests. Finally, there was a parlour for guests to sit in and sup in, where a table was already laid, and where a blazing fire shone red and high.

In this room, after having had their quarters for the night allotted to them by two young Fathers, the travellers presently drew round the hearth. They were in three parties; of whom the first, as the most numerous and important, was the slowest, and had been overtaken by one of the others on the way up. It consisted of an elderly lady, two grey-haired gentlemen, two young ladies, and their brother. These were attended (not to mention four guides), by a courier, two footmen, and two waiting-maids: which strong body of inconvenience was accommodated elsewhere under the same roof. The party that had overtaken them, and followed in their train, consisted of only three members: one lady and two gentlemen. The third party, which had ascended from the valley on the Italian side of the Pass, and had arrived first, were four in number: a plethoric, hungry, and silent German tutor in spectacles, on a tour with three young men, his pupils, all plethoric, hungry, and silent, and all in spectacles.

These three groups sat round the fire eyeing each other drily, and waiting for supper. Only one among them, one of the gentlemen belonging to the party of three, made advances towards conversation. Throwing out his lines for the Chief of the important tribe, while addressing himself to his own companions, he remarked, in a tone of voice which included all the company if they chose to be included, that it had been a long day, and that he felt for the ladies. That he feared one of the young ladies was not a strong or accustomed traveller, and had been over-fatigued two or three hours ago. That he had observed, from his station in the rear, that she sat her mule as if she were exhausted. That he had, twice or thrice afterwards, done himself the honour of inquiring of one of the guides, when he fell behind, how the lady did. That he had been enchanted to learn that she had recovered her spirits, and that it had been but a passing discomfort. That he trusted (by this time he had secured the eyes of the Chief, and addressed him) he might be permitted to express his hope that she was now none the worse, and that she would not regret having made the journey.

‘My daughter, I am obliged to you, sir,’ returned the Chief, ‘is quite restored, and has been greatly interested.’

‘New to mountains, perhaps?’ said the insinuating traveller.

‘New to—ha—to mountains,’ said the Chief.

‘But you are familiar with them, sir?’ the insinuating traveller assumed.

‘I am—hum—tolerably familiar. Not of late years. Not of late years,’ replied the Chief, with a flourish of his hand.

The insinuating traveller, acknowledging the flourish with an inclination of his head, passed from the Chief to the second young lady, who had not yet been referred to otherwise than as one of the ladies in whose behalf he felt so sensitive an interest.

He hoped she was not incommoded by the fatigues of the day.

‘Incommoded, certainly,’ returned the young lady, ‘but not tired.’

The insinuating traveller complimented her on the justice of the distinction. It was what he had meant to say. Every lady must doubtless be incommoded by having to do with that proverbially unaccommodating animal, the mule.

‘We have had, of course,’ said the young lady, who was rather reserved and haughty, ‘to leave the carriages and fourgon at Martigny. And the impossibility of bringing anything that one wants to this inaccessible place, and the necessity of leaving every comfort behind, is not convenient.’

‘A savage place indeed,’ said the insinuating traveller.

The elderly lady, who was a model of accurate dressing, and whose manner was perfect, considered as a piece of machinery, here interposed a remark in a low soft voice.

‘But, like other inconvenient places,’ she observed, ‘it must be seen. As a place much spoken of, it is necessary to see it.’

‘O! I have not the least objection to seeing it, I assure you, Mrs General,’ returned the other, carelessly.

‘You, madam,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘have visited this spot before?’

‘Yes,’ returned Mrs General. ‘I have been here before. Let me commend you, my dear,’ to the former young lady, ‘to shade your face from the hot wood, after exposure to the mountain air and snow. You, too, my dear,’ to the other and younger lady, who immediately did so; while the former merely said, ‘Thank you, Mrs General, I am Perfectly comfortable, and prefer remaining as I am.’

The brother, who had left his chair to open a piano that stood in the room, and who had whistled into it and shut it up again, now came strolling back to the fire with his glass in his eye. He was dressed in the very fullest and completest travelling trim. The world seemed hardly large enough to yield him an amount of travel proportionate to his equipment.

‘These fellows are an immense time with supper,’ he drawled. ‘I wonder what they’ll give us! Has anybody any idea?’

‘Not roast man, I believe,’ replied the voice of the second gentleman of the party of three.

I viaggiatori vivi, in quel momento, pensavano poco o nulla ai morti. Pensavano molto di più al fatto di scendere davanti alla porta del convento e riscaldarsi vicino al fuoco del convento. Lasciatisi alle spalle il trambusto, che ormai stava calmandosi man mano che il gruppo di muli veniva portato nelle stalle, si affrettarono a salire i gradini ed entrare nell’edificio. All’interno c’era un odore, proveniente dal pavimento, di animali legati; sembrava l’odore di una gabbia piena di selvatiche animali. C’erano ampie gallerie ad arco, enormi pilastri in pietra, grandi scale e mura spesse su cui si aprivano piccole finestre: tutte strutture costruite per resistere alle tempeste di montagna, come se si fossero dovute difendere da nemici umani. All’interno c’erano anche stanze buie e ad arco, estremamente fredde, ma pulite e pronte ad accogliere gli ospiti. Infine, c’era una sala dove gli ospiti potevano sedersi a mangiare; sul tavolo era già stata preparata la cena, e un fuoco ardente brillava alto e rosso.

In questa stanza, dopo che due giovani preti avevano assegnato loro le stanze per la notte, i viaggiatori si radunarono intorno al camino. Erano divisi in tre gruppi; il primo, essendo il più numeroso e importante, procedeva più lentamente ed era stato raggiunto da uno degli altri gruppi durante l’ascesa. Il primo gruppo era composto da una signora anziana, due gentiluomini dai capelli grigi, due giovani donne e loro fratello. Questi erano accompagnati (per non parlare dei quattro guide) da un corriere, due servitori e due cameriere: tutto questo numeroso seguito trovava spazio altrove, sotto lo stesso tetto. Il gruppo che li aveva raggiunti era composto soltanto da tre persone: una signora e due gentiluomini. Il terzo gruppo, arrivato per primo dopo aver risalito la valle dal lato italiano del passo, era formato da quattro persone: un tedesco grasso, affamato e silenzioso che insegnava lingue e indossava occhiali; tre giovani uomini, suoi studenti, anch’essi grassi, affamati e silenziosi, e tutti con gli occhiali.

Questi tre gruppi sedevano intorno al >focolare, guardandosi a vicenda con aria cupa e aspettando la cena. Solo uno di loro, uno dei gentiluomini che facevano parte del gruppo di tre, iniziò a conversare. Rivolgendosi al capo della tribù importante e parlando anche ai suoi compagni, disse, con un tono che includeva l’intera compagnia se questi avessero voluto sentirsi inclusi, che era stata una lunga giornata e che provava compassione per le signore. Temeva che una delle giovani donne non fosse abituata ai viaggi e che fosse troppo stanca da due o tre ore prima; aveva notato, dalla sua posizione in fondo al gruppo, che lei sedeva sulla sua mula come se fosse esausta. In seguito, aveva chiesto più volte a uno dei guide come stesse la signora; con piacere aveva appreso che si era ripresa e che si trattava solo di un malessere passeggero. Ora, avendo ottenuto l’attenzione del capo della tribù, sperava di poter esprimere il suo desiderio che lei stesse bene e che non rimpiangesse di aver intrapreso quel viaggio.

“Mia figlia, sono in debito con voi, signore,” rispose il Capo, “è completamente guarita e si è molto divertita.”

“Probabilmente nuovo nelle montagne, vero?” disse il viaggiatore con tono allusivo.

“È nuovo nelle montagne,” disse il Capo.

“Ma lei li conosce bene, signore?”, insinuò il viaggiatore.

“Sono, ehm, abbastanza familiare con questa materia. Non negli ultimi anni, però,” rispose il Capo, agitando la mano con un gesto noncurante.

Il viaggiatore insinuante, accennando con un cenno del capo al gesto di benvenuto, passò dal capo alla seconda giovane signora, la quale fino ad allora non era stata menzionata se non come una delle signore per le quali provava un interesse così particolare.

Sperava che non fosse disturbata dalle fatiche della giornata.

“Certo, sono un po’ a disagio,” rispose la giovane signora, “ma non stanca.”

Il viaggiatore insinuante le fece i complimenti sulla saggezza di quella distinzione. Era esattamente ciò che voleva dire. Senza dubbio, ogni signora deve trovare scomodo avere a che fare con quell’animale proverbialmente difficile da gestire, il mulo.

“Certo che l’abbiamo fatto,” disse la giovane signora, piuttosto riservata e orgogliosa, “lasciare i carri e le carrozze a Martigny. E l’impossibilità di portare con sé tutto ciò che si desidera in questo luogo inaccessibile, oltre alla necessità di lasciare indietro ogni comodità, non è affatto conveniente.”

“Un posto davvero selvaggio,” disse il viaggiatore insinuante.

La signora anziana, che era un esempio di abbigliamento impeccabile e il cui comportamento era perfetto, considerata quasi una macchina, intervenne qui con un commento pronunciato a voce bassa e dolce.

“Ma, come altri luoghi scomodi da raggiungere,” osservò, “bisogna vederlo di persona. Essendo un posto di cui si parla molto, è necessario visitarlo.”

“O! Non ho la minima obiezione ad vederlo, vi assicuro, signora generale,” rispose l’altra con noncuranza.

“Lei, signora”, disse il viaggiatore insinuante, “è già stata in questo luogo prima d’ora?”

“Sì,” rispose la Signora Generale. “Sono già stata qui prima. Lasciate che vi consigli, mia cara,” disse alla prima giovane signora, “di proteggervi il viso dal calore del legno, dopo essere stata esposta all’aria di montagna e alla neve. E voi pure, mia cara,” aggiunse alla seconda, più giovane, che immediatamente seguì il consiglio; mentre la prima rispose semplicemente: “Grazie, Signora Generale, sto perfettamente bene e preferisco rimanere così com’è.”

Il fratello, che aveva lasciato la sua sedia per aprire il pianoforte posizionato nella stanza, aveva soffiato dentro di esso e poi lo aveva richiuso; ora tornava lentamente verso il focolare, con un bicchiere in mano. Era vestito con l’abbigliamento da viaggio più completo e elegante che si potesse immaginare. Il mondo sembrava appena sufficientemente vasto per offrirgli una quantità di viaggi adeguata al suo equipaggiamento.

“Questi ragazzi ci terranno occupati per un bel po’ a cena,” disse lentamente. “Mi chiedo cosa ci offriranno. Qualcuno ne ha idea?”

“Non credo sia un uomo arrosto,” rispose la voce del secondo gentiluomo del gruppo di tre.

‘I suppose not. What d’ye mean?’ he inquired.

‘That, as you are not to be served for the general supper, perhaps you will do us the favour of not cooking yourself at the general fire,’ returned the other.

The young gentleman who was standing in an easy attitude on the hearth, cocking his glass at the company, with his back to the blaze and his coat tucked under his arms, something as if he were Of the Poultry species and were trussed for roasting, lost countenance at this reply; he seemed about to demand further explanation, when it was discovered—through all eyes turning on the speaker—that the lady with him, who was young and beautiful, had not heard what had passed through having fainted with her head upon his shoulder.

‘I think,’ said the gentleman in a subdued tone, ‘I had best carry her straight to her room. Will you call to some one to bring a light?’ addressing his companion, ‘and to show the way? In this strange rambling place I don’t know that I could find it.’

‘Pray, let me call my maid,’ cried the taller of the young ladies.

‘Pray, let me put this water to her lips,’ said the shorter, who had not spoken yet.

Each doing what she suggested, there was no want of assistance. Indeed, when the two maids came in (escorted by the courier, lest any one should strike them dumb by addressing a foreign language to them on the road), there was a prospect of too much assistance. Seeing this, and saying as much in a few words to the slighter and younger of the two ladies, the gentleman put his wife’s arm over his shoulder, lifted her up, and carried her away.

His friend, being left alone with the other visitors, walked slowly up and down the room without coming to the fire again, pulling his black moustache in a contemplative manner, as if he felt himself committed to the late retort. While the subject of it was breathing injury in a corner, the Chief loftily addressed this gentleman.

‘Your friend, sir,’ said he, ‘is—ha—is a little impatient; and, in his impatience, is not perhaps fully sensible of what he owes to—hum—to—but we will waive that, we will waive that. Your friend is a little impatient, sir.’

‘It may be so, sir,’ returned the other. ‘But having had the honour of making that gentleman’s acquaintance at the hotel at Geneva, where we and much good company met some time ago, and having had the honour of exchanging company and conversation with that gentleman on several subsequent excursions, I can hear nothing—no, not even from one of your appearance and station, sir—detrimental to that gentleman.’

‘You are in no danger, sir, of hearing any such thing from me. In remarking that your friend has shown impatience, I say no such thing. I make that remark, because it is not to be doubted that my son, being by birth and by—ha—by education a—hum—a gentleman, would have readily adapted himself to any obligingly expressed wish on the subject of the fire being equally accessible to the whole of the present circle. Which, in principle, I—ha—for all are—hum—equal on these occasions—I consider right.’

‘Good,’ was the reply. ‘And there it ends! I am your son’s obedient servant. I beg your son to receive the assurance of my profound consideration. And now, sir, I may admit, freely admit, that my friend is sometimes of a sarcastic temper.’

‘The lady is your friend’s wife, sir?’

‘The lady is my friend’s wife, sir.’

‘She is very handsome.’

‘Sir, she is peerless. They are still in the first year of their marriage. They are still partly on a marriage, and partly on an artistic, tour.’

‘Your friend is an artist, sir?’

The gentleman replied by kissing the fingers of his right hand, and wafting the kiss the length of his arm towards Heaven. As who should say, I devote him to the celestial Powers as an immortal artist!

‘But he is a man of family,’ he added. ‘His connections are of the best. He is more than an artist: he is highly connected. He may, in effect, have repudiated his connections, proudly, impatiently, sarcastically (I make the concession of both words); but he has them. Sparks that have been struck out during our intercourse have shown me this.’

‘Well! I hope,’ said the lofty gentleman, with the air of finally disposing of the subject, ‘that the lady’s indisposition may be only temporary.’

‘Sir, I hope so.’

‘Mere fatigue, I dare say.’

‘Not altogether mere fatigue, sir, for her mule stumbled to-day, and she fell from the saddle. She fell lightly, and was up again without assistance, and rode from us laughing; but she complained towards evening of a slight bruise in the side. She spoke of it more than once, as we followed your party up the mountain.’

The head of the large retinue, who was gracious but not familiar, appeared by this time to think that he had condescended more than enough. He said no more, and there was silence for some quarter of an hour until supper appeared.

With the supper came one of the young Fathers (there seemed to be no old Fathers) to take the head of the table. It was like the supper of an ordinary Swiss hotel, and good red wine grown by the convent in more genial air was not wanting. The artist traveller calmly came and took his place at table when the rest sat down, with no apparent sense upon him of his late skirmish with the completely dressed traveller.

‘Pray,’ he inquired of the host, over his soup, ‘has your convent many of its famous dogs now?’

‘Monsieur, it has three.’

‘I saw three in the gallery below. Doubtless the three in question.’

The host, a slender, bright-eyed, dark young man of polite manners, whose garment was a black gown with strips of white crossed over it like braces, and who no more resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard monks than he resembled the conventional breed of Saint Bernard dogs, replied, doubtless those were the three in question.

“Immagino di no. Cosa intendi?” chiese lui.

“Poiché non dovete partecipare alla cena comune, forse potreste fare la gentilezza di non cucinare voi stessi vicino al fuoco comune,” rispose l’altro.

Il giovane gentiluomo che stava seduto con noncuranza accanto al camino, tenendo il bicchiere in mano e osservando gli altri intorno a lui, con la schiena rivolta al fuoco e il cappotto infilato sotto le braccia, come se appartenesse alla specie dei pollame pronto per essere arrostito, perse colore in volto di fronte a questa risposta; sembrava sul punto di chiedere ulteriori spiegazioni, quando si scoprì – grazie agli sguardi di tutti rivolti verso la donna che gli era accanto – che lei, giovane e bella, non aveva sentito nulla di ciò che era accaduto, poiché era svenuta appoggiando la testa sulle sue spalle.

“Penso,” disse il gentiluomo con voce sommessa, “che sia meglio portarla direttamente in camera sua. Potresti chiamare qualcuno per far portare una lampada?” si rivolse al suo compagno, “e per indicarmi la strada? In questo luogo strano e disordinato, non sono sicuro di riuscirci da solo.”

“Per favore, lasciatemi chiamare la mia cameriera,” gridò la ragazza più alta delle due giovani signore.

“Prega, lasciami portare quest’acqua alle sue labbra,” disse quella più bassa, che ancora non aveva parlato.

Ognuna faceva ciò che le era stato suggerito, quindi non c’era alcun bisogno di aiuto. Infatti, quando le due cameriere entrarono (scortate dal messaggero, per evitare che qualcuno le lasciasse senza parole parlando loro in una lingua straniera lungo la strada), sembrava addirittura che ci fosse troppa assistenza. Notando questo, il gentiluomo disse poche parole alla donna più giovane e minore delle due, poi mise il braccio della moglie sul proprio e la portò via.

Il suo amico, rimasto solo con gli altri visitatori, camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza senza avvicinarsi di nuovo al focolare, tirandosi pensosamente la barba nera, come se si sentisse impegnato a rispondere a quella battuta del defunto. Mentre l’oggetto della discussione stava morendo in un angolo, il Capo si rivolse con aria sprezzante a questo gentiluomo.

“Vostro amico, signore,” disse lui, “è, è un po’ impaziente; e, a causa della sua impazienza, forse non è del tutto consapevole di ciò che deve, beh, lasciamo perdere questo dettaglio. Vostro amico è un po’ impaziente, signore.”

“Può essere così, signore,” rispose l’altro. “Ma avendo avuto l’onore di conoscere quel gentiluomo all’hotel di Ginevra, dove noi e molte altre persone abbiamo trascorso del tempo insieme, e avendo avuto l’onore di scambiare parole e conversazioni con lui in diverse occasioni successive, non riesco a ricordare nulla – no, nemmeno qualcosa che possa essere dannoso per quel gentiluomo, anche proveniente da una persona della vostra posizione e del vostro rango, signore.”

‘Signore, non correte alcun rischio di sentirmi dire nulla del genere. Osservando che il vostro amico ha dimostrato impazienza, io non dico nulla del genere. Faccio questa osservazione perché è indubbiabile che mio figlio, essendo per nascita e grazie alla sua–ehm–educazione un vero gentiluomo, si sarebbe prontamente adattato a qualsiasi desiderio espreso in merito al fatto che l’fuoco fosse accessibile a tutti i presenti. In linea di principio, io ritengo che ciò sia giusto, poiché, in tali occasioni, tutti sono uguali.’

“Bene,” fu la risposta. “E così finisce tutto! Sono il servitore obbediente di vostro figlio. Vi prego che trasmettiate a vostro figlio la mia profonda considerazione. Ora, signore, posso ammettere liberamente che mio amico a volte ha un temperamento sarcastico.”

“La signora è la moglie del vostro amico, signore?”

“La signora è la moglie dell’amico mio, signore.”

“È davvero molto attraente.”

“Signore, è senza pari. Sono ancora nel primo anno del loro mattrimonio. Sono ancora in parte impegnati nella vita coniugale e in parte in un tour artistico.”

“Suo amico è un artista, signore?”

Il gentiluomo rispose baciando le dita della sua mano destra e facendo fluttuare quel bacio lungo il braccio verso il Cielo. Come a dire: “Lo dedico alle Potenze Celesti come un immortale artista!”

“Ma è un uomo di famiglia,” aggiunse. “Le sue connessioni sono delle migliori. È qualcosa di più di un artista: ha molti contatti importanti. Forse, in effetti, ha rinnegato quelle connessioni, con orgoglio, impazienza o sarcasmo (ammetto entrambe le possibilità); ma le possiede comunque. Le scintille che sono nate durante i nostri incontri me lo hanno dimostrato.”

“Beh! Spero,” disse il nobile signore, con l’aria di aver finalmente risolto la questione, “che il malessere della signora sia solo temporaneo.”

“Signore, spero proprio di sì.”

“Solo stanchezza, oserei dire.”

‘Non è esattamente solo stanchezza, signore: oggi il suo mulo ha inciampato e lei è caduta dalla sella. È caduta dolcemente ed è rialzata da sola senza bisogno di aiuto; anzi, ci ha lasciati ridendo dopo essere ripartita con noi. Tuttavia, verso sera si è lamentata di un leggero livido sul fianco. Ne ha parlato più volte mentre seguivamo il vostro gruppo su per la montagna.’

Il capo della grande scorta, che era gentile ma non troppo familiare, a quell’ora sembrava ritenere di essersi comportato con eccessiva magnanimità. Non disse più nulla, e regnò un silenzio per circa un quarto d’ora, fino all’arrivo della cena.

Con la cena arrivò uno dei giovani padri (sembrava che non ci fossero padri anziani) per prendere il posto a capotavola. Era come la cena in un normale hotel svizzero, e non mancava certo un buon vino rosso prodotto dal convento in un clima più mite. Il viaggiatore-artista si sedette tranquillamente a tavola quando gli altri presero posto, senza mostrare alcun segno di ricordarsi della recente discussione avuta con quel viaggiatore completamente vestito.

“Prega,” chiese al padrone di casa, mentre mangiava la zuppa, “il vostro convento ha ancora molti dei suoi famosi cani?”

“Signore, ne ha tre.”

“Ne ho visti tre nella galleria sottostante. Senz’altro sono quelli di cui si parla.”

Il padrone di casa, un giovane snello, dagli occhi luminosi e di pelle scura, dal comportamento educato, che indossava una veste nera con strisce bianche incrociate sopra come delle bretelle, non assomigliava affatto ai tipici monaci di San Bernardo, né tantomeno ai cani di razza San Bernardo; rispose senza dubbio che quei tre erano proprio quelli di cui si parlava.

‘And I think,’ said the artist traveller, ‘I have seen one of them before.’

It was possible. He was a dog sufficiently well known. Monsieur might have easily seen him in the valley or somewhere on the lake, when he (the dog) had gone down with one of the order to solicit aid for the convent.

‘Which is done in its regular season of the year, I think?’

Monsieur was right.

‘And never without a dog. The dog is very important.’

Again Monsieur was right. The dog was very important. People were justly interested in the dog. As one of the dogs celebrated everywhere, Ma’amselle would observe.

Ma’amselle was a little slow to observe it, as though she were not yet well accustomed to the French tongue. Mrs General, however, observed it for her.

‘Ask him if he has saved many lives?’ said, in his native English, the young man who had been put out of countenance.

The host needed no translation of the question. He promptly replied in French, ‘No. Not this one.’

‘Why not?’ the same gentleman asked.

‘Pardon,’ returned the host composedly, ‘give him the opportunity and he will do it without doubt. For example, I am well convinced,’ smiling sedately, as he cut up the dish of veal to be handed round, on the young man who had been put out of countenance, ‘that if you, Monsieur, would give him the opportunity, he would hasten with great ardour to fulfil his duty.’

The artist traveller laughed. The insinuating traveller (who evinced a provident anxiety to get his full share of the supper), wiping some drops of wine from his moustache with a piece of bread, joined the conversation.

‘It is becoming late in the year, my Father,’ said he, ‘for tourist-travellers, is it not?’

‘Yes, it is late. Yet two or three weeks, at most, and we shall be left to the winter snows.’

‘And then,’ said the insinuating traveller, ‘for the scratching dogs and the buried children, according to the pictures!’

‘Pardon,’ said the host, not quite understanding the allusion. ‘How, then the scratching dogs and the buried children according to the pictures?’

The artist traveller struck in again before an answer could be given.

‘Don’t you know,’ he coldly inquired across the table of his companion, ‘that none but smugglers come this way in the winter or can have any possible business this way?’

‘Holy blue! No; never heard of it.’

‘So it is, I believe. And as they know the signs of the weather tolerably well, they don’t give much employment to the dogs—who have consequently died out rather—though this house of entertainment is conveniently situated for themselves. Their young families, I am told, they usually leave at home. But it’s a grand idea!’ cried the artist traveller, unexpectedly rising into a tone of enthusiasm. ‘It’s a sublime idea. It’s the finest idea in the world, and brings tears into a man’s eyes, by Jupiter!’ He then went on eating his veal with great composure.

There was enough of mocking inconsistency at the bottom of this speech to make it rather discordant, though the manner was refined and the person well-favoured, and though the depreciatory part of it was so skilfully thrown off as to be very difficult for one not perfectly acquainted with the English language to understand, or, even understanding, to take offence at: so simple and dispassionate was its tone. After finishing his veal in the midst of silence, the speaker again addressed his friend.

‘Look,’ said he, in his former tone, ‘at this gentleman our host, not yet in the prime of life, who in so graceful a way and with such courtly urbanity and modesty presides over us! Manners fit for a crown! Dine with the Lord Mayor of London (if you can get an invitation) and observe the contrast. This dear fellow, with the finest cut face I ever saw, a face in perfect drawing, leaves some laborious life and comes up here I don’t know how many feet above the level of the sea, for no other purpose on earth (except enjoying himself, I hope, in a capital refectory) than to keep an hotel for idle poor devils like you and me, and leave the bill to our consciences! Why, isn’t it a beautiful sacrifice? What do we want more to touch us? Because rescued people of interesting appearance are not, for eight or nine months out of every twelve, holding on here round the necks of the most sagacious of dogs carrying wooden bottles, shall we disparage the place? No! Bless the place. It’s a great place, a glorious place!’

The chest of the grey-haired gentleman who was the Chief of the important party, had swelled as if with a protest against his being numbered among poor devils. No sooner had the artist traveller ceased speaking than he himself spoke with great dignity, as having it incumbent on him to take the lead in most places, and having deserted that duty for a little while.

He weightily communicated his opinion to their host, that his life must be a very dreary life here in the winter.

The host allowed to Monsieur that it was a little monotonous. The air was difficult to breathe for a length of time consecutively. The cold was very severe. One needed youth and strength to bear it. However, having them and the blessing of Heaven—

Yes, that was very good. ‘But the confinement,’ said the grey-haired gentleman.

There were many days, even in bad weather, when it was possible to walk about outside. It was the custom to beat a little track, and take exercise there.

‘But the space,’ urged the grey-haired gentleman. ‘So small. So—ha—very limited.’

Monsieur would recall to himself that there were the refuges to visit, and that tracks had to be made to them also.

Monsieur still urged, on the other hand, that the space was so—ha—hum—so very contracted. More than that, it was always the same, always the same.

“E penso,” disse il viaggiatore-artista, “che ne abbia già visto uno prima.”

Era possibile. Era un cane abbastanza noto. Il signore avrebbe potuto facilmente vederlo nella valle o da qualche parte sul lago, quando il cane fosse andato insieme a qualcuno dell’ordine per chiedere aiuto per il convento.

“Che avviene durante la stagione regolare dell’anno, giusto?”

Il signore aveva ragione.

E mai senza un cane. Il cane è davvero molto importante.

Ancora una volta, il signore aveva ragione. Il cane era davvero molto importante; le persone erano giustamente interessate a lui. Essendo uno dei cani più celebri in tutto il mondo, Madame osservava spesso questo aspetto.

Ma’amselle impiegò un po’ di tempo per accorgersene, come se non fosse ancora del tutto abituata alla lingua francese. La signora generale, invece, se ne rese conto al suo posto.

“Chiedetegli se abbia salvato molte vite, ”, disse in inglese, nella sua lingua madre, il giovane che poco prima era apparso imbarazzato.

Il presentatore non aveva bisogno di alcuna traduzione della domanda; rispose immediatamente in francese: “No. Non questa.”

“Perché no?”, chiese lo stesso gentiluomo.

“Perdonatemi,” rispose l’ospite con calma, “dategli l’opportunità e lo farà senza alcun dubbio. Ad esempio, sono assolutamente convinto,” disse sorridendo serenamente mentre tagliava il piatto di vitello da servire, “che se voi, signore, gli dessete l’opportunità, lui si affretterebbe con grande entusiasmo a adempiere al suo dovere.”

Il viaggiatore-artista rise. Il viaggiatore insinuante (che mostrava una premurosa ansia di ottenere la propria parte di cena) si asciugò alcune gocce di vino dalla barba con un pezzo di pane e si unì alla conversazione.

“Sta facendosi tardi nell’anno, padre,” disse lui, “per i turisti, non è vero?”

“Sì, è tardi. Ma tra due o tre settimane al massimo, saremo sommersi dalle nevi invernali.”

“E poi,” disse il viaggiatore insinuante, “per i cani che graffiano e per i bambini sepolti, secondo quelle immagini!”

“Scusi,” disse l’ospite, non comprendendo del tutto quell’allusione. “Allora, cosa significano quei cani che graffiano e quei bambini sepolti raffigurati nelle immagini?”

Il viaggiatore-artista intervenne di nuovo prima che si potesse dare una risposta.

“Non lo sai forse,” chiese freddamente, rivolto al suo compagno di tavola, “che solo i contrabbandieri viaggiano in questa direzione durante l’—inverno, e che nessun altro possa avere motivi per venire qui?”

“Blu sacro. No, non ne ho mai sentito parlare.”

“Lo so, credo proprio. E poiché conoscono abbastanza bene i segnali del tempo, non danno molto lavoro ai cani, i quali di conseguenza sono quasi estinti, anche se questo luogo di intrattenimento si trova in una posizione molto comoda per loro. Mi è stato detto che le loro giovani famiglie di solito tornano a )casa. Ma è un’idea davvero grandiosa!” esclamò l’artista viaggiatore, improvvisamente animandosi con entusiasmo. “È un’idea sublime. È la migliore idea del mondo, e fa venire le lacrime agli occhi di chi la ascolta, per Giove!” Poi continuò a mangiare la sua vitella con grande tranquillità.

C’era abbastanza di quella contraddizione derisoria nella parte finale del discorso da renderlo piuttosto discordante, nonostante il tono fosse raffinato e la persona molto attraente; inoltre, le parti denigratorie erano presentate con tale abilità che era davvero difficile, per chi non conoscesse perfettamente la lingua inglese, comprenderle o, anche comprendendole, offendersene: il tono del discorso era infatti semplice e distaccato. Dopo aver terminato il proprio intervento nel silenzio generale, l’oratore si rivolse di nuovo al suo amico.

“Guardate,” disse, con il suo solito tono, “questo gentiluomo, il nostro ospite. Non ancora nel fiore degli anni, ma che con tanta grazia, cortesia e modestia ci guida! Maniere degne di una corona! Mangiate a cena con il Lord Mayor di )Londra (se riuscite ad ottenere un invito) e osservate la differenza. Questo caro signore, con il viso più bello che abbia mai visto – un volto perfettamente proporzionato – lascia una vita faticosa per venire qui, a chissà quanti piedi sopra il livello del mare, solo per mantenere un hotel per poveracci inutili come voi e me. E lasciare che sia la nostra coscienza a pagare il conto! Ma non è forse un bell’esempio di sacrificio? Cosa possiamo desiderare di più? Solo perché persone salvate, dall’aspetto interessante, per otto o nove mesi su dodici passano il loro tempo attaccati al collo dei cani più saggi, portando bottiglie di legno, dobbiamo disprezzare questo posto? No! Benedetto sia questo posto. È un luogo meraviglioso, un luogo glorioso!”

Il petto del gentiluomo dai capelli grigi, che era il capo di quel gruppo importante, si era gonfiato, come se volesse protestare contro il fatto di essere considerato tra i poveri diavoli. Non appena il viaggiatore-artista smise di parlare, egli stesso prese la parola con grande dignità, come se fosse suo dovere assumere il ruolo di guida in quelle circostanze, e avesse temporaneamente trascurato tale compito.

Espose con fermezza la sua opinione al loro ospite, sostenendo che la sua vita qui, durante l’inverno, dovesse essere davvero molto noiosa.

Il padrone di casa fece notare al signore che la situazione era un po’ monotona; l’aria risultava difficile da respirare per un certo periodo di tempo consecutivo, e il freddo era estremamente intenso. Per sopportarlo erano necessari giovinezza e forza. Tuttavia, avendoli entrambi, oltre alla benedizione del Cielo.

Sì, è stato molto buono. “Ma la reclusione, ”, disse il signore dai capelli grigi.

C’erano molti giorni, anche con il maltempo, in cui era possibile passeggiare all’aperto. Era consuetudine tracciare un sentiero e fare esercizio lì.

“Ma lo spazio, ”, insistette il signore dai capelli grigi. “È così limitato. Davvero molto ristretto.”

Monsieur si ricordò che c’erano dei rifugi da visitare, e che bisognava anche costruire sentieri per raggiungerli.

D’altra parte, Monsieur insisteva ancora sul fatto che lo spazio fosse, beh, molto ristretto. E inoltre, era sempre lo stesso, sempre identico.

With a deprecating smile, the host gently raised and gently lowered his shoulders. That was true, he remarked, but permit him to say that almost all objects had their various points of view. Monsieur and he did not see this poor life of his from the same point of view. Monsieur was not used to confinement.

‘I—ha—yes, very true,’ said the grey-haired gentleman. He seemed to receive quite a shock from the force of the argument.

Monsieur, as an English traveller, surrounded by all means of travelling pleasantly; doubtless possessing fortune, carriages, and servants—

‘Perfectly, perfectly. Without doubt,’ said the gentleman.

Monsieur could not easily place himself in the position of a person who had not the power to choose, I will go here to-morrow, or there next day; I will pass these barriers, I will enlarge those bounds. Monsieur could not realise, perhaps, how the mind accommodated itself in such things to the force of necessity.

‘It is true,’ said Monsieur. ‘We will—ha—not pursue the subject. You are—hum—quite accurate, I have no doubt. We will say no more.’

The supper having come to a close, he drew his chair away as he spoke, and moved back to his former place by the fire. As it was very cold at the greater part of the table, the other guests also resumed their former seats by the fire, designing to toast themselves well before going to bed. The host, when they rose from the table, bowed to all present, wished them good night, and withdrew. But first the insinuating traveller had asked him if they could have some wine made hot; and as he had answered Yes, and had presently afterwards sent it in, that traveller, seated in the centre of the group, and in the full heat of the fire, was soon engaged in serving it out to the rest.

At this time, the younger of the two young ladies, who had been silently attentive in her dark corner (the fire-light was the chief light in the sombre room, the lamp being smoky and dull) to what had been said of the absent lady, glided out. She was at a loss which way to turn when she had softly closed the door; but, after a little hesitation among the sounding passages and the many ways, came to a room in a corner of the main gallery, where the servants were at their supper. From these she obtained a lamp, and a direction to the lady’s room.

It was up the great staircase on the story above. Here and there, the bare white walls were broken by an iron grate, and she thought as she went along that the place was something like a prison. The arched door of the lady’s room, or cell, was not quite shut. After knocking at it two or three times without receiving an answer, she pushed it gently open, and looked in.

The lady lay with closed eyes on the outside of the bed, protected from the cold by the blankets and wrappers with which she had been covered when she revived from her fainting fit. A dull light placed in the deep recess of the window, made little impression on the arched room. The visitor timidly stepped to the bed, and said, in a soft whisper, ‘Are you better?’

The lady had fallen into a slumber, and the whisper was too low to awake her. Her visitor, standing quite still, looked at her attentively.

‘She is very pretty,’ she said to herself. ‘I never saw so beautiful a face. O how unlike me!’

It was a curious thing to say, but it had some hidden meaning, for it filled her eyes with tears.

‘I know I must be right. I know he spoke of her that evening. I could very easily be wrong on any other subject, but not on this, not on this!’

With a quiet and tender hand she put aside a straying fold of the sleeper’s hair, and then touched the hand that lay outside the covering.

‘I like to look at her,’ she breathed to herself. ‘I like to see what has affected him so much.’

She had not withdrawn her hand, when the sleeper opened her eyes and started.

‘Pray don’t be alarmed. I am only one of the travellers from down-stairs. I came to ask if you were better, and if I could do anything for you.’

‘I think you have already been so kind as to send your servants to my assistance?’

‘No, not I; that was my sister. Are you better?’

‘Much better. It is only a slight bruise, and has been well looked to, and is almost easy now. It made me giddy and faint in a moment. It had hurt me before; but at last it overpowered me all at once.’

‘May I stay with you until some one comes? Would you like it?’

‘I should like it, for it is lonely here; but I am afraid you will feel the cold too much.’

‘I don’t mind cold. I am not delicate, if I look so.’ She quickly moved one of the two rough chairs to the bedside, and sat down. The other as quickly moved a part of some travelling wrapper from herself, and drew it over her, so that her arm, in keeping it about her, rested on her shoulder.

‘You have so much the air of a kind nurse,’ said the lady, smiling on her, ‘that you seem as if you had come to me from home.’

‘I am very glad of it.’

‘I was dreaming of home when I woke just now. Of my old home, I mean, before I was married.’

‘And before you were so far away from it.’

‘I have been much farther away from it than this; but then I took the best part of it with me, and missed nothing. I felt solitary as I dropped asleep here, and, missing it a little, wandered back to it.’

There was a sorrowfully affectionate and regretful sound in her voice, which made her visitor refrain from looking at her for the moment.

‘It is a curious chance which at last brings us together, under this covering in which you have wrapped me,’ said the visitor after a pause; ‘for do you know, I think I have been looking for you some time.’

‘Looking for me?’

‘I believe I have a little note here, which I was to give to you whenever I found you. This is it. Unless I greatly mistake, it is addressed to you? Is it not?’

Con un sorriso di disapprovazione, l’ospite alzò e abbassò delicatamente le spalle. Era vero, osservò, ma permettetegli di dire che quasi tutti gli oggetti hanno i loro diversi punti di vista. Lui e Monsieur non vedevano questa povera vita dallo stesso punto di vista. Monsieur, infatti, non era abituato alla reclusione.

“Sì, sì, assolutamente vero,” disse il signore dai capelli grigi. Sembrava essere davvero colpito dalla forza delle argomentazioni presentate.

Signore, essendo un viaggiatore inglese, circondato da tutti i mezzi necessari per viaggiare in modo piacevole; senza dubbio possedendo denaro, carrozze e servitori.

“Perfettamente, perfettamente. Senza alcun >dubbio,” disse il gentiluomo.

Monsieur non riusciva facilmente a mettersi nei panni di una persona che non aveva il potere di scegliere: “Andrò qui domani, o lì il giorno dopo; supererò queste barriere, allargherò quei confini”. Forse Monsieur non riusciva a comprendere come la mente si adattasse, in situazioni del genere, alla forza della necessità.

“È vero,” disse il signore. “Non continueremo ad affrontare questo argomento. Hai ragione, non ho alcun >dubbio al riguardo. Non diremo più nulla.”

Dopo che la cena era finita, lui si allontanò dal tavolo mentre parlava e tornò al suo posto vicino al focolare. Poiché faceva molto freddo nella maggior parte dell’ambiente, anche gli altri ospiti ripresero i loro posti accanto al focolare, intenzionati di brindare a dovere prima di andare a letto. Quando si alzarono dal tavolo, l’ospite fece un inchino a tutti i presenti, augurò loro una buona notte e se ne andò. Ma prima di questo, il viaggiatore insinuante gli aveva chiesto se fosse possibile avere del vino riscaldato; poiché lui aveva risposto di sì e poco dopo lo aveva fatto portare, quel viaggiatore, seduto al centro del gruppo e proprio nel bel mezzo del calore del focolare, iniziò subito a servirlo agli altri.

In quel momento, la più giovane delle due signorine, che aveva ascoltato in silenzio dal suo angolo buio (la luce del fuoco era l’unica fonte di illuminazione nella stanza cupa; la lampada, infatti, emetteva solo una luce fumosa e debole), uscì. Non sapeva in quale direzione andare dopo aver chiuso silenziosamente la porta; ma, dopo un po’ di esitazione tra i corridoi e i vari passaggi, trovò una stanza situata nell’angolo del corridoio principale, dove i servitori stavano cenando. Lì ottenne una lampada e le indicazioni necessarie per raggiungere la camera della signora.

Era al piano di sopra, lungo la grande scalinata. Qui e lì, le pareti bianche e nude erano interrotte da grate di ferro; mentre camminava, pensò che quel posto assomigliasse a una prigione. La porta ad arco della stanza, o cella, della signora non era del tutto chiusa. Dopo aver bussato un paio di volte senza ricevere risposta, la aprì delicatamente e guardò all’interno.

La signora giaceva con gli occhi chiusi sul bordo del letto, protetta dal freddo dalle coperte e dagli strati di stoffa con cui era stata avvolta dopo essersi ripresa dall’incoscienza. Una luce fioca posizionata nell’angolo più remoto della finestra non illuminava molto la stanza ad arco. La visitatrice si avvicinò timidamente al letto e, sussurrando dolcemente, chiese: “Ti senti meglio ora?”

La signora era caduta in un sonno profondo, e il sussurro era troppo basso per svegliarla. Il suo visitatore, fermo immobile, la osservava con attenzione.

“È molto bella,” si disse. “Non ho mai visto un viso così bello. Oh, quanto è diversa da me!”

Era una frase curiosa da dire, ma nascondeva un significato profondo; infatti, fece riempire i suoi occhi di lacrime.

“So che devo avere ragione. So che quella sera ne ha parlato. Potrei facilmente sbagliarmi su qualsiasi altro argomento, ma non su questo. Non su questo!”

Con una mano silenziosa e delicata, sistemò una ciocca di capelli che si era staccata dal copriletto, poi toccò la mano che giaceva al di fuori della copertura.

“Mi piace guardarla,” mormorò tra sé. “Mi piace vedere cosa abbia avuto un tale effetto su di lui.”

Non aveva ancora ritirato la mano, quando la dormiente aprì gli occhi e iniziò a parlare.

“Per favore, non allarmatevi. Sono solo uno dei viaggiatori che sono al piano di sotto. Sono venuto a chiedere se vi sentite meglio e se posso fare qualcosa per voi.”

“Penso che tu abbia già avuto la gentilezza di inviare i tuoi servitori ad aiutarmi, non è vero?”

“No, non sono stato io; era mia sorella. Ti senti meglio ora?”

Molto meglio. È solo un leggero livido, e è stato bene curato; ora quasi non fa più male. All’inizio mi ha fatto girare la testa e ho rischiato di svenire. Prima mi aveva già fatto male, ma questa volta mi ha colpito all’improvviso con tutta la sua forza.

“Posso restare con te fino all’arrivo di qualcuno? Ti andrebbe bene?”

“Mi piacerebbe molto, perché qui è così solitario. Ma temo che tu possa sentire troppo freddo.”

“Non mi dispiace il freddo. Non sono delicata, anche se sembro così.” Si mosse rapidamente, spostando una delle due sedie ruvide vicino al letto e si sedette. Poi tolse in fretta un pezzo di carta da imballaggio che aveva addosso e se lo avvolse attorno, in modo che il braccio, tenuto coperto, potesse appoggiarsi sulla spalla.

“Hai proprio l’aspetto di una gentile infermiera,” disse la signora sorridendole, “sembri quasi essere venuta da me direttamente dalla tua casa.”

“Ne sono molto felice.”

“Stavo sognando la >casa quando mi sono svegliato poco fa. Intendo, la mia vecchia >casa, prima che mi sposassi.”

“E prima che tu ti allontanassi troppo da esso.”

“Sono stato molto più lontano da esso di quanto non lo sia ora; ma in quel momento ho portato con me la parte migliore di esso e non ho perso nulla. Mi sono sentito solo mentre mi addormentavo qui, e, sentendone la mancanza, sono tornato indietro verso di esso.”

C’era nel suo tono di voce un suono pieno di tristezza, affetto e rimpianto, che fece sì che il suo visitatore si astenesse dal guardarla per il momento.

“È una curiosa coincidenza che finalmente ci ha riuniti, sotto questa copertura con cui mi hai avvolto,” disse il visitatore dopo una pausa; “perché sai, credo di averti cercato per un po’ di tempo.”

“Cerca me?”

“Credo di avere qui un biglietto che dovevo darti non appena ti avessi trovato. Ecco qua. A meno che non mi sbagli di molto, è indirizzato a te, vero?”

The lady took it, and said yes, and read it. Her visitor watched her as she did so. It was very short. She flushed a little as she put her lips to her visitor’s cheek, and pressed her hand.

‘The dear young friend to whom he presents me, may be a comfort to me at some time, he says. She is truly a comfort to me the first time I see her.’

‘Perhaps you don’t,’ said the visitor, hesitating—‘perhaps you don’t know my story? Perhaps he never told you my story?’

‘No.’

‘Oh no, why should he! I have scarcely the right to tell it myself at present, because I have been entreated not to do so. There is not much in it, but it might account to you for my asking you not to say anything about the letter here. You saw my family with me, perhaps? Some of them—I only say this to you—are a little proud, a little prejudiced.’

‘You shall take it back again,’ said the other; ‘and then my husband is sure not to see it. He might see it and speak of it, otherwise, by some accident. Will you put it in your bosom again, to be certain?’

She did so with great care. Her small, slight hand was still upon the letter, when they heard some one in the gallery outside.

‘I promised,’ said the visitor, rising, ‘that I would write to him after seeing you (I could hardly fail to see you sooner or later), and tell him if you were well and happy. I had better say you were well and happy.’

‘Yes, yes, yes! Say I was very well and very happy. And that I thanked him affectionately, and would never forget him.’

‘I shall see you in the morning. After that we are sure to meet again before very long. Good night!’

‘Good night. Thank you, thank you. Good night, my dear!’

Both of them were hurried and fluttered as they exchanged this parting, and as the visitor came out of the door. She had expected to meet the lady’s husband approaching it; but the person in the gallery was not he: it was the traveller who had wiped the wine-drops from his moustache with the piece of bread. When he heard the step behind him, he turned round—for he was walking away in the dark.

His politeness, which was extreme, would not allow of the young lady’s lighting herself down-stairs, or going down alone. He took her lamp, held it so as to throw the best light on the stone steps, and followed her all the way to the supper-room. She went down, not easily hiding how much she was inclined to shrink and tremble; for the appearance of this traveller was particularly disagreeable to her. She had sat in her quiet corner before supper imagining what he would have been in the scenes and places within her experience, until he inspired her with an aversion that made him little less than terrific.

He followed her down with his smiling politeness, followed her in, and resumed his seat in the best place in the hearth. There with the wood-fire, which was beginning to burn low, rising and falling upon him in the dark room, he sat with his legs thrust out to warm, drinking the hot wine down to the lees, with a monstrous shadow imitating him on the wall and ceiling.

The tired company had broken up, and all the rest were gone to bed except the young lady’s father, who dozed in his chair by the fire. The traveller had been at the pains of going a long way up-stairs to his sleeping-room to fetch his pocket-flask of brandy. He told them so, as he poured its contents into what was left of the wine, and drank with a new relish.

‘May I ask, sir, if you are on your way to Italy?’

The grey-haired gentleman had roused himself, and was preparing to withdraw. He answered in the affirmative.

‘I also!’ said the traveller. ‘I shall hope to have the honour of offering my compliments in fairer scenes, and under softer circumstances, than on this dismal mountain.’

The gentleman bowed, distantly enough, and said he was obliged to him.

‘We poor gentlemen, sir,’ said the traveller, pulling his moustache dry with his hand, for he had dipped it in the wine and brandy; ‘we poor gentlemen do not travel like princes, but the courtesies and graces of life are precious to us. To your health, sir!’

‘Sir, I thank you.’

‘To the health of your distinguished family—of the fair ladies, your daughters!’

‘Sir, I thank you again, I wish you good night. My dear, are our—ha—our people in attendance?’

‘They are close by, father.’

‘Permit me!’ said the traveller, rising and holding the door open, as the gentleman crossed the room towards it with his arm drawn through his daughter’s. ‘Good repose! To the pleasure of seeing you once more! To to-morrow!’

As he kissed his hand, with his best manner and his daintiest smile, the young lady drew a little nearer to her father, and passed him with a dread of touching him.

‘Humph!’ said the insinuating traveller, whose manner shrunk, and whose voice dropped when he was left alone. ‘If they all go to bed, why I must go. They are in a devil of a hurry. One would think the night would be long enough, in this freezing silence and solitude, if one went to bed two hours hence.’

Throwing back his head in emptying his glass, he cast his eyes upon the travellers’ book, which lay on the piano, open, with pens and ink beside it, as if the night’s names had been registered when he was absent. Taking it in his hand, he read these entries.

William Dorrit, Esquire Frederick Dorrit, Esquire Edward Dorrit, Esquire Miss Dorrit Miss Amy Dorrit Mrs General and Suite. From France to Italy.

Mr and Mrs Henry Gowan. From France to Italy.

To which he added, in a small complicated hand, ending with a long lean flourish, not unlike a lasso thrown at all the rest of the names:

Blandois. Paris. From France to Italy.

And then, with his nose coming down over his moustache and his moustache going up and under his nose, repaired to his allotted cell.

La signora lo prese, disse di sì e lo lesse. Il suo visitatore la osservò mentre lo faceva. Era molto breve. Arrossì leggermente quando posò le labbra sulla guancia del visitatore e gli strinse la mano.

“Quel caro giovane amico che mi presenta, forse potrà consolarmi in qualche momento”, dice. “Davvero è un grande conforto per me la prima volta che la vedo”.

“Forse non la conosci,” disse il visitatore, esitando, “forse non conosci la mia storia. Forse lui non ti ha mai raccontato la mia storia, ”

‘No.’

“Oh no, perché dovrebbe farlo! In questo momento non ho nemmeno il diritto di parlarne io stessa, perché mi è stato chiesto di non farlo. Non c’è nulla di particolare in questa faccenda, ma potrebbe spiegare il motivo per cui vi ho pregato di non dire nulla riguardo a quella lettera. Forse avete visto la mia famiglia con me. Alcuni di loro – ve lo dico solo perché mi fido di voi – sono un po’ orgogliosi, un po’ prevenuti.”

“Dovrai riprenderlo indietro,” disse l’altra; “così mio marito sicuramente non lo vedrà. Potrebbe vederlo e parlarne, per qualche motivo. Lo metterai di nuovo nel tuo seno, per essere sicura?”

Lo fece con grande cura. La sua piccola, delicata mano era ancora posata sulla lettera, quando sentirono qualcuno nella galleria all’esterno.

“Gliel’ho promesso,” disse il visitatore alzandosi, “che gli avrei scritto dopo avervi visto (era impossibile che non vi incontrassi prima o poi), e gli avrei detto se stavate bene e eravate felici. Meglio dire che state bene e siete felici.”

“Sì, sì, sì! Dite che stavo molto bene e che ero molto felice. E che gli ho ringraziato con affetto, e che non lo dimenticherò mai.”

“Ci vedremo domattina. Dopo di allora, sicuramente ci incontreremo di nuovo molto presto. Buona notte!”

“Buona notte. Grazie mille, grazie davvero. Buona notte, mio caro!”

Entrambi erano agitati e nervosi mentre si scambiavano quelle parole d’addio, proprio quando la visita stava per uscire dalla porta. Lei si aspettava di incontrare il marito della signora; ma la persona nella galleria non era lui: era il viaggiatore che aveva pulito le gocce di vino dal suo mustacchio con un pezzo di pane. Quando sentì dei passi alle sue spalle, si girò, perché stava camminando al buio.

La sua estrema cortesia non permetteva alla giovane signora di scendere le scale da sola o di muoversi da sola. Le prese la lampada, la tenne in modo che gettasse la luce migliore sui gradini di pietra e la seguì per tutto il cammino fino alla sala da pranzo. Lei scese, ma non riusciva a nascondere quanto fosse propensa a tremare e a ritrarsi; l’aspetto di questo viaggiatore le risultava particolarmente sgradevole. Prima di cena, si era seduta nel suo angolo tranquillo, immaginando cosa potesse essere stato in tutte quelle situazioni e quei luoghi che aveva conosciuto. Fino a quando lui non suscitò in lei un’avversione tale da renderlo quasi spaventoso.

La seguì con la sua gentilezza e il suo sorriso, entrò insieme a lei e tornò a sedersi nel posto migliore vicino al camino. Lì, davanti al fuoco di legna che iniziava a spegnersi, le fiamme si alzavano e si abbassavano nella stanza buia; lui se ne stava seduto con le gambe distese per riscaldarsi, bevendo il vino caldo fino all’ultima goccia. Sulla parete e sul soffitto, l’immagine della sua enorme ombra lo imitava.

Il gruppo stanco si era disperso; tutti erano andati a letto, tranne il padre della giovane signorina, che sonnecchiava sulla sedia accanto al focolare. Il viaggiatore aveva fatto la fatica di salire fino alla sua camera da letto per prendere la sua fiaschetta di brandy. Lo raccontò loro mentre versava il contenuto della fiaschetta nel poco vino rimasto, bevendo con nuovo piacere.

“Posso chiedervi, signore, se state andando in Italia?”

Il signore dai capelli grigi si era svegliato e stava per andarsene; rispose affermativamente.

“Anch’io!” disse il viaggiatore. “Spero di avere l’onore di fare i miei complimenti in contesti più belli e in circostanze più piacevoli, rispetto a questa triste montagna.”

Il gentiluomo si inchinò, con una certa distanza, e disse di essere in debito con lui.

“Noi poveri gentiluomini, signore,” disse il viaggiatore, asciugandosi la barba con la mano, poiché l’aveva immersa nel vino e nel brandy; “noi poveri gentiluomini non viaggiamo come principi, ma le cortesie e i favori della vita sono preziosi per noi. Alla vostra salute, signore!”

“Signore, la ringrazio.”

“Alla salute della vostra nobile famiglia, delle belle signore, vostre figlie!”

“Signore, la ringrazio ancora una volta; le auguro una buona notte. Caro, sono presenti le nostre, ehm, persone?”

“Sono vicini, padre.”

“Permettetemi!” disse il viaggiatore, alzandosi e tenendo la porta aperta mentre il signore attraversava la stanza dirigendosi verso di essa, con il braccio infilato sotto quello della figlia. “Buon riposo! È un piacere rivedervi ancora. A domani!”

Mentre baciava la sua mano, con i suoi modi più affabili e il suo sorriso più incantevole, la giovane signorina si avvicinò un po’ di più a suo padre, passandogli accanto con timore di toccarlo.

“Humph!”, disse il viaggiatore insinuante; il suo atteggiamento cambiò e la sua voce divenne più bassa quando rimase solo. “Se tutti vanno a letto, allora dovrò andare anch’io. Hanno una fretta terribile. Si potrebbe pensare che questa notte, in questo gelido silenzio e solitudine, sia abbastanza lunga anche se ci si mettesse a letto tra due ore.”

Alzando la testa e svuotando il bicchiere, posò lo sguardo sul diario dei viaggi che giaceva aperto sul pianoforte, con penne e inchiostro accanto; sembrava che i nomi delle persone incontrate quella notte fossero stati registrati mentre lui non c’era. Prendendolo in mano, lesse quelle annotazioni.

William Dorrit, Signore
Frederick Dorrit, Signore
Edward Dorrit, Signore
Miss Dorrit
Miss Amy Dorrit
La Signora Generale
E altri ancora. Da Francia fino all’Italia.

Signor e signora Henry Gowan.
Dalla Francia in Italia.

A cui aggiunse, con una grafia piccola e complicata, che terminava con un lungo movimento ondulato, non molto diverso da un lazo lanciato verso tutti gli altri nomi.

Blandois. Parigi. Dalla Francia all’Italia.

E poi, con il naso che si abbassava sopra la barba e la barba che si muoveva su e giù sotto il naso, fu ricondotto nella sua cella assegnata.

CHAPTER 2. Mrs General

It is indispensable to present the accomplished lady who was of sufficient importance in the suite of the Dorrit Family to have a line to herself in the Travellers’ Book.

Mrs General was the daughter of a clerical dignitary in a cathedral town, where she had led the fashion until she was as near forty-five as a single lady can be. A stiff commissariat officer of sixty, famous as a martinet, had then become enamoured of the gravity with which she drove the proprieties four-in-hand through the cathedral town society, and had solicited to be taken beside her on the box of the cool coach of ceremony to which that team was harnessed. His proposal of marriage being accepted by the lady, the commissary took his seat behind the proprieties with great decorum, and Mrs General drove until the commissary died. In the course of their united journey, they ran over several people who came in the way of the proprieties; but always in a high style and with composure.

The commissary having been buried with all the decorations suitable to the service (the whole team of proprieties were harnessed to his hearse, and they all had feathers and black velvet housings with his coat of arms in the corner), Mrs General began to inquire what quantity of dust and ashes was deposited at the bankers’. It then transpired that the commissary had so far stolen a march on Mrs General as to have bought himself an annuity some years before his marriage, and to have reserved that circumstance in mentioning, at the period of his proposal, that his income was derived from the interest of his money. Mrs General consequently found her means so much diminished, that, but for the perfect regulation of her mind, she might have felt disposed to question the accuracy of that portion of the late service which had declared that the commissary could take nothing away with him.

In this state of affairs it occurred to Mrs General, that she might ‘form the mind,’ and eke the manners of some young lady of distinction. Or, that she might harness the proprieties to the carriage of some rich young heiress or widow, and become at once the driver and guard of such vehicle through the social mazes. Mrs General’s communication of this idea to her clerical and commissariat connection was so warmly applauded that, but for the lady’s undoubted merit, it might have appeared as though they wanted to get rid of her. Testimonials representing Mrs General as a prodigy of piety, learning, virtue, and gentility, were lavishly contributed from influential quarters; and one venerable archdeacon even shed tears in recording his testimony to her perfections (described to him by persons on whom he could rely), though he had never had the honour and moral gratification of setting eyes on Mrs General in all his life.

Thus delegated on her mission, as it were by Church and State, Mrs General, who had always occupied high ground, felt in a condition to keep it, and began by putting herself up at a very high figure. An interval of some duration elapsed, in which there was no bid for Mrs General. At length a county-widower, with a daughter of fourteen, opened negotiations with the lady; and as it was a part either of the native dignity or of the artificial policy of Mrs General (but certainly one or the other) to comport herself as if she were much more sought than seeking, the widower pursued Mrs General until he prevailed upon her to form his daughter’s mind and manners.

The execution of this trust occupied Mrs General about seven years, in the course of which time she made the tour of Europe, and saw most of that extensive miscellany of objects which it is essential that all persons of polite cultivation should see with other people’s eyes, and never with their own. When her charge was at length formed, the marriage, not only of the young lady, but likewise of her father, the widower, was resolved on. The widower then finding Mrs General both inconvenient and expensive, became of a sudden almost as much affected by her merits as the archdeacon had been, and circulated such praises of her surpassing worth, in all quarters where he thought an opportunity might arise of transferring the blessing to somebody else, that Mrs General was a name more honourable than ever.

The phoenix was to let, on this elevated perch, when Mr Dorrit, who had lately succeeded to his property, mentioned to his bankers that he wished to discover a lady, well-bred, accomplished, well connected, well accustomed to good society, who was qualified at once to complete the education of his daughters, and to be their matron or chaperon. Mr Dorrit’s bankers, as bankers of the county-widower, instantly said, ‘Mrs General.’

Pursuing the light so fortunately hit upon, and finding the concurrent testimony of the whole of Mrs General’s acquaintance to be of the pathetic nature already recorded, Mr Dorrit took the trouble of going down to the county of the county-widower to see Mrs General, in whom he found a lady of a quality superior to his highest expectations.

‘Might I be excused,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘if I inquired—ha—what remune—’

‘Why, indeed,’ returned Mrs General, stopping the word, ‘it is a subject on which I prefer to avoid entering. I have never entered on it with my friends here; and I cannot overcome the delicacy, Mr Dorrit, with which I have always regarded it. I am not, as I hope you are aware, a governess—’

‘O dear no!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Pray, madam, do not imagine for a moment that I think so.’ He really blushed to be suspected of it.

Mrs General gravely inclined her head. ‘I cannot, therefore, put a price upon services which it is a pleasure to me to render if I can render them spontaneously, but which I could not render in mere return for any consideration. Neither do I know how, or where, to find a case parallel to my own. It is peculiar.’

No doubt. But how then (Mr Dorrit not unnaturally hinted) could the subject be approached?

‘I cannot object,’ said Mrs General—‘though even that is disagreeable to me—to Mr Dorrit’s inquiring, in confidence of my friends here, what amount they have been accustomed, at quarterly intervals, to pay to my credit at my bankers’.’

Mr Dorrit bowed his acknowledgements.

‘Permit me to add,’ said Mrs General, ‘that beyond this, I can never resume the topic. Also that I can accept no second or inferior position. If the honour were proposed to me of becoming known to Mr Dorrit’s family—I think two daughters were mentioned?—’

‘Two daughters.’

‘I could only accept it on terms of perfect equality, as a companion, protector, Mentor, and friend.’

Mr Dorrit, in spite of his sense of his importance, felt as if it would be quite a kindness in her to accept it on any conditions. He almost said as much.

‘I think,’ repeated Mrs General, ‘two daughters were mentioned?’

‘Two daughters,’ said Mr Dorrit again.

‘It would therefore,’ said Mrs General, ‘be necessary to add a third more to the payment (whatever its amount may prove to be), which my friends here have been accustomed to make to my bankers’.’

Mr Dorrit lost no time in referring the delicate question to the county-widower, and finding that he had been accustomed to pay three hundred pounds a-year to the credit of Mrs General, arrived, without any severe strain on his arithmetic, at the conclusion that he himself must pay four. Mrs General being an article of that lustrous surface which suggests that it is worth any money, he made a formal proposal to be allowed to have the honour and pleasure of regarding her as a member of his family. Mrs General conceded that high privilege, and here she was.

In person, Mrs General, including her skirts which had much to do with it, was of a dignified and imposing appearance; ample, rustling, gravely voluminous; always upright behind the proprieties. She might have been taken—had been taken—to the top of the Alps and the bottom of Herculaneum, without disarranging a fold in her dress, or displacing a pin. If her countenance and hair had rather a floury appearance, as though from living in some transcendently genteel Mill, it was rather because she was a chalky creation altogether, than because she mended her complexion with violet powder, or had turned grey. If her eyes had no expression, it was probably because they had nothing to express. If she had few wrinkles, it was because her mind had never traced its name or any other inscription on her face. A cool, waxy, blown-out woman, who had never lighted well.

Mrs General had no opinions. Her way of forming a mind was to prevent it from forming opinions. She had a little circular set of mental grooves or rails on which she started little trains of other people’s opinions, which never overtook one another, and never got anywhere. Even her propriety could not dispute that there was impropriety in the world; but Mrs General’s way of getting rid of it was to put it out of sight, and make believe that there was no such thing. This was another of her ways of forming a mind—to cram all articles of difficulty into cupboards, lock them up, and say they had no existence. It was the easiest way, and, beyond all comparison, the properest.

Mrs General was not to be told of anything shocking. Accidents, miseries, and offences, were never to be mentioned before her. Passion was to go to sleep in the presence of Mrs General, and blood was to change to milk and water. The little that was left in the world, when all these deductions were made, it was Mrs General’s province to varnish. In that formation process of hers, she dipped the smallest of brushes into the largest of pots, and varnished the surface of every object that came under consideration. The more cracked it was, the more Mrs General varnished it.

There was varnish in Mrs General’s voice, varnish in Mrs General’s touch, an atmosphere of varnish round Mrs General’s figure. Mrs General’s dreams ought to have been varnished—if she had any—lying asleep in the arms of the good Saint Bernard, with the feathery snow falling on his house-top.

CAPITOLO 2. LA SIGNORA GENERALE

È indispensabile presentare questa signora di rilievo, che occupava un posto così importante nella cerchia della famiglia Dorrit da meritare una propria voce nel “Libro dei Viaggiatori”.

La signora Generale era figlia di un alto funzionario ecclesiastico in una città cattedrale; lì aveva guidato la moda fino a quando non ebbe raggiunto quasi i quarantacinque anni, l’età massima per una donna del suo rango. Un rigido ufficiale dei commissariati, di sessanta anni e famoso per la sua severità, si innamorò della dignità con cui lei gestiva le formalità sociali nella vita della città cattedrale; chiese quindi di poter sedere al suo fianco sul palco del carro cerimoniale. Quando la sua proposta di matrimonio fu accettata, l’ufficiale prese il proprio posto con grande decoro, e la signora Generale continuò a guidare fino alla morte dell’ufficiale. Durante il loro viaggio insieme, investirono diverse persone che si pararono davanti al carro; ma sempre in modo elegante e con compostezza.

Il commissario fu sepolto con tutte le onorificenze degne della cerimonia (l’intero corteo funebre era adornato con piume e rivestimenti di velluto nero, e nell’angolo spiccava il suo stemma); la signora generale iniziò allora a chiedere quanta polvere e cenere fossero state depositate presso gli uffici bancari. Si scoprì che il commissario aveva già preso le contromisure necessarie: alcuni anni prima del suo matrimonio si era acquistato un’annuità e, al momento della proposta di matrimonio, aveva menzionato esplicitamente che i suoi introiti provenivano dagli interessi dei suoi risparmi. Di conseguenza, i mezzi finanziari della signora generale si ridussero notevolmente; se non fosse stata per la sua straordinaria capacità di mantenere la calma, avrebbe potuto dubitare dell’accuratezza delle informazioni fornite durante la cerimonia funebre.

In questa situazione, alla Signora Generale venne in mente l’idea di “formare il carattere” e migliorare i modi di alcuna giovane signorina di rango. Oppure, di adattare le proprie qualità al comportamento di qualche ricca ereditiera o vedova, diventando così allo stesso tempo la guida e la protettrice di tale “veicolo” attraverso i meandri della società. Quando la Signora Generale condivise questa idea con i suoi collaboratori amministrativi, ricevette un’accoglienza così entusiasta che, se non fosse stato per i veri meriti della donna, si sarebbe potuto pensare che volessero sbarazzarsi di lei. Testimonianze che descrivevano la Signora Generale come un prodigio di pietà, erudizione, virtù e gentilezza furono numerose e provenivano da ambienti influenti; addirittura un rispettabile arcidiacono versò delle lacrime mentre descriveva le sue perfezioni (raccontategli da persone di sua fiducia), anche se in tutta la sua vita non aveva mai avuto l’onore e la soddisfazione morale di incontrarla di persona.

Avendo ricevuto questa delega per la sua missione, quasi per volere della Chiesa e dello Stato, la signora generale, che aveva sempre occupato una posizione di rilievo, si sentiva in grado di mantenerla e decise subito di presentarsi sotto un’immagine molto elevata. Trascorse un certo periodo senza alcuna proposta da parte di nessuno; alla fine, un vedovo con una figlia quattordicenne iniziò a trattative con lei. Poiché faceva parte sia della dignità naturale che della strategia deliberata della signora generale comportarsi come se fosse molto più desiderata di quanto in realtà lo fosse, il vedovo insistette fino a convincerla ad influenzare la formazione e i modi di comportamento di sua figlia.

L’esecuzione di questa missione occupò la signora generale per circa sette anni; nel corso di questo periodo viaggiò in Europa e visitò gran parte di quegli oggetti straordinari che è essenziale che tutte le persone di cultura coltivata osservino con gli occhi degli altri, e mai con i propri. Quando finalmente la sua missione fu completata, si decise non solo il matrimonio della giovane signorina, ma anche quello di suo padre, il vedovo. Quest’ultimo, trovando la signora generale sia scomoda che costosa da mantenere, iniziò improvvisamente ad apprezzarne i meriti tanto quanto l’arcidiacono aveva fatto prima; diffuse ovunque lodi sul suo straordinario valore, nella speranza di poter un giorno trasferire quella “benedizione” a qualcun altro. Così la signora generale divenne un nome ancora più onorato che mai.

La fenice doveva permettere che, da quel suo alto nido, quando il signor Dorrit, che aveva appena ereditato la sua fortuna, disse ai suoi banchieri di voler trovare una signora di buona famiglia, colta, ben introdotta nella società e abituata alle buone maniere, in grado sia di completare l’educazione]] delle sue figlie che di fare da loro chaperon. I banchieri del signor Dorrit, essendo i banchieri di quel vedovo della contea, risposero immediatamente: “La signora generale”.

Inseguendo quella luce che, per fortuna, aveva incontrato, e trovando che anche tutti gli altri conoscenti della signora generale confermavano la stessa triste verità già registrata in precedenza, il signor Dorrit si prese la briga di recarsi nella contea dove risiedeva quel vedovo per incontrare la signora generale. Scoprì che si trattava di una donna di qualità molto superiore alle sue più alte aspettative.

“Permettetemi di chiedere, ”, disse il signor Dorrit, “qual è la ricompensa, ”

“Davvero,” rispose la signora Generale, interrompendosi, “è un argomento su cui preferisco non soffermarmi. Non ne ho mai parlato con i miei amici qui; e non riesco a superare quella delicatezza con cui l’ho sempre considerato, signor Dorrit. Non sono, come spero sia chiaro anche a voi, una governante, ”

“Oh, no!” disse il signor Dorrit. “Per favore, signora, non pensiate nemmeno per un momento che io possa pensarla così.” Si imbarazzò davvero all’idea di essere sospettato di una cosa del genere.

La signora Generale inclinò gravemente la testa. “Pertanto, non posso fissare un prezzo per dei servizi che mi fa piacere prestare se posso farlo spontaneamente, ma che non potrei prestare in cambio di alcun compenso. Non so nemmeno come o dove trovare un caso simile al mio. È davvero particolare.”

Nessun >dubbio. Ma allora, come si poteva affrontare la questione? (Il signor Dorrit lo suggerì in modo del tutto naturale.)

“Non posso oppormi,” disse la signora Generale – “anche se anche questo mi dispiace. Il fatto che il signor Dorrit, confidando nelle mie amiche qui presenti, indaghi su quanto denaro siano abituati a versare ogni tre mesi a mio credito presso i miei banchieri.”

Il signor Dorrit esprimeva la sua gratitudine con un inchino.

“Permettetemi di aggiungere,” disse la signora Generale, “che oltre a questo non potrò mai più riprendere questa discussione. Inoltre, non accetterò mai una posizione secondaria o inferiore. Se mi venisse offerta l’onore di conoscere la famiglia del signor Dorrit, credo siano menzionate due figlie, ”.

“Due figlie.”

“Potevo accettarlo soltanto sulla base di una perfetta uguaglianza, come compagno, protettore, Mentore e amico.”

Il signor Dorrit, nonostante la sua consapevolezza della propria importanza, pensava che sarebbe stato davvero gentile da parte sua accettarlo, sotto qualsiasi condizione. Quasi lo disse apertamente.

“Credo,” ripeté la signora Generale, “che siano state menzionate due figlie, ”

“Due figlie,” disse di nuovo il signor Dorrit.

“Pertanto,” disse la signora generale, “sarebbe necessario aggiungere un terzo importo al pagamento (indipendentemente da quale sia la sua entità), che i miei amici qui sono abituati a effettuare ai miei banchieri.”

Il signor Dorrit non perse tempo nel sollevare questa delicata questione con il vedovo della contea; scoprendo che quest’ultimo era abituato a versare trecento sterline all’anno a favore della signora Generale, giunse, senza alcuna difficoltà aritmetica, alla conclusione che lui stesso dovesse pagare quattrocento sterline. Poiché la signora Generale rappresentava quel tipo di persona il cui aspetto suggeriva che valesse molto, fece una proposta formale per avere l’onore e il piacere di considerarla un membro della sua famiglia. La signora Generale acconsentì a questo alto privilegio, ed eccola qui.

Di persona, la signora generale – comprese le sue gonne, che avevano molto a che fare con il suo aspetto – appariva dignitosa e imponente: ampia, frusciante, di notevoli dimensioni; sempre eretta e rispettosa delle convenzioni sociali. Si sarebbe potuta portare in cima agli Alpi o sul fondo di Ercolano senza che nemmeno una piega del suo abito si alterasse, né un fermaglio si spostasse. Se il suo viso e i suoi capelli avevano un aspetto un po’ “farinoso”, come se provenissero da qualche ambiente estremamente raffinato, era probabilmente perché era davvero una donna dall’aspetto pallido e senza vita, piuttosto che perché si truccasse con polvere di viola o avesse i capelli grigi. Se i suoi occhi non esprimevano alcuna emozione, forse era perché semplicemente non avevano nulla da esprimere. E se aveva poche rughe, probabilmente era perché la sua mente non aveva mai “tracciato” alcun segno o “iscrizione” sul suo viso. Una donna fredda, gelida, senza vita, che probabilmente non aveva mai conosciuto il vero calore umano.

La signora Generale non aveva opinioni personali. Il suo modo di “formare un pensiero” consisteva nel impedire che tale pensiero si formasse davvero. Possedeva una sorta di struttura mentale circolare, simile a binari su cui faceva scorrere le opinioni altrui; queste opinioni, però, non si incrociavano mai tra loro e non portavano da nessuna parte. Nemmeno la sua stessa idea di “correttezza” poteva negare l’esistenza di comportamenti inappropriati nel mondo; ma il modo in cui la signora Generale affrontava questa realtà era semplicemente ignorarla, fingendo che non esistesse affatto. Questo rappresentava un altro dei suoi metodi per “formare un pensiero”: nascondere tutti gli aspetti difficili della vita in qualche angolo nascosto, chiuderli a chiave e dichiarare che non esistessero più. Era il modo più facile, e, senza dubbio, il più “corretto”.

Non doveva essere detto nulla di scioccante alla signora generale. Incidenti, miserie e offese non dovevano mai essere menzionati davanti a lei. La passione doveva “addormentarsi” in sua presenza, e il sangue doveva trasformarsi in latte e acqua. Quello che rimaneva nel mondo, dopo tutte queste eliminazioni, spettava alla signora generale “incarnare” in qualcosa di bello. In quel suo processo di trasformazione, immergeva le sue piccole pennelle nei più grandi contenitori e rivestiva la superficie di ogni oggetto che venisse preso in considerazione. Più un oggetto era crepato, più la signora generale lo “incarnava” con il suo tocco.

C’era una sorta di “laccio” nella voce della Signora Generale, nel suo modo di comportarsi; un’atmosfera di artificialità circondava la sua figura. Anche i sogni della Signora Generale, se ne aveva, dovevano essere “incapsulati” in quella patina superficiale. Mentre dormiva tra le braccia del buon San Bernardo, con la neve soffice che cadeva sulla cima della sua casa.

CHAPTER 3. On the Road

The bright morning sun dazzled the eyes, the snow had ceased, the mists had vanished, the mountain air was so clear and light that the new sensation of breathing it was like the having entered on a new existence. To help the delusion, the solid ground itself seemed gone, and the mountain, a shining waste of immense white heaps and masses, to be a region of cloud floating between the blue sky above and the earth far below.

Some dark specks in the snow, like knots upon a little thread, beginning at the convent door and winding away down the descent in broken lengths which were not yet pieced together, showed where the Brethren were at work in several places clearing the track. Already the snow had begun to be foot-thawed again about the door. Mules were busily brought out, tied to the rings in the wall, and laden; strings of bells were buckled on, burdens were adjusted, the voices of drivers and riders sounded musically. Some of the earliest had even already resumed their journey; and, both on the level summit by the dark water near the convent, and on the downward way of yesterday’s ascent, little moving figures of men and mules, reduced to miniatures by the immensity around, went with a clear tinkling of bells and a pleasant harmony of tongues.

In the supper-room of last night, a new fire, piled upon the feathery ashes of the old one, shone upon a homely breakfast of loaves, butter, and milk. It also shone on the courier of the Dorrit family, making tea for his party from a supply he had brought up with him, together with several other small stores which were chiefly laid in for the use of the strong body of inconvenience. Mr Gowan and Blandois of Paris had already breakfasted, and were walking up and down by the lake, smoking their cigars.

‘Gowan, eh?’ muttered Tip, otherwise Edward Dorrit, Esquire, turning over the leaves of the book, when the courier had left them to breakfast. ‘Then Gowan is the name of a puppy, that’s all I have got to say! If it was worth my while, I’d pull his nose. But it isn’t worth my while—fortunately for him. How’s his wife, Amy? I suppose you know. You generally know things of that sort.’

‘She is better, Edward. But they are not going to-day.’

‘Oh! They are not going to-day! Fortunately for that fellow too,’ said Tip, ‘or he and I might have come into collision.’

‘It is thought better here that she should lie quiet to-day, and not be fatigued and shaken by the ride down until to-morrow.’

‘With all my heart. But you talk as if you had been nursing her. You haven’t been relapsing into (Mrs General is not here) into old habits, have you, Amy?’

He asked her the question with a sly glance of observation at Miss Fanny, and at his father too.

‘I have only been in to ask her if I could do anything for her, Tip,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘You needn’t call me Tip, Amy child,’ returned that young gentleman with a frown; ‘because that’s an old habit, and one you may as well lay aside.’

‘I didn’t mean to say so, Edward dear. I forgot. It was so natural once, that it seemed at the moment the right word.’

‘Oh yes!’ Miss Fanny struck in. ‘Natural, and right word, and once, and all the rest of it! Nonsense, you little thing! I know perfectly well why you have been taking such an interest in this Mrs Gowan. You can’t blind me.’

‘I will not try to, Fanny. Don’t be angry.’

‘Oh! angry!’ returned that young lady with a flounce. ‘I have no patience’ (which indeed was the truth).

‘Pray, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, raising his eyebrows, ‘what do you mean? Explain yourself.’

‘Oh! Never mind, Pa,’ replied Miss Fanny, ‘it’s no great matter. Amy will understand me. She knew, or knew of, this Mrs Gowan before yesterday, and she may as well admit that she did.’

‘My child,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning to his younger daughter, ‘has your sister—any—ha—authority for this curious statement?’

‘However meek we are,’ Miss Fanny struck in before she could answer, ‘we don’t go creeping into people’s rooms on the tops of cold mountains, and sitting perishing in the frost with people, unless we know something about them beforehand. It’s not very hard to divine whose friend Mrs Gowan is.’

‘Whose friend?’ inquired her father.

‘Pa, I am sorry to say,’ returned Miss Fanny, who had by this time succeeded in goading herself into a state of much ill-usage and grievance, which she was often at great pains to do: ‘that I believe her to be a friend of that very objectionable and unpleasant person, who, with a total absence of all delicacy, which our experience might have led us to expect from him, insulted us and outraged our feelings in so public and wilful a manner on an occasion to which it is understood among us that we will not more pointedly allude.’

‘Amy, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, tempering a bland severity with a dignified affection, ‘is this the case?’

Little Dorrit mildly answered, yes it was.

‘Yes it is!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘Of course! I said so! And now, Pa, I do declare once for all’—this young lady was in the habit of declaring the same thing once for all every day of her life, and even several times in a day—‘that this is shameful! I do declare once for all that it ought to be put a stop to. Is it not enough that we have gone through what is only known to ourselves, but are we to have it thrown in our faces, perseveringly and systematically, by the very person who should spare our feelings most? Are we to be exposed to this unnatural conduct every moment of our lives? Are we never to be permitted to forget? I say again, it is absolutely infamous!’

‘Well, Amy,’ observed her brother, shaking his head, ‘you know I stand by you whenever I can, and on most occasions. But I must say, that, upon my soul, I do consider it rather an unaccountable mode of showing your sisterly affection, that you should back up a man who treated me in the most ungentlemanly way in which one man can treat another. And who,’ he added convincingly, ‘must be a low-minded thief, you know, or he never could have conducted himself as he did.’

CAPITOLO 3. Sulla strada

Il luminoso sole mattutino abbagliava gli occhi; la neve si era fermata di cadere, le nebbie erano scomparse; l’aria di montagna era così limpida e leggera che respirarla sembrava significare entrare in una nuova esistenza. Per alimentare questa illusione, persino il terreno solido pareva essere scomparso: la montagna, un vasto spazio formato da enormi cumuli e masse bianche scintillanti, sembrava piuttosto una regione di nuvole che galleggiavano tra il cielo azzurro sopra e la terra lontana sotto.

Alcune macchie scure nella neve, simili a nodi su un filo sottile, che iniziavano dalla porta del convento e si snodavano lungo il sentiero in tratti spezzati ancora non uniti tra loro, indicavano i punti in cui i Fratelli stavano lavorando per liberare il passaggio. Già la Snowneve intorno alla porta aveva iniziato a sciogliersi. I muli venivano frettolosamente portati fuori, legati ai anelli fissati sul muro e caricati; catene di campane venivano agganciate, i carichi sistemati con cura, e le voci dei conducenti e dei viaggiatori risuonavano armoniose. Alcuni dei primi viaggiatori avevano già ripreso il loro viaggio; sia sulla sommità pianeggiante vicino all’oscura acqua accanto al convento, che lungo il sentiero discendente della salita di ieri, piccole figure umane e muli, ridotte a dimensioni minuscole dall’enormità del paesaggio circostante, si muovevano accompagnate dal chiaro tintinnio delle campane e da una piacevole armonia di voci.

Nella sala da pranzo della scorsa notte, un nuovo fuoco, acceso sulle ceneri dell’antico, illuminava una semplice colazione composta da pane, burro e latte. Quel fuoco rischiarava anche il servitore della famiglia Dorrit, che preparava il tè per i suoi compagni utilizzando le provviste che aveva portato con sé, insieme ad altre piccole scorte destinate principalmente alle esigenze del robusto corpo di quel giovane. Mr Gowan e Blandois di Parigi avevano già fatto colazione ed erano intenti a passeggiare lungo il lago, fumando i loro sigari.

“Gowan, eh?” mormorò Tip; in realtà si chiamava Edward Dorrit, Esquire. Mentre sfogliava le pagine del libro, dopo che il corriere se n’era andato a fare colazione, pensò: “Allora Gowan è il nome di un cucciolo. Nient’altro da dire! Se ne valesse la pena, gli tirerei il naso. Ma non ne vale la pena. Fortunatamente per lui. E sua moglie, Amy? Immagino che tu lo sappia. Di solito sai queste cose.”

“Sta meglio, Edward. Ma non andranno oggi.”

“Oh! Non partiranno oggi! Per fortuna anche per quel tizio,” disse Tip, “altrimenti lui e io avremmo potuto finire per scontrarci.”

Si ritiene che oggi sia meglio che lei rimanga tranquilla, senza farsi stancare né sconvolgere dal viaggio di oggi fino a domani.

“Con tutto il mio cuore. Ma parli come se tu l’avessi allattata tu stessa. Non hai ripreso quelle vecchie abitudini, vero, Amy?”

Le pose quella domanda lanciando uno sguardo astuto verso la signorina Fanny, e anche verso suo padre.

“Sono venuto solo per chiederle se posso fare qualcosa per lei, Tip,” disse Little Dorrit.

“Non c’è bisogno che mi chiami Tip, Amy bambina”, rispose quel giovane gentiluomo con un sopracciglio corrugato; “perché è un vecchio vizio, e potresti benissimo abbandonarlo”.

“Non volevo dire così, caro Edward. Me ne sono dimenticata. Era così naturale, che in quel momento mi è sembrato il termine giusto da usare.”

‘Oh sì!’ intervenne Miss Fanny. ‘Parola perfetta, naturale e appropriata. Assurdo, piccola mia! So benissimo perché ti interessa così tanto questa signora Gowan. Non puoi ingannarmi.’

“Non proverò nemmeno, Fanny. Non arrabbiarti.”

“Oh, arrabbiata!” rispose quella giovane signorina con un gesto di irritazione. “Non ho pazienza” (e in effetti questa era la verità).

“Prega, Fanny,” disse il signor Dorrit, alzando le sopracciglia, “che cosa intendi? Spiegati.”

“Oh! Non importa, papà,” rispose la signorina Fanny, “non è niente di grave. Amy mi capirà. Lei conosceva, o almeno sapeva qualcosa riguardo a questa signora Gowan prima di ieri, e potrebbe benissimo ammetterlo.”

“Mia figlia,” disse il signor Dorrit, rivolgendosi alla sua figlia minore, “ha tua sorella, qualche autorità per fare questa strana affermazione?”

“Per quanto possiamo essere umili,” intervenne Miss Fanny prima che lei potesse rispondere, “non entriamo di nascosto nelle stanze delle persone in cima a freddi montagne, né ci sediamo nel gelo insieme a loro, a meno che non sappiamo già qualcosa su di loro. Non è poi così difficile indovinare chi sia l’amica della signora Gowan.”

“Di chi è l’amico?” chiese suo padre.

“Papà, mi dispiace molto dirlo,” rispose Miss Fanny, che ormai era riuscita a mettersi in una situazione di grande disagio e dolore, cosa che spesso cercava con grande impegno di fare: “credo infatti che lei sia amica proprio di quella persona così sgradevole e offensiva, la quale, priva completamente di ogni delicatezza – qualcosa che la nostra esperienza ci avrebbe potuto far aspettare da lei – ci ha insultato e offeso i sentimenti in modo così pubblico e deliberato, in un’occasione su cui tutti noi concordiamo nel non voler più fare riferimenti espliciti.”

“Amy, mia figlia”, disse il signor Dorrit, mescolando una severità moderata con un affetto dignitoso, “è davvero così?”

La piccola Dorrit rispose dolcemente: “Sì, lo era.”

“Sì, lo è!” gridò Miss Fanny. “Certo che lo è! L’avevo detto! E ora, papà, dichiaro una volta per tutte. Questa giovane signora aveva l’abitudine di dichiarare la stessa cosa ogni giorno della sua vita, e a volte anche più volte al giorno: ‘È vergognoso! Dichiaro una volta per tutte che bisogna porre fine a tutto questo’. Non basta forse che abbiamo già vissuto esperienze di cui solo noi conosciamo i dettagli? Dobbiamo davvero subire costantemente e sistematicamente queste umiliazioni proprio da parte della persona che dovrebbe rispettare di più i nostri sentimenti? Dovremo essere esposti a questo comportamento innaturale in ogni momento della nostra vita? Non ci sarà mai permesso di dimenticare tutto questo? Ripeto: è assolutamente infame!”

“Beh, Amy,” osservò suo fratello scuotendo la testa, “tu sai che sono sempre al tuo fianco ogni volta che posso, e nella maggior parte delle occasioni. Ma devo dire che, per quanto mi riguarda, ritengo davvero che sia un modo piuttosto irragionevole di dimostrare il tuo affetto fraterno sostenere un uomo che si è comportato con me in modo assolutamente scortese. E poi,” aggiunse con convinzione, “deve essere sicuramente un ladro meschino. Altrimenti non avrebbe mai potuto comportarsi in quel modo.”

‘And see,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘see what is involved in this! Can we ever hope to be respected by our servants? Never. Here are our two women, and Pa’s valet, and a footman, and a courier, and all sorts of dependents, and yet in the midst of these, we are to have one of ourselves rushing about with tumblers of cold water, like a menial! Why, a policeman,’ said Miss Fanny, ‘if a beggar had a fit in the street, could but go plunging about with tumblers, as this very Amy did in this very room before our very eyes last night!’

‘I don’t so much mind that, once in a way,’ remarked Mr Edward; ‘but your Clennam, as he thinks proper to call himself, is another thing.’

‘He is part of the same thing,’ returned Miss Fanny, ‘and of a piece with all the rest. He obtruded himself upon us in the first instance. We never wanted him. I always showed him, for one, that I could have dispensed with his company with the greatest pleasure. He then commits that gross outrage upon our feelings, which he never could or would have committed but for the delight he took in exposing us; and then we are to be demeaned for the service of his friends! Why, I don’t wonder at this Mr Gowan’s conduct towards you. What else was to be expected when he was enjoying our past misfortunes—gloating over them at the moment!’

‘Father—Edward—no indeed!’ pleaded Little Dorrit. ‘Neither Mr nor Mrs Gowan had ever heard our name. They were, and they are, quite ignorant of our history.’

‘So much the worse,’ retorted Fanny, determined not to admit anything in extenuation, ‘for then you have no excuse. If they had known about us, you might have felt yourself called upon to conciliate them. That would have been a weak and ridiculous mistake, but I can respect a mistake, whereas I can’t respect a wilful and deliberate abasing of those who should be nearest and dearest to us. No. I can’t respect that. I can do nothing but denounce that.’

‘I never offend you wilfully, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘though you are so hard with me.’

‘Then you should be more careful, Amy,’ returned her sister. ‘If you do such things by accident, you should be more careful. If I happened to have been born in a peculiar place, and under peculiar circumstances that blunted my knowledge of propriety, I fancy I should think myself bound to consider at every step, “Am I going, ignorantly, to compromise any near and dear relations?” That is what I fancy I should do, if it was my case.’

Mr Dorrit now interposed, at once to stop these painful subjects by his authority, and to point their moral by his wisdom.

‘My dear,’ said he to his younger daughter, ‘I beg you to—ha—to say no more. Your sister Fanny expresses herself strongly, but not without considerable reason. You have now a—hum—a great position to support. That great position is not occupied by yourself alone, but by—ha—by me, and—ha hum—by us. Us. Now, it is incumbent upon all people in an exalted position, but it is particularly so on this family, for reasons which I—ha—will not dwell upon, to make themselves respected. To be vigilant in making themselves respected. Dependants, to respect us, must be—ha—kept at a distance and—hum—kept down. Down. Therefore, your not exposing yourself to the remarks of our attendants by appearing to have at any time dispensed with their services and performed them for yourself, is—ha—highly important.’

‘Why, who can doubt it?’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘It’s the essence of everything.’

‘Fanny,’ returned her father, grandiloquently, ‘give me leave, my dear. We then come to—ha—to Mr Clennam. I am free to say that I do not, Amy, share your sister’s sentiments—that is to say altogether—hum— altogether—in reference to Mr Clennam. I am content to regard that individual in the light of—ha—generally—a well-behaved person. Hum. A well-behaved person. Nor will I inquire whether Mr Clennam did, at any time, obtrude himself on—ha—my society. He knew my society to be—hum—sought, and his plea might be that he regarded me in the light of a public character. But there were circumstances attending my—ha—slight knowledge of Mr Clennam (it was very slight), which,’ here Mr Dorrit became extremely grave and impressive, ‘would render it highly indelicate in Mr Clennam to—ha—to seek to renew communication with me or with any member of my family under existing circumstances. If Mr Clennam has sufficient delicacy to perceive the impropriety of any such attempt, I am bound as a responsible gentleman to—ha—defer to that delicacy on his part. If, on the other hand, Mr Clennam has not that delicacy, I cannot for a moment—ha—hold any correspondence with so—hum—coarse a mind. In either case, it would appear that Mr Clennam is put altogether out of the question, and that we have nothing to do with him or he with us. Ha—Mrs General!’

The entrance of the lady whom he announced, to take her place at the breakfast-table, terminated the discussion. Shortly afterwards, the courier announced that the valet, and the footman, and the two maids, and the four guides, and the fourteen mules, were in readiness; so the breakfast party went out to the convent door to join the cavalcade.

Mr Gowan stood aloof with his cigar and pencil, but Mr Blandois was on the spot to pay his respects to the ladies. When he gallantly pulled off his slouched hat to Little Dorrit, she thought he had even a more sinister look, standing swart and cloaked in the snow, than he had in the fire-light over-night. But, as both her father and her sister received his homage with some favour, she refrained from expressing any distrust of him, lest it should prove to be a new blemish derived from her prison birth.

Nevertheless, as they wound down the rugged way while the convent was yet in sight, she more than once looked round, and descried Mr Blandois, backed by the convent smoke which rose straight and high from the chimneys in a golden film, always standing on one jutting point looking down after them. Long after he was a mere black stick in the snow, she felt as though she could yet see that smile of his, that high nose, and those eyes that were too near it. And even after that, when the convent was gone and some light morning clouds veiled the pass below it, the ghastly skeleton arms by the wayside seemed to be all pointing up at him.

“E vedete,” disse la signorina Fanny, “vedete cosa comporta tutto questo! Possiamo mai sperare di essere rispettati dai nostri servitori? Mai. Ecco le nostre due donne, il valletto di nostro padre, un cameriere, un corriere e ogni sorta di dipendenti. Eppure, nonostante tutto ciò, dobbiamo essere noi stessi a correre in giro con secchi d’acqua fredda, come se fossimo servitori! Perbacco,” aggiunse la signorina Fanny, “se un mendicante avesse un attacco per strada, potrebbe forse andare in giro a portargli secchi d’acqua, proprio come ha fatto Amy in questa stanza, davanti ai nostri occhi, la scorsa notte?”

“Non mi dispiace poi così tanto, in un certo senso,” osservò il signor Edward; “ma quel tuo Clennam, come lui stesso preferisce farsi chiamare, è un’altra questione.”

“Fa parte della stessa cosa,” rispose Miss Fanny, “e è collegato a tutto il resto. Ci si è imposto fin dall’inizio; non lo volevamo affatto. Gli ho sempre dimostrato che avrei potuto fare a meno della sua compagnia con grande piacere. Poi commette quell’offesa gravissima ai nostri sentimenti, una cosa che non avrebbe mai fatto se non per il piacere che provava nel metterci in imbarazzo; e ora dobbiamo anche subire umiliazioni a causa dei suoi amici! Non mi meraviglio affatto del comportamento di questo signor Gowan verso di te. Che altro ci si poteva aspettare, visto che si compiaceva delle nostre sfortune passate, godendosene in quel momento?”

“Padre. Edward, no, assolutamente no!” supplicò la piccola Dorrit. “Né il signor né la signora Gowan avevano mai sentito il nostro nome. Non conoscevano, e non conoscono ancora, nulla della nostra storia.”

“Anche peggio,” ribatté Fanny, decisa a non ammettere nulla che potesse attenuare la colpa, “perché in quel caso non hai alcuna scusa. Se avessero saputo di noi, forse ti sarebbe sembrato dover cercare di riconciliarli. Sarebbe stato un errore debole e ridicolo, ma posso rispettare un errore; invece, non riesco a rispettare una deliberata umiliazione di coloro che dovrebbero essere i più vicini e i più cari a noi. No. Non posso rispettare una cosa del genere. Posso solo denunciarla.”

“Non ti offendo mai intenzionalmente, Fanny,” disse Little Dorrit, “anche se sei così dura con me.”

“Allora dovresti essere più attenta, Amy,” le rispose sua sorella. “Se fai queste cose per sbaglio, dovresti davvero stare più attenta. Se per caso fossi nata in un posto particolare, e in circostanze insolite che avessero indebolito la mia conoscenza delle convenzioni sociali, credo che penserei sempre, a ogni passo che faccio: ‘Sto forse, senza saperlo, mettendo a rischio qualcuno a me caro?’ È quello che credo io farei, se fosse il mio caso.”

Ora il signor Dorrit intervenne immediatamente per porre fine a queste argomentazioni dolorose con la sua autorità e per indicare loro il significato morale attraverso la sua saggezza.

“Mia cara,” le disse il padre, “ti prego di, ah, di non dire più nulla. Tua sorella Fanny si esprime con forza, ma non senza valide ragioni. Ora tu occupi una posizione molto importante da mantenere. Questa posizione non è ricoperta soltanto da te, sola, ma anche da me, e da noi. È dovere di chi si trova in una posizione elevata, soprattutto in questa famiglia – per motivi che non intendo approfondire – mantenere la propria rispettabilità. Bisogna essere attenti a far sì che ci si rispetti. Coloro che dipendono da noi devono essere tenuti a distanza, e, sotto controllo. Pertanto, è di estrema importanza che tu non ti esponga ai commenti dei nostri servitori, fingendo di poter fare da sola tutto ciò di cui hanno bisogno.”

“Perché, chi potrebbe metterlo in dubbio?”, esclamò la signorina Fanny. “È l’essenza di tutto.”

“Fanny,” rispose suo padre in tono solenne, “permettimi di dirtelo, cara mia. Parliamo ora del signor Clennam. Devo essere franco: non condivido affatto i sentimenti di tua sorella riguardo a lui. Credo che sia una persona perbene, ma non intendo indagare se in passato abbia cercato di avvicinarsi a me o a membri della mia famiglia. Le circostanze relative alla mia scarsa conoscenza di lui renderebbero assolutamente inappropriato da parte sua tentare di ristabilire un contatto con noi, nelle attuali condizioni. Se il signor Clennam possiede la delicatezza necessaria per comprendere l’inappropriatezza di un simile comportamento, sono certo che rispetterà tale considerazione. Altrimenti, non posso assolutamente intrattenere alcuna corrispondenza con una persona così poco raffinata. In ogni caso, sembra evidente che il signor Clennam non debba essere preso in considerazione. Non abbiamo nulla da fare né con lui né con la sua famiglia. Ah. Signora Generale!”

L’arrivo della signora di cui aveva annunciato l’arrivo, per prendere il suo posto al tavolo della colazione, pose fine alla discussione. Poco dopo, il messaggero comunicò che il valletto, il cameriere, le due cameriere, i quattro guide e i quattordici muli erano pronti; così il gruppo per la colazione uscì dalla porta del convento per unirsi alla cavalcata.

Il signor Gowan stava in disparte, con il suo sigaro e la sua penna; il signor Blandois, invece, si affrettò ad esprimere i suoi rispetti alle signore. Quando, con galanteria, si tolse il cappello davanti a Little Dorrit, lei pensò che avesse un aspetto ancora più sinistro, con quel volto scuro e avvolto nella neve, di quanto non lo avesse sotto la luce del fuoco quella notte. Tuttavia, poiché sia suo padre che sua sorella accettarono con favore i suoi omaggi, lei si trattenne dal manifestare alcun sospetto nei suoi confronti, per non correre il rischio di aggiungere un altro difetto al proprio passato, legato alla propria nascita in prigione.

Tuttavia, mentre percorrevano quel sentiero accidentato e il convento era ancora in vista, lei si voltò più volte indietro e riconobbe il signor Blandois: avvolto nella fumo che si alzava dritto e alto dalle ciminiere in una nuvola dorata, sembrava sempre stare fermo su un punto sporgente, guardandoli mentre si allontanavano. Anche molto tempo dopo, quando lui non era più altro che un’ombra nera nella neve, lei aveva ancora l’impressione di poter vedere quel suo sorriso, quel naso prominente e quegli occhi, troppo vicini tra loro. E anche dopo, quando il convento scomparve e alcune nuvole chiare del mattino velarono la valle sottostante, quelle orribili braccia scheletriche lungo il sentiero sembravano ancora puntare tutte verso di lui.

More treacherous than snow, perhaps, colder at heart, and harder to melt, Blandois of Paris by degrees passed out of her mind, as they came down into the softer regions. Again the sun was warm, again the streams descending from glaciers and snowy caverns were refreshing to drink at, again they came among the pine-trees, the rocky rivulets, the verdant heights and dales, the wooden chalets and rough zigzag fences of Swiss country. Sometimes the way so widened that she and her father could ride abreast. And then to look at him, handsomely clothed in his fur and broadcloths, rich, free, numerously served and attended, his eyes roving far away among the glories of the landscape, no miserable screen before them to darken his sight and cast its shadow on him, was enough.

Her uncle was so far rescued from that shadow of old, that he wore the clothes they gave him, and performed some ablutions as a sacrifice to the family credit, and went where he was taken, with a certain patient animal enjoyment, which seemed to express that the air and change did him good. In all other respects, save one, he shone with no light but such as was reflected from his brother. His brother’s greatness, wealth, freedom, and grandeur, pleased him without any reference to himself. Silent and retiring, he had no use for speech when he could hear his brother speak; no desire to be waited on, so that the servants devoted themselves to his brother. The only noticeable change he originated in himself, was an alteration in his manner to his younger niece. Every day it refined more and more into a marked respect, very rarely shown by age to youth, and still more rarely susceptible, one would have said, of the fitness with which he invested it. On those occasions when Miss Fanny did declare once for all, he would take the next opportunity of baring his grey head before his younger niece, and of helping her to alight, or handing her to the carriage, or showing her any other attention, with the profoundest deference. Yet it never appeared misplaced or forced, being always heartily simple, spontaneous, and genuine. Neither would he ever consent, even at his brother’s request, to be helped to any place before her, or to take precedence of her in anything. So jealous was he of her being respected, that, on this very journey down from the Great Saint Bernard, he took sudden and violent umbrage at the footman’s being remiss to hold her stirrup, though standing near when she dismounted; and unspeakably astonished the whole retinue by charging at him on a hard-headed mule, riding him into a corner, and threatening to trample him to death.

They were a goodly company, and the Innkeepers all but worshipped them. Wherever they went, their importance preceded them in the person of the courier riding before, to see that the rooms of state were ready. He was the herald of the family procession. The great travelling-carriage came next: containing, inside, Mr Dorrit, Miss Dorrit, Miss Amy Dorrit, and Mrs General; outside, some of the retainers, and (in fine weather) Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for whom the box was reserved. Then came the chariot containing Frederick Dorrit, Esquire, and an empty place occupied by Edward Dorrit, Esquire, in wet weather. Then came the fourgon with the rest of the retainers, the heavy baggage, and as much as it could carry of the mud and dust which the other vehicles left behind.

These equipages adorned the yard of the hotel at Martigny, on the return of the family from their mountain excursion. Other vehicles were there, much company being on the road, from the patched Italian Vettura—like the body of a swing from an English fair put upon a wooden tray on wheels, and having another wooden tray without wheels put atop of it—to the trim English carriage. But there was another adornment of the hotel which Mr Dorrit had not bargained for. Two strange travellers embellished one of his rooms.

The Innkeeper, hat in hand in the yard, swore to the courier that he was blighted, that he was desolated, that he was profoundly afflicted, that he was the most miserable and unfortunate of beasts, that he had the head of a wooden pig. He ought never to have made the concession, he said, but the very genteel lady had so passionately prayed him for the accommodation of that room to dine in, only for a little half-hour, that he had been vanquished. The little half-hour was expired, the lady and gentleman were taking their little dessert and half-cup of coffee, the note was paid, the horses were ordered, they would depart immediately; but, owing to an unhappy destiny and the curse of Heaven, they were not yet gone.

Nothing could exceed Mr Dorrit’s indignation, as he turned at the foot of the staircase on hearing these apologies. He felt that the family dignity was struck at by an assassin’s hand. He had a sense of his dignity, which was of the most exquisite nature. He could detect a design upon it when nobody else had any perception of the fact. His life was made an agony by the number of fine scalpels that he felt to be incessantly engaged in dissecting his dignity.

‘Is it possible, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, reddening excessively, ‘that you have—ha—had the audacity to place one of my rooms at the disposition of any other person?’

Thousands of pardons! It was the host’s profound misfortune to have been overcome by that too genteel lady. He besought Monseigneur not to enrage himself. He threw himself on Monseigneur for clemency. If Monseigneur would have the distinguished goodness to occupy the other salon especially reserved for him, for but five minutes, all would go well.

‘No, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not occupy any salon. I will leave your house without eating or drinking, or setting foot in it. How do you dare to act like this? Who am I that you—ha—separate me from other gentlemen?’

Forse ancora più traditore della neve, più freddo nel cuore e più difficile da sciogliere. Man mano che scendevano verso le regioni più dolci, il nome di Blandois di Parigi iniziò gradualmente a svanire dalla sua mente. Di nuovo il sole era caldo; di nuovo i ruscelli che scorrevano dai ghiacciai e dalle caverne innevate erano rinfrescanti da bere; di nuovo si trovarono tra pini, ruscelli rocciosi, altipiani verdi e valli, chalet in legno e recinzioni irregolari tipiche della Svizzera. A volte il sentiero si allargava tanto che lei e suo padre potevano viaggiare fianco a fianco. E bastava guardarlo: vestito con abiti eleganti di pelliccia e stoffe pregiate, ricco, libero, servito e accompagnato da molte persone. I suoi occhi si perdevano tra le meraviglie del paesaggio; non c’era nulla che oscurasse la sua vista o gettasse un’ombra su di lui.

Suo zio era ormai stato completamente liberato da quella vecchia ombra del passato; indossava i vestiti che gli erano stati dati, si lavava con cura come segno di rispetto per la reputazione della famiglia, e andava ovunque lo portassero con una sorta di pacata accettazione, come se l’aria fresca e il cambiamento lo facessero stare bene. In tutti gli altri aspetti, tranne uno, non emanava alcuna luce propria, ma soltanto quella riflessa da suo fratello. La grandezza, la ricchezza, la libertà e lo splendore di suo fratello lo rendevano felice, senza che ciò riguardasse lui personalmente. Silenzioso e riservato, non aveva bisogno di parlare quando sentiva suo fratello esprimersi; non desiderava alcun servizio da parte dei domestici, i quali si dedicavano interamente a suo fratello. L’unica modifica che egli stesso apportò nel proprio comportamento fu quella nei confronti della sua nipote più giovane: ogni giorno il suo rispetto per lei diventava sempre più profondo, un sentimento raramente dimostrato dall’età verso i giovani, e ancora più raro, si potrebbe dire, nell’intensità con cui lo esprimeva. Ogni volta che Miss Fanny faceva qualcosa di particolare, lui coglieva l’occasione per mostrare il massimo rispetto: le aiutava a scendere da cavallo, la accompagnava alla carrozza o le prestava qualsiasi altra attenzione con estrema deferenza. Tuttavia, questo comportamento non sembrava mai forzato o artificioso, ma sempre sincero e spontaneo. Nemmeno su richiesta di suo fratello avrebbe mai accettato di essere preceduto da lei in alcun contesto. Era così geloso che il rispetto per lei fosse rispettato correttamente, che durante quel viaggio lungo il Great Saint Bernard si arrabbiò violentemente quando un servitore trascurò di tenere fermo lo stivale della nipote mentre lei scendeva da cavallo; si avventò su di lui a cavallo di un mulo, lo spinse in un angolo e minacciò di calpestarlo a morte. L’intera compagnia rimase estremamente sorpresa da questo comportamento inaspettato.

Erano un gruppo davvero notevole, e gli ostieri li trattavano quasi con venerazione. Ovunque andassero, la loro importanza veniva resa evidente dalla presenza del messaggero che li precedeva per assicurarsi che le stanze destinate alle cerimonie fossero pronte. Quest’ultimo rappresentava, in qualche modo, l’insegna della processione familiare. Subito dopo arrivava il grande carro viaggiante, all’interno del quale si trovavano il signor Dorrit, la signorina Dorrit, la signorina Amy Dorrit e la moglie del generale; all’esterno c’erano alcuni dei servitori, e (in tempo sereno) Edward Dorrit, che occupava un posto riservato per lui. Poi seguiva il carro con Frederick Dorrit, e in caso di pioggia un altro posto vuoto veniva utilizzato da Edward Dorrit. Infine arrivava il furgone con il resto dei servitori, i bagagli pesanti, e tutto ciò che gli altri veicoli lasciavano dietro di sé: fango e polvere.

Questi veicoli decoravano il cortile dell’hotel a Martigny, al ritorno della famiglia dal loro viaggio in montagna. C’erano anche altri mezzi: molta gente viaggiava su quella strada, e i veicoli andavano dai semplici carri italiani – con un telaio simile a quello di una altalena proveniente da una fiera inglese, montato su un carrello in legno con ruote, e sopra cui veniva posto un altro carrello in legno senza ruote – fino alle eleganti carrozze inglesi. Ma c’era anche un’altra “decorazione” dell’hotel che il signor Dorrit non aveva previsto. Due strani viaggiatori abbellivano una delle sue stanze.

Il locandiere, con il cappello in mano nel cortile, giurò al messaggero di essere distrutto, devastato, profondamente afflitto, che fosse la creatura più miserabile e sfortunata del mondo, che avesse persino la testa di un maiale di legno. Disse che non avrebbe mai dovuto cedere, ma quella signora così gentile aveva pregato con tale fervore perché le concedesse quella stanza per pranzare, solo per mezz’ora, che alla fine era stato costretto ad acconsentire. Quella mezz’ora era ormai trascorsa; la signora e il suo accompagnatore stavano gustando il dolce e bevendo un mezzo bicchiere di caffè, avevano pagato, ordinato i cavalli, avrebbero partito subito, ma, a causa di una sfortunata sorte e della maledizione del cielo, non erano ancora andati via.

Niente poteva superare l’indignazione del signor Dorrit quando, all’inizio della scala, udì queste scuse. Sentiva che la dignità della sua famiglia venisse attaccata da un “assassino”. Aveva una profonda consapevolezza della propria dignità, di una natura estremamente delicata e preziosa; riusciva a percepire delle intenzioni malevole contro di essa, mentre nessun altro se ne accorgeva. La sua vita diventava un vero inferno a causa di tutte quelle “fine lame” che, secondo lui, continuavano incessantemente a “dissezionare” la sua dignità.

“È possibile, signore,” disse il signor Dorrit, arrossendo terribilmente, “che lei abbia avuto l’audacia di mettere a disposizione di qualcun altro una delle mie stanze?”

Migliaia di perdoni! Fu una vera sfortuna per l’ospite essere sopraffatto da quella signora troppo raffinata. Pregò Monseigneur di non arrabbiarsi; si gettò ai suoi piedi implorando clemenza. Se solo Monseigneur avesse avuto la nobile gentilezza di occupare l’altro salone riservatogli, anche solo per cinque minuti, tutto sarebbe andato bene.

“No, signore,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Non occuperò alcun salone. Lascierò la vostra >casa senza mangiare né bere, e senza metterci piede dentro. Come osate comportarvi in questo modo? Chi sono io per voi da dovermi separare dagli altri gentiluomini?”

Alas! The host called all the universe to witness that Monseigneur was the most amiable of the whole body of nobility, the most important, the most estimable, the most honoured. If he separated Monseigneur from others, it was only because he was more distinguished, more cherished, more generous, more renowned.

‘Don’t tell me so, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit, in a mighty heat. ‘You have affronted me. You have heaped insults upon me. How dare you? Explain yourself.’

Ah, just Heaven, then, how could the host explain himself when he had nothing more to explain; when he had only to apologise, and confide himself to the so well-known magnanimity of Monseigneur!

‘I tell you, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, panting with anger, ‘that you separate me—ha—from other gentlemen; that you make distinctions between me and other gentlemen of fortune and station. I demand of you, why? I wish to know on—ha—what authority, on whose authority. Reply sir. Explain. Answer why.’

Permit the landlord humbly to submit to Monsieur the Courier then, that Monseigneur, ordinarily so gracious, enraged himself without cause. There was no why. Monsieur the Courier would represent to Monseigneur, that he deceived himself in suspecting that there was any why, but the why his devoted servant had already had the honour to present to him. The very genteel lady—

‘Silence!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Hold your tongue! I will hear no more of the very genteel lady; I will hear no more of you. Look at this family—my family—a family more genteel than any lady. You have treated this family with disrespect; you have been insolent to this family. I’ll ruin you. Ha—send for the horses, pack the carriages, I’ll not set foot in this man’s house again!’

No one had interfered in the dispute, which was beyond the French colloquial powers of Edward Dorrit, Esquire, and scarcely within the province of the ladies. Miss Fanny, however, now supported her father with great bitterness; declaring, in her native tongue, that it was quite clear there was something special in this man’s impertinence; and that she considered it important that he should be, by some means, forced to give up his authority for making distinctions between that family and other wealthy families. What the reasons of his presumption could be, she was at a loss to imagine; but reasons he must have, and they ought to be torn from him.

All the guides, mule-drivers, and idlers in the yard, had made themselves parties to the angry conference, and were much impressed by the courier’s now bestirring himself to get the carriages out. With the aid of some dozen people to each wheel, this was done at a great cost of noise; and then the loading was proceeded with, pending the arrival of the horses from the post-house.

But the very genteel lady’s English chariot being already horsed and at the inn-door, the landlord had slipped up-stairs to represent his hard case. This was notified to the yard by his now coming down the staircase in attendance on the gentleman and the lady, and by his pointing out the offended majesty of Mr Dorrit to them with a significant motion of his hand.

‘Beg your pardon,’ said the gentleman, detaching himself from the lady, and coming forward. ‘I am a man of few words and a bad hand at an explanation—but lady here is extremely anxious that there should be no Row. Lady—a mother of mine, in point of fact—wishes me to say that she hopes no Row.’

Mr Dorrit, still panting under his injury, saluted the gentleman, and saluted the lady, in a distant, final, and invincible manner.

‘No, but really—here, old feller; you!’ This was the gentleman’s way of appealing to Edward Dorrit, Esquire, on whom he pounced as a great and providential relief. ‘Let you and I try to make this all right. Lady so very much wishes no Row.’

Edward Dorrit, Esquire, led a little apart by the button, assumed a diplomatic expression of countenance in replying, ‘Why you must confess, that when you bespeak a lot of rooms beforehand, and they belong to you, it’s not pleasant to find other people in ‘em.’

‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know it isn’t. I admit it. Still, let you and I try to make it all right, and avoid Row. The fault is not this chap’s at all, but my mother’s. Being a remarkably fine woman with no bigodd nonsense about her—well educated, too—she was too many for this chap. Regularly pocketed him.’

‘If that’s the case—’ Edward Dorrit, Esquire, began.

‘Assure you ‘pon my soul ‘tis the case. Consequently,’ said the other gentleman, retiring on his main position, ‘why Row?’

‘Edmund,’ said the lady from the doorway, ‘I hope you have explained, or are explaining, to the satisfaction of this gentleman and his family that the civil landlord is not to blame?’

‘Assure you, ma’am,’ returned Edmund, ‘perfectly paralysing myself with trying it on.’ He then looked steadfastly at Edward Dorrit, Esquire, for some seconds, and suddenly added, in a burst of confidence, ‘Old feller! Is it all right?’

‘I don’t know, after all,’ said the lady, gracefully advancing a step or two towards Mr Dorrit, ‘but that I had better say myself, at once, that I assured this good man I took all the consequences on myself of occupying one of a stranger’s suite of rooms during his absence, for just as much (or as little) time as I could dine in. I had no idea the rightful owner would come back so soon, nor had I any idea that he had come back, or I should have hastened to make restoration of my ill-gotten chamber, and to have offered my explanation and apology. I trust in saying this—’

For a moment the lady, with a glass at her eye, stood transfixed and speechless before the two Miss Dorrits. At the same moment, Miss Fanny, in the foreground of a grand pictorial composition, formed by the family, the family equipages, and the family servants, held her sister tight under one arm to detain her on the spot, and with the other arm fanned herself with a distinguished air, and negligently surveyed the lady from head to foot.

Ahimè! L’ospite chiamò l’intero universo a testimoniare che Monsignore era il più amabile di tutta la nobiltà, il più importante, il più stimato, il più onorato. Se lo separava dagli altri, era soltanto perché era più distinto, più amato, più generoso, più rinomato.

“Non ditemi questo, signore,” rispose il signor Dorrit, con grande indignazione. “Mi avete offeso, mi avete riversato addosso insulti. Come osate? Spiegatevi.”

Ah, allora soltanto il Cielo poteva spiegare tutto. Come avrebbe potuto il padrone di casa giustificarsi, quando non aveva più nulla da spiegare; quando doveva semplicemente scusarsi e affidarsi alla così ben nota magnanimità di Monsignore!

“Vi dico, signore,” disse il signor Dorrit, ansimando per la rabbia, “che voi mi separate dagli altri gentiluomini; che fate distinzioni tra me e gli altri gentiluomini di fortuna e status. Vi chiedo: perché? Voglio sapere su quale autorità, con quale fondamento. Rispondete, signore. Spiegatevi. Ditemi il motivo.”

Permettete che il padrone di casa si umili e si presenti a Monsieur le Courrier, affinché quest’ultimo, solitamente così gentile, non si arrabbi senza motivo. Non c’era alcuna ragione. Monsieur le Courrier avrebbe potuto spiegare a Monsieur che si era ingannato sospettando l’esistenza di un motivo, quando in realtà il suo devoto servitore aveva già avuto l’onore di presentarglielo. Quella signora davvero distinta.

“‘Silenzio!’ gridò il signor Dorrit. ‘Taci! Non voglio sentire più parlare di quella signora così ‘gentile’; non voglio sentire più parlare di te. Guardate questa famiglia, la mia famiglia: una famiglia più rispettabile di qualsiasi signora. Avete trattato questa famiglia con disprezzo, siete stati insolenzi con lei. Vi distruggerò. Ah, chiamate i cavalli, preparate le carrozze; non metterò più piede in questa casa!’”

Nessuno si era intromesso nella disputa, che andava ben oltre le capacità colloquiali di Edward Dorrit, Esquire, e quasi nemmeno rientrava nel campo d’azione delle signore. Tuttavia, Miss Fanny ora sosteneva suo padre con grande determinazione; dichiarando, nella sua lingua madre, che era assolutamente evidente ci fosse qualcosa di particolare nell’arroganza di quell’uomo, e che riteneva importante costringerlo, in qualche modo, a rinunciare al diritto di fare distinzioni tra quella famiglia e le altre famiglie ricche. Non riusciva a immaginare quali potessero essere le ragioni della sua presunzione, ma sicuramente ne aveva, e dovevano essere strappate via da lui.

Tutti i guide, i conducenti di mule e gli oziosi presenti nel cortile avevano partecipato a quella furiosa riunione ed erano molto impressionati dal fatto che il messaggero si stesse ora impegnando attivamente per far uscire le carrozze. Con l’aiuto di una dozzina di persone per ogni ruota, ci riuscirono, producendo un gran rumore; in seguito iniziarono il carico, in attesa dell’arrivo dei cavalli dalla posta.

Ma la carrozza inglese di quella signora così raffinata era già pronta e davanti all’ingresso dell’ostello; il proprietario era salito di sopra per esporre la sua difficile situazione. Questo fu comunicato al personale del cortile dallo stesso proprietario, che stava scendendo le scale insieme al gentiluomo e alla signora, indicando loro con un gesto significativo la “maestà offesa” del signor Dorrit.

“Perdonatemi,” disse il gentiluomo, staccandosi dalla signora e avvicinandosi. “Sono una persona poco loquace e non sono bravo a spiegare le cose. Ma questa signora desidera ardentemente che non ci siano problemi. In realtà, si tratta di mia madre. Vorrebbe che io dicessi che non si aspetta alcun problema.”

Il signor Dorrit, ancora ansimante a causa della sua ferita, salutò il gentiluomo e anche la signora, in un modo distaccato, definitivo e irremovibile.

“No, ma davvero. Ehi, vecchio mio, sei tu!” Questo era il modo in cui quel gentiluomo cercava di rivolgersi a Edward Dorrit, signore di campagna, che considerava una grande e provvidenziale soluzione ai suoi problemi. “Lascia che tu ed io cerchiamo di risolvere tutto questo. La signora non desidera assolutamente alcun problema.”

Edward Dorrit, Esquire, con il bottone che gli sporgeva leggermente dal gilet, assunse un’espressione diplomatica mentre rispondeva: “Devo ammettere che, quando si prenotano in anticipo molte stanze e queste appartengono proprio a noi, non è affatto piacevole trovarci altre persone al loro interno.”

“No,” disse l’altro, “so che non è così. Lo ammetto. Comunque, proviamo insieme a risolvere tutto e a evitare Row. La colpa non è affatto di questo ragazzo, ma di mia madre. Essendo una donna davvero eccezionale, senza alcuna sciocchezza, e anche molto istruita, era troppo per lui. Lo prendeva regolarmente in giro.”

“Se è così, ” cominciò Edward Dorrit, signore di campagna.

“Vi assicuro che è proprio così, per la mia ‘anima. Pertanto,” disse l’altro gentiluomo, tornando alla sua posizione iniziale, “perché remare allora?”

“‘Edmund,’ disse la signora dalla soglia, ‘spero che tu abbia spiegato, o stia spiegando, in modo soddisfacente per questo gentiluomo e la sua famiglia, che il proprietario civile non è da biasimare.’”

“Vi assicuro, signora,” rispose Edmund, “mi paralizzerò completamente se ci provo.” Poi fissò per alcuni secondi Edward Dorrit, Esquire, e improvvisamente, con un impeto di fiducia, aggiunse: “Vecchio mio. Va tutto bene?”

“Non lo so davvero,” disse la signora, avanzando con grazia di uno o due passi verso il signor Dorrit, “ma credo sia meglio che io stessa dichiari subito che ho assicurato a questo gentiluomo di assumermi tutte le conseguenze derivanti dall’occupare una delle sue stanze durante la sua assenza, per il periodo esattamente necessario a consumare un pasto. Non avevo idea che il legittimo proprietario sarebbe tornato così presto, né sapevo affatto che fosse già tornato; altrimenti avrei immediatamente restituito la stanza e presentato le mie scuse. Spero di aver espresso chiaramente questo concetto, ”

Per un momento, la signora, con un bicchiere davanti agli occhi, rimase immobile e senza parole di fronte alle due Miss Dorrit. Nello stesso istante, Miss Fanny, al centro di una grandiosa scena composta dalla famiglia, dalle carrozze e dai domestici, teneva stretta sua sorella con un braccio per impedirle di andarsene, mentre con l’altro si soffiava sul viso con aria distinta, osservando la signora con noncuranza da capo a piedi.

The lady, recovering herself quickly—for it was Mrs Merdle and she was not easily dashed—went on to add that she trusted in saying this, she apologised for her boldness, and restored this well-behaved landlord to the favour that was so very valuable to him. Mr Dorrit, on the altar of whose dignity all this was incense, made a gracious reply; and said that his people should—ha—countermand his horses, and he would—hum—overlook what he had at first supposed to be an affront, but now regarded as an honour. Upon this the bosom bent to him; and its owner, with a wonderful command of feature, addressed a winning smile of adieu to the two sisters, as young ladies of fortune in whose favour she was much prepossessed, and whom she had never had the gratification of seeing before.

Not so, however, Mr Sparkler. This gentleman, becoming transfixed at the same moment as his lady-mother, could not by any means unfix himself again, but stood stiffly staring at the whole composition with Miss Fanny in the Foreground. On his mother saying, ‘Edmund, we are quite ready; will you give me your arm?’ he seemed, by the motion of his lips, to reply with some remark comprehending the form of words in which his shining talents found the most frequent utterance, but he relaxed no muscle. So fixed was his figure, that it would have been matter of some difficulty to bend him sufficiently to get him in the carriage-door, if he had not received the timely assistance of a maternal pull from within. He was no sooner within than the pad of the little window in the back of the chariot disappeared, and his eye usurped its place. There it remained as long as so small an object was discernible, and probably much longer, staring (as though something inexpressibly surprising should happen to a codfish) like an ill-executed eye in a large locket.

This encounter was so highly agreeable to Miss Fanny, and gave her so much to think of with triumph afterwards, that it softened her asperities exceedingly. When the procession was again in motion next day, she occupied her place in it with a new gaiety; and showed such a flow of spirits indeed, that Mrs General looked rather surprised.

Little Dorrit was glad to be found no fault with, and to see that Fanny was pleased; but her part in the procession was a musing part, and a quiet one. Sitting opposite her father in the travelling-carriage, and recalling the old Marshalsea room, her present existence was a dream. All that she saw was new and wonderful, but it was not real; it seemed to her as if those visions of mountains and picturesque countries might melt away at any moment, and the carriage, turning some abrupt corner, bring up with a jolt at the old Marshalsea gate.

To have no work to do was strange, but not half so strange as having glided into a corner where she had no one to think for, nothing to plan and contrive, no cares of others to load herself with. Strange as that was, it was far stranger yet to find a space between herself and her father, where others occupied themselves in taking care of him, and where she was never expected to be. At first, this was so much more unlike her old experience than even the mountains themselves, that she had been unable to resign herself to it, and had tried to retain her old place about him. But he had spoken to her alone, and had said that people—ha—people in an exalted position, my dear, must scrupulously exact respect from their dependents; and that for her, his daughter, Miss Amy Dorrit, of the sole remaining branch of the Dorrits of Dorsetshire, to be known to—hum—to occupy herself in fulfilling the functions of—ha hum—a valet, would be incompatible with that respect. Therefore, my dear, he—ha—he laid his parental injunctions upon her, to remember that she was a lady, who had now to conduct herself with—hum—a proper pride, and to preserve the rank of a lady; and consequently he requested her to abstain from doing what would occasion—ha—unpleasant and derogatory remarks. She had obeyed without a murmur. Thus it had been brought about that she now sat in her corner of the luxurious carriage with her little patient hands folded before her, quite displaced even from the last point of the old standing ground in life on which her feet had lingered.

It was from this position that all she saw appeared unreal; the more surprising the scenes, the more they resembled the unreality of her own inner life as she went through its vacant places all day long. The gorges of the Simplon, its enormous depths and thundering waterfalls, the wonderful road, the points of danger where a loose wheel or a faltering horse would have been destruction, the descent into Italy, the opening of that beautiful land as the rugged mountain-chasm widened and let them out from a gloomy and dark imprisonment—all a dream—only the old mean Marshalsea a reality. Nay, even the old mean Marshalsea was shaken to its foundations when she pictured it without her father. She could scarcely believe that the prisoners were still lingering in the close yard, that the mean rooms were still every one tenanted, and that the turnkey still stood in the Lodge letting people in and out, all just as she well knew it to be.

With a remembrance of her father’s old life in prison hanging about her like the burden of a sorrowful tune, Little Dorrit would wake from a dream of her birth-place into a whole day’s dream. The painted room in which she awoke, often a humbled state-chamber in a dilapidated palace, would begin it; with its wild red autumnal vine-leaves overhanging the glass, its orange-trees on the cracked white terrace outside the window, a group of monks and peasants in the little street below, misery and magnificence wrestling with each other upon every rood of ground in the prospect, no matter how widely diversified, and misery throwing magnificence with the strength of fate. To this would succeed a labyrinth of bare passages and pillared galleries, with the family procession already preparing in the quadrangle below, through the carriages and luggage being brought together by the servants for the day’s journey. Then breakfast in another painted chamber, damp-stained and of desolate proportions; and then the departure, which, to her timidity and sense of not being grand enough for her place in the ceremonies, was always an uneasy thing. For then the courier (who himself would have been a foreign gentleman of high mark in the Marshalsea) would present himself to report that all was ready; and then her father’s valet would pompously induct him into his travelling-cloak; and then Fanny’s maid, and her own maid (who was a weight on Little Dorrit’s mind—absolutely made her cry at first, she knew so little what to do with her), would be in attendance; and then her brother’s man would complete his master’s equipment; and then her father would give his arm to Mrs General, and her uncle would give his to her, and, escorted by the landlord and Inn servants, they would swoop down-stairs. There, a crowd would be collected to see them enter their carriages, which, amidst much bowing, and begging, and prancing, and lashing, and clattering, they would do; and so they would be driven madly through narrow unsavoury streets, and jerked out at the town gate.

La signora, riprendendosi rapidamente – poiché si trattava della signora Merdle e non era facile sconvolgerla – aggiunse che, confidando molto in ciò che stava dicendo, si scusava per la sua audacia e ristabiliva così il favore di quel padrone di casa così ben educato, tanto prezioso per lui. Il signor Dorrit, il cui onore era l’unico obiettivo di tutto questo comportamento, rispose con gentilezza, dicendo che avrebbe fatto ritirare i cavalli e che avrebbe ignorato ciò che inizialmente aveva considerato un affronto, ma che ora vedeva come un onore. A queste parole, la signora si avvicinò a lui; con grande abilità nel controllare i propri lineamenti del viso, rivolse alle due sorelle un sorriso cordiale di addio, considerandole giovani donne ricche e di buona famiglia, verso le quali provava grande simpatia, anche se non aveva mai avuto l’opportunità di conoscerle personalmente.

No, invece, signor Sparkler. Questo gentiluomo, immobilizzato nello stesso istante della sua matrigna, non riuscì in alcun modo a riprendersi; rimase fermo a fissare l’intera scena, con Miss Fanny in primo piano. Quando sua madre disse: “Edmund, siamo pronti; mi darà il braccio?”, sembrò rispondere con un movimento delle labbra, come se stesse pronunciando qualcosa che esprimesse al meglio i suoi straordinari talenti, ma non mosse nemmeno un muscolo. Era così immobile che sarebbe stato difficile farlo entrare nella carrozza, se non fosse stata l’aiutante della madre a spingerlo dall’interno. Appena fu dentro, la piccola finestra sul retro della carrozza scomparve, e il suo sguardo ne prese il posto. Rimase fermo lì, finché fu possibile distinguere quell’oggetto minuscolo, e probabilmente anche molto più a lungo, fissando con uno sguardo attonito (come se dovesse accadere qualcosa di incredibilmente sorprendente, ) come un occhio mal realizzato all’interno di una grande scatola.

Questo incontro fu estremamente piacevole per la signorina Fanny, e le fornì molti motivi di gioia e soddisfazione in seguito, tanto che mitigò notevolmente il suo carattere aspro. Il giorno dopo, quando la processione riprese il suo cammino, lei occupò il proprio posto con una nuova allegria; dimostrava davvero un tale spirito vivace che la signora generale sembrò piuttosto sorpresa.

Little Dorrit era felice di non essere trovata in colpa e di vedere che Fanny era contenta; ma il suo ruolo nella processione fu uno di riflessione, un ruolo silenzioso. Seduta di fronte a suo padre nel vagone viaggiante, ricordando la vecchia stanza di Marshalsea, la sua attuale esistenza le sembrava un >sogno. Tutto ciò che vedeva era nuovo e meraviglioso, ma non reale; le pareva che quelle visioni di montagne e paesaggi pittoreschi potessero svanire da un momento all’altro, e che il vagone, girando improvvisamente un angolo, la riportasse con uno scossone alla vecchia porta di Marshalsea.

Non avere nulla da fare era strano, ma non certo quanto il fatto di ritrovarsi in una situazione in cui nessuno aveva bisogno di lei per pensare, pianificare o prendersi cura di qualcosa; in cui non doveva affrontare le preoccupazioni altrui. Per quanto strano fosse, ancora più sorprendente era scoprire di aver creato uno spazio tra sé e suo padre, uno spazio in cui gli altri si occupavano di lui, senza che nessuno si aspettasse mai la sua presenza lì. All’inizio, questa situazione le sembrava così diversa da tutto ciò a cui era abituata che non riusciva ad accettarla e cercava disperatamente di mantenere il proprio ruolo precedente al suo fianco. Ma lui le aveva parlato in privato, spiegandole che le persone in posizioni elevate devono esigere rispetto dai propri dipendenti; che per lei, sua figlia, la signorina Amy Dorrit, l’unica rimasta della famiglia Dorrit del Dorsetshire, sarebbe stato incompatibile con tale rispetto comportarsi come un servitore. Pertanto le aveva imposto di ricordare sempre di essere una signora, di comportarsi con dignità e di mantenere il proprio rango sociale; le aveva chiesto inoltre di evitare qualsiasi azione potesse suscitare commenti spiacevoli o denigratori. Lei aveva obbedito senza protestare. E così ora se ne stava seduta nel suo angolo della lussuosa carrozza, con le mani tranquillamente giunte davanti a sé, completamente esclusa da ogni ruolo che avesse mai avuto nella vita.

Da quella posizione, tutto ciò che vedeva le sembrava irreale; più sorprendenti erano le scene, più assomigliavano all’irrealtà della sua stessa >vita interiore, mentre percorreva quelle lande desolate tutto il giorno. I burroni del Simplon, le loro immense profondità e le cascate fragorose, la meravigliosa strada, i punti pericolosi in cui una ruota mal fissata o un cavallo inciampante avrebbero potuto causare la distruzione, la discesa verso l’Italia, l’apertura di quella bellissima terra man mano che il ripido canyon montano si allargava, liberandoli da una prigione oscura e tetra. Tutto sembrava un >sogno; solo la vecchia e squallida prigione di Marshalsea era realtà. Anzi, anche quella prigione veniva scossa nelle sue fondamenta quando lei la immaginava senza suo padre. A malapena riusciva a credere che i prigionieri fossero ancora rinchiusi nel cortile interno, che quelle stanze squallide fossero ancora tutte occupate, e che il carceriere stesse ancora facendo entrare e uscire le persone, proprio come lei la conosceva bene.

Il ricordo della vecchia vita di suo padre in prigione aleggiava su di lei come il peso di una melodia triste; Little Dorrit si svegliava da sogni legati alla sua terra natale per immergersi in un’intera giornata di fantasie. La stanza dipinta in cui si risvegliava – spesso una semplice sala da ricevimento in un palazzo fatiscente – era il punto di partenza di quelle visioni: i folli rami rossi delle viti autunnali che pendevano sopra i vetri, gli alberi di arancio sul terrazzo bianco crepato fuori dalla finestra, un gruppo di monaci e contadini nella strada sottostante. Miseria e magnificenza si mescolavano in ogni angolo di quella scena, sempre con la miseria a prevalere con la forza del destino. Poi seguiva un labirinto di corridoi spogli e gallerie colonnate; già nel cortile sottostante si preparava la processione familiare: i carri e i bagagli venivano radunati dai servitori per il viaggio di quel giorno. Poi colazione in un’altra stanza dipinta, dalle pareti umide e dalle dimensioni desolate. E infine la partenza: per la sua timidezza e per il senso di non essere abbastanza elegante per il ruolo che le spettava nelle cerimonie, quel momento era sempre pieno di ansia. Il messaggero (che in realtà avrebbe potuto essere un nobile straniero di alto rango) si presentava per annunciare che tutto era pronto; poi il valletto di suo padre lo aiutava con pompa a indossare l’abito da viaggio; seguivano la cameriera di Fanny e la sua stessa cameriera (che rappresentava un vero peso per Little Dorrit. All’inizio le faceva persino piangere, non sapeva proprio come comportarsi con lei), poi il servitore di suo fratello completava l’equipaggiamento del padrone. Infine suo padre prendeva sottobraccio la signora Generale, suo zio faceva lo stesso con lei, e tutti insieme, scortati dal proprietario dell’ostello e dai suoi dipendenti, scendevano le scale. Lì, una folla si radunava per vederli salire sui loro carri. Tra inchini, suppliche, movimenti frenetici e rumori assordanti, partivano poi attraverso strade strette e poco piacevoli, fino ad essere scaricati alla porta della città.

Among the day’s unrealities would be roads where the bright red vines were looped and garlanded together on trees for many miles; woods of olives; white villages and towns on hill-sides, lovely without, but frightful in their dirt and poverty within; crosses by the way; deep blue lakes with fairy islands, and clustering boats with awnings of bright colours and sails of beautiful forms; vast piles of building mouldering to dust; hanging-gardens where the weeds had grown so strong that their stems, like wedges driven home, had split the arch and rent the wall; stone-terraced lanes, with the lizards running into and out of every chink; beggars of all sorts everywhere: pitiful, picturesque, hungry, merry; children beggars and aged beggars. Often at posting-houses and other halting places, these miserable creatures would appear to her the only realities of the day; and many a time, when the money she had brought to give them was all given away, she would sit with her folded hands, thoughtfully looking after some diminutive girl leading her grey father, as if the sight reminded her of something in the days that were gone.

Again, there would be places where they stayed the week together in splendid rooms, had banquets every day, rode out among heaps of wonders, walked through miles of palaces, and rested in dark corners of great churches; where there were winking lamps of gold and silver among pillars and arches, kneeling figures dotted about at confessionals and on the pavements; where there was the mist and scent of incense; where there were pictures, fantastic images, gaudy altars, great heights and distances, all softly lighted through stained glass, and the massive curtains that hung in the doorways. From these cities they would go on again, by the roads of vines and olives, through squalid villages, where there was not a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls, not a window with a whole inch of glass or paper; where there seemed to be nothing to support life, nothing to eat, nothing to make, nothing to grow, nothing to hope, nothing to do but die.

Again they would come to whole towns of palaces, whose proper inmates were all banished, and which were all changed into barracks: troops of idle soldiers leaning out of the state windows, where their accoutrements hung drying on the marble architecture, and showing to the mind like hosts of rats who were (happily) eating away the props of the edifices that supported them, and must soon, with them, be smashed on the heads of the other swarms of soldiers and the swarms of priests, and the swarms of spies, who were all the ill-looking population left to be ruined, in the streets below.

Through such scenes, the family procession moved on to Venice. And here it dispersed for a time, as they were to live in Venice some few months in a palace (itself six times as big as the whole Marshalsea) on the Grand Canal.

In this crowning unreality, where all the streets were paved with water, and where the deathlike stillness of the days and nights was broken by no sound but the softened ringing of church-bells, the rippling of the current, and the cry of the gondoliers turning the corners of the flowing streets, Little Dorrit, quite lost by her task being done, sat down to muse. The family began a gay life, went here and there, and turned night into day; but she was timid of joining in their gaieties, and only asked leave to be left alone.

Sometimes she would step into one of the gondolas that were always kept in waiting, moored to painted posts at the door—when she could escape from the attendance of that oppressive maid, who was her mistress, and a very hard one—and would be taken all over the strange city. Social people in other gondolas began to ask each other who the little solitary girl was whom they passed, sitting in her boat with folded hands, looking so pensively and wonderingly about her. Never thinking that it would be worth anybody’s while to notice her or her doings, Little Dorrit, in her quiet, scared, lost manner, went about the city none the less.

But her favourite station was the balcony of her own room, overhanging the canal, with other balconies below, and none above. It was of massive stone darkened by ages, built in a wild fancy which came from the East to that collection of wild fancies; and Little Dorrit was little indeed, leaning on the broad-cushioned ledge, and looking over. As she liked no place of an evening half so well, she soon began to be watched for, and many eyes in passing gondolas were raised, and many people said, There was the little figure of the English girl who was always alone.

Such people were not realities to the little figure of the English girl; such people were all unknown to her. She would watch the sunset, in its long low lines of purple and red, and its burning flush high up into the sky: so glowing on the buildings, and so lightening their structure, that it made them look as if their strong walls were transparent, and they shone from within. She would watch those glories expire; and then, after looking at the black gondolas underneath, taking guests to music and dancing, would raise her eyes to the shining stars. Was there no party of her own, in other times, on which the stars had shone? To think of that old gate now!

She would think of that old gate, and of herself sitting at it in the dead of the night, pillowing Maggy’s head; and of other places and of other scenes associated with those different times. And then she would lean upon her balcony, and look over at the water, as though they all lay underneath it. When she got to that, she would musingly watch its running, as if, in the general vision, it might run dry, and show her the prison again, and herself, and the old room, and the old inmates, and the old visitors: all lasting realities that had never changed.

Tra le irrealtà di quella giornata c’erano strade su cui viti di un rosso brillante si intrecciavano a formare ghirlande lungo gli alberi per chilometri; boschi di ulivi; bianchi villaggi e città situate sulle pendici delle colline, incantevoli all’aspetto ma terribili nella loro sporcizia e povertà interiore; croci lungo i sentieri; laghi di un blu profondo con isole fatate, e barche raggruppate le une accanto alle altre, con tetti colorati e vele di forme bellissime; enormi cumuli di edifici in rovina, coperti di polvere; giardini pensili dove le erbacce erano cresciute così rigogliose che i loro steli, come chiodi conficcati nel terreno, avevano spezzato gli archi e rotto i muri; strade in pietra con lucertole che correvano dentro e fuori ogni fessura; mendicanti di ogni tipo ovunque: miseri, pittoreschi, affamati, spesso, davanti alle stazioni di posta o in altri luoghi di sosta, queste creature miserabili le sembravano l’unica realtà di quella giornata. Molte volte, quando tutto il denaro che aveva portato con sé per darlo loro era stato dato via, lei si sedeva con le mani giunte, osservando attentamente una bambina piccola che guidava suo padre anziano, come se quell’immagine le ricordasse qualcosa dei tempi passati.

Ancora una volta, c’erano luoghi dove trascorrevano l’intera settimana insieme in stanze splendide, dove ogni giorno si tenevano banchetti, dove cavalcavano tra meraviglie infinite, dove percorrevano chilometri di palazzi e riposavano in angoli oscuri di grandi chiese; luoghi dove c’erano lampade dorate e d’argento tra colonne e archi, figure inginocchiate sparse nei confessionali e sui pavimenti; luoghi avvolti nella nebbia e nel profumo dell’incenso, dove si trovavano dipinti fantastici, altari sgargianti, grandi altezze e distanze, tutto illuminato dolcemente dalle vetrate colorate e dai pesanti tendaggi appesi alle porte. Da questi luoghi ripartivano poi lungo strade fiancheggiate da viti e ulivi, attraverso villaggi squallidi, dove non esisteva una sola capanna senza crepe nelle sue pareti luride, nessuna finestra con nemmeno un centimetro di vetro o carta intatta; luoghi in cui sembrava non esserci nulla che potesse sostenere la vita: né cibo, né oggetti da costruire, né terra da coltivare, né speranze, né nulla su cui basare le proprie azioni, se non la morte.

Di nuovo, arrivarono in intere città piene di palazzi; i loro veri abitanti erano stati tutti esiliati e quegli edifici erano stati trasformati in caserme. Soldati oziosi si affacciavano dalle finestre; le loro armature e attrezzature pendevano ad asciugare sulla facciata di marmo, dando l’impressione di stormi di ratti che, felicemente, stavano erodendo gli elementi strutturali degli edifici stessi. Ed entro poco, quegli edifici sarebbero crollati insieme a tutti gli altri soldati, ai preti e agli spie: l’unica popolazione rimasta, ormai destinata alla distruzione.

Attraverso tali scene, la processione familiare proseguì verso Venezia. E qui si disperse per un po’, poiché avrebbero dovuto trascorrere alcuni mesi a Venezia in un palazzo sei volte più grande dell’intero quartiere di Marshalsea, situato sul Canal Grande.

In questa realtà irreale, dove tutte le strade erano lastricate d’acqua, e dove il silenzio mortale dei giorni e delle notti era interrotto soltanto dal suono sommesso delle campane delle chiese, dal fruscio dell’acqua e dal richiamo dei gondolieri che svoltavano agli angoli di quelle strade fluttuanti, Little Dorrit, ormai completamente assorbita nel compimento della sua missione, si sedette a riflettere. La famiglia iniziò una vita allegra, andando avanti e indietro, trasformando la notte in giorno; ma lei era timida all’idea di unirsi alle loro gioie e chiese soltanto di essere lasciata sola.

A volte saliva su una di quelle gondole che erano sempre pronte all’uso, ormeggiate a pali dipinti vicino alla porta; quando riusciva a sfuggire all’oppressiva sorveglianza di quella domestica che era al suo servizio – e una donna davvero severa – veniva portata in giro per tutta quella strana città. Le persone della buona società, sedute nelle altre gondole, cominciavano a chiedersi chi fosse quella piccola ragazza solitaria che passava loro davanti, seduta nella sua barca con le mani incrociate, con quell’aspetto pensieroso e meravigliato. Nessuno avrebbe mai pensato che valesse la pena prestare attenzione a lei o alle sue azioni. Ma Little Dorrit, con il suo modo tranquillo, spaventato e perso, continuava comunque a muoversi per quella città.

Ma il suo posto preferito era il balcone della sua stanza, che si affacciava sul canale; c’erano altri balconi sotto di esso, ma nessuno sopra. Era fatto di massiccio pietra, scurita dal tempo, costruito secondo un’idea fantasiosa proveniente dall’Oriente. Little Dorrit era davvero piccola; appoggiata al bordo del balcone, guardava giù. Poiché non esisteva nessun altro posto altrettanto piacevole per trascorrere le serate, presto iniziò ad essere osservata: molte persone, passando in gondola, alzavano lo sguardo verso di lei e dicevano: “Lì c’è quella piccola ragazza inglese che è sempre sola, ”.

Tali persone non rappresentavano la realtà per quella piccola ragazza inglese; erano tutte sconosciute per lei. Guardava il tramonto, con le sue lunghe strisce di viola e rosso, e il suo bagliore intenso che si innalzava nel cielo: illuminava gli edifici in modo tale da far sembrare i loro muri robusti trasparenti, come se brillassero dall’interno. Poi osservava quelle luci svanire; e dopo aver guardato le gondole nere che sotto portavano ospiti a suoni di musica e danze, alzava lo sguardo verso le luminose stelle. Non c’era forse stata, in passato, una festa tutta sua, durante la quale anche le stelle avessero brillato? Pensare a quella vecchia porta ora.

Pensava a quel vecchio cancello, a se stessa seduta lì nel cuore della notte, con la testa di Maggy appoggiata alle sue ginocchia; pensava anche ad altri luoghi e ad altre scene legate a quei tempi passati. Poi si appoggiava al balcone e guardava verso l’acqua, come se tutto ciò che vedeva si trovasse proprio sotto di essa. Quando arrivava a quel punto, osservava con distacco il suo corso incessante, come se, in quella visione d’insieme, potesse un giorno prosciugarsi completamente, rivelandole ancora una volta la prigione, lei stessa, quella vecchia stanza, gli antichi detenuti e i visitatori di un tempo: tutte realtà immutabili che non avevano mai cambiato.

CHAPTER 4. A Letter from Little Dorrit

Dear Mr Clennam,

I write to you from my own room at Venice, thinking you will be glad to hear from me. But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am to write to you; for everything about you is as you have been accustomed to see it, and you miss nothing—unless it should be me, which can only be for a very little while together and very seldom—while everything in my life is so strange, and I miss so much.

When we were in Switzerland, which appears to have been years ago, though it was only weeks, I met young Mrs Gowan, who was on a mountain excursion like ourselves. She told me she was very well and very happy. She sent you the message, by me, that she thanked you affectionately and would never forget you. She was quite confiding with me, and I loved her almost as soon as I spoke to her. But there is nothing singular in that; who could help loving so beautiful and winning a creature! I could not wonder at any one loving her. No indeed.

It will not make you uneasy on Mrs Gowan’s account, I hope—for I remember that you said you had the interest of a true friend in her—if I tell you that I wish she could have married some one better suited to her. Mr Gowan seems fond of her, and of course she is very fond of him, but I thought he was not earnest enough—I don’t mean in that respect—I mean in anything. I could not keep it out of my mind that if I was Mrs Gowan (what a change that would be, and how I must alter to become like her!) I should feel that I was rather lonely and lost, for the want of some one who was steadfast and firm in purpose. I even thought she felt this want a little, almost without knowing it. But mind you are not made uneasy by this, for she was ‘very well and very happy.’ And she looked most beautiful.

I expect to meet her again before long, and indeed have been expecting for some days past to see her here. I will ever be as good a friend to her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr Clennam, I dare say you think little of having been a friend to me when I had no other (not that I have any other now, for I have made no new friends), but I think much of it, and I never can forget it.

I wish I knew—but it is best for no one to write to me—how Mr and Mrs Plornish prosper in the business which my dear father bought for them, and that old Mr Nandy lives happily with them and his two grandchildren, and sings all his songs over and over again. I cannot quite keep back the tears from my eyes when I think of my poor Maggy, and of the blank she must have felt at first, however kind they all are to her, without her Little Mother. Will you go and tell her, as a strict secret, with my love, that she never can have regretted our separation more than I have regretted it? And will you tell them all that I have thought of them every day, and that my heart is faithful to them everywhere? O, if you could know how faithful, you would almost pity me for being so far away and being so grand!

You will be glad, I am sure, to know that my dear father is very well in health, and that all these changes are highly beneficial to him, and that he is very different indeed from what he used to be when you used to see him. There is an improvement in my uncle too, I think, though he never complained of old, and never exults now. Fanny is very graceful, quick, and clever. It is natural to her to be a lady; she has adapted herself to our new fortunes with wonderful ease.

This reminds me that I have not been able to do so, and that I sometimes almost despair of ever being able to do so. I find that I cannot learn. Mrs General is always with us, and we speak French and speak Italian, and she takes pains to form us in many ways. When I say we speak French and Italian, I mean they do. As for me, I am so slow that I scarcely get on at all. As soon as I begin to plan, and think, and try, all my planning, thinking, and trying go in old directions, and I begin to feel careful again about the expenses of the day, and about my dear father, and about my work, and then I remember with a start that there are no such cares left, and that in itself is so new and improbable that it sets me wandering again. I should not have the courage to mention this to any one but you.

It is the same with all these new countries and wonderful sights. They are very beautiful, and they astonish me, but I am not collected enough—not familiar enough with myself, if you can quite understand what I mean—to have all the pleasure in them that I might have. What I knew before them, blends with them, too, so curiously. For instance, when we were among the mountains, I often felt (I hesitate to tell such an idle thing, dear Mr Clennam, even to you) as if the Marshalsea must be behind that great rock; or as if Mrs Clennam’s room where I have worked so many days, and where I first saw you, must be just beyond that snow. Do you remember one night when I came with Maggy to your lodging in Covent Garden? That room I have often and often fancied I have seen before me, travelling along for miles by the side of our carriage, when I have looked out of the carriage-window after dark. We were shut out that night, and sat at the iron gate, and walked about till morning. I often look up at the stars, even from the balcony of this room, and believe that I am in the street again, shut out with Maggy. It is the same with people that I left in England.

When I go about here in a gondola, I surprise myself looking into other gondolas as if I hoped to see them. It would overcome me with joy to see them, but I don’t think it would surprise me much, at first. In my fanciful times, I fancy that they might be anywhere; and I almost expect to see their dear faces on the bridges or the quays.

Another difficulty that I have will seem very strange to you. It must seem very strange to any one but me, and does even to me: I often feel the old sad pity for—I need not write the word—for him. Changed as he is, and inexpressibly blest and thankful as I always am to know it, the old sorrowful feeling of compassion comes upon me sometimes with such strength that I want to put my arms round his neck, tell him how I love him, and cry a little on his breast. I should be glad after that, and proud and happy. But I know that I must not do this; that he would not like it, that Fanny would be angry, that Mrs General would be amazed; and so I quiet myself. Yet in doing so, I struggle with the feeling that I have come to be at a distance from him; and that even in the midst of all the servants and attendants, he is deserted, and in want of me.

Dear Mr Clennam, I have written a great deal about myself, but I must write a little more still, or what I wanted most of all to say in this weak letter would be left out of it. In all these foolish thoughts of mine, which I have been so hardy as to confess to you because I know you will understand me if anybody can, and will make more allowance for me than anybody else would if you cannot—in all these thoughts, there is one thought scarcely ever—never—out of my memory, and that is that I hope you sometimes, in a quiet moment, have a thought for me. I must tell you that as to this, I have felt, ever since I have been away, an anxiety which I am very anxious to relieve. I have been afraid that you may think of me in a new light, or a new character. Don’t do that, I could not bear that—it would make me more unhappy than you can suppose. It would break my heart to believe that you thought of me in any way that would make me stranger to you than I was when you were so good to me. What I have to pray and entreat of you is, that you will never think of me as the daughter of a rich person; that you will never think of me as dressing any better, or living any better, than when you first knew me. That you will remember me only as the little shabby girl you protected with so much tenderness, from whose threadbare dress you have kept away the rain, and whose wet feet you have dried at your fire. That you will think of me (when you think of me at all), and of my true affection and devoted gratitude, always without change, as of

Your poor child,

LITTLE DORRIT.

P.S.—Particularly remember that you are not to be uneasy about Mrs Gowan. Her words were, ‘Very well and very happy.’ And she looked most beautiful.

CAPITOLO 4. Una lettera da Little Dorrit

Caro signor Clennam,

Vi scrivo dalla mia stanza a Venezia, pensando che vi farà piacere ricevere mie notizie. Ma so che non potete essere così felici di leggerle quanto lo sono io nel scrivervele; perché tutto ciò che riguarda voi è esattamente come siete abituati a vederlo, e non vi manca nulla, tranne forse me, con cui possiamo stare insieme solo per brevi momenti e molto raramente. Mentre nella mia vita tutto è così strano, e mi manca davvero tanto.

Quando eravamo in Svizzera, che sembra siano stati anni fa, anche se in realtà furono solo poche settimane, conobbi la giovane signora Gowan, che era venuta in gita in montagna proprio come noi. Mi disse di stare molto bene e di essere molto felice. Mi incaricò di trasmetterti il suo messaggio: ti ringraziava con affetto e non avrebbe mai dimenticato te. Si confidava molto con me, e mi piacque immediatamente non appena iniziai a parlare con lei. Ma non c’è nulla di straordinario in questo; chi potrebbe non amare una creatura così bella e affascinante? Non avrei mai potuto meravigliarmi se qualcuno la amasse. Assolutamente no.

Non voglio che questo ti preoccupi riguardo alla signora Gowan. Spero infatti che tu ricordi di aver detto di avere per lei gli stessi sentimenti di un vero amico. Se ti dico che vorrei tanto che avesse sposato qualcuno più adatto a lei. Il signor Gowan sembra tenerla molto, e naturalmente anche lei lo ama molto. Ma penso che lui non sia abbastanza serio nei suoi propositi. Non intendo in quel senso. Intendo in generale. Non riuscivo a smettere di pensare che, se fossi stata la signora Gowan (che cambiamento sarebbe stato. E quanto dovrei cambiare per assomigliarle!), mi sarei sentita piuttosto sola e persa. Per la mancanza di qualcuno che fosse fedele e deciso nei suoi obiettivi. Ho persino pensato che lei provasse questa sensazione, anche se forse senza rendersene conto. Ma non lasciare che questo ti preoccupi. Lei era “molto felice”. E sembrava davvero bellissima.

Spero di incontrarla di nuovo molto presto; in effetti, da alcuni giorni aspetto proprio di vederla qui. Per il suo bene, sarò sempre un amico leale per lei. Caro signor Clennam, so che probabilmente non dà molta importanza al fatto di essere stato mio amico quando non ne avevo altri (anche se ora non ne ho altri, visto che non ne ho fatti di nuovi), ma io ci tengo molto e non potrò mai dimenticarlo.

Vorrei tanto saperlo. Ma è meglio che nessuno mi scriva: come il signore e la signora Plornish facciano fortuna nell’attività che mio caro padre acquistò per loro, come quel vecchio signor Nandy viva felicemente con loro e i suoi due nipoti, cantando sempre le sue canzoni. Non riesco proprio a trattenere le lacrime quando penso alla povera Maggy, e al vuoto che deve aver provato all’inizio. Per quanto tutti siano gentili con lei, senza la sua “piccola mamma”. Potresti andare a dirle, come un segreto assoluto, con tutto il mio affetto, che non ha mai potuto rimpiangere la nostra separazione più di quanto l’abbia fatto io? E potresti anche dire loro che penso sempre a loro ogni giorno, e che il mio cuore è fedele a loro ovunque io sia. Oh, se solo poteste capire quanto sia fedele. Forse mi compatireste per essere così lontana, e per essere “così importante”!

Sarà sicuramente felice di sapere che mio caro padre sta molto bene in salute, che tutti questi cambiamenti sono estremamente benefici per lui e che è davvero molto diverso da come era quando lo vedevate prima. Anche mio zio, penso, sta migliorando, anche se non si lamentava mai dei suoi problemi di salute e ora non esulta più. Fanny è molto graziosa, veloce e intelligente; per lei è naturale comportarsi da signora; si è adattata alle nostre nuove condizioni con grande facilità.

Questo mi ricorda che non sono ancora riuscita a farlo, e che a volte quasi dispero di potercela mai riuscire. Mi rendo conto di non essere in grado di imparare. La signora Generale è sempre con noi; parliamo francese e italiano, e lei si impegna molto per formarci in molti modi. Quando dico che parliamo francese e italiano, intendo che loro lo fanno. Per quanto mi riguarda, sono così lenta che quasi non riesco a procedere affatto. Non appena inizio a pianificare, a pensare, a provare, tutti i miei sforzi vanno nella direzione sbagliata. Inizio di nuovo a preoccuparmi delle spese quotidiane, di mio caro padre, del mio lavoro. Poi, all’improvviso, mi ricordo che tutte quelle preoccupazioni non esistono più. E questo, in sé, è così strano e improbabile che mi fa perdere di nuovo la direzione. Non avrei il coraggio di parlarne con nessuno se non con te.

Lo stesso vale per tutti questi nuovi paesi e meravigliosi luoghi: sono davvero bellissimi e mi lasciano stupito, ma non sono abbastanza preparato. Non conosco abbastanza bene me stesso, se capite cosa intendo. Per poter godermeli appieno. Quello che sapevo prima di incontrarli si mescola con loro in modo strano. Ad esempio, quando eravamo tra le montagne, spesso mi sembrava (esito a raccontare una cosa del genere, caro signor Clennam, anche a voi) che Marshalsea dovesse trovarsi dietro quella grande roccia; o che la stanza di sua moglie, dove ho lavorato tanti giorni e dove vi ho visto per la prima volta, dovesse essere proprio oltre quella neve. Vi ricordate quella notte in cui sono venuto con Maggy al vostro alloggio a Covent Garden? Quella stanza, spesso mi sembra di averla già vista in passato, mentre viaggiavo per chilometri accanto alla nostra carrozza, guardando fuori dal finestrino dopo il tramonto. Quella notte non siamo potuti entrare e abbiamo passato la serata davanti al cancello di ferro, camminando avanti e indietro fino all’alba. Spesso alzo lo sguardo verso le stelle, anche dal balcone di questa stanza, e penso di essere di nuovo per strada, con Maggy. Lo stesso vale per le persone che ho lasciato in Inghilterra.

Quando vago qui in gondola, mi sorprendo a guardare dentro le altre gondole, come se sperassi di vederle. Mi riempirebbe di gioia scorgerle, ma in realtà non credo che mi sorprenderebbe molto. Nei miei pensieri fantasiosi, immagino che possano essere ovunque; quasi mi aspetto di vedere i loro volti carini sui ponti o sulle banchine.

Un’altra difficoltà che ho mi sembrerà molto strana. Deve sembrare davvero strana a chiunque tranne che a me, e lo è anche per me: spesso provo quella vecchia, triste compassione. Non devo nemmeno scrivere la parola. Per lui. Anche se ora è cambiato, e io sono indescrivibilmente fortunata e grata di saperlo, a volte quel vecchio sentimento di dolore e comprensione mi assale con tale forza che vorrei abbracciarlo, dirgli quanto lo amo e piangere un po’ sul suo petto. Dopo, mi sentirei felice, orgogliosa. Ma so che non devo farlo: a lui non piacerebbe, Fanny si arrabbierebbe, la signora Generale ne sarebbe sorpresa. E così mi calmo. Tuttavia, nel farlo, lotto contro il senso di distanza che sembra esserci tra noi. E contro l’idea che, nonostante tutti i servitori e gli assistenti intorno a lui, lui sia comunque abbandonato. E che abbia bisogno di me.

Caro signor Clennam, ho scritto molto di me stessa, ma devo scrivere ancora un po’, altrimenti ciò che desideravo di più dire in questa mia debole lettera rimarrebbe inespresso. In tutte queste mie sciocche riflessioni, che ho avuto il coraggio di confidarvi perché so che mi capirete meglio di chiunque altro, e che mi perdonerete più facilmente se ci riusciste, c’è un pensiero che non è mai uscito dalla mia memoria: spero che, a volte, in momenti di tranquillità, vi ricordiate di me. Devo dirvi che, da quando sono lontana, provo un’ansia terribile, temo che possiate pensare a me in modo diverso, o sotto una nuova luce. Non fatelo, non potrei sopportarlo: mi renderebbe ancora più infelice di quanto possiate immaginare. Mi spezzerebbe il cuore se pensaste a me in un modo che mi rendesse più estranea a voi di quanto fossi quando foste così gentili con me. Quello che vi chiedo, con tutto il mio cuore, è che non pensiate mai a me come alla figlia di una persona ricca, che non pensiate mai che io mi vesta o viva in modo diverso da quando mi avete conosciuta per la prima volta. Ricordatevi di me soltanto come della piccola ragazza povera che avete protetto con tanta tenerezza, di quella ragazza il cui abito logoro avete protetto dalla pioggia, e le cui mani bagnate avete asciugato davanti al vostro focolare. Che pensiate a me, se mai vi ricordate di me, come alla persona che vi prova un affetto sincero e una gratitudine profonda, sempre invariabili.

Povero tuo >bambino,

Piccola Dorrit.

P.S.: Ricorda soprattutto di non preoccuparti per la signora Gowan. Le sue parole erano: “Molto bene e molto felice”. E sembrava davvero bellissima.

CHAPTER 5. Something Wrong Somewhere

The family had been a month or two at Venice, when Mr Dorrit, who was much among Counts and Marquises, and had but scant leisure, set an hour of one day apart, beforehand, for the purpose of holding some conference with Mrs General.

The time he had reserved in his mind arriving, he sent Mr Tinkler, his valet, to Mrs General’s apartment (which would have absorbed about a third of the area of the Marshalsea), to present his compliments to that lady, and represent him as desiring the favour of an interview. It being that period of the forenoon when the various members of the family had coffee in their own chambers, some couple of hours before assembling at breakfast in a faded hall which had once been sumptuous, but was now the prey of watery vapours and a settled melancholy, Mrs General was accessible to the valet. That envoy found her on a little square of carpet, so extremely diminutive in reference to the size of her stone and marble floor that she looked as if she might have had it spread for the trying on of a ready-made pair of shoes; or as if she had come into possession of the enchanted piece of carpet, bought for forty purses by one of the three princes in the Arabian Nights, and had that moment been transported on it, at a wish, into a palatial saloon with which it had no connection.

Mrs General, replying to the envoy, as she set down her empty coffee-cup, that she was willing at once to proceed to Mr Dorrit’s apartment, and spare him the trouble of coming to her (which, in his gallantry, he had proposed), the envoy threw open the door, and escorted Mrs General to the presence. It was quite a walk, by mysterious staircases and corridors, from Mrs General’s apartment,—hoodwinked by a narrow side street with a low gloomy bridge in it, and dungeon-like opposite tenements, their walls besmeared with a thousand downward stains and streaks, as if every crazy aperture in them had been weeping tears of rust into the Adriatic for centuries—to Mr Dorrit’s apartment: with a whole English house-front of window, a prospect of beautiful church-domes rising into the blue sky sheer out of the water which reflected them, and a hushed murmur of the Grand Canal laving the doorways below, where his gondolas and gondoliers attended his pleasure, drowsily swinging in a little forest of piles.

Mr Dorrit, in a resplendent dressing-gown and cap—the dormant grub that had so long bided its time among the Collegians had burst into a rare butterfly—rose to receive Mrs General. A chair to Mrs General. An easier chair, sir; what are you doing, what are you about, what do you mean? Now, leave us!

‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty—’

‘By no means,’ Mrs General interposed. ‘I was quite at your disposition. I had had my coffee.’

‘—I took the liberty,’ said Mr Dorrit again, with the magnificent placidity of one who was above correction, ‘to solicit the favour of a little private conversation with you, because I feel rather worried respecting my—ha—my younger daughter. You will have observed a great difference of temperament, madam, between my two daughters?’

Said Mrs General in response, crossing her gloved hands (she was never without gloves, and they never creased and always fitted), ‘There is a great difference.’

‘May I ask to be favoured with your view of it?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a deference not incompatible with majestic serenity.

‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘has force of character and self-reliance. Amy, none.’

None? O Mrs General, ask the Marshalsea stones and bars. O Mrs General, ask the milliner who taught her to work, and the dancing-master who taught her sister to dance. O Mrs General, Mrs General, ask me, her father, what I owe her; and hear my testimony touching the life of this slighted little creature from her childhood up!

No such adjuration entered Mr. Dorrit’s head. He looked at Mrs General, seated in her usual erect attitude on her coach-box behind the proprieties, and he said in a thoughtful manner, ‘True, madam.’

‘I would not,’ said Mrs General, ‘be understood to say, observe, that there is nothing to improve in Fanny. But there is material there—perhaps, indeed, a little too much.’

‘Will you be kind enough, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to be—ha—more explicit? I do not quite understand my elder daughter’s having—hum—too much material. What material?’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mrs General, ‘at present forms too many opinions. Perfect breeding forms none, and is never demonstrative.’

Lest he himself should be found deficient in perfect breeding, Mr Dorrit hastened to reply, ‘Unquestionably, madam, you are right.’ Mrs General returned, in her emotionless and expressionless manner, ‘I believe so.’

‘But you are aware, my dear madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that my daughters had the misfortune to lose their lamented mother when they were very young; and that, in consequence of my not having been until lately the recognised heir to my property, they have lived with me as a comparatively poor, though always proud, gentleman, in—ha hum—retirement!’

‘I do not,’ said Mrs General, ‘lose sight of the circumstance.’

‘Madam,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘of my daughter Fanny, under her present guidance and with such an example constantly before her—’

(Mrs General shut her eyes.)

—‘I have no misgivings. There is adaptability of character in Fanny. But my younger daughter, Mrs General, rather worries and vexes my thoughts. I must inform you that she has always been my favourite.’

‘There is no accounting,’ said Mrs General, ‘for these partialities.’

‘Ha—no,’ assented Mr Dorrit. ‘No. Now, madam, I am troubled by noticing that Amy is not, so to speak, one of ourselves. She does not care to go about with us; she is lost in the society we have here; our tastes are evidently not her tastes. Which,’ said Mr Dorrit, summing up with judicial gravity, ‘is to say, in other words, that there is something wrong in—ha—Amy.’

CAPITOLO 5. C’È QUALCOSA CHE NON VA DA QUEL LATO

La famiglia si trovava a Venezia da un mese o due, quando il signor Dorrit, che frequentava spesso conti e marchesi e aveva poco tempo libero, riservò un’ora di un certo giorno per tenere una conversazione con la signora Generale.

Quando arrivò il momento che aveva previsto nella sua mente, inviò il suo valletto, il signor Tinkler, nell’appartamento della signora Generale (che occupava circa un terzo dell’intera superficie di Marshalsea) per presentarle i suoi saluti e chiederle l’onore di un colloquio. Poiché in quel periodo del pomeriggio i vari membri della famiglia si riunivano nelle loro stanze per il caffè, qualche ora prima di radunarsi a colazione in un salone ormai decaduto – un tempo maestoso, ma ora invaso da vapori umidi e una cupa melancolia – la signora Generale era disponibile ad incontrarlo. Il valletto la trovò su un piccolo tappeto, così minuscolo rispetto alle dimensioni del pavimento in pietra e marmo che sembrava fosse stato steso apposta per provare un paio di scarpe già confezionate; o come se avesse acquistato quel tappeto incantato – pagandolo quaranta monete d’oro da uno dei tre principi delle Mille e Una Notte – e in quell’istante fosse stata trasportata, su suo desiderio, in un lussuoso salone che in realtà non aveva alcun legame con esso.

La signora generale, rispondendo all’inviato mentre posava la sua tazza di caffè vuota, disse che era pronta ad andare immediatamente nell’appartamento del signor Dorrit per evitargli la seccatura di dover venire da lei (cosa che, per gentilezza, lui aveva proposto). L’inviato aprì subito la porta e accompagnò la signora generale fino al suo destinazione. Si trattava di un lungo tragitto, attraverso scale e corridoi misteriosi: si passava per una stretta strada laterale con un ponte basso e cupo, oltre a edifici opposti simili a prigioni, i cui muri erano macchiati da innumerevoli striature di ruggine, come se ogni apertura di quegli edifici avesse versato lacrime di ruggine nell’Adriatico per secoli. Arrivati finalmente nell’appartamento del signor Dorrit, si trovava davanti a un intero fronte di finestre; il panorama offriva bellissimi tetti di chiese che si elevavano verso il cielo azzurro, riflessi nell’acqua del canale; in lontananza si udiva il sommesso mormorio del Grand Canal che lambiva le porte sottostanti, dove le sue gondole e i suoi gondolieri attendevano i suoi ordini, dondolando pigramente tra gli alberi di pali.

Il signor Dorrit, in un abito da letto splendente e con un cappello. Quel bruchi che aveva aspettato a lungo il proprio momento tra i colleghi si era trasformato in una rara farfalla–una rosa–per accogliere la signora Generale. Una sedia per la signora Generale. Una sedia più comoda, signore. Cosa state facendo? Andatevene!

“Signora Generale,” disse il signor Dorrit, “ho preso la libertà di, ”

“Assolutamente no,” intervenne la signora generale. “Ero completamente a tua disposizione. Avevo già bevuto il mio caffè.”

“–Mi sono preso la libertà,” disse di nuovo il signor Dorrit, con quella magnifica tranquillità tipica di chi si ritiene al di sopra delle critiche, “di chiedervi l’onore di una breve conversazione privata, perché sono piuttosto preoccupato per mia, ehm, mia figlia minore. Avrete notato, signora, una grande differenza di temperamento tra le mie due figlie, vero?”

“C’è una grande differenza,” rispose la signora generale, incrociando le mani guantate (non si toglieva mai i guanti, e questi non si piegavano mai, anzi le stavano sempre perfettamente a misura).

“Posso chiedervi di condividere la vostra opinione al riguardo?” disse il signor Dorrit, con un tono di rispetto che non si scontrava affatto con una dignitosa tranquillità.

“Fanny,” rispose la signora generale, “ha forza di carattere e autonomia. Amy, invece, no.”

Nessuno? Allora, signora generale, chiedetelo alle pietre e alle sbarre di Marshalsea. Chiedetelo alla modista che le ha insegnato a lavorare, e al maestro di danza che ha insegnato a sua sorella a )danzare. Signora generale, chiedetemi, suo padre, quanto le devo; ascoltate la mia testimonianza riguardo alla vita di questa povera creatura, dalla sua infanzia in poi!

Nessun simile pensiero attraversò la mente del signor Dorrit. Guardò la signora Generale, seduta nella sua solita posizione eretta sul sedile posteriore della carrozza, dietro le altre persone presenti, e disse in tono pensieroso: “Vero, signora.”

“Non vorrei,” disse la signora Generale, “che si pensasse che io sostenga o osservi che non ci sia nulla da migliorare in Fanny. Ma c’è materiale, forse, anzi, un po’ troppo.”

“Lei sarebbe così gentile, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “da essere, ehm, più esplicita? Non capisco proprio perché mia figlia maggiore abbia, ehm, troppo materiale. Quale materiale?”

“Fanny,” rispose la signora generale, “al momento esprime troppe opinioni. Una vera signorina non ne esprime alcuna e non è mai espansiva.”

Per evitare che anche lui stesso venisse ritenuto mancare di una nobile educazione, il signor Dorrit si affrettò a rispondere: “Indubbiamente, signora, avete ragione.” La signora Generale, con il suo modo freddo e privo di espressione, replicò: “Credo di sì.”

“Ma lei sa bene, mia cara signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “che le mie figlie hanno avuto la sfortuna di perdere la loro povera madre quando erano molto giovani; e che, poiché fino a poco tempo fa non ero considerato l’erede legittimo dei miei beni, hanno vissuto con me come una famiglia relativamente povera, sebbene sempre orgogliosa, in una sorta di ritiro, per così dire!”

“Non lo ignoro affatto”, disse la signora generale.

“Signora,” continuò il signor Dorrit, “per quanto riguarda mia figlia Fanny, sotto la guida attuale e con un esempio del genere sempre davanti ai suoi occhi, ”

(La signora generale chiuse gli occhi.)

“Non ho alcun dubbio: Fanny possiede la capacità di adattarsi alle circostanze. Ma mia figlia minore, la signora generale, beh, lei mi preoccupa e occupa i miei pensieri. Devo dirvi che è sempre stata la mia preferita.”

“Non si può dare alcuna spiegazione a queste preferenze,” disse la signora Generale.

“Non c’è nulla,” convenne il signor Dorrit. “No. Ora, signora, mi preoccupa il fatto che Amy, per così dire, non faccia parte di noi. Non le piace stare con noi; si perde nella società che abbiamo qui; i nostri gusti, evidentemente, non sono i suoi. Il che,” concluse il signor Dorrit con solenne gravità, “in altre parole, significa che c’è qualcosa che non va in. Amy.”

‘May we incline to the supposition,’ said Mrs General, with a little touch of varnish, ‘that something is referable to the novelty of the position?’

‘Excuse me, madam,’ observed Mr Dorrit, rather quickly. ‘The daughter of a gentleman, though—ha—himself at one time comparatively far from affluent—comparatively—and herself reared in—hum—retirement, need not of necessity find this position so very novel.’

‘True,’ said Mrs General, ‘true.’

‘Therefore, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I took the liberty’ (he laid an emphasis on the phrase and repeated it, as though he stipulated, with urbane firmness, that he must not be contradicted again), ‘I took the liberty of requesting this interview, in order that I might mention the topic to you, and inquire how you would advise me?’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘I have conversed with Amy several times since we have been residing here, on the general subject of the formation of a demeanour. She has expressed herself to me as wondering exceedingly at Venice. I have mentioned to her that it is better not to wonder. I have pointed out to her that the celebrated Mr Eustace, the classical tourist, did not think much of it; and that he compared the Rialto, greatly to its disadvantage, with Westminster and Blackfriars Bridges. I need not add, after what you have said, that I have not yet found my arguments successful. You do me the honour to ask me what to advise. It always appears to me (if this should prove to be a baseless assumption, I shall be pardoned), that Mr Dorrit has been accustomed to exercise influence over the minds of others.’

‘Hum—madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I have been at the head of—ha of a considerable community. You are right in supposing that I am not unaccustomed to—an influential position.’

‘I am happy,’ returned Mrs General, ‘to be so corroborated. I would therefore the more confidently recommend that Mr Dorrit should speak to Amy himself, and make his observations and wishes known to her. Being his favourite, besides, and no doubt attached to him, she is all the more likely to yield to his influence.’

‘I had anticipated your suggestion, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘but—ha—was not sure that I might—hum—not encroach on—’

‘On my province, Mr Dorrit?’ said Mrs General, graciously. ‘Do not mention it.’

‘Then, with your leave, madam,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ringing his little bell to summon his valet, ‘I will send for her at once.’

‘Does Mr Dorrit wish me to remain?’

‘Perhaps, if you have no other engagement, you would not object for a minute or two—’

‘Not at all.’

So, Tinkler the valet was instructed to find Miss Amy’s maid, and to request that subordinate to inform Miss Amy that Mr Dorrit wished to see her in his own room. In delivering this charge to Tinkler, Mr Dorrit looked severely at him, and also kept a jealous eye upon him until he went out at the door, mistrusting that he might have something in his mind prejudicial to the family dignity; that he might have even got wind of some Collegiate joke before he came into the service, and might be derisively reviving its remembrance at the present moment. If Tinkler had happened to smile, however faintly and innocently, nothing would have persuaded Mr Dorrit, to the hour of his death, but that this was the case. As Tinkler happened, however, very fortunately for himself, to be of a serious and composed countenance, he escaped the secret danger that threatened him. And as on his return—when Mr Dorrit eyed him again—he announced Miss Amy as if she had come to a funeral, he left a vague impression on Mr Dorrit’s mind that he was a well-conducted young fellow, who had been brought up in the study of his Catechism by a widowed mother.

‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have just now been the subject of some conversation between myself and Mrs General. We agree that you scarcely seem at home here. Ha—how is this?’

A pause.

‘I think, father, I require a little time.’

‘Papa is a preferable mode of address,’ observed Mrs General. ‘Father is rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism are all very good words for the lips: especially prunes and prism. You will find it serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to yourself in company—on entering a room, for instance—Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.’

‘Pray, my child,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘attend to the—hum—precepts of Mrs General.’

Poor Little Dorrit, with a rather forlorn glance at that eminent varnisher, promised to try.

‘You say, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, ‘that you think you require time. Time for what?’

Another pause.

‘To become accustomed to the novelty of my life, was all I meant,’ said Little Dorrit, with her loving eyes upon her father; whom she had very nearly addressed as poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her desire to submit herself to Mrs General and please him.

Mr Dorrit frowned, and looked anything but pleased. ‘Amy,’ he returned, ‘it appears to me, I must say, that you have had abundance of time for that. Ha—you surprise me. You disappoint me. Fanny has conquered any such little difficulties, and—hum—why not you?’

‘I hope I shall do better soon,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘I hope so,’ returned her father. ‘I—ha—I most devoutly hope so, Amy. I sent for you, in order that I might say—hum—impressively say, in the presence of Mrs General, to whom we are all so much indebted for obligingly being present among us, on—ha—on this or any other occasion,’ Mrs General shut her eyes, ‘that I—ha hum—am not pleased with you. You make Mrs General’s a thankless task. You—ha—embarrass me very much. You have always (as I have informed Mrs General) been my favourite child; I have always made you a—hum—a friend and companion; in return, I beg—I—ha—I do beg, that you accommodate yourself better to—hum—circumstances, and dutifully do what becomes your—your station.’

“Possiamo forse ipotizzare,” disse la signora generale con un leggero tocco di formalità, “che ci sia qualcosa legato alla novità della situazione?”

“Scusi, signora,” osservò il signor Dorrit piuttosto rapidamente. “Dopotutto, la figlia di un gentiluomo – anche se suo padre in passato non era particolarmente benestante – e che è cresciuta in condizioni di modestia, non deve necessariamente trovare questa situazione così, insolita.”

“Vero,” disse la signora generale, “vero.”

“Pertanto, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “mi sono preso la libertà, ” (sottolineò questa frase e la ripeté, come se stesse stabilendo con fermezza urbana che non doveva essere contraddetto di nuovo), “di chiedere questo incontro, al fine di potervi parlare dell’argomento e chiedervi quale consiglio mi dareste.”

“Signor Dorrit,” rispose la signora General, “da quando siamo qui ho parlato più volte con Amy riguardo al modo in cui ci si dovrebbe comportare in società. Mi ha detto di essere estremamente curiosa riguardo a Venezia. Le ho spiegato che forse non è il caso di meravigliarsi troppo. Le ho anche ricordato che il famoso signor Eustace, quel turista appassionato di cultura classica, non ne pensava molto bene; anzi, paragonava il Rialto a Westminster e Blackfriars Bridges, a scapito del primo. Non c’è bisogno di aggiungere che, dopo quanto lei mi ha detto, i miei argomenti non sembrano aver avuto successo. Mi fa l’onore di chiedermi cosa dovrei consigliarle. A me sembra sempre (e se questa fosse un’ipotesi infondata, le chiedo scusa) che il signor Dorrit sia abituato ad esercitare una certa influenza sulle opinioni altrui.”

“Ehm, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “ho ricoperto la carica di capo di una comunità piuttosto numerosa. Ha ragione nel pensare che non sia del tutto estraneo a posizioni influenti.”

“Sono felice,” rispose la signora Generale, “di ricevere tali conferme. Per questo motivo consiglio ancora di più che il signor Dorrit parli personalmente con Amy, per farle conoscere le sue osservazioni e i suoi desideri. Essendo inoltre la sua preferita e senza alcun >dubbio riguardo a lui, è molto più probabile che ceda alla sua influenza.”

“Ho già preso in considerazione la sua proposta, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “ma, non ero sicuro che io potessi, ehm, non invadere i limiti, ”

“Di mia provincia, signor Dorrit?”, disse gentilmente la signora generale. “Non ne parliate nemmeno.”

“Allora, con il vostro permesso, signora,” riprese il signor Dorrit, suonando il suo piccolo campanello per chiamare il proprio valletto, “la manderò a prendere immediatamente.”

“Vuole il signor Dorrit che io rimanga?”

“Forse, se non avete altri impegni, non vi dispiacerebbe trascorrere un minuto o due, ”

“Assolutamente no.”

Sì, al valletto Tinkler fu ordinato di trovare la cameriera di Miss Amy e di chiederle di comunicare alla signorina che il signor Dorrit desiderava vederla nella sua stanza. Mentre affidava questa incombenza a Tinkler, il signor Dorrit lo guardò con severità e continuò a osservarlo con sospetto fino a quando non uscì dalla porta, temendo che potesse avere in mente qualcosa che avrebbe potuto danneggiare l’onore della famiglia; temeva persino che avesse sentito qualche barzelletta durante il suo periodo di servizio e che ora la stesse ripetendo in modo derisorio. Se Tinkler avesse anche solo sorriso, per quanto leggermente e innocentemente, nulla avrebbe convinto il signor Dorrit, fino all’ora della sua morte, del contrario. Fortunatamente per lui, Tinkler aveva un’espressione seria e composta, quindi riuscì a sfuggire al pericolo che lo minacciava. E quando tornò, e il signor Dorrit lo guardò di nuovo, annunciò l’arrivo di Miss Amy come se fosse venuta a un funerale; questo lasciò nel signor Dorrit l’impressione che si trattasse di un giovane perbene, educato da una madre vedova nell’apprendimento del Catechismo.

“Amy,” disse il signor Dorrit, “poco fa siamo stati a parlare di te io e la signora Generale. Siamo d’accordo sul fatto che tu sembri quasi non sentirti a tuo agio qui. Come mai?”

Una pausa.

“Penso che, padre, mi serva un po’ di tempo.”

“‘Papà’ è un modo di rivolgersi più appropriato,” osservò la signora generale. “‘Padre’ è piuttosto volgare, cara mia. Inoltre, la parola ‘Papà’ dà una bella forma alle labbra. ‘Papà’, patate, pollame, prugne e prismi. Sono tutte parole molto adatte da pronunciare: soprattutto prugne e prismi. Ti sarà utile, per migliorare il tuo modo di comportarti, se a volte ti dici, in compagnia, ad esempio, entrando in una stanza: ‘Papà, patate, pollame, prugne e prismi, ’”

“Prega, mio >bambino,” disse il signor Dorrit, “segui i, ehm, precetti della signora Generale.”

Povera piccola Dorrit, con uno sguardo piuttosto desolato verso quel famoso verniciatore, promise di provarci.

“Dici tu, Amy,” continuò il signor Dorrit, “che hai bisogno di tempo. Tempo per cosa?”

Un’altra pausa.

“Volevo soltanto abituarmi alla novità della mia vita,” disse Little Dorrit, con gli occhi pieni d’amore rivolti verso suo padre; che, nella sua voglia di sottomettersi a Mrs General e compiacerlo, aveva quasi chiamato “pollame”, se non anche “prugne” e “prisma”.

Il signor Dorrit fece una smorfia, e non sembrava affatto soddisfatto. “Amy,” disse, “devo dire che a mio parere hai avuto più che abbastanza tempo per farlo. Mi sorprendi. Mi deludi. Anche Fanny è riuscita a superare simili piccole difficoltà. Perché non anche tu?”

“Spero di riuscire meglio presto,” disse Little Dorrit.

“Lo >spero davvero,” rispose suo padre. “Io, lo spero con tutto il cuore, Amy. Ti ho chiamata qui per poter dire, in presenza della Signora Generale – a cui siamo tutti molto grati per essere stata così gentile da partecipare a questa o ad altre occasioni – che non sono soddisfatto di te. Stai rendendo il compito della Signora Generale particolarmente difficile. Mi metti in grande imbarazzo. Tu sei sempre stata (come ho già detto alla Signora Generale) la mia preferita; ti ho sempre trattata come una amica e una compagnia. In cambio, ti prego, ti supplico davvero di comportarti meglio secondo le circostanze e di adempiere ai tuoi doveri.”

Mr Dorrit was even a little more fragmentary than usual, being excited on the subject and anxious to make himself particularly emphatic.

‘I do beg,’ he repeated, ‘that this may be attended to, and that you will seriously take pains and try to conduct yourself in a manner both becoming your position as—ha—Miss Amy Dorrit, and satisfactory to myself and Mrs General.’

That lady shut her eyes again, on being again referred to; then, slowly opening them and rising, added these words:

‘If Miss Amy Dorrit will direct her own attention to, and will accept of my poor assistance in, the formation of a surface, Mr. Dorrit will have no further cause of anxiety. May I take this opportunity of remarking, as an instance in point, that it is scarcely delicate to look at vagrants with the attention which I have seen bestowed upon them by a very dear young friend of mine? They should not be looked at. Nothing disagreeable should ever be looked at. Apart from such a habit standing in the way of that graceful equanimity of surface which is so expressive of good breeding, it hardly seems compatible with refinement of mind. A truly refined mind will seem to be ignorant of the existence of anything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’ Having delivered this exalted sentiment, Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and retired with an expression of mouth indicative of Prunes and Prism.

Little Dorrit, whether speaking or silent, had preserved her quiet earnestness and her loving look. It had not been clouded, except for a passing moment, until now. But now that she was left alone with him the fingers of her lightly folded hands were agitated, and there was repressed emotion in her face.

Not for herself. She might feel a little wounded, but her care was not for herself. Her thoughts still turned, as they always had turned, to him. A faint misgiving, which had hung about her since their accession to fortune, that even now she could never see him as he used to be before the prison days, had gradually begun to assume form in her mind. She felt that, in what he had just now said to her and in his whole bearing towards her, there was the well-known shadow of the Marshalsea wall. It took a new shape, but it was the old sad shadow. She began with sorrowful unwillingness to acknowledge to herself that she was not strong enough to keep off the fear that no space in the life of man could overcome that quarter of a century behind the prison bars. She had no blame to bestow upon him, therefore: nothing to reproach him with, no emotions in her faithful heart but great compassion and unbounded tenderness.

This is why it was, that, even as he sat before her on his sofa, in the brilliant light of a bright Italian day, the wonderful city without and the splendours of an old palace within, she saw him at the moment in the long-familiar gloom of his Marshalsea lodging, and wished to take her seat beside him, and comfort him, and be again full of confidence with him, and of usefulness to him. If he divined what was in her thoughts, his own were not in tune with it. After some uneasy moving in his seat, he got up and walked about, looking very much dissatisfied.

‘Is there anything else you wish to say to me, dear father?’

‘No, no. Nothing else.’

‘I am sorry you have not been pleased with me, dear. I hope you will not think of me with displeasure now. I am going to try, more than ever, to adapt myself as you wish to what surrounds me—for indeed I have tried all along, though I have failed, I know.’

‘Amy,’ he returned, turning short upon her. ‘You—ha—habitually hurt me.’

‘Hurt you, father! I!’

‘There is a—hum—a topic,’ said Mr Dorrit, looking all about the ceiling of the room, and never at the attentive, uncomplainingly shocked face, ‘a painful topic, a series of events which I wish—ha—altogether to obliterate. This is understood by your sister, who has already remonstrated with you in my presence; it is understood by your brother; it is understood by—ha hum—by every one of delicacy and sensitiveness except yourself—ha—I am sorry to say, except yourself. You, Amy—hum—you alone and only you—constantly revive the topic, though not in words.’

She laid her hand on his arm. She did nothing more. She gently touched him. The trembling hand may have said, with some expression, ‘Think of me, think how I have worked, think of my many cares!’ But she said not a syllable herself.

There was a reproach in the touch so addressed to him that she had not foreseen, or she would have withheld her hand. He began to justify himself in a heated, stumbling, angry manner, which made nothing of it.

‘I was there all those years. I was—ha—universally acknowledged as the head of the place. I—hum—I caused you to be respected there, Amy. I—ha hum—I gave my family a position there. I deserve a return. I claim a return. I say, sweep it off the face of the earth and begin afresh. Is that much? I ask, is that much?’

He did not once look at her, as he rambled on in this way; but gesticulated at, and appealed to, the empty air.

‘I have suffered. Probably I know how much I have suffered better than any one—ha—I say than any one! If I can put that aside, if I can eradicate the marks of what I have endured, and can emerge before the world—a—ha—gentleman unspoiled, unspotted—is it a great deal to expect—I say again, is it a great deal to expect—that my children should—hum—do the same and sweep that accursed experience off the face of the earth?’

In spite of his flustered state, he made all these exclamations in a carefully suppressed voice, lest the valet should overhear anything.

‘Accordingly, they do it. Your sister does it. Your brother does it. You alone, my favourite child, whom I made the friend and companion of my life when you were a mere—hum—Baby, do not do it. You alone say you can’t do it. I provide you with valuable assistance to do it. I attach an accomplished and highly bred lady—ha—Mrs General, to you, for the purpose of doing it. Is it surprising that I should be displeased? Is it necessary that I should defend myself for expressing my displeasure? No!’

Il signor Dorrit era ancora più incoerente del solito: era eccitato sull’argomento e desideroso di essere particolarmente enfatico nelle sue parole.

“Vi supplico davvero,” ripeté, “che si prenda attenzione a questa questione e che vi impegniate seriamente per comportarvi in modo degno della vostra posizione di, ah, signorina Amy Dorrit, e al contempo soddisfacente sia per me che per la signora Generale.”

Quella signora chiuse di nuovo gli occhi quando fu nuovamente menzionata; poi, lentamente aprendoli e alzandosi in piedi, aggiunse queste parole:

“Se la signorina Amy Dorrit vorrà dedicare la sua attenzione, e accettare il mio umile aiuto nella creazione di quell’aspetto esteriore che rappresenta l’eleganza, il signor Dorrit non avrà più motivi di preoccupazione. Posso approfittare dell’occasione per osservare, a titolo di esempio, che non sembra affatto appropriato dedicare tanta attenzione ai vagabondi, come ho visto fare da una mia cara giovane amica. Non dovremmo mai fissare con attenzione persone del genere. Niente che possa suscitare dispiacere dovrebbe essere oggetto di osservazione. Oltre al fatto che tale abitudine ostacoli quella serenità esteriore che è segno di buona educazione, sembra anche incompatibile con una vera raffinatezza d’animo. Un’intelligenza veramente raffinata dovrebbe ignorare l’esistenza di tutto ciò che non sia perfettamente appropriato, pacifico e piacevole.” Dopo aver espresso questo sentimento elevato, la signora Generale fece un profondo inchino e si ritirò con un’espressione del viso che sembrava alludere a prugne e prismi.

Little Dorrit, sia che parlasse che stesse in silenzio, manteneva sempre quella sua serietà tranquilla e quello sguardo pieno di affetto. Non era mai stata offuscata, se non per un breve momento, fino ad ora. Ma ora che si trovava da sola con lui, le dita delle sue mani leggermente incrociate tremavano, e sul suo viso si leggeva un’emozione repressa.

Non per sé stessa. Forse si sentiva un po’ ferita, ma le sue preoccupazioni non riguardavano lei. I suoi pensieri, come sempre, erano rivolti a lui. Un vago timore, che l’aveva assillata fin da quando avevano raggiunto la fortuna, che anche ora non avrebbe mai potuto rivederlo com’era prima dei giorni in prigione, aveva gradualmente preso forma nella sua mente. Le sembrava che, nelle parole che le aveva appena detto e nel suo comportamento verso di lei, ci fosse l’ormai familiare “ombra” legata al periodo trascorso a Marshalsea. Un’ombra triste e persistente. Con riluttanza, iniziò ad ammettere con se stessa che non era abbastanza forte per scacciare quella paura. Una paura che nessun aspetto della vita umana potesse mai cancellare. Non aveva nulla da rimproverargli: nel suo cuore fedele c’erano solo grande compassione e infinita tenerezza.

Ecco perché, anche mentre sedeva davanti a lei sul suo divano, nella luce abbagliante di una splendida giornata italiana – con quella meravigliosa città intorno e lo splendore di un antico palazzo alle sue spalle – lei lo vedeva invece nell’oscurità familiare della sua dimora a Marshalsea, desiderando sedersi accanto a lui, consolarlo, ritrovare con lui la fiducia e essere di aiuto per lui. Se lui avesse intuito i suoi pensieri, i suoi non sarebbero stati affatto in sintonia con essi. Dopo alcuni movimenti nervosi sulla sedia, si alzò e iniziò a camminare avanti e indietro, con un’aria chiaramente insoddisfatta.

“C’è qualcos’altro che desideri dirmi, caro padre?”

“No, no. Nient’altro.”

“Mi dispiace molto che tu non sia soddisfatto di me, caro. Spero che ora non pensi a me con disappunto. Cercherò più che mai di adattarmi, secondo i tuoi desideri, a tutto ciò che mi circonda. In effetti, ho sempre provato a farlo, anche se so di aver fallito.”

“Amy,” le rispose lui, fermandosi di fronte a lei. “Tu, abitualmente mi fai male.”

“Ti ho fatto male, padre. Io!”

“C’è un argomento, ehm, un argomento delicato,” disse il signor Dorrit, guardando intorno al soffitto della stanza, senza mai posare lo sguardo sul volto attento e comprensivo di Amy, “un argomento doloroso, una serie di eventi che vorrei, ah, cancellare del tutto dalla memoria. Tua sorella lo capisce; lei già ti ha rimproverato in mia presenza; anche tuo fratello lo capisce; tutti coloro che hanno sensibilità e delicatezza lo capiscono, tranne te, purtroppo. Tu, Amy, tu sola continui a sollevare questo argomento, sebbene non con le parole.”

Posò la sua mano sul suo braccio. Non fece nulla di più. Lo toccò dolcemente. Quella mano tremante forse voleva dire: “Pensa a me, pensa a quanto ho lavorato, pensa alle mie molte preoccupazioni, ”, ma lei stessa non pronunciò una parola.

C’era un rimprovero nel modo in cui lo toccò; qualcosa che lei non aveva previsto, altrimenti avrebbe ritirato la mano. Lui iniziò a giustificarsi in modo frenetico, incerto e arrabbiato, ma senza riuscire a chiarire nulla.

“Ero lì tutti quegli anni. Ero riconosciuto universalmente come il capo di quel posto. Sono stato io ad assicurarti rispetto lì, Amy. Ho dato alla mia famiglia una posizione importante in quel luogo. Merito qualcosa in cambio. Pretendo qualcosa in cambio. Dico: cancellate tutto e iniziate da zero. È davvero così tanto? Vi chiedo: è davvero tanto?”

Non le lanciò nemmeno uno sguardo mentre continuava a parlare in questo modo; invece gesticolava verso l’aria vuota, rivolgendo le sue parole a qualcosa che non c’era.

“Ho sofferto. Probabilmente conosco meglio di chiunque altro quanto abbia sofferto. Se riesco a mettere da parte tutto questo, se riesco a cancellare le tracce di ciò che ho sopportato e a presentarmi davanti al mondo come un gentiluomo integro, senza macchie. È davvero troppo chiedere che anche i miei figli facciano lo stesso e cancellino per sempre quell’esperienza maledetta dalla faccia della terra?”

Nonostante il suo stato di agitazione, pronunciò tutte queste esclamazioni con una voce attentamente controllata, per evitare che il valletto potesse sentire qualcosa.

‘Pertanto, lo fanno. Tua sorella lo fa. Tuo fratello lo fa. Tu, tu solo, il mio preferito tra tutti i bambini, a cui ho dato l’amicizia e la compagnia per tutta la vita quando eri ancora un semplice, beh, bambino, non farlo. Tu stesso dici di non poterlo fare. Eppure ti fornisco tutto il necessario per riuscirci: ti metto a disposizione una signora colta ed elegante, la moglie di un generale. Perché dovrei essere scontento? È davvero necessario che mi difenda solo perché esprimo il mio disappunto? No!’

Notwithstanding which, he continued to defend himself, without any abatement of his flushed mood.

‘I am careful to appeal to that lady for confirmation, before I express any displeasure at all. I—hum—I necessarily make that appeal within limited bounds, or I—ha—should render legible, by that lady, what I desire to be blotted out. Am I selfish? Do I complain for my own sake? No. No. Principally for—ha hum—your sake, Amy.’

This last consideration plainly appeared, from his manner of pursuing it, to have just that instant come into his head.

‘I said I was hurt. So I am. So I—ha—am determined to be, whatever is advanced to the contrary. I am hurt that my daughter, seated in the—hum—lap of fortune, should mope and retire and proclaim herself unequal to her destiny. I am hurt that she should—ha—systematically reproduce what the rest of us blot out; and seem—hum—I had almost said positively anxious—to announce to wealthy and distinguished society that she was born and bred in—ha hum—a place that I myself decline to name. But there is no inconsistency—ha—not the least, in my feeling hurt, and yet complaining principally for your sake, Amy. I do; I say again, I do. It is for your sake that I wish you, under the auspices of Mrs General, to form a—hum—a surface. It is for your sake that I wish you to have a—ha—truly refined mind, and (in the striking words of Mrs General) to be ignorant of everything that is not perfectly proper, placid, and pleasant.’

He had been running down by jerks, during his last speech, like a sort of ill-adjusted alarum. The touch was still upon his arm. He fell silent; and after looking about the ceiling again for a little while, looked down at her. Her head drooped, and he could not see her face; but her touch was tender and quiet, and in the expression of her dejected figure there was no blame—nothing but love. He began to whimper, just as he had done that night in the prison when she afterwards sat at his bedside till morning; exclaimed that he was a poor ruin and a poor wretch in the midst of his wealth; and clasped her in his arms. ‘Hush, hush, my own dear! Kiss me!’ was all she said to him. His tears were soon dried, much sooner than on the former occasion; and he was presently afterwards very high with his valet, as a way of righting himself for having shed any.

With one remarkable exception, to be recorded in its place, this was the only time, in his life of freedom and fortune, when he spoke to his daughter Amy of the old days.

But, now, the breakfast hour arrived; and with it Miss Fanny from her apartment, and Mr Edward from his apartment. Both these young persons of distinction were something the worse for late hours. As to Miss Fanny, she had become the victim of an insatiate mania for what she called ‘going into society;’ and would have gone into it head-foremost fifty times between sunset and sunrise, if so many opportunities had been at her disposal. As to Mr Edward, he, too, had a large acquaintance, and was generally engaged (for the most part, in diceing circles, or others of a kindred nature), during the greater part of every night. For this gentleman, when his fortunes changed, had stood at the great advantage of being already prepared for the highest associates, and having little to learn: so much was he indebted to the happy accidents which had made him acquainted with horse-dealing and billiard-marking.

At breakfast, Mr Frederick Dorrit likewise appeared. As the old gentleman inhabited the highest story of the palace, where he might have practised pistol-shooting without much chance of discovery by the other inmates, his younger niece had taken courage to propose the restoration to him of his clarionet, which Mr Dorrit had ordered to be confiscated, but which she had ventured to preserve. Notwithstanding some objections from Miss Fanny, that it was a low instrument, and that she detested the sound of it, the concession had been made. But it was then discovered that he had had enough of it, and never played it, now that it was no longer his means of getting bread. He had insensibly acquired a new habit of shuffling into the picture-galleries, always with his twisted paper of snuff in his hand (much to the indignation of Miss Fanny, who had proposed the purchase of a gold box for him that the family might not be discredited, which he had absolutely refused to carry when it was bought); and of passing hours and hours before the portraits of renowned Venetians. It was never made out what his dazed eyes saw in them; whether he had an interest in them merely as pictures, or whether he confusedly identified them with a glory that was departed, like the strength of his own mind. But he paid his court to them with great exactness, and clearly derived pleasure from the pursuit. After the first few days, Little Dorrit happened one morning to assist at these attentions. It so evidently heightened his gratification that she often accompanied him afterwards, and the greatest delight of which the old man had shown himself susceptible since his ruin, arose out of these excursions, when he would carry a chair about for her from picture to picture, and stand behind it, in spite of all her remonstrances, silently presenting her to the noble Venetians.

It fell out that, at this family breakfast, he referred to their having seen in a gallery, on the previous day, the lady and gentleman whom they had encountered on the Great Saint Bernard, ‘I forget the name,’ said he. ‘I dare say you remember them, William? I dare say you do, Edward?’

‘I remember ‘em well enough,’ said the latter.

‘I should think so,’ observed Miss Fanny, with a toss of her head and a glance at her sister. ‘But they would not have been recalled to our remembrance, I suspect, if Uncle hadn’t tumbled over the subject.’

‘My dear, what a curious phrase,’ said Mrs General. ‘Would not inadvertently lighted upon, or accidentally referred to, be better?’

Nonostante ciò, continuò a difendersi, senza alcun calo nel suo umore eccitato.

“Sono molto attento a chiedere conferma a quella signora prima di esprimere qualsiasi disappunto. Cioè, devo necessariamente farlo entro limiti precisi, altrimenti lei non capirebbe ciò che desidero venga cancellato. Sono egoista? Mi lamento per mio conto personale? No. Principalmente, per il tuo bene, Amy.”

Questa ultima considerazione, a giudicare dal modo in cui la espresse, sembrava proprio essere venuta in mente in quel preciso istante.

“Ho detto di essere ferita. E lo sono davvero. Perciò sono determinata a rimanerlo, nonostante tutto ciò che possa sostenere il contrario. Mi addolora che mia figlia, che ha tutte le opportunità al suo fianco, si ritiri in se stessa e dichiari di non essere all’altezza del proprio destino. Mi addolora che sistematicamente ripeta ciò che noi tutti cerchiamo di ignorare. E sembra quasi ansiosa, per così dire, di annunciare alla società ricca e distinta che è nata e cresciuta in un posto che io stessa rifiuto di menzionare. Ma non c’è alcuna contraddizione nelle mie emozioni. Parlo davvero per il tuo bene, Amy. È per il tuo bene che desidero che tu, sotto la guida della signora General, sviluppi una certa ‘apparenza’ esteriore. Che tu abbia una mente veramente raffinata. E, come ha detto la signora General, che ignori tutto ciò che non è perfettamente appropriato. Che sia serena e piacevole.”

Durante il suo ultimo discorso, era stato continuamente interrotto da persone insensibili, come se si trattasse di un allarme mal calibrato. Quel tocco era ancora sulla sua mano; rimase in silenzio, poi, dopo aver guardato per un po’ il soffitto, abbassò lo sguardo su di lei. La sua testa era china; non riusciva a vedere il suo viso, ma il suo tocco era dolce e tranquillo. Nell’espressione del suo volto scoraggiato non c’era rimprovero, solo amore. Cominciò a singhiozzare, proprio come quella notte in prigione, quando lei poi rimase seduta al suo fianco fino all’alba; esclamò di essere un povero disastro, una misera creatura nonostante tutta la sua ricchezza. E l’abbracciò stretto. “Shhh, shhh, mio caro. Baciami!”, fu tutto ciò che lei disse. Le sue lacrime si asciugarono molto rapidamente, molto più in fretta di quella volta precedente. E poco dopo si sentì molto meglio, grazie al suo valletto. Come se così potesse rimediare al fatto di aver pianto.

Ad eccezione di un caso notevole, che va registrato a tal fine, questa fu l’unica volta nella sua vita di libertà e fortuna in cui parlò con sua figlia Amy dei tempi passati.

Ma ora era arrivata l’ora di colazione; e con essa arrivarono anche Miss Fanny dal suo appartamento, e Mr Edward dal suo. Entrambi questi giovani di rilievo soffrivano un po’ a causa delle nottate trascorse fuori casa. Per quanto riguarda Miss Fanny, era diventata vittima di una mania insaziabile per ciò che lei chiamava “partecipare alla vita sociale”; avrebbe voluto parteciparvi con grande entusiasmo cinquanta volte al giorno, se solo ne fosse stata data l’opportunità. Per quanto riguarda Mr Edward, anche lui aveva un vasto cerchio di conoscenze e trascorreva la maggior parte delle notti in ambienti legati ai giochi d’azzardo o ad attività simili. Questo gentiluomo, infatti, quando le sue fortune cambiarono, si trovò nella posizione ideale: era già preparato a frequentare gli ambienti più elevati e aveva poco da imparare; doveva molto alle fortunate circostanze che lo avevano messo in contatto con il mondo degli affari legati ai cavalli e dei biliardi.

A colazione, anche il signor Frederick Dorrit comparve. Poiché il vecchio gentiluomo abitava l’ultimo piano del palazzo, dove poteva esercitarsi a sparare con la pistola senza rischi di essere scoperto dagli altri inquilini, sua nipote più giovane aveva trovato il coraggio di proporgli la restituzione del suo clarinetto, che il signor Dorrit aveva ordinato di confiscare, ma che lei aveva osato conservare. Nonostante alcune obiezioni da parte della signorina Fanny, secondo cui si trattava di uno strumento di scarso valore e che lei odiava il suono che produceva, la richiesta fu accettata. Tuttavia, in seguito si scoprì che il signor Dorrit non aveva più alcun interesse per quel clarinetto: ormai che non rappresentava più un mezzo per guadagnarsi da vivere, non lo suonava mai più. Aveva acquisito inconsapevolmente l’abitudine di passeggiare nelle gallerie d’arte, tenendo sempre in mano quel suo pezzo di carta arrotolata con il tabacco (cosa che indignava profondamente la signorina Fanny, la quale aveva proposto di comprargli una scatola d’oro per evitare che la famiglia venisse disonorata; lui, invece, aveva rifiutato categoricamente di portarla). Trascorreva ore intere davanti ai ritratti dei celebri veneziani. Non si seppe mai cosa vedessero i suoi occhi confusi in quei dipinti: forse li considerava semplicemente delle opere d’arte, o forse li identificava confusamente con una gloria ormai perduta, simile alla forza della sua stessa mente. Ma li venerava con grande devozione, e chiaramente ne traeva piacere. Dopo i primi giorni, una mattina la piccola Dorrit assistette a queste sue attenzioni. Fu evidente che questo lo rendeva estremamente felice, quindi lei iniziò spesso ad accompagnarlo. Il più grande piacere che il vecchio mostrasse da quando era caduto in rovina derivava proprio da queste escursioni: le portava dietro una sedia da un ritratto all’altro e, nonostante tutte le sue proteste, si metteva silenziosamente dietro di lei per presentarla ai nobili veneziani.

Si scoprì che, durante questa colazione di famiglia, egli menzionò di aver visto, il giorno prima in una galleria, la signora e il signore che avevano incontrato sul Great Saint Bernard. “Dimentico i loro nomi,” disse. “Credo che voi li ricordiate, William. E anche voi, Edward, vero?”

“Me li ricordo abbastanza bene,” disse quest’ultimo.

“Certo che sì,” osservò Miss Fanny, scuotendo la testa e lanciando un’occhiata alla sua sorella. “Ma dubito che quei ricordi sarebbero mai tornati nella nostra mente, se zio non avesse sollevato l’argomento.”

“Mio caro, che frase curiosa. Non sarebbe meglio se venisse menzionata in modo casuale o se ne parlasse per errore?” disse la signora generale.

‘Thank you very much, Mrs General,’ returned the young lady, ‘no, I think not. On the whole I prefer my own expression.’

This was always Miss Fanny’s way of receiving a suggestion from Mrs General. But she always stored it up in her mind, and adopted it at another time.

‘I should have mentioned our having met Mr and Mrs Gowan, Fanny,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘even if Uncle had not. I have scarcely seen you since, you know. I meant to have spoken of it at breakfast; because I should like to pay a visit to Mrs Gowan, and to become better acquainted with her, if Papa and Mrs General do not object.’

‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘I am sure I am glad to find you at last expressing a wish to become better acquainted with anybody in Venice. Though whether Mr and Mrs Gowan are desirable acquaintances, remains to be determined.’

‘Mrs Gowan I spoke of, dear.’

‘No doubt,’ said Fanny. ‘But you can’t separate her from her husband, I believe, without an Act of Parliament.’

‘Do you think, Papa,’ inquired Little Dorrit, with diffidence and hesitation, ‘there is any objection to my making this visit?’

‘Really,’ he replied, ‘I—ha—what is Mrs General’s view?’

Mrs General’s view was, that not having the honour of any acquaintance with the lady and gentleman referred to, she was not in a position to varnish the present article. She could only remark, as a general principle observed in the varnishing trade, that much depended on the quarter from which the lady under consideration was accredited to a family so conspicuously niched in the social temple as the family of Dorrit.

At this remark the face of Mr Dorrit gloomed considerably. He was about (connecting the accrediting with an obtrusive person of the name of Clennam, whom he imperfectly remembered in some former state of existence) to black-ball the name of Gowan finally, when Edward Dorrit, Esquire, came into the conversation, with his glass in his eye, and the preliminary remark of ‘I say—you there! Go out, will you!’—which was addressed to a couple of men who were handing the dishes round, as a courteous intimation that their services could be temporarily dispensed with.

Those menials having obeyed the mandate, Edward Dorrit, Esquire, proceeded.

‘Perhaps it’s a matter of policy to let you all know that these Gowans—in whose favour, or at least the gentleman’s, I can’t be supposed to be much prepossessed myself—are known to people of importance, if that makes any difference.’

‘That, I would say,’ observed the fair varnisher, ‘Makes the greatest difference. The connection in question, being really people of importance and consideration—’

‘As to that,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘I’ll give you the means of judging for yourself. You are acquainted, perhaps, with the famous name of Merdle?’

‘The great Merdle!’ exclaimed Mrs General.

‘The Merdle,’ said Edward Dorrit, Esquire. ‘They are known to him. Mrs Gowan—I mean the dowager, my polite friend’s mother—is intimate with Mrs Merdle, and I know these two to be on their visiting list.’

‘If so, a more undeniable guarantee could not be given,’ said Mrs General to Mr Dorrit, raising her gloves and bowing her head, as if she were doing homage to some visible graven image.

‘I beg to ask my son, from motives of—ah—curiosity,’ Mr Dorrit observed, with a decided change in his manner, ‘how he becomes possessed of this—hum—timely information?’

‘It’s not a long story, sir,’ returned Edward Dorrit, Esquire, ‘and you shall have it out of hand. To begin with, Mrs Merdle is the lady you had the parley with at what’s-his-name place.’

‘Martigny,’ interposed Miss Fanny with an air of infinite languor.

‘Martigny,’ assented her brother, with a slight nod and a slight wink; in acknowledgment of which, Miss Fanny looked surprised, and laughed and reddened.

‘How can that be, Edward?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘You informed me that the name of the gentleman with whom you conferred was—ha—Sparkler. Indeed, you showed me his card. Hum. Sparkler.’

‘No doubt of it, father; but it doesn’t follow that his mother’s name must be the same. Mrs Merdle was married before, and he is her son. She is in Rome now; where probably we shall know more of her, as you decide to winter there. Sparkler is just come here. I passed last evening in company with Sparkler. Sparkler is a very good fellow on the whole, though rather a bore on one subject, in consequence of being tremendously smitten with a certain young lady.’ Here Edward Dorrit, Esquire, eyed Miss Fanny through his glass across the table. ‘We happened last night to compare notes about our travels, and I had the information I have given you from Sparkler himself.’ Here he ceased; continuing to eye Miss Fanny through his glass, with a face much twisted, and not ornamentally so, in part by the action of keeping his glass in his eye, and in part by the great subtlety of his smile.

‘Under these circumstances,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I believe I express the sentiments of—ha—Mrs General, no less than my own, when I say that there is no objection, but—ha hum—quite the contrary—to your gratifying your desire, Amy. I trust I may—ha—hail—this desire,’ said Mr Dorrit, in an encouraging and forgiving manner, ‘as an auspicious omen. It is quite right to know these people. It is a very proper thing. Mr Merdle’s is a name of—ha—world-wide repute. Mr Merdle’s undertakings are immense. They bring him in such vast sums of money that they are regarded as—hum—national benefits. Mr Merdle is the man of this time. The name of Merdle is the name of the age. Pray do everything on my behalf that is civil to Mr and Mrs Gowan, for we will—ha—we will certainly notice them.’

This magnificent accordance of Mr Dorrit’s recognition settled the matter. It was not observed that Uncle had pushed away his plate, and forgotten his breakfast; but he was not much observed at any time, except by Little Dorrit. The servants were recalled, and the meal proceeded to its conclusion. Mrs General rose and left the table. Little Dorrit rose and left the table. When Edward and Fanny remained whispering together across it, and when Mr Dorrit remained eating figs and reading a French newspaper, Uncle suddenly fixed the attention of all three by rising out of his chair, striking his hand upon the table, and saying, ‘Brother! I protest against it!’

“Grazie mille, signora generale,” rispose la giovane donna, “no, penso di no. Nel complesso, preferisco esprimermi a modo mio.”

Questo era sempre il modo di Miss Fanny per accettare un suggerimento da parte della Signora Generale: lo teneva sempre a mente e lo adottava in un altro momento.

“Avrei dovuto menzionare che abbiamo incontrato il signor e la signora Gowan, Fanny,” disse Little Dorrit, “anche se zio non l’avesse fatto. Non ti vedo quasi da allora, sai. Volevo parlarne a colazione; perché mi piacerebbe fare visita alla signora Gowan e conoscerla meglio, se papà e la signora General non hanno obiezioni.”

“Beh, Amy,” disse Fanny, “sono davvero felice di scoprire che finalmente desideri approfondire la conoscenza con qualcuno a Venezia. Anche se si debba ancora vedere se il signor e la signora Gowan siano persone adatte per una tale conoscenza, ”

“La signora Gowan di cui ho parlato, cara.”

“Nessun >dubbio”, disse Fanny. “Ma credo che non si possa separarla dal suo marito senza un atto del Parlamento.”

“Pensi davvero, Papà,” chiese Little Dorrit con timidezza e esitazione, “che ci sia qualche obiezione al fatto che io faccia questa visita?”

“Davvero,” rispose, “io, ehm, qual è l’opinione della signora generale?”

Secondo la signora Generale, non avendo l’onore di conoscere personalmente la donna e il gentiluomo menzionati, non era in grado di “lustrare” positivamente questo articolo. Poteva soltanto osservare, come principio generale valido nel settore del “lustraggio”, che molto dipendesse dal contesto sociale in cui quella donna veniva inserita: una famiglia così riconosciuta e prestigiosa come quella dei Dorrit, infatti, influenzava inevitabilmente la percezione pubblica di essa.

Alla sentenza di Mr Dorrit il suo viso si oscurò notevolmente. Stava per collegare quel nome con una persona sgradevole di nome Clennam, che ricordava vagamente da qualche precedente occasione. Quando Edward Dorrit entrò nella conversazione, con il bicchiere in mano, e disse: “Dico io, voi lì! Andatevene, per favore!”, rivolgendosi a due uomini che stavano servendo i piatti, intendeva così indicare cortesemente che i loro servizi potevano essere temporaneamente accantonati.

Dopo che quei servitori ebbero obbedito all’ordine, Edward Dorrit, gentiluomo, proseguì il suo cammino.

“Forse è opportuno farvi sapere che questi Gowan – nei confronti dei quali, o almeno di quel gentiluomo, non dovrei certo avere particolari pregiudizi – sono conosciuti da persone di rilievo; forse questo ha qualche importanza.”

“Quello, direi,” osservò la bella verniciatrice, “fa davvero la grande differenza. Le persone coinvolte, dopotutto, sono persone di vera importanza e rilievo, ”

“Per quanto riguarda questo,” disse Edward Dorrit, “vi fornirò i mezzi per giudicare da soli. Forse conoscete il famoso nome di Merdle, ”

“Il grande Merdle!”, esclamò la signora Generale.

“La signora Merdle,” disse Edward Dorrit. “Lei la conosce bene. La signora Gowan, intendo dire la vedova, la madre della mia gentile amica, è molto intima con la signora Merdle, e so che queste due donne si frequentano spesso.”

“Se così fosse, non potrebbe esserci garanzia più inconfutabile”, disse la signora generale al signor Dorrit, sollevando i guanti e chinando il capo, come se stesse rendendo omaggio a qualche immagine scolpita visibile.

“Chiedo al mio figlio, per motivi di, ah, curiosità,” osservò il signor Dorrit, cambiando decisamente tono, “come faccia ad ottenere queste informazioni così tempestive.”

“Non è una storia lunga, signore,” rispose Edward Dorrit, “e vi verrà raccontata subito. Per cominciare, la signora Merdle è proprio la donna con cui avete avuto quell’incontro in quel posto lì, ”

“Martigny,” intervenne Miss Fanny con un tono di infinita noia.

“Martigny,” acconsentì suo fratello, con un leggero cenno del capo e un lieve battito di ciglia; in segno di ringraziamento, la signorina Fanny sembrò sorpresa, rise e arrossì.

“Come è possibile, Edward?” disse il signor Dorrit. “Mi avevi detto che il nome dell’uomo con cui avevi parlato era, ehm. Sparkler. Anzi, mi hai anche mostrato la sua carta di visita. Hmm. Sparkler.”

“Nessun >dubbio al riguardo, padre; ma questo non significa che il nome di sua madre debba essere lo stesso. La signora Merdle era già sposata prima, e lui è suo figlio. Adesso lei si trova a Roma; probabilmente sapremo di più su di lei, visto che avete deciso di trascorrere l’inverno lì. Sparkler è appena arrivato qui; ieri sera sono stato con lui. In generale, Sparkler è un ragazzo molto a posto, anche se un po’ noioso su certi argomenti, perché è terribilmente innamorato di una certa giovane signora.” A questo punto Edward Dorrit, gentiluomo, fissò la signorina Fanny attraverso il bicchiere posizionato sul tavolo. “L’altro sera abbiamo avuto l’occasione di confrontare le nostre esperienze di viaggio; le informazioni che vi ho fornito provengono direttamente da Sparkler.” Si interruppe, continuando a osservare la signorina Fanny attraverso il bicchiere, con un’espressione del viso piuttosto contorta, in parte a causa della posizione del bicchiere davanti ai suoi occhi, e in parte per la grande sottigliezza del suo sorriso.

“Nelle circostanze attuali,” disse il signor Dorrit, “credo di esprimere i sentimenti non solo miei, ma anche quelli della signora Generale, quando affermo che non vi è alcuna obiezione, anzi, tutto il contrario, al fatto che tu realizzi il tuo desiderio, Amy. Spero di poter considerare questo desiderio come un presagio positivo. È del tutto giusto conoscere queste persone; si tratta di una cosa assolutamente appropriata. Il nome di il signor Merdle è noto in tutto il mondo. Le sue attività generano somme enormi di denaro, tanto che vengono considerate un vero beneficio per la società. Il signor Merdle rappresenta l’uomo del nostro tempo. Il nome Merdle è il simbolo dell’epoca attuale. Per favore, fai tutto ciò che è possibile per essere cortese con il signor e la signora Gowan; noi sicuramente li prenderemo in considerazione.”

Questo magnifico accordo riguardo alla riconoscenza da parte del signor Dorrit risolse la questione. Non si notò che lo zio avesse spinto via il proprio piatto e dimenticato la colazione; ma, in ogni caso, non veniva osservato molto spesso, tranne che da Little Dorrit. I servitori furono richiamati e il pasto proseguì fino alla fine. La signora General si alzò e lasciò la tavola; anche Little Dorrit si alzò e se ne andò. Quando Edward e Fanny rimasero a sussurrare l’uno con l’altro di fronte alla tavola, mentre il signor Dorrit continuava a mangiare fichi e leggere un giornale francese, lo zio attirò all’improvviso l’attenzione di tutti e tre alzandosi di scatto dalla sedia, battendo il pugno sul tavolo e dicendo: “Fratello! Io mi oppongo a questo!”

If he had made a proclamation in an unknown tongue, and given up the ghost immediately afterwards, he could not have astounded his audience more. The paper fell from Mr Dorrit’s hand, and he sat petrified, with a fig half way to his mouth.

‘Brother!’ said the old man, conveying a surprising energy into his trembling voice, ‘I protest against it! I love you; you know I love you dearly. In these many years I have never been untrue to you in a single thought. Weak as I am, I would at any time have struck any man who spoke ill of you. But, brother, brother, brother, I protest against it!’

It was extraordinary to see of what a burst of earnestness such a decrepit man was capable. His eyes became bright, his grey hair rose on his head, markings of purpose on his brow and face which had faded from them for five-and-twenty years, started out again, and there was an energy in his hand that made its action nervous once more.

‘My dear Frederick!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit faintly. ‘What is wrong? What is the matter?’

‘How dare you,’ said the old man, turning round on Fanny, ‘how dare you do it? Have you no memory? Have you no heart?’

‘Uncle?’ cried Fanny, affrighted and bursting into tears, ‘why do you attack me in this cruel manner? What have I done?’

‘Done?’ returned the old man, pointing to her sister’s place, ‘where’s your affectionate invaluable friend? Where’s your devoted guardian? Where’s your more than mother? How dare you set up superiorities against all these characters combined in your sister? For shame, you false girl, for shame!’

‘I love Amy,’ cried Miss Fanny, sobbing and weeping, ‘as well as I love my life—better than I love my life. I don’t deserve to be so treated. I am as grateful to Amy, and as fond of Amy, as it’s possible for any human being to be. I wish I was dead. I never was so wickedly wronged. And only because I am anxious for the family credit.’

‘To the winds with the family credit!’ cried the old man, with great scorn and indignation. ‘Brother, I protest against pride. I protest against ingratitude. I protest against any one of us here who have known what we have known, and have seen what we have seen, setting up any pretension that puts Amy at a moment’s disadvantage, or to the cost of a moment’s pain. We may know that it’s a base pretension by its having that effect. It ought to bring a judgment on us. Brother, I protest against it in the sight of God!’

As his hand went up above his head and came down on the table, it might have been a blacksmith’s. After a few moments’ silence, it had relaxed into its usual weak condition. He went round to his brother with his ordinary shuffling step, put the hand on his shoulder, and said, in a softened voice, ‘William, my dear, I felt obliged to say it; forgive me, for I felt obliged to say it!’ and then went, in his bowed way, out of the palace hall, just as he might have gone out of the Marshalsea room.

All this time Fanny had been sobbing and crying, and still continued to do so. Edward, beyond opening his mouth in amazement, had not opened his lips, and had done nothing but stare. Mr Dorrit also had been utterly discomfited, and quite unable to assert himself in any way. Fanny was now the first to speak.

‘I never, never, never was so used!’ she sobbed. ‘There never was anything so harsh and unjustifiable, so disgracefully violent and cruel! Dear, kind, quiet little Amy, too, what would she feel if she could know that she had been innocently the means of exposing me to such treatment! But I’ll never tell her! No, good darling, I’ll never tell her!’

This helped Mr Dorrit to break his silence.

‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I—ha—approve of your resolution. It will be—ha hum—much better not to speak of this to Amy. It might—hum—it might distress her. Ha. No doubt it would distress her greatly. It is considerate and right to avoid doing so. We will—ha—keep this to ourselves.’

‘But the cruelty of Uncle!’ cried Miss Fanny. ‘O, I never can forgive the wanton cruelty of Uncle!’

‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his tone, though he remained unusually pale, ‘I must request you not to say so. You must remember that your uncle is—ha—not what he formerly was. You must remember that your uncle’s state requires—hum—great forbearance from us, great forbearance.’

‘I am sure,’ cried Fanny, piteously, ‘it is only charitable to suppose that there must be something wrong in him somewhere, or he never could have so attacked Me, of all the people in the world.’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit in a deeply fraternal tone, ‘you know, with his innumerable good points, what a—hum—wreck your uncle is; and, I entreat you by the fondness that I have for him, and by the fidelity that you know I have always shown him, to—ha—to draw your own conclusions, and to spare my brotherly feelings.’

This ended the scene; Edward Dorrit, Esquire, saying nothing throughout, but looking, to the last, perplexed and doubtful. Miss Fanny awakened much affectionate uneasiness in her sister’s mind that day by passing the greater part of it in violent fits of embracing her, and in alternately giving her brooches, and wishing herself dead.

Se avesse fatto una proclamazione in una lingua sconosciuta e poi abbandonato immediatamente il fantasma, non avrebbe potuto sorprendere di più il suo pubblico. Il foglio cadde dalle mani del signor Dorrit, che rimase immobile, con un pezzo di torta a metà strada dalla bocca.

“Fratello!” disse l’uomo anziano, mettendo nella sua voce tremante una forza sorprendente, “Mi oppongo a questo! Ti amo; tu sai che ti amo molto. In tutti questi anni non ti ho mai tradito nemmeno con un pensiero. Debole come sono, in qualsiasi momento avrei colpito chiunque avesse parlato male di te. Ma fratello, mi oppongo a questo!”

Era straordinario vedere di quanto fosse capace un uomo così anziano di dimostrare sincerità e impegno. I suoi occhi si illuminarono, i suoi capelli grigi sembrarono ravvivarsi, e sul suo viso riapparvero segni di determinazione che erano scomparsi da vent’anni; inoltre, la sua mano sprigionava un’energia tale da rendere i suoi movimenti nuovamente decisi e sicuri.

“Mio caro Frederick!”, esclamò debolmente il signor Dorrit. “Che cosa c’è? Che cos’è successo?”

“Come osi,” disse l’uomo anziano, voltandosi verso Fanny, “come osi farlo? Non hai alcuna memoria? Non hai cuore?”

“Zio?” gridò Fanny, spaventata e scoppiando in lacrime, “perché mi attacchi in questo modo crudele? Cosa ho fatto?”

“Finito?” rispose l’uomo anziano, indicando il posto dove sedeva sua sorella. “Dove è la tua affettuosa e preziosa amica? Dove è la tua devota protettrice? Dove è quella che per te significa più di una madre? Come osi metterti al di sopra di tutte queste persone, riunite in tua sorella? Per vergogna, ragazza bugiarda, per vergogna!”

“Amo Amy,” gridò Miss Fanny, singhiozzando e piangendo, “proprio come amo la mia vita. Anzi, ancora di più. Non merito di essere trattata in questo modo. Sono grata ad Amy e l’amo profondamente, quanto è possibile per un essere umano. Vorrei morire. Non sono mai stata così ingiustamente trattata. E tutto solo perché mi preoccupo del buon nome della famiglia.”

“Che vada al diavolo il credito familiare!” gridò l’uomo anziano, con grande disprezzo e indignazione. “Fratello, mi oppongo alla orgoglio. Mi oppongo all’ingratitude. Mi oppongo a chiunque, tra noi, che, avendo conosciuto ciò che abbiamo conosciuto e visto ciò che abbiamo visto, osi avanzare pretese che possano mettere Amy in svantaggio o farle subire anche solo un momento di dolore. Sappiamo bene che si tratta di una pretesa meschina, proprio perché ha tale effetto. Dovrebbe costituire una condanna per noi. Fratello, mi oppongo a essa davanti a Dio!”

Mentre la sua mano si alzava sopra la testa e poi ricadeva sul tavolo, sembrava quella di un fabbro. Dopo alcuni momenti di silenzio, tornò alla sua solita condizione debole. Si avvicinò a suo fratello con il suo solito passo incerto, posò la mano sulla sua spalla e disse, con voce più dolce: “William, mio caro, ho sentito di doverlo dire; perdonami, perché ho davvero sentito di doverlo fare!” Poi se ne andò, con quel suo passo curvo, fuori dalla sala del palazzo, proprio come avrebbe potuto uscire dalla stanza di Marshalsea.

In tutto questo tempo, Fanny aveva continuato a singhiozzare e piangere, e non smetteva ancora. Edward, oltre ad aprire la bocca per lo stupore, non aveva detto una parola e si era limitato a fissarla in silenzio. Anche il signor Dorrit era completamente imbarazzato e del tutto incapace di intervenire in qualche modo. Fu Fanny ad essere la prima a parlare.

“Non sono mai stata trattata in questo modo!” singhiozzava. “Non c’è mai stato nulla di così crudele e ingiustificato, di così vergognosamente violento e spietato. Cara, gentile, tranquilla piccola Amy. Cosa penserebbe se sapesse di essere stata, innocentemente, la causa per cui ho subito un trattamento del genere? Ma non glielo dirò mai! No, mia adorata, non glielo dirò mai!”

Questo aiutò il signor Dorrit a rompere il suo silenzio.

“Mia cara,” disse lui, “io, ehm, approvo la tua decisione. Sarà molto meglio non parlarne ad Amy. Potrebbe, ehm, farla soffrire. No, non c’è dubbio che le causerebbe grande dolore. È giusto e considerato evitare di farlo. Ne parleremo solo noi.”

“Ma quanto è crudele lo zio!” gridò la signorina Fanny. “Oh, non riuscirò mai a perdonare la sua crudeltà senza motivo, ”

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Dorrit, riprendendo il suo tono normale, anche se rimaneva insolitamente pallido, “devo chiederti di non dire così. Devi ricordare che tuo zio, beh, non è più quello che era un tempo. Devi ricordare che lo stato di tuo zio richiede da noi, ehm, grande tolleranza, grande pazienza.”

“Sono sicura,” gridò Fanny con compassione, “è solo caritatevole pensare che debba esserci qualcosa che non va in lui. Altrimenti non avrebbe mai potuto attaccarmi proprio a me, tra tutte le persone al mondo.”

“Fanny,” rispose il signor Dorrit con un tono profondamente fraterno, “tu sai, nonostante i suoi innumerevoli pregi, quanto tuo zio sia, ehm, un disastro; e ti supplico, per l’affetto che provo per lui e per la fedeltà che hai sempre dimostrato nei suoi confronti, di trarre tu stessa le tue conclusioni e di risparmiare i miei sentimenti fraterni.”

Questo concluse la scena; Edward Dorrit, senza dire una parola per tutto il tempo, continuò a guardare con espressione confusa e dubbia fino alla fine. Quel giorno, Miss Fanny suscitò in sua sorella un profondo senso di ansia e preoccupazione: trascorse gran parte del tempo abbracciandola con forza, regalandole alternativamente i suoi broccati e desiderando di morire.

CHAPTER 6. Something Right Somewhere

To be in the halting state of Mr Henry Gowan; to have left one of two powers in disgust; to want the necessary qualifications for finding promotion with another, and to be loitering moodily about on neutral ground, cursing both; is to be in a situation unwholesome for the mind, which time is not likely to improve. The worst class of sum worked in the every-day world is cyphered by the diseased arithmeticians who are always in the rule of Subtraction as to the merits and successes of others, and never in Addition as to their own.

The habit, too, of seeking some sort of recompense in the discontented boast of being disappointed, is a habit fraught with degeneracy. A certain idle carelessness and recklessness of consistency soon comes of it. To bring deserving things down by setting undeserving things up is one of its perverted delights; and there is no playing fast and loose with the truth, in any game, without growing the worse for it.

In his expressed opinions of all performances in the Art of painting that were completely destitute of merit, Gowan was the most liberal fellow on earth. He would declare such a man to have more power in his little finger (provided he had none), than such another had (provided he had much) in his whole mind and body. If the objection were taken that the thing commended was trash, he would reply, on behalf of his art, ‘My good fellow, what do we all turn out but trash? I turn out nothing else, and I make you a present of the confession.’

To make a vaunt of being poor was another of the incidents of his splenetic state, though this may have had the design in it of showing that he ought to be rich; just as he would publicly laud and decry the Barnacles, lest it should be forgotten that he belonged to the family. Howbeit, these two subjects were very often on his lips; and he managed them so well that he might have praised himself by the month together, and not have made himself out half so important a man as he did by his light disparagement of his claims on anybody’s consideration.

Out of this same airy talk of his, it always soon came to be understood, wherever he and his wife went, that he had married against the wishes of his exalted relations, and had had much ado to prevail on them to countenance her. He never made the representation, on the contrary seemed to laugh the idea to scorn; but it did happen that, with all his pains to depreciate himself, he was always in the superior position. From the days of their honeymoon, Minnie Gowan felt sensible of being usually regarded as the wife of a man who had made a descent in marrying her, but whose chivalrous love for her had cancelled that inequality.

To Venice they had been accompanied by Monsieur Blandois of Paris, and at Venice Monsieur Blandois of Paris was very much in the society of Gowan. When they had first met this gallant gentleman at Geneva, Gowan had been undecided whether to kick him or encourage him; and had remained for about four-and-twenty hours, so troubled to settle the point to his satisfaction, that he had thought of tossing up a five-franc piece on the terms, ‘Tails, kick; heads, encourage,’ and abiding by the voice of the oracle. It chanced, however, that his wife expressed a dislike to the engaging Blandois, and that the balance of feeling in the hotel was against him. Upon it, Gowan resolved to encourage him.

Why this perversity, if it were not in a generous fit?—which it was not. Why should Gowan, very much the superior of Blandois of Paris, and very well able to pull that prepossessing gentleman to pieces and find out the stuff he was made of, take up with such a man? In the first place, he opposed the first separate wish he observed in his wife, because her father had paid his debts and it was desirable to take an early opportunity of asserting his independence. In the second place, he opposed the prevalent feeling, because with many capacities of being otherwise, he was an ill-conditioned man. He found a pleasure in declaring that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois ought to rise to the greatest distinction in any polished country. He found a pleasure in setting up Blandois as the type of elegance, and making him a satire upon others who piqued themselves on personal graces. He seriously protested that the bow of Blandois was perfect, that the address of Blandois was irresistible, and that the picturesque ease of Blandois would be cheaply purchased (if it were not a gift, and unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That exaggeration in the manner of the man which has been noticed as appertaining to him and to every such man, whatever his original breeding, as certainly as the sun belongs to this system, was acceptable to Gowan as a caricature, which he found it a humorous resource to have at hand for the ridiculing of numbers of people who necessarily did more or less of what Blandois overdid. Thus he had taken up with him; and thus, negligently strengthening these inclinations with habit, and idly deriving some amusement from his talk, he had glided into a way of having him for a companion. This, though he supposed him to live by his wits at play-tables and the like; though he suspected him to be a coward, while he himself was daring and courageous; though he thoroughly knew him to be disliked by Minnie; and though he cared so little for him, after all, that if he had given her any tangible personal cause to regard him with aversion, he would have had no compunction whatever in flinging him out of the highest window in Venice into the deepest water of the city.

Little Dorrit would have been glad to make her visit to Mrs Gowan, alone; but as Fanny, who had not yet recovered from her Uncle’s protest, though it was four-and-twenty hours of age, pressingly offered her company, the two sisters stepped together into one of the gondolas under Mr Dorrit’s window, and, with the courier in attendance, were taken in high state to Mrs Gowan’s lodging. In truth, their state was rather too high for the lodging, which was, as Fanny complained, ‘fearfully out of the way,’ and which took them through a complexity of narrow streets of water, which the same lady disparaged as ‘mere ditches.’

CAPITOLO 6. Qualcosa di giusto da qualche parte

Trovarsi nella condizione di Mr Henry Gowan: aver abbandonato con disgusto una delle due possibili opzioni; desiderare le qualifiche necessarie per ottenere promozioni nell’altra opzione, ma rimanere indeciso e passivo in un terreno neutro, maledicendo entrambe. Significa trovarsi in una situazione dannosa per la mente, che probabilmente non migliorerà mai. La peggiore categoria di persone nel mondo quotidiano sono coloro che, come quegli “aritmetici malati”, si concentrano sempre sulle negatività e sugli insuccessi altrui, senza mai considerare i propri meriti e successi.

L’abitudine di cercare qualche tipo di ricompensa nel proprio malcontento, o di vantarsi del fatto di essere stati delusi, è un’abitudine piena di degenerazione. Da essa derivano presto una certa negligenza e una mancanza di coerenza nei comportamenti. Insegnare alle cose meritevoli a cadere mettendo in piedi quelle indegne rappresenta uno dei piaceri distorti che ne derivano; inoltre, non esiste alcun modo per giocare con la verità senza subirne le conseguenze negative.

Nelle sue opinioni espresse su tutte le opere d’arte pittorica che erano completamente prive di merito, Gowan era senz’altro la persona più tollerante al mondo. Affermava che una persona del genere avesse più “potere” nel proprio mignolo (ammettendo che non ne possedesse affatto), di quanto un’altra ne avesse nell’intero cervello e nel corpo. Se qualcuno obiettava che ciò che veniva lodato fosse in realtà spazzatura, lui rispondeva a nome dell’arte: “Mio caro amico, ma cosa siamo tutti, se non spazzatura? Io stesso non sono altro che spazzatura. E vi faccio dono di questa confessione.”

Vantarsi della propria povertà era un altro esempio del suo stato d’animo irascibile; forse lo faceva anche per dimostrare che avrebbe dovuto essere ricco. Proprio come lodava o criticava pubblicamente certe persone, per evitare che si dimenticasse che apparteneva a quella famiglia. Comunque, questi argomenti venivano spesso menzionati dalle sue labbra; e lui li trattava in modo così abile che avrebbe potuto lodarsi per mesi interi senza però far sembrare di essere davvero così importante come sosteneva, attraverso quei suoi modi superficialmente sprezzanti nei confronti delle proprie pretese.

Da quelle stesse parole leggere e disinvolte che pronunciava, si capiva sempre subito che, ovunque andasse lui e sua moglie, aveva sposato contro la volontà delle sue alte parenti e aveva dovuto faticare molto per convincerle ad accettarla. Lui non mai fece alcuna allusione in questo senso; anzi, sembrava deridere l’idea stessa; ma pur facendo di tutto per sminuire se stesso, finiva sempre per trovarsi nella posizione di superiorità. Fin dai primi giorni della loro luna di miele, Minnie Gowan si rese conto che veniva generalmente considerata la moglie di un uomo che aveva “calato di rango” sposandola, ma il cui nobile amore per lei annullava quella disparità.

A Venezia erano stati accompagnati da Monsieur Blandois di Parigi, e a Venezia Monsieur Blandois di Parigi frequentava molto la compagnia di Gowan. Quando avevano conosciuto per la prima volta questo gentiluomo a Ginevra, Gowan non sapeva se prenderlo a calci o incoraggiarlo; era rimasto per circa ventiquattro ore in grande difficoltà nel decidere quale fosse l’azione migliore da intraprendere, al punto che aveva pensato di lanciare una moneta da cinque franchi e seguire la decisione che ne sarebbe risultata, “Testa: incoraggiarlo; Croce: prenderlo a calci”. Tuttavia, sua moglie manifestò un certo disprezzo per il affascinante Blandois, e l’opinione generale nell’hotel era contro di lui. Così, Gowan decise finalmente di incoraggiarlo.

Perché questa perversità, se non fosse nata da un impulso generoso? – il che non era affatto vero. Perché Gowan, che era di gran lunga superiore a Blandois di Parigi e che avrebbe potuto facilmente smascherare quel gentiluomo affascinante e scoprire la vera natura sua, avrebbe dovuto intrattenersi con un uomo del genere? In primo luogo, si opponeva al primo desiderio che sua moglie aveva espresso, perché il padre di lei aveva pagato i suoi debiti e sarebbe stato opportuno cogliere l’occasione per affermare la propria indipendenza. In secondo luogo, si opponeva alla tendenza prevalente, perché, nonostante possedesse molte qualità positive, Blandois era in realtà un uomo di cattive maniere. Gowan trovava piacere nel sostenere che un cortigiano con le raffinate maniere di Blandois potesse raggiungere la massima distinzione in qualsiasi paese civile; lo considerava l’incarnazione dell’eleganza e lo usava come oggetto di satira per coloro che si vantavano delle proprie grazie personali. Affermava con convinzione che il modo di comportarsi di Blandois fosse perfetto, che i suoi modi fossero irresistibili, e che la sua disinvolta eleganza potesse essere facilmente acquistata, anche se in realtà non era affatto vendibile. Quell’esagerazione, tipica di quel genere di uomini, indipendentemente dalle loro origini, gli sembrava una caricatura divertente da utilizzare per deridere molte persone che, in un modo o nell’altro, imitavano Blandois. E così aveva iniziato a frequentarlo; col tempo, abituandosi gradualmente a quelle sue maniere e trovando piacere nei suoi discorsi, aveva finito per considerarlo un compagno di compagnia. Anche se sapeva che Blandois si guadagnava da vivere con le sue astuzie ai tavoli da gioco, anche se sospettava che fosse un codardo mentre lui stesso era coraggioso e audace, anche se sapeva benissimo che Minnie lo disprezzava, e anche se, in fondo, non gliene importava affatto, tanto da essere pronto a gettarlo giù dal più alto balcone di Venezia nelle acque profonde della città, se questo avesse potuto farle provare disgusto per lui.

Little Dorrit sarebbe stata felice di fare visita a Mrs Gowan da sola; ma poiché Fanny, che non si era ancora ripresa dal disappunto causato dalle proteste di suo zio, le offrì con insistenza la sua compagnia, le due sorelle salirono insieme in una delle gondole sotto la finestra di Mr Dorrit e, accompagnate dal corriere, furono portate con grande solennità presso l’abitazione di Mrs Gowan. In verità, il loro modo di presentarsi era piuttosto troppo elegante per quell’alloggio, che, come si lamentava Fanny, “si trovava in un posto davvero scomodo” e attraversava una rete di stretti vicoli acquatici, che la stessa signora definiva semplicemente “meri canali”.

The house, on a little desert island, looked as if it had broken away from somewhere else, and had floated by chance into its present anchorage in company with a vine almost as much in want of training as the poor wretches who were lying under its leaves. The features of the surrounding picture were, a church with hoarding and scaffolding about it, which had been under suppositious repair so long that the means of repair looked a hundred years old, and had themselves fallen into decay; a quantity of washed linen, spread to dry in the sun; a number of houses at odds with one another and grotesquely out of the perpendicular, like rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into fantastic shapes and full of mites; and a feverish bewilderment of windows, with their lattice-blinds all hanging askew, and something draggled and dirty dangling out of most of them.

On the first-floor of the house was a Bank—a surprising experience for any gentleman of commercial pursuits bringing laws for all mankind from a British city—where two spare clerks, like dried dragoons, in green velvet caps adorned with golden tassels, stood, bearded, behind a small counter in a small room, containing no other visible objects than an empty iron-safe with the door open, a jug of water, and a papering of garland of roses; but who, on lawful requisition, by merely dipping their hands out of sight, could produce exhaustless mounds of five-franc pieces. Below the Bank was a suite of three or four rooms with barred windows, which had the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the Bank was Mrs Gowan’s residence.

Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary maps were bursting out of them to impart geographical knowledge; notwithstanding that its weird furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the prevailing Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb tide on a weedy shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised. The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin—a temporary servant—who ushered them into the room where Mrs Gowan sat, with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see the mistress.

Mrs Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively courteous to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a veteran.

‘Papa was extremely sorry,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘to be engaged to-day (he is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!); and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr Gowan. That I may be sure to acquit myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on the table at once.’

Which she did with veteran ease.

‘We have been,’ said Fanny, ‘charmed to understand that you know the Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.’

‘They are friends,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of Mr Gowan’s family. I have not yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs Merdle, but I suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.’

‘Indeed?’ returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably quenching her own superiority. ‘I think you’ll like her.’

‘You know her very well?’

‘Why, you see,’ said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders, ‘in London one knows every one. We met her on our way here, and, to say the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the rooms that our people had ordered for us. However, of course, that soon blew over, and we were all good friends again.’

Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of conversing with Mrs Gowan, there was a silent understanding between them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs Gowan with keen and unabated interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit. She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other case—but one.

‘You have been quite well,’ she now said, ‘since that night?’

‘Quite, my dear. And you?’

‘Oh! I am always well,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly. ‘I—yes, thank you.’

There was no reason for her faltering and breaking off, other than that Mrs Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive in the large, soft eyes, had checked Little Dorrit in an instant.

‘You don’t know that you are a favourite of my husband’s, and that I am almost bound to be jealous of you?’ said Mrs Gowan.

Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.

‘He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are quieter and quicker of resource than any one he ever saw.’

‘He speaks far too well of me,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘I doubt that; but I don’t at all doubt that I must tell him you are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you—and Miss Dorrit—go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder and discomfort of a painter’s studio?’

The inquiries were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted. Mrs Gowan went to a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. ‘Do Henry the favour to come in,’ said she, ‘I knew he would be pleased!’

The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive slouched hat, standing on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She recoiled from this figure, as it smiled at her.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door. ‘It’s only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model to-day. I am making a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor painters have none to spare.’

La casa, situata su una piccola isola deserta, sembrava essere stata staccata da qualche altro luogo e fosse finita lì per caso, insieme a un vitigno che aveva altrettanto bisogno di cure quanto i poveri esseri umani sdraiati sotto le sue foglie. I dettagli del paesaggio circostante erano: una chiesa circondata da impalcature e materiali da riparazione; questi lavori erano durati così a lungo che gli strumenti utilizzati sembravano avere cent’anni, e ora anche essi erano in stato di degrado; una quantità di lenzuola stese ad asciugare al sole; diverse case disordinate e storte, simili a formaggi pre-adamiti marci tagliati in forme strane e pieni di acari; infine, una confusione totale di finestre, con le persiane tutte storte, e qualcosa di sporco e appeso fuori dalla maggior parte di esse.

Al primo piano della casa c’era una banca – un’esperienza sorprendente per qualsiasi gentiluomo impegnato in attività commerciali, che provenisse da una città britannica e portasse leggi destinate a tutta l’umanità. Lì, due impiegati, con barbe folte e indossando cappelli di velluto verde adornati di frange dorate, stazionavano dietro un piccolo bancone in una stanza vuota, dove non si vedevano altri oggetti se non una cassaforte di ferro aperta, una giara d’acqua e delle decorazioni a forma di ghirlande di rose. Tuttavia, su semplice richiesta, questi impiegati erano in grado di fornire un numero infinito di banconote da cinque franchi, semplicemente immergendo le mani fuori dalla vista del cliente. Sotto la banca si trovavano tre o quattro stanze con finestre sbarrate, che sembravano più una prigione per ratti criminali che altro. Al di sopra della banca risiedeva la signora Gowan.

Nonostante le sue pareti fossero macchiate, come se mappe missionarie stessero per “spuntarne fuori” per trasmettere conoscenze geografiche; nonostante i suoi mobili strani fossero pallidi e pieni di muffa, e il tipico odore veneziano di acqua di sentina e di marea bassa su una riva erbosa fosse molto forte, quell’ambiente era meglio all’interno di quanto sembrasse dall’esterno. La porta fu aperta da un uomo sorridente, simile a un assassino redento, un domestico temporaneo, che li introdusse nella stanza dove sedeva la signora Gowan, annunciando che due bellissime signore inglesi erano venute a farle visita.

La signora Gowan, che stava facendo lavori di cucito, mise da parte il suo lavoro in un cestino coperto e si alzò, un po’ affrettata. La signorina Fanny fu estremamente cortese con lei, dicendo le solite frasi di circostanza con l’abilità di una persona esperta.

“Papà era estremamente dispiaciuto,” continuò Fanny, “di dover prendere un impegno oggi (è così impegnato qui, e il nostro numero di conoscenti è davvero enorme!); in particolare mi ha chiesto di portargli la sua carta da presentare al signor Gowan. Affinché possa assicurarmi di adempiere a questo incarico che mi ha ripetuto almeno una dozzina di volte, permettetemi di tranquillizzare la mia coscienza mettendola subito sul tavolo.”

Lo fece con grande abilità, come una professionista esperta.

“Siamo state molto felici,” disse Fanny, “di scoprire che conosci i Merdles. Speriamo che questo possa essere un altro modo per avvicinarci di più.”

“Sono amici,” disse la signora Gowan, “della famiglia del signor Gowan. Non ho ancora avuto il piacere di conoscerla personalmente, ma presumo che verrò presentata a lei a Roma.”

“Davvero?” rispose Fanny, con l’aria di mettere gentilmente a tacere la propria superiorità. “Penso che ti piacerà.”

“La conosci molto bene, vero?”

“Vedi,” disse Fanny, muovendo con naturalezza le sue belle spalle, “a Londra si conosce tutti. L’abbiamo incontrata lungo la strada per venire qui, e, a dire il vero, all’inizio papà era un po’ seccato perché aveva preso una delle stanze che le nostre persone avevano prenotato per noi. Ma ovviamente, dopo poco, tutto si è sistemato e siamo diventate buone amiche di nuovo.”

Sebbene la visita non avesse ancora dato a Little Dorrit l’opportunità di parlare con la signora Gowan, esisteva tra loro un’intesa silenziosa che andava più che bene. Lei guardava la signora Gowan con un interesse vivo e incessante; il suono della sua voce le era piacevole all’orecchio; nulla che fosse vicino a lei, o che riguardasse lei stessa, o che avesse in qualche modo a che fare con lei, sfuggiva a Little Dorrit. In questo caso, era più veloce di sempre nel percepire anche il minimo dettaglio, ma solo in questo caso.

“Sei stato davvero molto bene”, disse ora lei, “da quella notte?”

“Certo, mia cara. E tu?”

“Oh! Sono sempre in buona salute,” disse timidamente la piccola Dorrit. “Io, sì, grazie.”

Non c’era alcun motivo per cui lei esitasse o interrompesse ciò che stava facendo, se non il fatto che la signora Gowan le aveva toccato la mano mentre le parlava e i loro sguardi si erano incrociati. Qualcosa di pensieroso e preoccupato nei grandi occhi morbidi della signora Gowan aveva immediatamente fermata Little Dorrit.

“Non sai che sei la preferita di mio marito, e che quasi non posso fare a meno di essere gelosa di te”, disse la signora Gowan.

La piccola Dorrit, arrossendo, scosse la testa.

“Vi dirà lui stesso: se vi racconterà ciò che mi ha detto, vi confermerà che siete più tranquilli e più pronti a reagire di chiunque abbia mai incontrato.”

“Parla troppo bene di me,” disse Little Dorrit.

‘Non ne sono certo; ma non ho alcun dubbio sul fatto che debba dirgli che siete qui. Non mi perdonerebbero mai se vi lasciassi andare, voi e la signorina Dorrit, senza farlo. Posso? Potete scusare il disordine e l’imbarazzo dello studio di un pittore?’

Le domande furono indirizzate a Miss Fanny, la quale rispose gentilmente che sarebbe stata più che interessata e incantata da tutto ciò. La signora Gowan andò verso una porta, guardò all’interno e tornò indietro. “Facciate il favore di far entrare Henry,” disse, “sapevo che ne sarebbe stato felice!”

Il primo oggetto che si presentò davanti a Little Dorrit, entrando per primo, fu Blandois di Parigi, avvolto in un grande mantello e con un cappello calato sul viso; stava in piedi su una piattaforma situata in un angolo, proprio come aveva fatto davanti al Grande San Bernardo, quando tutte le bandiere d’allarme sembravano puntare verso di lui. Little Dorrit indietreggiò di fronte a questa figura, che le sorrise.

“Non allarmatevi,” disse Gowan, uscendo dal suo cavalletto dietro la porta. “È solo Blandois. Oggi fa da modello per me; lo sto studiando. È un modo per risparmiare denaro, visto che noi pittori poveri non abbiamo nulla da scartare.”

Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted the ladies without coming out of his corner.

‘A thousand pardons!’ said he. ‘But the Professore here is so inexorable with me, that I am afraid to stir.’

‘Don’t stir, then,’ said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the easel. ‘Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they may know what it’s meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting for his prey, a distinguished noble waiting to save his country, the common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger waiting to do somebody a good turn—whatever you think he looks most like!’

‘Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage to elegance and beauty,’ remarked Blandois.

‘Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,’ returned Gowan, touching the painted face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, ‘a murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it outside the cloak. Keep it still.’

Blandois’ hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally shake it.

‘He was formerly in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a victim, you observe,’ said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, ‘and these are the tokens of it. Outside the cloak, man!—Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking of?’

Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more; now he raised it to twist his moustache, which had a damp appearance; and now he stood in the required position, with a little new swagger.

His face was so directed in reference to the spot where Little Dorrit stood by the easel, that throughout he looked at her. Once attracted by his peculiar eyes, she could not remove her own, and they had looked at each other all the time. She trembled now; Gowan, feeling it, and supposing her to be alarmed by the large dog beside him, whose head she caressed in her hand, and who had just uttered a low growl, glanced at her to say, ‘He won’t hurt you, Miss Dorrit.’

‘I am not afraid of him,’ she returned in the same breath; ‘but will you look at him?’

In a moment Gowan had thrown down his brush, and seized the dog with both hands by the collar.

‘Blandois! How can you be such a fool as to provoke him! By Heaven, and the other place too, he’ll tear you to bits! Lie down! Lion! Do you hear my voice, you rebel!’

The great dog, regardless of being half-choked by his collar, was obdurately pulling with his dead weight against his master, resolved to get across the room. He had been crouching for a spring at the moment when his master caught him.

‘Lion! Lion!’ He was up on his hind legs, and it was a wrestle between master and dog. ‘Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois! What devil have you conjured into the dog?’

‘I have done nothing to him.’

‘Get out of his sight or I can’t hold the wild beast! Get out of the room! By my soul, he’ll kill you!’

The dog, with a ferocious bark, made one other struggle as Blandois vanished; then, in the moment of the dog’s submission, the master, little less angry than the dog, felled him with a blow on the head, and standing over him, struck him many times severely with the heel of his boot, so that his mouth was presently bloody.

‘Now get you into that corner and lie down,’ said Gowan, ‘or I’ll take you out and shoot you.’

Lion did as he was ordered, and lay down licking his mouth and chest. Lion’s master stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, recovering his usual coolness of manner, turned to speak to his frightened wife and her visitors. Probably the whole occurrence had not occupied two minutes.

‘Come, come, Minnie! You know he is always good-humoured and tractable. Blandois must have irritated him,—made faces at him. The dog has his likings and dislikings, and Blandois is no great favourite of his; but I am sure you will give him a character, Minnie, for never having been like this before.’

Minnie was too much disturbed to say anything connected in reply; Little Dorrit was already occupied in soothing her; Fanny, who had cried out twice or thrice, held Gowan’s arm for protection; Lion, deeply ashamed of having caused them this alarm, came trailing himself along the ground to the feet of his mistress.

‘You furious brute,’ said Gowan, striking him with his foot again. ‘You shall do penance for this.’ And he struck him again, and yet again.

‘O, pray don’t punish him any more,’ cried Little Dorrit. ‘Don’t hurt him. See how gentle he is!’ At her entreaty, Gowan spared him; and he deserved her intercession, for truly he was as submissive, and as sorry, and as wretched as a dog could be.

It was not easy to recover this shock and make the visit unrestrained, even though Fanny had not been, under the best of circumstances, the least trifle in the way. In such further communication as passed among them before the sisters took their departure, Little Dorrit fancied it was revealed to her that Mr Gowan treated his wife, even in his very fondness, too much like a beautiful child. He seemed so unsuspicious of the depths of feeling which she knew must lie below that surface, that she doubted if there could be any such depths in himself. She wondered whether his want of earnestness might be the natural result of his want of such qualities, and whether it was with people as with ships, that, in too shallow and rocky waters, their anchors had no hold, and they drifted anywhere.

He attended them down the staircase, jocosely apologising for the poor quarters to which such poor fellows as himself were limited, and remarking that when the high and mighty Barnacles, his relatives, who would be dreadfully ashamed of them, presented him with better, he would live in better to oblige them. At the water’s edge they were saluted by Blandois, who looked white enough after his late adventure, but who made very light of it notwithstanding,—laughing at the mention of Lion.

Blandois di Parigi si tolse il cappello e salutò le signore senza uscire dal suo angolo.

“Mille scuse!”, disse. “Ma il Professor qui è così inflessibile con me che ho paura di muovermi.”

“Allora non muoverti,” disse Gowan con calma, mentre le sorelle si avvicinavano all’asse da dipingere. “Lasciate che le signore vedano almeno l’originale di quel disegno, così capiranno a cosa serve. Ecco lì: un bravo che aspetta la sua preda, un nobile distinto pronto a salvare il proprio paese, il nemico comune in attesa di fare del male a qualcuno, un messaggero angelico pronto a compiere un gesto buono. Quello che volete, basta che pensiate a quale immagine assomigli di più!”

“Dica, mio Professore, un povero gentiluomo che desidera rendere omaggio all’eleganza e alla bellezza, ”, osservò Blandois.

“O forse, ‘Mio Cattivo Soggetto’, ” rispose Gowan, toccando con il pennello il viso dipinto nel punto in cui il viso reale si era spostato. “Un assassino che agisce dopo l’evento. Mostra quella tua mano bianca, Blandois. Mettila fuori dal mantello. Mantienila ferma.”

La mano di Blandois era instabile; ma rideva, e questo naturalmente la faceva tremare.

“Prima d’ora è stato coinvolto in una rissa con un altro assassino, o forse con una vittima,” disse Gowan, tracciando rapidamente e con impazienza i segni sulla mano dell’uomo, “e questi sono i segni di quella rissa. Fuori dal mantello. Mio Dio, a cosa stai pensando?”

Blandois di Parigi scoppiò di nuovo a ridere, tanto che anche la sua mano iniziò a tremare ancora di più; poi alzò la mano per sistemarsi il mustacchio, che sembrava un po’ umido. E infine assunse la posizione richiesta, con un nuovo atteggiamento più sicuro di sé.

Il suo sguardo era completamente rivolto verso il punto dove Little Dorrit stava in piedi accanto al cavalletto; per tutto il tempo non fece altro che guardarla. Una volta attratta dai suoi occhi particolari, lei non riuscì più a distoglierli, e i loro sguardi rimasero fissi l’uno sull’altro per tutto il tempo. Ora tremava; Gowan se ne accorse e, supponendo che fosse spaventata dal grosso cane accanto a lui – al quale stava accarezzando la testa e che aveva appena emesso un ringhio sommesso – le disse: “Non ti farà del male, Miss Dorrit.”

“Non ho paura di lui,” rispose lei senza esitazione; “ma potresti guardarlo, per favore?”

In un attimo, Gowan gettò giù il pennello e afferrò il cane per il collare con entrambe le mani.

‘Blandois! Come puoi essere così stupido da provocarlo! Per l’Altissimo, ti distruggerà! Mettiti a terra! Leone. Mi senti? Tu, maledetto ribelle!’

Il grande cane, nonostante fosse quasi soffocato dal collare, continuava ostinatamente a tirare verso il suo padrone, deciso a raggiungere l’altra estremità della stanza. Si era accovacciato in attesa del momento giusto per scattare, proprio quando il suo padrone lo aveva afferrato.

‘Leone! Leone!’ Era in piedi sulle zampe posteriori, e si scatenò una lotta tra padrone e cane. ‘Torna indietro! Giù, Leone! Allontanati dai suoi occhi, Blandois. Che diavolo hai fatto apparire in quel cane?’

“Non gli ho fatto nulla.”

“Allontanati dalla sua vista, altrimenti non riuscirò a controllare quella bestia selvaggia! Vattene dalla stanza! Per la mia ‘anima, ti ucciderà!”

Il cane, con un ululato feroce, fece ancora uno sforzo disperato mentre Blandois scompariva; poi, nel momento in cui il cane si arrese, il padrone, altrettanto arrabbiato di lui, lo colpì alla testa e, standogli sopra, lo picchiò più volte con la suola del suo stivale, fino a quando la sua bocca non iniziò a sanguinare.

“Ora vai in quell’angolo e stai giù,” disse Gowan, “altrimenti ti porterò fuori e ti sparerò.”

Il Leone fece ciò che gli era stato ordinato e si sdraiò leccandosi la bocca e il petto. Il padrone del Leone si fermò per un momento per riprendere fiato, poi, riprendendo la sua solita calma, si rivolse a parlare con sua moglie spaventata e ai suoi ospiti. Probabilmente l’intera vicenda non durò nemmeno due minuti.

“Ma come, Minnie! Sai che è sempre di buon umore e facile da trattare. Blandois deve averlo irritato, deve avergli fatto delle smorfie. I cani hanno le loro preferenze e antipatie, e Blandois sicuramente non è tra i suoi preferiti; ma sono certa che gli darai una giustificazione, Minnie. Non è mai stato così prima d’ora.”

Minnie era troppo sconvolta per riuscire a dire qualcosa in risposta; Little Dorrit era già impegnata a consolarla; Fanny, che aveva pianto due o tre volte, si aggrappava al braccio di Gowan per cercare protezione; Lion, profondamente imbarazzato per aver causato loro tutta quella preoccupazione, strisciò a terra fino ai piedi della sua padrona.

“Brutto furioso,” disse Gowan, colpendolo di nuovo con il piede. “Dovrai scontare le conseguenze delle tue azioni.” E lo colpì ancora, e ancora una volta.

“Oh, per favore non punirlo più,” gridò Little Dorrit. “Non fargli del male. Vedete quanto sia docile!” Alla sua supplica, Gowan lo risparmiò; e lui meritava davvero la sua intercessione, perché veramente era così ubbidiente, così pentito e così sventurato come solo un cane potrebbe essere.

Non fu facile superare quel shock e rendere la visita serena e senza impedimenti, anche se, nelle migliori circostanze, Fanny non aveva rappresentato alcun ostacolo. Nei pochi scambi che ebbero luogo prima che le sorelle partissero, Little Dorrit ebbe l’impressione che Mr Gowan trattasse sua moglie, anche nel suo affetto più profondo, come se fosse una bella bambina. Sembrava del tutto ignaro delle profondità dei sentimenti che lei sapeva esistere sotto quella superficie, al punto che lei dubitava che tali sentimenti potessero davvero esistere in lui. Si chiedeva se la sua mancanza di sincerità fosse il risultato naturale della mancanza di quelle qualità nel suo carattere, e se, proprio come per le navi, nelle acque troppo poco profonde e piene di scogli gli anelli non trovassero appiglio e quindi andassero alla deriva.

Li accompagnò giù per le scale, scusandosi scherzosamente per quelle misere condizioni in cui erano costretti a vivere persone povere come lui, e aggiunse che non appena i suoi parenti, quegli importanti Barnacles, si fossero degnati di offrirgli qualcosa di meglio, avrebbe accettato volentieri per compiacerli. Sulla riva dell’acqua furono salutati da Blandois, il quale sembrava piuttosto pallido dopo l’avventura appena vissuta, ma ne parlava con estrema noncuranza, ridendo ogni volta che si menzionava Lion.

Leaving the two together under the scrap of vine upon the causeway, Gowan idly scattering the leaves from it into the water, and Blandois lighting a cigarette, the sisters were paddled away in state as they had come. They had not glided on for many minutes, when Little Dorrit became aware that Fanny was more showy in manner than the occasion appeared to require, and, looking about for the cause through the window and through the open door, saw another gondola evidently in waiting on them.

As this gondola attended their progress in various artful ways; sometimes shooting on a-head, and stopping to let them pass; sometimes, when the way was broad enough, skimming along side by side with them; and sometimes following close astern; and as Fanny gradually made no disguise that she was playing off graces upon somebody within it, of whom she at the same time feigned to be unconscious; Little Dorrit at length asked who it was?

To which Fanny made the short answer, ‘That gaby.’

‘Who?’ said Little Dorrit.

‘My dear child,’ returned Fanny (in a tone suggesting that before her Uncle’s protest she might have said, You little fool, instead), ‘how slow you are! Young Sparkler.’

She lowered the window on her side, and, leaning back and resting her elbow on it negligently, fanned herself with a rich Spanish fan of black and gold. The attendant gondola, having skimmed forward again, with some swift trace of an eye in the window, Fanny laughed coquettishly and said, ‘Did you ever see such a fool, my love?’

‘Do you think he means to follow you all the way?’ asked Little Dorrit.

‘My precious child,’ returned Fanny, ‘I can’t possibly answer for what an idiot in a state of desperation may do, but I should think it highly probable. It’s not such an enormous distance. All Venice would scarcely be that, I imagine, if he’s dying for a glimpse of me.’

‘And is he?’ asked Little Dorrit in perfect simplicity.

‘Well, my love, that really is an awkward question for me to answer,’ said her sister. ‘I believe he is. You had better ask Edward. He tells Edward he is, I believe. I understand he makes a perfect spectacle of himself at the Casino, and that sort of places, by going on about me. But you had better ask Edward if you want to know.’

‘I wonder he doesn’t call,’ said Little Dorrit after thinking a moment.

‘My dear Amy, your wonder will soon cease, if I am rightly informed. I should not be at all surprised if he called to-day. The creature has only been waiting to get his courage up, I suspect.’

‘Will you see him?’

‘Indeed, my darling,’ said Fanny, ‘that’s just as it may happen. Here he is again. Look at him. O, you simpleton!’

Mr Sparkler had, undeniably, a weak appearance; with his eye in the window like a knot in the glass, and no reason on earth for stopping his bark suddenly, except the real reason.

‘When you asked me if I will see him, my dear,’ said Fanny, almost as well composed in the graceful indifference of her attitude as Mrs Merdle herself, ‘what do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ said Little Dorrit—‘I think I rather mean what do you mean, dear Fanny?’

Fanny laughed again, in a manner at once condescending, arch, and affable; and said, putting her arm round her sister in a playfully affectionate way:

‘Now tell me, my little pet. When we saw that woman at Martigny, how did you think she carried it off? Did you see what she decided on in a moment?’

‘No, Fanny.’

‘Then I’ll tell you, Amy. She settled with herself, now I’ll never refer to that meeting under such different circumstances, and I’ll never pretend to have any idea that these are the same girls. That’s her way out of a difficulty. What did I tell you when we came away from Harley Street that time? She is as insolent and false as any woman in the world. But in the first capacity, my love, she may find people who can match her.’

A significant turn of the Spanish fan towards Fanny’s bosom, indicated with great expression where one of these people was to be found.

‘Not only that,’ pursued Fanny, ‘but she gives the same charge to Young Sparkler; and doesn’t let him come after me until she has got it thoroughly into his most ridiculous of all ridiculous noddles (for one really can’t call it a head), that he is to pretend to have been first struck with me in that Inn Yard.’

‘Why?’ asked Little Dorrit.

‘Why? Good gracious, my love!’ (again very much in the tone of You stupid little creature) ‘how can you ask? Don’t you see that I may have become a rather desirable match for a noddle? And don’t you see that she puts the deception upon us, and makes a pretence, while she shifts it from her own shoulders (very good shoulders they are too, I must say),’ observed Miss Fanny, glancing complacently at herself, ‘of considering our feelings?’

‘But we can always go back to the plain truth.’

‘Yes, but if you please we won’t,’ retorted Fanny. ‘No; I am not going to have that done, Amy. The pretext is none of mine; it’s hers, and she shall have enough of it.’

In the triumphant exaltation of her feelings, Miss Fanny, using her Spanish fan with one hand, squeezed her sister’s waist with the other, as if she were crushing Mrs Merdle.

‘No,’ repeated Fanny. ‘She shall find me go her way. She took it, and I’ll follow it. And, with the blessing of fate and fortune, I’ll go on improving that woman’s acquaintance until I have given her maid, before her eyes, things from my dressmaker’s ten times as handsome and expensive as she once gave me from hers!’

Little Dorrit was silent; sensible that she was not to be heard on any question affecting the family dignity, and unwilling to lose to no purpose her sister’s newly and unexpectedly restored favour. She could not concur, but she was silent. Fanny well knew what she was thinking of; so well, that she soon asked her.

Lasciando i due insieme sotto quel pezzo di vite sul pontile, Gowan spargeva distrattamente le foglie nell’acqua, mentre Blandois accendeva una sigaretta; le sorelle si allontanavano lentamente, proprio come erano arrivate. Dopo pochi minuti, Little Dorrit notò che Fanny si comportava in modo più appariscente di quanto l’occasione sembrasse richiedere; guardando intorno attraverso la finestra e la porta aperta, vide un’altra gondola che chiaramente le stava aspettando.

Mentre questa gondola seguiva il loro percorso in svariati modi ingegnosi: a volte accelerando davanti a loro per poi fermarsi e lasciarli passare; altre volte, quando il percorso era abbastanza largo, procedendo fianco a fianco con loro; e ancora altre volte mantenendosi alle loro spalle. E poiché Fanny iniziò gradualmente a non nascondere che stava mostrando le sue grazie a qualcuno all’interno della gondola, di cui al contempo fingeva di non essere consapevole, alla fine Little Dorrit chiese chi fosse quella persona.

“Quella Gaby”, rispose brevemente Fanny.

“Chi?” disse Little Dorrit.

“Mio caro bambino”, rispose Fanny (con un tono che suggeriva che, prima della protesta di suo zio, avrebbe potuto dire “Tu piccolo idiota”), “quanto sei lento. Giovane Sparkler.”

Abbassò la finestra dal suo lato e, appoggiandosi allo schienale con noncuranza e il gomito sulla finestra, si ventilò con un elegante ventaglio spagnolo nero e dorato. La gondola che la seguiva si era di nuovo avvicinata; dopo aver notato qualcosa attraverso la finestra, Fanny rise in modo civettuoso e disse: “Hai mai visto uno così stupido, mio amore?”

“Pensi che abbia intenzione di seguirti per tutto il cammino?” chiese Little Dorrit.

“Mio caro bambino”, rispose Fanny, “non posso assolutamente garantire per le azioni che un idiota in preda alla disperazione potrebbe compiere, ma penso sia molto probabile. Non è una distanza così enorme. Tutto Venezia, immagino, non sarebbe nemmeno la metà di questa distanza, se lui desiderasse ardentemente rivedermi.”

“E davvero lo è?” chiese Little Dorrit con perfetta semplicità.

“Beh, mio caro,” disse sua sorella, “è davvero una domanda imbarazzante per me da rispondere. Credo che lo sia. È meglio che chiedi a Edward. Lui dice sempre a Edward che lo è. So che si comporta in modo molto ridicolo al Casino e in posti del genere, parlando sempre di me. Ma se vuoi saperlo davvero, è meglio che chieda a Edward.”

“Mi chiedo perché non mi telefoni,” disse Little Dorrit dopo averci pensato un momento.

“Mia cara Amy, il tuo stupore finirà presto, se ho capito bene. Non mi sorprenderebbe affatto se chiamasse oggi. Sospetto che quell’essere stia semplicemente aspettando di raccogliere il coraggio necessario.”

“Lo incontrerai?”

“Davvero, mio caro,” disse Fanny, “è proprio possibile che accada così. Ecco che è tornato di nuovo. Guardalo. Oh, tu ingenuo!”

Il signor Sparkler aveva, indubbiamente, un aspetto fragile; con quel suo occhio fisso sulla finestra, come un nodo nel vetro, e senza alcun motivo al mondo per fermarsi all’improvviso nel parlare, tranne il vero motivo.

“Quando mi hai chiesto se lo vedrò, caro mio,” disse Fanny, con quell’indifferenza elegante che caratterizzava il suo atteggiamento, proprio come quello della stessa signora Merdle, “a cosa ti riferisci?”

“Voglio dire, ”, disse Little Dorrit, “penso che ciò che intendo sia: cosa intendi tu, cara Fanny?”

Fanny rise di nuovo, in un modo al tempo stesso condiscendente, ironico e affabile; poi, mettendo un braccio intorno alla sorella con un gesto giocoso e affettuoso, disse.

“Ora dimmi, mio piccolo tesoro. Quando abbiamo visto quella donna a Martigny, come pensi che se la sia cavata? Hai visto cosa ha deciso in un attimo?”

“No, Fanny.”

“Allora te lo dico, Amy: lei si è rassegnata a questa situazione. Ora non parlerò mai più di quell’incontro in quelle circostanze diverse, e non fingerò mai di sapere che queste siano le stesse ragazze. Quello è il suo modo per uscire da una difficoltà. Cosa ti avevo detto quando siamo uscite da Harley Street quella volta? È altrettanto insolente e falsa quanto qualsiasi altra donna al mondo. Ma, in termini di amore, mio caro, forse troverà persone che possano competere con lei.”

Un evidente orientamento da parte dei fan spagnoli verso il seno di Fanny era indicato in modo molto chiaro, proprio nel luogo dove si trovava una di queste persone.

“Non solo,” proseguì Fanny, “ma gli dà anche lo stesso incarico; e non lo lascia venire da me finché non gli ha ben ficcato nella testa, che è davvero la parte più ridicola di tutto il suo corpo, l’idea che debba fingere di essere stato il primo ad innamorarsi di me in quel cortile dell’ostello.”

“Perché?”, chiese Little Dorrit.

“Perché? Mio caro, mio adorato!” (di nuovo con quel tono di “Sei davvero una creatura stupida, ”), “Come puoi chiedermelo? Non capisci che ora potrei rappresentare una partita molto allettante per qualcuno. E non vedi anche che lei ci sta ingannando, fingendo di considerare i nostri sentimenti, mentre in realtà li trasferisce sulle proprie spalle?” osservò Miss Fanny, guardandosi compiaciuta.

“Ma possiamo sempre tornare alla semplice verità.”

“Sì, ma se possibile preferiremmo di no,” ribatté Fanny. “No; non permetterò che si faccia, Amy. Quel pretesto non è mio; è suo, e ne avrà abbastanza.”

Nell’esaltazione trionfale dei suoi sentimenti, la signorina Fanny, tenendo in una mano il suo ventaglio spagnolo, strinse la vita di sua sorella con l’altra, come se stesse schiacciando la signora Merdle.

“No,” ripeté Fanny. “Vedrà che seguirò la strada che lei ha scelto. Lei l’ha presa, e io la seguirò. E, con la benedizione del destino, continuerò ad approfondire la conoscenza di quella donna, fino a quando non le darò, davanti ai suoi occhi, cose provenienti dal mio sarto, dieci volte più belle ed eleganti di quelle che lei mi ha mai dato!”

Little Dorrit rimase in silenzio: sapeva bene che non doveva esprimersi su alcuna questione che riguardasse la dignità della famiglia, e non voleva a nessun costo compromettere il favore appena ristabilito per sua sorella. Non poteva essere d’accordo, ma rimase in silenzio. Fanny sapeva molto bene a cosa stesse pensando Little Dorrit; così bene, che presto le chiese cosa ne pensasse.

Her reply was, ‘Do you mean to encourage Mr Sparkler, Fanny?’

‘Encourage him, my dear?’ said her sister, smiling contemptuously, ‘that depends upon what you call encourage. No, I don’t mean to encourage him. But I’ll make a slave of him.’

Little Dorrit glanced seriously and doubtfully in her face, but Fanny was not to be so brought to a check. She furled her fan of black and gold, and used it to tap her sister’s nose; with the air of a proud beauty and a great spirit, who toyed with and playfully instructed a homely companion.

‘I shall make him fetch and carry, my dear, and I shall make him subject to me. And if I don’t make his mother subject to me, too, it shall not be my fault.’

‘Do you think—dear Fanny, don’t be offended, we are so comfortable together now—that you can quite see the end of that course?’

‘I can’t say I have so much as looked for it yet, my dear,’ answered Fanny, with supreme indifference; ‘all in good time. Such are my intentions. And really they have taken me so long to develop, that here we are at home. And Young Sparkler at the door, inquiring who is within. By the merest accident, of course!’

In effect, the swain was standing up in his gondola, card-case in hand, affecting to put the question to a servant. This conjunction of circumstances led to his immediately afterwards presenting himself before the young ladies in a posture, which in ancient times would not have been considered one of favourable augury for his suit; since the gondoliers of the young ladies, having been put to some inconvenience by the chase, so neatly brought their own boat in the gentlest collision with the bark of Mr Sparkler, as to tip that gentleman over like a larger species of ninepin, and cause him to exhibit the soles of his shoes to the object of his dearest wishes: while the nobler portions of his anatomy struggled at the bottom of his boat in the arms of one of his men.

However, as Miss Fanny called out with much concern, Was the gentleman hurt, Mr Sparkler rose more restored than might have been expected, and stammered for himself with blushes, ‘Not at all so.’ Miss Fanny had no recollection of having ever seen him before, and was passing on, with a distant inclination of her head, when he announced himself by name. Even then she was in a difficulty from being unable to call it to mind, until he explained that he had had the honour of seeing her at Martigny. Then she remembered him, and hoped his lady-mother was well.

‘Thank you,’ stammered Mr Sparkler, ‘she’s uncommonly well—at least, poorly.’

‘In Venice?’ said Miss Fanny.

‘In Rome,’ Mr Sparkler answered. ‘I am here by myself, myself. I came to call upon Mr Edward Dorrit myself. Indeed, upon Mr Dorrit likewise. In fact, upon the family.’

Turning graciously to the attendants, Miss Fanny inquired whether her papa or brother was within? The reply being that they were both within, Mr Sparkler humbly offered his arm. Miss Fanny accepting it, was squired up the great staircase by Mr Sparkler, who, if he still believed (which there is not any reason to doubt) that she had no nonsense about her, rather deceived himself.

Arrived in a mouldering reception-room, where the faded hangings, of a sad sea-green, had worn and withered until they looked as if they might have claimed kindred with the waifs of seaweed drifting under the windows, or clinging to the walls and weeping for their imprisoned relations, Miss Fanny despatched emissaries for her father and brother. Pending whose appearance, she showed to great advantage on a sofa, completing Mr Sparkler’s conquest with some remarks upon Dante—known to that gentleman as an eccentric man in the nature of an Old File, who used to put leaves round his head, and sit upon a stool for some unaccountable purpose, outside the cathedral at Florence.

Mr Dorrit welcomed the visitor with the highest urbanity, and most courtly manners. He inquired particularly after Mrs Merdle. He inquired particularly after Mr Merdle. Mr Sparkler said, or rather twitched out of himself in small pieces by the shirt-collar, that Mrs Merdle having completely used up her place in the country, and also her house at Brighton, and being, of course, unable, don’t you see, to remain in London when there wasn’t a soul there, and not feeling herself this year quite up to visiting about at people’s places, had resolved to have a touch at Rome, where a woman like herself, with a proverbially fine appearance, and with no nonsense about her, couldn’t fail to be a great acquisition. As to Mr Merdle, he was so much wanted by the men in the City and the rest of those places, and was such a doosed extraordinary phenomenon in Buying and Banking and that, that Mr Sparkler doubted if the monetary system of the country would be able to spare him; though that his work was occasionally one too many for him, and that he would be all the better for a temporary shy at an entirely new scene and climate, Mr Sparkler did not conceal. As to himself, Mr Sparkler conveyed to the Dorrit family that he was going, on rather particular business, wherever they were going.

This immense conversational achievement required time, but was effected. Being effected, Mr Dorrit expressed his hope that Mr Sparkler would shortly dine with them. Mr Sparkler received the idea so kindly that Mr Dorrit asked what he was going to do that day, for instance? As he was going to do nothing that day (his usual occupation, and one for which he was particularly qualified), he was secured without postponement; being further bound over to accompany the ladies to the Opera in the evening.

At dinner-time Mr Sparkler rose out of the sea, like Venus’s son taking after his mother, and made a splendid appearance ascending the great staircase. If Fanny had been charming in the morning, she was now thrice charming, very becomingly dressed in her most suitable colours, and with an air of negligence upon her that doubled Mr Sparkler’s fetters, and riveted them.

La sua risposta fu: “Vuoi davvero incoraggiare il signor Sparkler, Fanny?”

“Rincoraggialo, cara mia?” disse sua sorella, sorridendo con disprezzo. “Beh, dipende da cosa tu intenda per incoraggiare. No, non ho intenzione di rincoraggiarlo. Ma lo renderò un schiavo.”

Little Dorrit la guardò seriamente e con scetticismo, ma Fanny non era il tipo da essere fermata così facilmente. Sfogliò il suo ventaglio nero e dorato e lo usò per toccare il naso di sua sorella; con l’aria di una bellezza orgogliosa e piena di spirito, che giocava e istruiva in modo scherzoso la sua compagna più semplice.

“Lo farò lavorare sodo per me, caro mio, e lo renderò mio suddito. E se non renderò anche sua madre mia suddita, non sarà certo colpa mia.”

“Pensi davvero, cara Fanny, non offenderti, ora ci sentiamo così a nostro agio insieme, che possiamo già immaginare la fine di quella situazione?”

“Non posso dire di averci nemmeno provato ancora, caro mio,” rispose Fanny con estrema indifferenza; “tutto a suo tempo. Queste sono le mie intenzioni. E onestamente mi ci è voluto così tanto per decidermi che ora siamo già a >casa. E Young Sparkler è alla porta, chiedendo chi c’è dentro. Naturalmente, per pura coincidenza!”

In effetti, il giovane si trovava nella sua gondola, con la cartella in mano, fingendo di porre una domanda a un servitore. Questa combinazione di circostanze lo portò immediatamente dopo ad apparire davanti alle giovani signore in una posizione che, nell’antichità, non sarebbe stata considerata di buon auspicio per le sue intenzioni; infatti, i gondolieri delle giovani donne, essendo stati disturbati dalla caccia, fecero sì che la loro barca si scontrasse con estrema delicatezza con quella del signor Sparkler, facendolo cadere all’interno della sua stessa imbarcazione come se fosse stato colpito da una forza irresistibile, e costringendolo così a mostrare le suole delle sue scarpe davanti alle donne che desiderava tanto. Mentre le parti più “noble” del suo corpo si dibattevano sul fondo della gondola, tra le braccia di uno dei suoi uomini.

Tuttavia, mentre Miss Fanny esclamava con grande preoccupazione “Il signore è ferito?”, Mr Sparkler sembrava essere più ripreso di quanto ci si potesse aspettare; arrossendo, balbettò: “Assolutamente no.” Miss Fanny non ricordava di averlo mai visto prima, e stava per andarsene con un lieve cenno del capo quando lui le annunciò il proprio nome. Anche allora ebbe difficoltà a ricordarlo, finché lui non spiegò di aver avuto l’onore di incontrarla a Martigny. Allora lo riconobbe e sperò che sua madre fosse in buona salute.

“Grazie,” balbettò il signor Sparkler, “è insolitamente, bene, almeno, poverina.”

“‘A Venezia?’” chiese la signorina Fanny.

“A Roma,” rispose il signor Sparkler. “Sono qui da solo, proprio da solo. Sono venuto personalmente a far visita al signor Edward Dorrit. Anzi, anche alla famiglia intera.”

Voltandosi con gentilezza verso le cameriere, Miss Fanny chiese se suo padre o suo fratello fossero dentro. Dopo che le fu risposto che entrambi erano presenti, il signor Sparkler le offrì umilmente il braccio. Accettandolo, Miss Fanny fu scortata su per la grande scalinata dal signor Sparkler; ma se lui credeva ancora (e non c’era alcun motivo per dubitarne) che lei non scherzasse, allora si sbagliava.

Arrivata in un salotto in rovina, dove le tende sbiadite di un triste colore verde marino si erano logorate e appassite al punto da sembrare imparentate con gli alghe che galleggiavano sotto le finestre o si attaccavano alle pareti, piangendo per le loro “relazioni imprigionate”, la signorina Fanny inviò messaggeri a cercare suo padre e suo fratello. Nel frattempo, seduta su un divano, dimostrò tutto il proprio fascino, completando così la conquista del signor Sparkler con alcune osservazioni su Dante, che quel gentiluomo conosceva come un uomo eccentrico, dal comportamento stravagante: si metteva foglie in testa e sedeva su uno sgabello, per motivi inspiegabili, fuori dalla >cattedrale di Firenze.

Il signor Dorrit accolse il visitatore con la massima urbanità e i modi più cortesi. Chiese particolarmente notizie della signora Merdle, e anche del signor Merdle stesso. Il signor Sparkler disse, o meglio, farfugliò, che la signora Merdle, avendo esaurito completamente il proprio posto in campagna e anche la propria casa a Brighton, e non potendo naturalmente rimanere a Londra dove non c’era nessuno, e non sentendosi più in grado di fare visite questa stagione, aveva deciso di recarsi a Roma, dove una donna come lei, con un aspetto estremamente elegante e senza alcuna pretesa, avrebbe sicuramente fatto grande impressione. Per quanto riguardava il signor Merdle, be’, era così richiesto dagli uomini della Città e da altre località, ed era davvero un fenomeno straordinario nel campo degli affari finanziari, che il signor Sparkler dubitava persino che il sistema monetario del paese riuscisse a farne a meno, anche se, a volte, il suo lavoro diventava davvero troppo per lui, e che quindi un periodo di riposo in un ambiente completamente nuovo gli avrebbe fatto solo bene. Per quanto riguarda sé stesso, il signor Sparkler comunicò alla famiglia Dorrit che li avrebbe seguiti, ovunque fossero andati, per affari piuttosto particolari.

Questo enorme risultato nel campo delle conversazioni richiese del tempo, ma alla fine fu raggiunto. Una volta ottenuto, il signor Dorrit esprimeva la sua >speranza che il signor Sparkler pranzasse presto con loro. Il signor Sparkler accolse l’idea con grande gentilezza; così il signor Dorrit gli chiese cosa avesse intenzione di fare quel giorno. Poiché non aveva nulla in programma (la sua solita occupazione, e una per la quale era particolarmente qualificato), fu possibile organizzare il pranzo senza alcun ritardo; inoltre, fu anche deciso che accompagnasse le signore all’Opera quella sera.

A cena, al momento opportuno, il signor Sparkler emerse dal mare, simile al figlio di >Venere che assomigliava a sua madre, e fece una splendida apparizione salendo la grande scalinata. Se Fanny era stata incantevole quella mattina, ora lo era ancora di più: vestita con i colori più adatti a lei, aveva un’aria disinvolta che rafforzò ulteriormente l’effetto che esercitava sul signor Sparkler, legandolo a lei per sempre.

‘I hear you are acquainted, Mr Sparkler,’ said his host at dinner, ‘with—ha—Mr Gowan. Mr Henry Gowan?’

‘Perfectly, sir,’ returned Mr Sparkler. ‘His mother and my mother are cronies in fact.’

‘If I had thought of it, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a patronage as magnificent as that of Lord Decimus himself, ‘you should have despatched a note to them, asking them to dine to-day. Some of our people could have—ha—fetched them, and taken them home. We could have spared a—hum—gondola for that purpose. I am sorry to have forgotten this. Pray remind me of them to-morrow.’

Little Dorrit was not without doubts how Mr Henry Gowan might take their patronage; but she promised not to fail in the reminder.

‘Pray, does Mr Henry Gowan paint—ha—Portraits?’ inquired Mr Dorrit.

Mr Sparkler opined that he painted anything, if he could get the job.

‘He has no particular walk?’ said Mr Dorrit.

Mr Sparkler, stimulated by Love to brilliancy, replied that for a particular walk a man ought to have a particular pair of shoes; as, for example, shooting, shooting-shoes; cricket, cricket-shoes. Whereas, he believed that Henry Gowan had no particular pair of shoes.

‘No speciality?’ said Mr Dorrit.

This being a very long word for Mr Sparkler, and his mind being exhausted by his late effort, he replied, ‘No, thank you. I seldom take it.’

‘Well!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘It would be very agreeable to me to present a gentleman so connected, with some—ha—Testimonial of my desire to further his interests, and develop the—hum—germs of his genius. I think I must engage Mr Gowan to paint my picture. If the result should be—ha—mutually satisfactory, I might afterwards engage him to try his hand upon my family.’

The exquisitely bold and original thought presented itself to Mr Sparkler, that there was an opening here for saying there were some of the family (emphasising ‘some’ in a marked manner) to whom no painter could render justice. But, for want of a form of words in which to express the idea, it returned to the skies.

This was the more to be regretted as Miss Fanny greatly applauded the notion of the portrait, and urged her papa to act upon it. She surmised, she said, that Mr Gowan had lost better and higher opportunities by marrying his pretty wife; and Love in a cottage, painting pictures for dinner, was so delightfully interesting, that she begged her papa to give him the commission whether he could paint a likeness or not: though indeed both she and Amy knew he could, from having seen a speaking likeness on his easel that day, and having had the opportunity of comparing it with the original. These remarks made Mr Sparkler (as perhaps they were intended to do) nearly distracted; for while on the one hand they expressed Miss Fanny’s susceptibility of the tender passion, she herself showed such an innocent unconsciousness of his admiration that his eyes goggled in his head with jealousy of an unknown rival.

Descending into the sea again after dinner, and ascending out of it at the Opera staircase, preceded by one of their gondoliers, like an attendant Merman, with a great linen lantern, they entered their box, and Mr Sparkler entered on an evening of agony. The theatre being dark, and the box light, several visitors lounged in during the representation; in whom Fanny was so interested, and in conversation with whom she fell into such charming attitudes, as she had little confidences with them, and little disputes concerning the identity of people in distant boxes, that the wretched Sparkler hated all mankind. But he had two consolations at the close of the performance. She gave him her fan to hold while she adjusted her cloak, and it was his blessed privilege to give her his arm down-stairs again. These crumbs of encouragement, Mr Sparkler thought, would just keep him going; and it is not impossible that Miss Dorrit thought so too.

The Merman with his light was ready at the box-door, and other Mermen with other lights were ready at many of the doors. The Dorrit Merman held his lantern low, to show the steps, and Mr Sparkler put on another heavy set of fetters over his former set, as he watched her radiant feet twinkling down the stairs beside him. Among the loiterers here, was Blandois of Paris. He spoke, and moved forward beside Fanny.

Little Dorrit was in front with her brother and Mrs General (Mr Dorrit had remained at home), but on the brink of the quay they all came together. She started again to find Blandois close to her, handing Fanny into the boat.

‘Gowan has had a loss,’ he said, ‘since he was made happy to-day by a visit from fair ladies.’

‘A loss?’ repeated Fanny, relinquished by the bereaved Sparkler, and taking her seat.

‘A loss,’ said Blandois. ‘His dog Lion.’

Little Dorrit’s hand was in his, as he spoke.

‘He is dead,’ said Blandois.

‘Dead?’ echoed Little Dorrit. ‘That noble dog?’

‘Faith, dear ladies!’ said Blandois, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, ‘somebody has poisoned that noble dog. He is as dead as the Doges!’

“Ho sentito dire che lei conosca, signor Sparkler,” disse il suo ospite a cena, “il signor Gowan, il signor Henry Gowan, giusto?”

“Perfettamente, signore,” rispose il signor Sparkler. “In realtà, sua madre e mia madre sono amiche intime.”

“Se ci avessi pensato, Amy,” disse il signor Dorrit con un tono di condiscendenza altrettanto magnifico quanto quello stesso del lord Decimus, “avresti dovuto inviare loro una nota chiedendo loro di venire a cena oggi. Alcuni dei nostri domestici avrebbero potuto andarli a prendere e portarli >a casa. Avremmo potuto anche noleggiare una gondola per questo scopo. Mi dispiace di aver dimenticato tutto questo. Per favore, ricordamelo domani.”

Little Dorrit aveva dei dubbi su come il signor Henry Gowan avrebbe potuto interpretare il loro sostegno; ma promise di non mancare di ricordarglielo.

“Chiedo scusa, ma il signor Henry Gowan dipinge, cioè realizza ritratti?”, chiese il signor Dorrit.

Il signor Sparkler riteneva che dipingesse qualsiasi cosa, pur di ottenere il lavoro.

“Non ha un modo particolare di camminare?” chiese il signor Dorrit.

Signor Sparkler, stimolato dall’Amore a brillare, rispose che per una determinata attività si dovrebbero indossare scarpe adatte; ad esempio, per la caccia ci vogliono scarpe da caccia, e per il cricket scarpe da cricket. Tuttavia, riteneva che Henry Gowan non possedesse alcuna coppia di scarpe adatta alle diverse occasioni.

“Nessuna specializzazione?” disse il signor Dorrit.

Essendo questa una parola molto lunga per il signor Sparkler, e avendo la sua mente esausta a causa dello sforzo appena compiuto, rispose: “No, grazie. Raramente la prendo.”

“Beh!”, disse il signor Dorrit. “Sarebbe molto piacevole per me poter presentare un gentiluomo così influente, e fornirgli qualche, ehm, testimonianza del mio desiderio di promuovere i suoi interessi e sviluppare i germi del suo genio. Penso che dovrò assumere il signor Gowan per dipingere il mio ritratto; se il risultato dovesse essere, ehm, soddisfacente per entrambi, potrei poi chiedergli di provare a dipingere anche i membri della mia famiglia.”

Alla mente di Mr Sparkler balenò l’idea, estremamente audace e originale: esisteva infatti l’opportunità per affermare che ci fossero alcuni membri della famiglia (sottolineando con particolare enfasi il “alcuni”) i quali nessun pittore avrebbe mai potuto rappresentare fedelmente. Tuttavia, a causa della mancanza di parole adatte per esprimere questo concetto, quell’idea rimase semplicemente un’idea, e non venne mai realizzata.

Questo era davvero motivo di rammarico, poiché la signorina Fanny apprezzava molto l’idea di realizzare quel ritratto e incoraggiava suo padre ad agire al riguardo. Lei supponeva, diceva, che il signor Gowan avesse perso opportunità migliori e più importanti sposando quella bella donna; inoltre, l’amore in una casetta, dipingere quadri a cena, tutto ciò era così deliziosamente interessante che pregava suo padre di affidargli l’incarico, indipendentemente dal fatto che fosse in grado di realizzare un ritratto vero e proprio o meno. Anche se, in realtà, sia lei che Amy sapevano benissimo che lui ne era capace, avendo visto quel giorno un ritratto molto somigliante al soggetto sul suo cavalletto, e avendone avuto l’opportunità di confrontarlo con l’originale. Questi commenti lasciarono il signor Sparkler quasi sconcertato; da un lato, infatti, riflettevano la sensibilità della signorina Fanny verso quel sentimento tenero e profondo, dall’altro, lei stessa dimostrava una tale innocenza e inconsapevolezza riguardo all’ammirazione che lui provava per lei, che i suoi occhi si riempirono di invidia verso un rivale sconosciuto.

Tornando di nuovo in mare dopo cena e risalendo attraverso la scalinata dell’Opera, preceduti da uno dei loro gondolieri, come se fossero assistenti marini, con una grande lanterna di lino, entrarono nella loro loggia; Mr Sparkler, invece, entrò in un momento di profonda angoscia. Poiché il teatro era buio e la loro loggia illuminata, diversi visitatori si fermarono durante lo spettacolo; Fanny mostrava grande interesse per loro e intratteneva con loro conversazioni piacevoli, anche se in realtà non aveva molte confidenze con loro, né discussioni riguardo all’“identità” delle persone nelle logge lontane. Il povero Sparkler odiava tutta l’umanità. Ma alla fine dello spettacolo ebbe due consolazioni: lei gli diede il proprio ventaglio da tenere mentre si sistemava il mantello, e fu per lui un grande privilegio poterle offrire di nuovo il braccio per scendere le scale. Questi piccoli segni di incoraggiamento, pensava Mr Sparkler, sarebbero bastati a farlo andare avanti. E forse anche Miss Dorrit la pensava allo stesso modo.

Il Tritone con la sua luce era pronto davanti alla porta d’ingresso; altri Tritoni, con altre luci, erano pronti anche davanti a molte altre porte. Il Tritone Dorrit teneva bassa la sua lanterna per indicare i gradini; il signor Sparkler si mise addosso un altro paio di pesanti ceppi sopra quelli che già indossava, mentre osservava i piedi radiosi di lei brillare mentre scendeva le scale al suo fianco. Tra coloro che si aggiravano lì c’era anche Blandois di Parigi. Lui parlò e avanzò accanto a Fanny.

Little Dorrit era davanti a suo fratello e alla signora General (il signor Dorrit era rimasto a >casa), ma sul bordo del molo si riunirono tutti. Lei iniziò di nuovo a cercare Blandois vicino a sé, mentre questi aiutava Fanny a salire sulla barca.

“Gowan ha subito una perdita,” disse, “poiché oggi è stato reso felice dalla visita di alcune belle signore.”

“Una perdita?” ripeté Fanny, dopo che Sparkler si fu allontanato dal luogo del lutto, e si sedette al suo posto.

“Una perdita,” disse Blandois. “Il suo cane, Lione.”

Mentre parlava, la mano di Little Dorrit era nella sua.

“È morto,” disse Blandois.

“Morto?”, echeggiò Little Dorrit. “Quel nobile cane?”

“Faith, care signore”, disse Blandois sorridendo e scrollando le spalle, “qualcuno ha avvelenato quel nobile cane. È morto proprio come i Dogi!”

CHAPTER 7. Mostly, Prunes and Prism

Mrs General, always on her coach-box keeping the proprieties well together, took pains to form a surface on her very dear young friend, and Mrs General’s very dear young friend tried hard to receive it. Hard as she had tried in her laborious life to attain many ends, she had never tried harder than she did now, to be varnished by Mrs General. It made her anxious and ill at ease to be operated upon by that smoothing hand, it is true; but she submitted herself to the family want in its greatness as she had submitted herself to the family want in its littleness, and yielded to her own inclinations in this thing no more than she had yielded to her hunger itself, in the days when she had saved her dinner that her father might have his supper.

One comfort that she had under the Ordeal by General was more sustaining to her, and made her more grateful than to a less devoted and affectionate spirit, not habituated to her struggles and sacrifices, might appear quite reasonable; and, indeed, it may often be observed in life, that spirits like Little Dorrit do not appear to reason half as carefully as the folks who get the better of them. The continued kindness of her sister was this comfort to Little Dorrit. It was nothing to her that the kindness took the form of tolerant patronage; she was used to that. It was nothing to her that it kept her in a tributary position, and showed her in attendance on the flaming car in which Miss Fanny sat on an elevated seat, exacting homage; she sought no better place. Always admiring Fanny’s beauty, and grace, and readiness, and not now asking herself how much of her disposition to be strongly attached to Fanny was due to her own heart, and how much to Fanny’s, she gave her all the sisterly fondness her great heart contained.

The wholesale amount of Prunes and Prism which Mrs General infused into the family life, combined with the perpetual plunges made by Fanny into society, left but a very small residue of any natural deposit at the bottom of the mixture. This rendered confidences with Fanny doubly precious to Little Dorrit, and heightened the relief they afforded her.

‘Amy,’ said Fanny to her one night when they were alone, after a day so tiring that Little Dorrit was quite worn out, though Fanny would have taken another dip into society with the greatest pleasure in life, ‘I am going to put something into your little head. You won’t guess what it is, I suspect.’

‘I don’t think that’s likely, dear,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Come, I’ll give you a clue, child,’ said Fanny. ‘Mrs General.’

Prunes and Prism, in a thousand combinations, having been wearily in the ascendant all day—everything having been surface and varnish and show without substance—Little Dorrit looked as if she had hoped that Mrs General was safely tucked up in bed for some hours.

‘Now, can you guess, Amy?’ said Fanny.

‘No, dear. Unless I have done anything,’ said Little Dorrit, rather alarmed, and meaning anything calculated to crack varnish and ruffle surface.

Fanny was so very much amused by the misgiving, that she took up her favourite fan (being then seated at her dressing-table with her armoury of cruel instruments about her, most of them reeking from the heart of Sparkler), and tapped her sister frequently on the nose with it, laughing all the time.

‘Oh, our Amy, our Amy!’ said Fanny. ‘What a timid little goose our Amy is! But this is nothing to laugh at. On the contrary, I am very cross, my dear.’

‘As it is not with me, Fanny, I don’t mind,’ returned her sister, smiling.

‘Ah! But I do mind,’ said Fanny, ‘and so will you, Pet, when I enlighten you. Amy, has it never struck you that somebody is monstrously polite to Mrs General?’

‘Everybody is polite to Mrs General,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Because—’

‘Because she freezes them into it?’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I don’t mean that; quite different from that. Come! Has it never struck you, Amy, that Pa is monstrously polite to Mrs General.’

Amy, murmuring ‘No,’ looked quite confounded.

‘No; I dare say not. But he is,’ said Fanny. ‘He is, Amy. And remember my words. Mrs General has designs on Pa!’

‘Dear Fanny, do you think it possible that Mrs General has designs on any one?’

‘Do I think it possible?’ retorted Fanny. ‘My love, I know it. I tell you she has designs on Pa. And more than that, I tell you Pa considers her such a wonder, such a paragon of accomplishment, and such an acquisition to our family, that he is ready to get himself into a state of perfect infatuation with her at any moment. And that opens a pretty picture of things, I hope? Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama!’

Little Dorrit did not reply, ‘Think of me with Mrs General for a Mama;’ but she looked anxious, and seriously inquired what had led Fanny to these conclusions.

‘Lord, my darling,’ said Fanny, tartly. ‘You might as well ask me how I know when a man is struck with myself! But, of course I do know. It happens pretty often: but I always know it. I know this in much the same way, I suppose. At all events, I know it.’

‘You never heard Papa say anything?’

‘Say anything?’ repeated Fanny. ‘My dearest, darling child, what necessity has he had, yet awhile, to say anything?’

‘And you have never heard Mrs General say anything?’

‘My goodness me, Amy,’ returned Fanny, ‘is she the sort of woman to say anything? Isn’t it perfectly plain and clear that she has nothing to do at present but to hold herself upright, keep her aggravating gloves on, and go sweeping about? Say anything! If she had the ace of trumps in her hand at whist, she wouldn’t say anything, child. It would come out when she played it.’

‘At least, you may be mistaken, Fanny. Now, may you not?’

‘O yes, I may be,’ said Fanny, ‘but I am not. However, I am glad you can contemplate such an escape, my dear, and I am glad that you can take this for the present with sufficient coolness to think of such a chance. It makes me hope that you may be able to bear the connection. I should not be able to bear it, and I should not try. I’d marry young Sparkler first.’

CAPITOLO 7: PER LO PIÙ, PRUGNE E PRISMATI

La signora generale, sempre attenta a mantenere le convenzioni sociali, si impegnava molto per creare un certo “aspetto” nella sua amatissima giovane amica; e l’amica stessa faceva del suo meglio per accettarlo. Nonostante avesse sempre lottato duramente nella vita per raggiungere molti obiettivi, non aveva mai provato uno sforzo così grande come in quel momento: voleva a tutti i costi essere “lisciata” e resa conforme agli standard della signora generale. Certo, le dava ansia e disagio essere manipolata da quella mano che cercava di renderla perfetta; ma si sottometteva alle esigenze della famiglia, sia nelle sue grandi dimensioni che nelle sue piccole limitazioni, e non cedeva mai alle proprie inclinazioni, proprio come non aveva mai ceduto alla fame nei giorni in cui risparmiava il proprio pasto per permettere a suo padre di mangiare.

Un conforto che lei trovava durante le difficoltà causate dal Generale era particolarmente significativo per lei, e la rendeva ancora più grata di quanto lo sarebbe stata un’anima meno devota e affettuosa, non abituata alle sue lotte e ai suoi sacrifici. In effetti, nella vita si osserva spesso che persone come Little Dorrit non ragionano con la stessa attenzione delle persone che riescono a sfruttarle a proprio vantaggio. La costante gentilezza di sua sorella rappresentava proprio questo conforto per Little Dorrit. Non le importava affatto che quella gentilezza si manifestasse sotto forma di un patronato tollerante; ci era abituata. Non le importava nemmeno che la tenesse in una posizione subordinata, costringendola ad assistere alle cerimonie in cui Miss Fanny occupava un posto elevato e richiedeva omaggi da parte degli altri; lei non desiderava certo una posizione migliore. Ammirando sempre la bellezza, la grazia e l’efficienza di Fanny, senza mai chiedersi fino a che punto il suo forte attaccamento verso di lei fosse dovuto al proprio cuore o a quello di Fanny, le dedicava tutta la tenerezza fraterna che il suo grande cuore poteva contenere.

La quantità enorme di Prunes e Prism che la signora General introduceva nella vita familiare, unita alle continue uscite di Fanny in società, lasciava solo una traccia molto esigua di qualsiasi “deposito naturale” al fondo di quella situazione. Questo rendeva le confidenze con Fanny ancora più preziose per Little Dorrit, e aumentava il sollievo che queste le procuravano.

“Amy,” disse Fanny una notte quando erano sole, dopo una giornata così faticosa che Little Dorrit era completamente esausta; anche se Fanny avrebbe voluto tornare in società con grande piacere, “Devo dirti qualcosa. Non indovinerai mai di cosa si tratta, temo.”

“Non credo che sia probabile, caro,” disse Little Dorrit.

“Ehi, ti do un indizio, bambino,” disse Fanny. “La signora generale.”

Prune e Prisma, in mille combinazioni diverse, avevano dominato tutto il giorno; ogni cosa sembrava solo superficie, vernice e apparenza senza sostanza. Little Dorrit sembrava sperare che la signora generale fosse finalmente a letto, al sicuro, per qualche ora.

“Ora,” disse Fanny, “riesci a indovinare, Amy?”

“No, caro. A meno che non abbia fatto qualcosa di sbagliato,” disse Little Dorrit, piuttosto allarmata, intendendo con ciò qualsiasi cosa potesse rovinare la situazione o creare problemi.

Fanny si divertiva moltissimo a causa di quelle preoccupazioni; così prese il suo ventaglio preferito (essendo in quel momento seduta davanti allo specchio, con tutta la sua collezione di strumenti “ crudeli” intorno a lei, la maggior parte dei quali emanava un cattivo odore), e cominciò a battere ripetutamente il naso della sorella con esso, ridendo tutto il tempo.

“Oh, la nostra Amy. Che piccola oca timida è la nostra Amy! Ma questa non è affatto una cosa da ridere di. Al contrario, sono molto arrabbiata, cara.”

“Poiché non è con me, Fanny, non mi dispiace,” rispose sua sorella, sorridendo.

“Ah! Ma a me dispiace davvero,” disse Fanny, “e a te anche, Pet, quando ti spiegherò il motivo. Amy, non ti è mai venuto in mente che qualcuno sia terribilmente educato con la signora generale?”

“Tutti sono gentili con la signora generale,” disse Little Dorrit. “Perché, ”

“Perché li congela dentro di essa?” interruppe Fanny. “Non intendo dire questo. È qualcosa di completamente diverso. Dai! Non ti è mai venuto in mente, Amy, che papà è terribilmente educato con la signora Generale?”

Amy, mormorando “No”, sembrava davvero confusa.

“No; oserei dire di no. Ma lo è,” disse Fanny. “Lo è, Amy. E ricorda le mie parole: la signora generale ha dei piani per papà!”

“Carissima Fanny, pensi che sia possibile che la signora generale abbia qualche interesse per qualcuno?”

“Pensi davvero che sia possibile?” ribatté Fanny. “Mio amore, lo so con certezza. Ti dico che ha delle intenzioni riguardo a Pa. E più ancora, ti dico che Pa la considera una vera e propria meraviglia, un esempio di successo e un vero arricchimento per la nostra famiglia. È pronto, in qualsiasi momento, ad innamorarsi perdutamente di lei. E questa situazione, spero, ci riserva delle belle sorprese. Immagina me, con la signora Generale come madre, ”

La piccola Dorrit non rispose: “Pensa a me come a una mamma insieme alla signora Generale, ”, ma sembrava preoccupata e chiese seriamente cosa avesse portato Fanny a queste conclusioni.

“Lord, mio caro,” disse Fanny con tono acido, “potreste ben chiedermi come faccia a sapere quando un uomo è affascinato da me. Ma naturalmente lo so. Accade abbastanza spesso; comunque, io lo so sempre. Immagino che sia più o meno lo stesso modo in cui lo capisco. In ogni caso, lo so.”

“Mai hai sentito papà dire nulla?”

“Dire qualcosa?”, ripeté Fanny. “Mio caro, adorato bambino. Per quale necessità avrebbe dovuto dire qualcosa, in questo momento?”

“E non avete mai sentito la signora generale dire nulla?”

“Mio Dio, Amy,” rispose Fanny, “è davvero il tipo di donna che dice qualsiasi cosa? Non è forse evidente che al momento non ha altro da fare se non tenersi dritta in piedi, indossare quelle sue fastidiose maniche e andarsene in giro a pulire? Dica pure quello che vuole. Se avesse l’asso di truppe in mano durante una partita a whist, non direbbe nulla; lo mostrerebbe semplicemente quando arrivasse il momento di giocarlo.”

“Almeno, potresti sbagliarti, Fanny. O no?”

“Sì, forse potrei farlo,” disse Fanny, “ma in realtà non lo farò. Comunque, sono felice che tu possa prendere in considerazione questa possibilità con sufficiente distacco. Mi fa sperare che tu riesca a sopportare questa situazione. Io, invece, non ci riuscirei e non proverei nemmeno; sposerei prima il giovane Sparkler.”

‘O, you would never marry him, Fanny, under any circumstances.’

‘Upon my word, my dear,’ rejoined that young lady with exceeding indifference, ‘I wouldn’t positively answer even for that. There’s no knowing what might happen. Especially as I should have many opportunities, afterwards, of treating that woman, his mother, in her own style. Which I most decidedly should not be slow to avail myself of, Amy.’

No more passed between the sisters then; but what had passed gave the two subjects of Mrs General and Mr Sparkler great prominence in Little Dorrit’s mind, and thenceforth she thought very much of both.

Mrs General, having long ago formed her own surface to such perfection that it hid whatever was below it (if anything), no observation was to be made in that quarter. Mr Dorrit was undeniably very polite to her and had a high opinion of her; but Fanny, impetuous at most times, might easily be wrong for all that. Whereas, the Sparkler question was on the different footing that any one could see what was going on there, and Little Dorrit saw it and pondered on it with many doubts and wonderings.

The devotion of Mr Sparkler was only to be equalled by the caprice and cruelty of his enslaver. Sometimes she would prefer him to such distinction of notice, that he would chuckle aloud with joy; next day, or next hour, she would overlook him so completely, and drop him into such an abyss of obscurity, that he would groan under a weak pretence of coughing. The constancy of his attendance never touched Fanny: though he was so inseparable from Edward, that, when that gentleman wished for a change of society, he was under the irksome necessity of gliding out like a conspirator in disguised boats and by secret doors and back ways; though he was so solicitous to know how Mr Dorrit was, that he called every other day to inquire, as if Mr Dorrit were the prey of an intermittent fever; though he was so constantly being paddled up and down before the principal windows, that he might have been supposed to have made a wager for a large stake to be paddled a thousand miles in a thousand hours; though whenever the gondola of his mistress left the gate, the gondola of Mr Sparkler shot out from some watery ambush and gave chase, as if she were a fair smuggler and he a custom-house officer. It was probably owing to this fortification of the natural strength of his constitution with so much exposure to the air, and the salt sea, that Mr Sparkler did not pine outwardly; but, whatever the cause, he was so far from having any prospect of moving his mistress by a languishing state of health, that he grew bluffer every day, and that peculiarity in his appearance of seeming rather a swelled boy than a young man, became developed to an extraordinary degree of ruddy puffiness.

Blandois calling to pay his respects, Mr Dorrit received him with affability as the friend of Mr Gowan, and mentioned to him his idea of commissioning Mr Gowan to transmit him to posterity. Blandois highly extolling it, it occurred to Mr Dorrit that it might be agreeable to Blandois to communicate to his friend the great opportunity reserved for him. Blandois accepted the commission with his own free elegance of manner, and swore he would discharge it before he was an hour older. On his imparting the news to Gowan, that Master gave Mr Dorrit to the Devil with great liberality some round dozen of times (for he resented patronage almost as much as he resented the want of it), and was inclined to quarrel with his friend for bringing him the message.

‘It may be a defect in my mental vision, Blandois,’ said he, ‘but may I die if I see what you have to do with this.’

‘Death of my life,’ replied Blandois, ‘nor I neither, except that I thought I was serving my friend.’

‘By putting an upstart’s hire in his pocket?’ said Gowan, frowning. ‘Do you mean that? Tell your other friend to get his head painted for the sign of some public-house, and to get it done by a sign-painter. Who am I, and who is he?’

‘Professore,’ returned the ambassador, ‘and who is Blandois?’

Without appearing at all interested in the latter question, Gowan angrily whistled Mr Dorrit away. But, next day, he resumed the subject by saying in his off-hand manner and with a slighting laugh, ‘Well, Blandois, when shall we go to this Maecenas of yours? We journeymen must take jobs when we can get them. When shall we go and look after this job?’

‘When you will,’ said the injured Blandois, ‘as you please. What have I to do with it? What is it to me?’

‘I can tell you what it is to me,’ said Gowan. ‘Bread and cheese. One must eat! So come along, my Blandois.’

Mr Dorrit received them in the presence of his daughters and of Mr Sparkler, who happened, by some surprising accident, to be calling there. ‘How are you, Sparkler?’ said Gowan carelessly. ‘When you have to live by your mother wit, old boy, I hope you may get on better than I do.’

Mr Dorrit then mentioned his proposal. ‘Sir,’ said Gowan, laughing, after receiving it gracefully enough, ‘I am new to the trade, and not expert at its mysteries. I believe I ought to look at you in various lights, tell you you are a capital subject, and consider when I shall be sufficiently disengaged to devote myself with the necessary enthusiasm to the fine picture I mean to make of you. I assure you,’ and he laughed again, ‘I feel quite a traitor in the camp of those dear, gifted, good, noble fellows, my brother artists, by not doing the hocus-pocus better. But I have not been brought up to it, and it’s too late to learn it. Now, the fact is, I am a very bad painter, but not much worse than the generality. If you are going to throw away a hundred guineas or so, I am as poor as a poor relation of great people usually is, and I shall be very much obliged to you, if you’ll throw them away upon me. I’ll do the best I can for the money; and if the best should be bad, why even then, you may probably have a bad picture with a small name to it, instead of a bad picture with a large name to it.’

“Oh, mai e poi saresti sposata con lui, Fanny, in nessuna circostanza.”

“Per la mia parola, cara,” rispose quella giovane signora con estrema indifferenza, “non oserei nemmeno rispondere affermativamente su una cosa del genere. Non si sa mai cosa potrebbe accadere. Soprattutto perché in seguito avrei molte opportunità di trattare quella donna, sua madre, nel modo che lei stessa preferirebbe. E di certo non mi farei sfuggire l’occasione, Amy.”

Da quel momento, non accadde più nulla tra le sorelle; ma ciò che era accaduto diede a entrambe le figure della Signora Generale e del Signor Sparkler una grande importanza nella mente di Little Dorrit, e da allora lei pensò molto spesso a loro.

La signora Generale, avendo da tempo perfezionato al massimo la propria “faccia esterna”, in modo da nascondere qualsiasi cosa vi fosse sotto (se mai ce n’era stata), non lasciava trapelare nulla di ciò che accadeva dentro di sé. Il signor Dorrit era indubbiamente molto cortese con lei e nutriva un’alta stima per lei; ma Fanny, spesso impulsiva, poteva facilmente sbagliarsi riguardo a queste cose. Al contrario, nel caso della “Signora Sparkler”, tutti potevano vedere chiaramente cosa stesse succedendo. E la piccola Dorrit lo vedeva, e ci rifletteva sopra con molte dubbi e perplessità.

La devozione di Mr Sparkler poteva essere eguagliata soltanto dal capriccio e dalla crudeltà della sua padrona. A volte lei gli dimostrava un certo interesse, facendolo ridere di gioia; il giorno dopo, o l’ora successiva, lo ignorava completamente, gettandolo in un abisso di oblio, al punto che lui doveva fingere di tossire per nascondere la sua sofferenza. La costanza con cui egli le era sempre accanto non influenzava minimamente Fanny: nonostante fosse così strettamente legato a Edward da dover, ogni volta che quest’ultimo desiderava cambiare compagnia, allontanarsi di nascosto, usando barche camuffate e vie segrete; nonostante si preoccupasse tanto della salute di Mr Dorrit da chiamare ogni due giorni per informarsi, come se quest’ultimo fosse affetto da una febbre intermittente; nonostante passasse continuamente davanti alle finestre principali, come se avesse scommesso un’enorme somma per percorrere mille miglia in mille ore. Nonostante tutto ciò, ogni volta che la gondola della sua padrona lasciava il porto, quella di Mr Sparkler partiva all’inseguimento, come se lei fosse una trafficante di contrabbando e lui un ufficiale doganale. Probabilmente fu proprio questa costante esposizione all’aria aperta e al mare salato a permettere a Mr Sparkler di non mostrare segni esteriori di cattiva salute; comunque sia, non aveva alcuna possibilità di conquistare il cuore della sua padrona con un aspetto malaticcio. Anzi, ogni giorno diventava sempre più rossastro in viso, e quell’aspetto che lo faceva sembrare più un ragazzo in carne e ossa che un giovane uomo si accentuava sempre di più.

Blandois venne a rendere omaggio; il signor Dorrit lo accolse con affabilità, considerandolo un amico del signor Gowan, e gli menzionò l’idea di incaricare il signor Gowan di tramandare la notizia alle generazioni future. Blandois ne parlò con grande entusiasmo, e al signor Dorrit venne in mente che potesse essere gradito a Blandois comunicare a suo amico questa grande opportunità riservatagli. Blandois accettò l’incarico con la sua solita eleganza e dichiarò che lo avrebbe adempiuto entro un’ora al massimo. Quando riferì la notizia al signor Gowan, quest’ultimo maledisse il signor Dorrit con grande veemenza (poiché odiava profondamente sia l’essere protetto da qualcuno che la mancanza di tale protezione) e fu persino disposto a litigare con il suo amico per avergli portato quella notizia.

“Potrebbe essere un difetto nella mia percezione mentale, Blandois,” disse, “ma posso davvero morire se scopro quale ruolo tu abbia in tutto questo.”

“La ‘Morte’ della mia vita,” rispose Blandois, “né io né lui, tranne che pensavo di stare servendo il mio amico.”

“Mettendo al proprio servizio un individuo senza scrupoli?” disse Gowan, corrugando la fronte.
“È questo che intendi? Dì al tuo altro amico di farsi dipingere il viso con il simbolo di qualche locale pubblico, e che lo faccia fare da un professionista del settore. Chi sono io, e chi è lui?”

“Professore,” rispose l’ambasciatore, “e chi è Blandois?”

Senza mostrare alcun interesse per quella domanda, Gowan suonò il fischio con rabbia e mandò via il signor Dorrit. Ma il giorno dopo riprese l’argomento, dicendo con quel suo tono casuale e accompagnandosi da una risata sprezzante: “Beh, Blandois, quando andremo da questo tuo mecenate? Noi viaggiatori dobbiamo approfittare delle opportunità che ci capitano. Quando andremo a occuparci di questo lavoro?”

“Quando vorrai tu,” disse il ferito Blandois, “come preferisci. Cosa c’entro io? Che importanza ha per me?”

“Posso dirvi cosa significa per me,” disse Gowan. “Pane e formaggio. Bisogna pur mangiare! Quindi venite con me, mio caro Blandois.”

Il signor Dorrit li ricevette in presenza delle sue figlie e del signor Sparkler, che, per qualche strano caso, si trovava lì proprio in quel momento. “Come va, Sparkler?” chiese Gowan con noncuranza. “Dato che devi vivere contando solo sulla tua intelligenza, vecchio mio, spero che tu abbia più successo di me.”

Allora il signor Dorrit presentò la sua proposta. “Signore,” disse Gowan, ridendo dopo averla ascoltata con sufficiente cortesia, “sono nuovo in questo mestiere e non sono un esperto dei suoi segreti. Credo che debba considerarvi da diversi punti di vista, dirvi che siete davvero un soggetto ideale per un’opera d’arte, e pensare quando sarò abbastanza libero da dedicarmi con l’entusiasmo necessario a realizzare il ritratto che ho in mente di fare di voi. Vi assicuro,” aggiunse ridendo ancora, “che mi sento quasi un traditore nel campo di quei cari, talentuosi, buoni e nobili compagni, i miei fratelli artisti, per non riuscire a eseguire queste cose in modo più abile. Ma non sono stato educato in questo senso, e ormai è troppo tardi per imparare. La verità è che sono un pittore molto scadente, ma non molto peggiore della media. Se avete intenzione di spendere cento ghinee o giù di lì, io sono povero come lo sono solitamente i parenti poveri delle persone importanti, e vi sarei davvero molto grato se decideste di spenderle per me. Farò del mio meglio con quei soldi; e anche se il risultato dovesse essere scadente, probabilmente otterrete comunque un dipinto brutto, ma con un nome poco noto, invece che con un nome famoso.”

This tone, though not what he had expected, on the whole suited Mr Dorrit remarkably well. It showed that the gentleman, highly connected, and not a mere workman, would be under an obligation to him. He expressed his satisfaction in placing himself in Mr Gowan’s hands, and trusted that he would have the pleasure, in their characters of private gentlemen, of improving his acquaintance.

‘You are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘I have not forsworn society since I joined the brotherhood of the brush (the most delightful fellows on the face of the earth), and am glad enough to smell the old fine gunpowder now and then, though it did blow me into mid-air and my present calling. You’ll not think, Mr Dorrit,’ and here he laughed again in the easiest way, ‘that I am lapsing into the freemasonry of the craft—for it’s not so; upon my life I can’t help betraying it wherever I go, though, by Jupiter, I love and honour the craft with all my might—if I propose a stipulation as to time and place?’

Ha! Mr Dorrit could erect no—hum—suspicion of that kind on Mr Gowan’s frankness.

‘Again you are very good,’ said Gowan. ‘Mr Dorrit, I hear you are going to Rome. I am going to Rome, having friends there. Let me begin to do you the injustice I have conspired to do you, there—not here. We shall all be hurried during the rest of our stay here; and though there’s not a poorer man with whole elbows in Venice, than myself, I have not quite got all the Amateur out of me yet—comprising the trade again, you see!—and can’t fall on to order, in a hurry, for the mere sake of the sixpences.’

These remarks were not less favourably received by Mr Dorrit than their predecessors. They were the prelude to the first reception of Mr and Mrs Gowan at dinner, and they skilfully placed Gowan on his usual ground in the new family.

His wife, too, they placed on her usual ground. Miss Fanny understood, with particular distinctness, that Mrs Gowan’s good looks had cost her husband very dear; that there had been a great disturbance about her in the Barnacle family; and that the Dowager Mrs Gowan, nearly heart-broken, had resolutely set her face against the marriage until overpowered by her maternal feelings. Mrs General likewise clearly understood that the attachment had occasioned much family grief and dissension. Of honest Mr Meagles no mention was made; except that it was natural enough that a person of that sort should wish to raise his daughter out of his own obscurity, and that no one could blame him for trying his best to do so.

Little Dorrit’s interest in the fair subject of this easily accepted belief was too earnest and watchful to fail in accurate observation. She could see that it had its part in throwing upon Mrs Gowan the touch of a shadow under which she lived, and she even had an instinctive knowledge that there was not the least truth in it. But it had an influence in placing obstacles in the way of her association with Mrs Gowan by making the Prunes and Prism school excessively polite to her, but not very intimate with her; and Little Dorrit, as an enforced sizar of that college, was obliged to submit herself humbly to its ordinances.

Nevertheless, there was a sympathetic understanding already established between the two, which would have carried them over greater difficulties, and made a friendship out of a more restricted intercourse. As though accidents were determined to be favourable to it, they had a new assurance of congeniality in the aversion which each perceived that the other felt towards Blandois of Paris; an aversion amounting to the repugnance and horror of a natural antipathy towards an odious creature of the reptile kind.

And there was a passive congeniality between them, besides this active one. To both of them, Blandois behaved in exactly the same manner; and to both of them his manner had uniformly something in it, which they both knew to be different from his bearing towards others. The difference was too minute in its expression to be perceived by others, but they knew it to be there. A mere trick of his evil eyes, a mere turn of his smooth white hand, a mere hair’s-breadth of addition to the fall of his nose and the rise of the moustache in the most frequent movement of his face, conveyed to both of them, equally, a swagger personal to themselves. It was as if he had said, ‘I have a secret power in this quarter. I know what I know.’

This had never been felt by them both in so great a degree, and never by each so perfectly to the knowledge of the other, as on a day when he came to Mr Dorrit’s to take his leave before quitting Venice. Mrs Gowan was herself there for the same purpose, and he came upon the two together; the rest of the family being out. The two had not been together five minutes, and the peculiar manner seemed to convey to them, ‘You were going to talk about me. Ha! Behold me here to prevent it!’

‘Gowan is coming here?’ said Blandois, with a smile.

Mrs Gowan replied he was not coming.

‘Not coming!’ said Blandois. ‘Permit your devoted servant, when you leave here, to escort you home.’

‘Thank you: I am not going home.’

‘Not going home!’ said Blandois. ‘Then I am forlorn.’

That he might be; but he was not so forlorn as to roam away and leave them together. He sat entertaining them with his finest compliments, and his choicest conversation; but he conveyed to them, all the time, ‘No, no, no, dear ladies. Behold me here expressly to prevent it!’

He conveyed it to them with so much meaning, and he had such a diabolical persistency in him, that at length, Mrs Gowan rose to depart. On his offering his hand to Mrs Gowan to lead her down the staircase, she retained Little Dorrit’s hand in hers, with a cautious pressure, and said, ‘No, thank you. But, if you will please to see if my boatman is there, I shall be obliged to you.’

It left him no choice but to go down before them. As he did so, hat in hand, Mrs Gowan whispered:

Questo tono, sebbene non fosse quello che si aspettava, in generale si addiceva molto bene al signor Dorrit. Dimostrava che quell’uomo, con molte connessioni e certamente non un semplice lavoratore, avrebbe avuto degli obblighi nei suoi confronti. Esprimeva quindi la propria soddisfazione nel affidarsi alle cure del signor Gowan, confidando che, essendo entrambi gentiluomini privati, avrebbero avuto l’opportunità di approfondire la loro conoscenza reciproca.

“Sei davvero molto bravo,” disse Gowan. “Non ho abbandonato la società da quando mi sono unito alla confraternita dei pittori (le persone più deliziose che esistano sulla faccia della terra), e sono felice di poter ancora annusare, di tanto in tanto, quell’antico e pregiato odore di polvere da sparo, anche se una volta quella stessa polvere mi ha fatto volare per aria, portandomi alla mia attuale professione. Non penserai certo, signor Dorrit,” aggiunse ridendo di nuovo in modo del tutto naturale, “che io stia cadendo preda delle abitudini tipiche della nostra arte. Ma no; giuro su Giove che non riesco proprio a evitarle ovunque vada. Anche se, per Giove stesso, amo e rispetto questa professione con tutta la mia forza. A meno che non proponga qualche condizione riguardante l’orario e il luogo, ”

Ah! Il signor Dorrit non poteva certo nutrire alcun sospetto del genere riguardo alla franchezza del signor Gowan.

“Di nuovo sei stato molto bravo,” disse Gowan. “Signor Dorrit, ho sentito che andrà a Roma. Anch’io andrò a Roma, perché ho degli amici lì. Lasciate che inizi a rimediare all’ingiustizia che avevo pianificato di farvi. Lì, non qui. Durante il resto del nostro soggiorno qui saremo tutti molto impegnati; e anche se non c’è uomo più povero di me a Venezia, in realtà non ho ancora completamente abbandonato le abitudini del passato. Quindi non riesco ad organizzarmi in fretta, solo per guadagnare quei pochi penny.”

Queste osservazioni furono accolte dal signor Dorrit con lo stesso favore delle precedenti. Furono il preludio alla prima cena ufficiale del signor e della signora Gowan, e permisero al signor Gowan di ritrovare facilmente il proprio ruolo nella nuova famiglia.

Anche sua moglie fu rimessa nel suo solito ambiente. La signorina Fanny capì, in modo particolarmente chiaro, che la bellezza della signora Gowan aveva costato molto a suo marito; che c’era stata molta agitazione nella famiglia Barnacle riguardo a lei; e che la vedova del signor Gowan, quasi distrutta dal dolore, si era ostinatamente opposta a quel matrimonio fino a quando i suoi sentimenti materni non ebbero avuto la meglio. Anche la signora Generale comprese chiaramente che quella relazione aveva causato molta sofferenza e dissidi all’interno della famiglia. Non si fece alcuna menzione onesta del signor Meagles; si disse soltanto che era del tutto naturale che una persona del genere desiderasse elevare sua figlia al di sopra dell’oscurità in cui viveva, e che nessuno poteva biasimarlo per aver cercato con tutte le sue forze di farlo.

L’interesse di Little Dorrit per questa credenza facilmente accettata era così sincero e attento da permetterle di osservarla con precisione. Lei capiva che essa contribuiva a gettare su Mrs Gowan un’ombra sotto la quale lei viveva, e aveva persino una sorta di intuizione che in essa non vi fosse la minima verità. Tuttavia, questa credenza creava ostacoli al suo rapporto con Mrs Gowan: faceva sì che la scuola Prunes and Prism fosse estremamente cortese nei suoi confronti, ma senza mai instaurare un legame davvero intimo. E Little Dorrit, essendo costretta a seguire le regole di quella scuola, era obbligata ad sottomettersi umilmente ad esse.

Tuttavia, tra i due era già sorta una comprensione reciproca che avrebbe permesso loro di superare difficoltà maggiori e di trasformare un rapporto limitato in una vera e propria amicizia. Come se gli eventi fossero destinati ad essere favorevoli a questo, ebbero la conferma della reciproca affinità nel rifiuto che entrambi provavano per Blandois di Parigi; un rifiuto che raggiungeva il livello dell’orrore e del disgusto suscitati da una naturale avversione verso una creatura odiosa appartenente al regno dei rettili.

C’era tra loro una sorta di affinità passiva, oltre a quella attiva. Blandois si comportava esattamente nello stesso modo con entrambi; e nei suoi modi c’era sempre qualcosa che entrambi sapevano essere diverso dal suo comportamento verso gli altri. La differenza era troppo sottile per essere percepita da chiunque altro, ma loro la riconoscevano. Un semplice movimento dei suoi occhi malvagi, una leggera torsione della sua mano bianca e liscia, un minimo cambiamento nella forma del suo naso o nel modo in cui si muoveva la sua barba durante i gesti più comuni del viso, tutto ciò trasmetteva loro, in modo uguale, qualcosa di speciale, legato esclusivamente a loro due. Era come se lui dicesse: “Ho un potere segreto. So cose che gli altri non sanno.”

Questo sentimento non era mai stato provato da entrambi in tale misura, né mai così perfettamente condiviso e compreso dall’uno dall’altro, come quel giorno in cui lui andò a casa del signor Dorrit per salutarlo prima di lasciare Venezia. Anche la signora Gowan era lì per lo stesso motivo, e lui li trovò insieme; il resto della famiglia non c’era. Dopo appena cinque minuti trascorsi insieme, quel modo particolare di comportarsi sembrava voler dire loro: “Voi stavate per parlare di me. Ah! Ecco me qui, per impedirvelo!”

“Gowan sta venendo qui?” disse Blandois, sorridendo.

La signora Gowan rispose che lui non sarebbe venuto.

“Non verrò!”, disse Blandois. “Permettetemi, mio devoto servitore, di accompagnarvi a casa quando ve ne andrete da qui.”

“Grazie: non tornerò a casa.”

“Non torno a casa!”, disse Blandois. “Allora sono perduto.”

Forse avrebbe potuto farlo; ma non era così disperato da allontanarsi e lasciarli soli. Rimase lì a intrattenerli con i suoi complimenti più gentili e le conversazioni più piacevoli; tuttavia, in ogni momento, cercava di far loro capire: “No, no, no, care signore. Sono qui apposta per impedirlo!”

Lui lo espresse loro con così tanto significato, e con una tenacia davvero diabolica, che alla fine la signora Gowan decise di andarsene. Quando lui le offrì la mano per accompagnarla giù per le scale, lei tenne stretta quella di Little Dorrit, esercitando una pressione delicata, e disse: “No, grazie. Ma se poteste controllare se il mio barcaiolo è già lì, vi sarei molto grata.”

Non gli rimase altra scelta se non quella di inchinarsi davanti a loro. Mentre lo faceva, con il cappello in mano, la signora Gowan sussurrò:

‘He killed the dog.’

‘Does Mr Gowan know it?’ Little Dorrit whispered.

‘No one knows it. Don’t look towards me; look towards him. He will turn his face in a moment. No one knows it, but I am sure he did. You are?’

‘I—I think so,’ Little Dorrit answered.

‘Henry likes him, and he will not think ill of him; he is so generous and open himself. But you and I feel sure that we think of him as he deserves. He argued with Henry that the dog had been already poisoned when he changed so, and sprang at him. Henry believes it, but we do not. I see he is listening, but can’t hear. Good-bye, my love! Good-bye!’

The last words were spoken aloud, as the vigilant Blandois stopped, turned his head, and looked at them from the bottom of the staircase. Assuredly he did look then, though he looked his politest, as if any real philanthropist could have desired no better employment than to lash a great stone to his neck, and drop him into the water flowing beyond the dark arched gateway in which he stood. No such benefactor to mankind being on the spot, he handed Mrs Gowan to her boat, and stood there until it had shot out of the narrow view; when he handed himself into his own boat and followed.

Little Dorrit had sometimes thought, and now thought again as she retraced her steps up the staircase, that he had made his way too easily into her father’s house. But so many and such varieties of people did the same, through Mr Dorrit’s participation in his elder daughter’s society mania, that it was hardly an exceptional case. A perfect fury for making acquaintances on whom to impress their riches and importance, had seized the House of Dorrit.

It appeared on the whole, to Little Dorrit herself, that this same society in which they lived, greatly resembled a superior sort of Marshalsea. Numbers of people seemed to come abroad, pretty much as people had come into the prison; through debt, through idleness, relationship, curiosity, and general unfitness for getting on at home. They were brought into these foreign towns in the custody of couriers and local followers, just as the debtors had been brought into the prison. They prowled about the churches and picture-galleries, much in the old, dreary, prison-yard manner. They were usually going away again to-morrow or next week, and rarely knew their own minds, and seldom did what they said they would do, or went where they said they would go: in all this again, very like the prison debtors. They paid high for poor accommodation, and disparaged a place while they pretended to like it: which was exactly the Marshalsea custom. They were envied when they went away by people left behind, feigning not to want to go: and that again was the Marshalsea habit invariably. A certain set of words and phrases, as much belonging to tourists as the College and the Snuggery belonged to the jail, was always in their mouths. They had precisely the same incapacity for settling down to anything, as the prisoners used to have; they rather deteriorated one another, as the prisoners used to do; and they wore untidy dresses, and fell into a slouching way of life: still, always like the people in the Marshalsea.

The period of the family’s stay at Venice came, in its course, to an end, and they moved, with their retinue, to Rome. Through a repetition of the former Italian scenes, growing more dirty and more haggard as they went on, and bringing them at length to where the very air was diseased, they passed to their destination. A fine residence had been taken for them on the Corso, and there they took up their abode, in a city where everything seemed to be trying to stand still for ever on the ruins of something else—except the water, which, following eternal laws, tumbled and rolled from its glorious multitude of fountains.

Here it seemed to Little Dorrit that a change came over the Marshalsea spirit of their society, and that Prunes and Prism got the upper hand. Everybody was walking about St Peter’s and the Vatican on somebody else’s cork legs, and straining every visible object through somebody else’s sieve. Nobody said what anything was, but everybody said what the Mrs Generals, Mr Eustace, or somebody else said it was. The whole body of travellers seemed to be a collection of voluntary human sacrifices, bound hand and foot, and delivered over to Mr Eustace and his attendants, to have the entrails of their intellects arranged according to the taste of that sacred priesthood. Through the rugged remains of temples and tombs and palaces and senate halls and theatres and amphitheatres of ancient days, hosts of tongue-tied and blindfolded moderns were carefully feeling their way, incessantly repeating Prunes and Prism in the endeavour to set their lips according to the received form. Mrs General was in her pure element. Nobody had an opinion. There was a formation of surface going on around her on an amazing scale, and it had not a flaw of courage or honest free speech in it.

Another modification of Prunes and Prism insinuated itself on Little Dorrit’s notice very shortly after their arrival. They received an early visit from Mrs Merdle, who led that extensive department of life in the Eternal City that winter; and the skilful manner in which she and Fanny fenced with one another on the occasion, almost made her quiet sister wink, like the glittering of small-swords.

‘So delighted,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘to resume an acquaintance so inauspiciously begun at Martigny.’

‘At Martigny, of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Charmed, I am sure!’

‘I understand,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘from my son Edmund Sparkler, that he has already improved that chance occasion. He has returned quite transported with Venice.’

‘Indeed?’ returned the careless Fanny. ‘Was he there long?’

‘I might refer that question to Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs Merdle, turning the bosom towards that gentleman; ‘Edmund having been so much indebted to him for rendering his stay agreeable.’

‘Oh, pray don’t speak of it,’ returned Fanny. ‘I believe Papa had the pleasure of inviting Mr Sparkler twice or thrice,—but it was nothing. We had so many people about us, and kept such open house, that if he had that pleasure, it was less than nothing.’

‘Except, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘except—ha—as it afforded me unusual gratification to—hum—show by any means, however slight and worthless, the—ha, hum—high estimation in which, in—ha—common with the rest of the world, I hold so distinguished and princely a character as Mr Merdle’s.’

The bosom received this tribute in its most engaging manner. ‘Mr Merdle,’ observed Fanny, as a means of dismissing Mr Sparkler into the background, ‘is quite a theme of Papa’s, you must know, Mrs Merdle.’

‘I have been—ha—disappointed, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘to understand from Mr Sparkler that there is no great—hum—probability of Mr Merdle’s coming abroad.’

‘Why, indeed,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘he is so much engaged and in such request, that I fear not. He has not been able to get abroad for years. You, Miss Dorrit, I believe have been almost continually abroad for a long time.’

‘Oh dear yes,’ drawled Fanny, with the greatest hardihood. ‘An immense number of years.’

‘So I should have inferred,’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Exactly,’ said Fanny.

‘I trust, however,’ resumed Mr Dorrit, ‘that if I have not the—hum—great advantage of becoming known to Mr Merdle on this side of the Alps or Mediterranean, I shall have that honour on returning to England. It is an honour I particularly desire and shall particularly esteem.’

‘Mr Merdle,’ said Mrs Merdle, who had been looking admiringly at Fanny through her eye-glass, ‘will esteem it, I am sure, no less.’

Little Dorrit, still habitually thoughtful and solitary though no longer alone, at first supposed this to be mere Prunes and Prism. But as her father when they had been to a brilliant reception at Mrs Merdle’s, harped at their own family breakfast-table on his wish to know Mr Merdle, with the contingent view of benefiting by the advice of that wonderful man in the disposal of his fortune, she began to think it had a real meaning, and to entertain a curiosity on her own part to see the shining light of the time.

“Ha ucciso il cane.”

“Il signor Gowan lo sa?” sussurrò Little Dorrit.

“Nessuno lo sa. Non guardare verso di me; guarda verso di lui. Tra un momento girerà il viso. Nessuno lo sa, ma sono sicura che l’abbia fatto. Tu lo sei?”

“Credo di sì,” rispose Little Dorrit.

“Henry lo apprezza e non penserà mai male di lui; è davvero generoso e aperto con tutti. Ma tu ed io sappiamo bene che lo consideriamo per quello che merita. Ha discusso con Henry, sostenendo che il cane fosse già stato avvelenato quando ha cambiato comportamento e gli si è gettato addosso. Henry ci crede, ma noi no. Vedo che sta ascoltando, ma non riesce a sentire nulla. Addio, mio amore! Addio!”

Le ultime parole furono pronunciate ad alta voce; il vigilante Blandois si fermò, girò la testa e le guardò dal basso della scala. Senza dubbio le guardò davvero, anche se lo fece con estrema cortesia, come se qualsiasi vero filantropo potesse desiderare nient’altro che legarsi un grosso sasso al collo e gettarsi nell’acqua che scorreva oltre l’oscura arcata da cui si trovava. Poiché non c’era alcun benefattore dell’umanità nelle vicinanze, aiutò la signora Gowan a salire sulla sua barca e rimase lì fino a quando questa non scomparve dalla vista; poi salì sulla propria barca e la seguì.

A volte Little Dorrit aveva pensato, e ora lo pensava di nuovo mentre risaliva le scale, che lui fosse entrato troppo facilmente nella casa di suo padre. Ma molte persone, di ogni tipo, facevano la stessa cosa, a causa della partecipazione del signor Dorrit alle attività sociali di sua figlia maggiore; quindi non si trattava certo di un caso eccezionale. Un’ira furiosa aveva preso possesso della casa dei Dorrit: tutti cercavano disperatamente nuove conoscenze a cui mostrare la propria ricchezza e importanza.

A Little Dorrit stessa sembrava che tutta quella società in cui vivevano assomigliasse molto a una sorta di prigione di livello superiore. Molte persone finivano per trasferirsi lì, più o meno nello stesso modo in cui i debitori venivano rinchiusi nella prigione: a causa del debito, dell’ozio, delle relazioni personali, della curiosità, o semplicemente perché non erano adatte a vivere nelle loro case. Venivano portate in queste città straniere sotto la custodia di corrieri e seguaci locali, proprio come i debitori venivano accompagnati nella prigione. Vagabondavano per chiese e gallerie d’arte, con lo stesso atteggiamento triste e desolato dei detenuti. Di solito se ne andavano il giorno dopo o la settimana successiva; raramente sapevano cosa volessero fare, né mantenevano le promesse fatte. In tutto questo, assomigliavano molto ai debitori della prigione. Pagavano un prezzo elevato per un alloggio scadente e criticavano i luoghi in cui soggiornavano, pur fingendo di apprezzarli: proprio come avveniva a Marshalsea. Quando se ne andavano, venivano invidiate da coloro che rimanevano indietro, i quali fingevano di non voler partire. E anche questo faceva parte delle abitudini tipiche di Marshalsea. Avevano sempre a disposizione lo stesso insieme di frasi e espressioni tipiche dei turisti; possedevano esattamente la stessa incapacità di stabilirsi in un luogo, proprio come i prigionieri; peggioravano a vicenda, proprio come avveniva tra i detenuti. E indossavano abiti disordinati, conducendo una vita trasandata. In ogni caso, assomigliavano sempre alle persone di Marshalsea.

Il periodo trascorso dalla famiglia a Venezia giunse infine al termine, e loro si trasferirono, insieme alla loro scorta, a Roma. Attraversando una serie di scene simili a quelle vissute in Italia, sempre più squallide e deprimenti man mano che procedevano verso il loro destinazione, arrivarono infine in un luogo dove persino l’aria sembrava contaminata. Per loro era stata prenotata una bella residenza sul Corso, e lì stabilirono la loro dimora in una >città in cui tutto pareva voler rimanere per sempre fermo, tra le rovine di qualcos’altro, tranne l’acqua, che, seguendo leggi eternhe, continuava a scorrere e a gorgogliare dalle sue numerose fontane.

A Little Dorrit sembrava che nel loro ambiente sociale fosse avvenuto un cambiamento: Prunes e Prism avevano preso il sopravvento. Tutti si muovevano per St Peter’s e il Vaticano come se camminassero su “zampe di sughero” altrui, analizzando ogni oggetto visibile attraverso i “setacci” imposti da altri. Nessuno diceva cosa fosse realmente qualcosa, ma tutti ripetevano ciò che le “Signore Generali”, il signor Eustace o altre autorità affermavano. L’intera comunità di viaggiatori sembrava costituita da esseri umani “sacrificati” volontariamente, legati mani e piedi e consegnati al signor Eustace e ai suoi seguaci affinché ne organizzassero i “intestini intellettuali” secondo i loro desideri. Tra le rovine di templi, tombe, palazzi, aule senatoriali, teatri e anfiteatri dell’antichità, folle di moderni, con la bocca chiusa e gli occhi bendati, si muovevano con cautela, ripetendo incessantemente le parole di Prunes e Prism nel tentativo di conformare il proprio comportamento alle norme imposte. La “Signora General” era nel suo elemento: nessuno aveva opinioni proprie. Intorno a lei si svolgeva una sorta di “formazione superficiale” su scala incredibile, e in tutto ciò non c’era traccia di coraggio né di libera espressione sincera.

Un’altra modifica a “Prunes and Prism” si insinuò nella vita di Little Dorrit poco dopo il loro arrivo. Ricevettero una visita anticipata da Mrs Merdle, la quale gestiva quella vasta branca della vita nell’Eterna Città durante quell’inverno; il modo abile con cui lei e Fanny si scambiavano battute in quell’occasione fece quasi sorridere anche la tranquilla sorella di Little Dorrit, come se fossero state delle piccole spade che lampeggiavano.

“Sono molto felice,” disse la signora Merdle, “di poter riprendere un’amicizia iniziata in modo così promettente a Martigny.”

“Certo, a Martigny,” disse Fanny. “Sarà incantevole, ne sono sicura!”

“Capisco,” disse la signora Merdle, “dal mio figlio Edmund Sparkler che ha già sfruttato quell’opportunità. È tornato davvero entusiasta da Venezia.”

“Davvero?” rispose la negligente Fanny. “È rimasto lì a lungo?”

“Potrei rivolgere quella domanda al signor Dorrit,” disse la signora Merdle, voltando il proprio petto verso quel gentiluomo; “dopo tutto, Edmund gli è molto grato per aver reso il suo soggiorno piacevole.”

“Oh, per favore non ne parliamo,” rispose Fanny. “Credo che papà abbia avuto il piacere di invitare il signor Sparkler due o tre volte, ma non è stato nulla. Avevamo così tante persone intorno a noi, e tenevamo una casa sempre aperta, che anche se lui avesse avuto quel piacere, in realtà non significava nulla.”

‘Tranne che, ’, disse il signor Dorrit, ‘tranne che, mi ha procurato una grande soddisfazione poter dimostrare, con qualsiasi mezzo, per quanto insignificante e inutile, l’alta stima che io – come tutti gli altri – nutro per una personalità così distinta e nobile come quella del signor Merdle.’

Il seno accolse questo omaggio nel modo più affascinante possibile. “Il signor Merdle,” osservò Fanny, nel tentativo di mettere il signor Sparkler in secondo piano, “è davvero un argomento molto caro a papà, lo saprà sicuramente, signora Merdle.”

“Sono stato, deluso, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “quando ho saputo dal signor Sparkler che non c’è molta probabilità che il signor Merdle vada all’estero.”

“Davvero,” disse la signora Merdle, “è così impegnato e richiesto in continuazione che temo proprio di sì. Non riesce ad andare all’estero da anni. Voi, signorina Dorrit, credo siate stata quasi sempre all’estero per un lungo periodo.”

“Ah sì, davvero,” disse Fanny con grande coraggio. “Un numero immenso di anni.”

“Avrei dovuto intuirlo,” disse la signora Merdle.

“Esattamente,” disse Fanny.

“Tuttavia,” riprese il signor Dorrit, “spero che, anche se non ho l’enorme vantaggio di essere conosciuto dal signor Merdle da questa parte delle Alpi o del Mediterraneo, avrò comunque quell’onore al mio ritorno in Inghilterra. È un onore che desidero particolarmente e che apprezzerò molto.”

“‘Signor Merdle’,” disse la signora Merdle, che aveva osservato Fanny con ammirazione attraverso i suoi occhiali, “sicuramente lo apprezzerà altrettanto.”

Little Dorrit, ancora abituata a riflettere e ad essere solitaria anche se non più sola, all’inizio pensò che si trattasse semplicemente di una sciocchezza. Ma quando suo padre, dopo essere stato a un’affascinante ricevimento da parte della signora Merdle, continuava a parlare, a tavola durante la colazione di famiglia, del desiderio di conoscere il signor Merdle, con l’intento eventuale di trarre beneficio dai suoi consigli riguardo alla gestione della propria fortuna, lei iniziò a credere che ci fosse un vero significato dietro tutto questo, e provò una curiosità personale nel voler assistere al “splendore” di quell’epoca.

CHAPTER 8. The Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that ‘It Never Does’

While the waters of Venice and the ruins of Rome were sunning themselves for the pleasure of the Dorrit family, and were daily being sketched out of all earthly proportion, lineament, and likeness, by travelling pencils innumerable, the firm of Doyce and Clennam hammered away in Bleeding Heart Yard, and the vigorous clink of iron upon iron was heard there through the working hours.

The younger partner had, by this time, brought the business into sound trim; and the elder, left free to follow his own ingenious devices, had done much to enhance the character of the factory. As an ingenious man, he had necessarily to encounter every discouragement that the ruling powers for a length of time had been able by any means to put in the way of this class of culprits; but that was only reasonable self-defence in the powers, since How to do it must obviously be regarded as the natural and mortal enemy of How not to do it. In this was to be found the basis of the wise system, by tooth and nail upheld by the Circumlocution Office, of warning every ingenious British subject to be ingenious at his peril: of harassing him, obstructing him, inviting robbers (by making his remedy uncertain, and expensive) to plunder him, and at the best of confiscating his property after a short term of enjoyment, as though invention were on a par with felony. The system had uniformly found great favour with the Barnacles, and that was only reasonable, too; for one who worthily invents must be in earnest, and the Barnacles abhorred and dreaded nothing half so much. That again was very reasonable; since in a country suffering under the affliction of a great amount of earnestness, there might, in an exceeding short space of time, be not a single Barnacle left sticking to a post.

Daniel Doyce faced his condition with its pains and penalties attached to it, and soberly worked on for the work’s sake. Clennam cheering him with a hearty co-operation, was a moral support to him, besides doing good service in his business relation. The concern prospered, and the partners were fast friends.

But Daniel could not forget the old design of so many years. It was not in reason to be expected that he should; if he could have lightly forgotten it, he could never have conceived it, or had the patience and perseverance to work it out. So Clennam thought, when he sometimes observed him of an evening looking over the models and drawings, and consoling himself by muttering with a sigh as he put them away again, that the thing was as true as it ever was.

To show no sympathy with so much endeavour, and so much disappointment, would have been to fail in what Clennam regarded as among the implied obligations of his partnership. A revival of the passing interest in the subject which had been by chance awakened at the door of the Circumlocution Office, originated in this feeling. He asked his partner to explain the invention to him; ‘having a lenient consideration,’ he stipulated, ‘for my being no workman, Doyce.’

‘No workman?’ said Doyce. ‘You would have been a thorough workman if you had given yourself to it. You have as good a head for understanding such things as I have met with.’

‘A totally uneducated one, I am sorry to add,’ said Clennam.

‘I don’t know that,’ returned Doyce, ‘and I wouldn’t have you say that. No man of sense who has been generally improved, and has improved himself, can be called quite uneducated as to anything. I don’t particularly favour mysteries. I would as soon, on a fair and clear explanation, be judged by one class of man as another, provided he had the qualification I have named.’

‘At all events,’ said Clennam—‘this sounds as if we were exchanging compliments, but we know we are not—I shall have the advantage of as plain an explanation as can be given.’

‘Well!’ said Daniel, in his steady even way, ‘I’ll try to make it so.’

He had the power, often to be found in union with such a character, of explaining what he himself perceived, and meant, with the direct force and distinctness with which it struck his own mind. His manner of demonstration was so orderly and neat and simple, that it was not easy to mistake him. There was something almost ludicrous in the complete irreconcilability of a vague conventional notion that he must be a visionary man, with the precise, sagacious travelling of his eye and thumb over the plans, their patient stoppages at particular points, their careful returns to other points whence little channels of explanation had to be traced up, and his steady manner of making everything good and everything sound at each important stage, before taking his hearer on a line’s-breadth further. His dismissal of himself from his description, was hardly less remarkable. He never said, I discovered this adaptation or invented that combination; but showed the whole thing as if the Divine artificer had made it, and he had happened to find it; so modest he was about it, such a pleasant touch of respect was mingled with his quiet admiration of it, and so calmly convinced he was that it was established on irrefragable laws.

Not only that evening, but for several succeeding evenings, Clennam was quite charmed by this investigation. The more he pursued it, and the oftener he glanced at the grey head bending over it, and the shrewd eye kindling with pleasure in it and love of it—instrument for probing his heart though it had been made for twelve long years—the less he could reconcile it to his younger energy to let it go without one effort more. At length he said:

‘Doyce, it came to this at last—that the business was to be sunk with Heaven knows how many more wrecks, or begun all over again?’

‘Yes,’ returned Doyce, ‘that’s what the noblemen and gentlemen made of it after a dozen years.’

‘And pretty fellows too!’ said Clennam, bitterly.

‘The usual thing!’ observed Doyce. ‘I must not make a martyr of myself, when I am one of so large a company.’

CAPITOLO 8. Alla vedova signora Gowan viene ricordato che “mai succede”.

Mentre le acque di Venezia e le rovine di Roma si godevano il sole per il piacere della famiglia Dorrit, venivano ogni giorno ritratte in dimensioni, lineamenti e somiglianze completamente fuori dal reale, da innumerevoli pennelli di viaggiatori; intanto, la ditta Doyce e Clennam continuava il proprio lavoro nel cortile Bleeding Heart Yard, e il sonoro clangore del ferro su ferro si udiva lì per tutta la durata delle ore di lavoro.

A quel punto, il socio più giovane aveva portato l’attività in condizioni solide e redditizie; mentre il più anziano, libero di seguire le proprie idee originali, aveva contribuito in modo significativo al miglioramento della qualità dello stabilimento. Essendo una persona ingegnosa, inevitabilmente si era imbattuto in tutti gli ostacoli che le autorità, per un lungo periodo, avevano cercato di frapporre a questo tipo di individui; ma ciò rappresentava soltanto una legittima forma di autodifesa, poiché chi sa inventare è inevitabilmente considerato il nemico naturale di chi preferisce non inventare nulla. In questa logica si fondava il saggio sistema attuato con determinazione dall’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni: avvertire ogni cittadino britannico ingegnoso che l’ingegnosità comporta rischi; infastidirlo, ostacolarlo, invogliare i “ladri” (rendendo le sue soluzioni incerte e costose) a derubarlo. E, nel migliore dei casi, confiscargli la proprietà dopo un breve periodo di utilizzo, come se l’invenzione fosse considerata un reato grave. Questo sistema aveva sempre trovato grande favore tra i “Barnacle”; il che, in fondo, era del tutto logico: chi inventa con impegno deve necessariamente agire seriamente. E i “Barnacle” odiavano e temevano nulla di più di questo. Ancora una volta, si trattava di una logica assolutamente ragionevole: in un paese che soffre a causa dell’eccessivo impegno delle persone, in un brevissimo lasso di tempo potrebbe non rimanere nemmeno un solo “Barnacle” attaccato a qualche superficie.

Daniel Doyce affrontò la sua condizione, con tutti i dolori e le difficoltà che essa comportava, e lavorò con serietà e impegno per il bene dell’impresa. Clennam, che lo incoraggiava con una sincera collaborazione, gli fu un sostegno morale, oltre ad essere di grande aiuto nelle loro relazioni professionali. L’attività prosperò e i due soci divennero amici intimi.

Ma Daniel non riusciva a dimenticare quel vecchio progetto di tanti anni prima. Non era affatto logico aspettarsi che lo facesse; se avesse potuto dimenticarlo facilmente, probabilmente non sarebbe mai stato in grado di concepirlo, né avrebbe avuto la pazienza e la perseveranza necessarie per portarlo a termine. Così pensava Clennam, quando a volte lo vedeva, alla sera, mentre esaminava i modelli e i disegni, consolandosi con un sospiro mentre li riponeva via. Quel progetto era davvero reale, proprio come lo era sempre stato.

Non mostrare alcuna compassione di fronte a tanta fatica e a tanto delusione sarebbe stato equivalente a fallire in ciò che Clennam considerava tra gli obblighi impliciti della loro partnership. Il ripresa dell’interesse, precedentemente sorto per caso davanti all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, derivava proprio da questo sentimento. Chiese quindi al suo socio di spiegargli l’invenzione, “tenendo conto”, precisò, “del fatto che io non sono un lavoratore, Doyce”.

“Nessun lavoratore?” disse Doyce. “Saresti diventato un vero lavoratore se ti ci fossi dedicato seriamente. Hai una mente altrettanto capace di comprendere queste cose, quanto ne ho incontrate io.”

“Una persona completamente ignorante, mi dispiace dirlo,” aggiunse Clennam.

“Non lo so,” rispose Doyce, “e non vorrei che tu lo dicessi. Nessun uomo sensato che sia stato generalmente istruito e si sia migliorato personalmente può essere considerato del tutto ignorante in alcuna materia. Non ho una particolare predilezione per i misteri; preferirei che, sulla base di spiegazioni chiare e oneste, fossi giudicato allo stesso modo da tutte le classi sociali, purché possedesse le qualifiche che ho menzionato.”

“Comunque,” disse Clennam, “sembra che stiamo scambiandoci complimenti, ma sappiamo bene che non è così. Avrò l’opportunità di fornire una spiegazione il più chiara possibile.”

“Beh!”, disse Daniel, con il suo solito tono calmo e regolare, “Ci proverò a farlo.”

Aveva quella capacità, spesso riscontrabile nell’unione con individui del genere, di spiegare ciò che lui stesso percepiva e intendeva, con la chiarezza e la precisione con cui tali concetti gli venivano alla mente. Il suo modo di esporre le cose era così ordinato, semplice e chiaro da rendere difficile fraintenderlo. C’era qualcosa di quasi ridicolo nella totale incompatibilità tra l’idea convenzionale che dovesse essere un uomo visionario, e il modo preciso e sagace con cui esaminava i disegni, si soffermava su particolari dettagli, riprendeva l’esame da altri punti per individuare le connessioni logiche, e sistemava ogni cosa in modo impeccabile prima di procedere oltre. Anche il suo modo di mettersi da parte nel descrivere i propri lavori era altrettanto notevole: non diceva mai “Ho scoperto questa soluzione” o “Ho inventato quella combinazione”, ma presentava tutto come se fosse stato creato dall’artefice divino e lui l’avesse semplicemente trovato. Era così umile al riguardo, il suo rispetto per tali realizzazioni era così evidente, e la sua convinzione che tutto fosse basato su leggi inconfutabili così profonda.

Non solo quella sera, ma per diverse sere successive, Clennam fu davvero affascinato da questa indagine. Più la proseguiva, e più spesso osservava quella testa grigia china su di essa, quegli occhi astuti che si illuminavano di piacere e amore per quel compito – uno strumento utilizzato per esplorare il suo cuore, anche se creato appositamente per dodici lunghi anni – meno riusciva a convincersi di lasciar perdere tutto senza un ultimo sforzo. Alla fine disse:

“Doyce, alla fine è arrivato a questo punto: l’impresa doveva essere mandata in rovina, con chissà quante altre perdite, oppure ricominciare da capo, ”

“Sì,” rispose Doyce, “è esattamente ciò che nobili e gentiluomini ne hanno fatto dopo una dozzina di anni.”

“E anche ragazzi piuttosto attraenti!” disse Clennam, con amarezza.

“La solita cosa!”, osservò Doyce. “Non devo farmi martire, quando faccio parte di un gruppo così numeroso.”

‘Relinquish it, or begin it all over again?’ mused Clennam.

‘That was exactly the long and the short of it,’ said Doyce.

‘Then, my friend,’ cried Clennam, starting up and taking his work-roughened hand, ‘it shall be begun all over again!’

Doyce looked alarmed, and replied in a hurry—for him, ‘No, no. Better put it by. Far better put it by. It will be heard of, one day. I can put it by. You forget, my good Clennam; I have put it by. It’s all at an end.’

‘Yes, Doyce,’ returned Clennam, ‘at an end as far as your efforts and rebuffs are concerned, I admit, but not as far as mine are. I am younger than you: I have only once set foot in that precious office, and I am fresh game for them. Come! I’ll try them. You shall do exactly as you have been doing since we have been together. I will add (as I easily can) to what I have been doing, the attempt to get public justice done to you; and, unless I have some success to report, you shall hear no more of it.’

Daniel Doyce was still reluctant to consent, and again and again urged that they had better put it by. But it was natural that he should gradually allow himself to be over-persuaded by Clennam, and should yield. Yield he did. So Arthur resumed the long and hopeless labour of striving to make way with the Circumlocution Office.

The waiting-rooms of that Department soon began to be familiar with his presence, and he was generally ushered into them by its janitors much as a pickpocket might be shown into a police-office; the principal difference being that the object of the latter class of public business is to keep the pickpocket, while the Circumlocution object was to get rid of Clennam. However, he was resolved to stick to the Great Department; and so the work of form-filling, corresponding, minuting, memorandum-making, signing, counter-signing, counter-counter-signing, referring backwards and forwards, and referring sideways, crosswise, and zig-zag, recommenced.

Here arises a feature of the Circumlocution Office, not previously mentioned in the present record. When that admirable Department got into trouble, and was, by some infuriated members of Parliament whom the smaller Barnacles almost suspected of labouring under diabolic possession, attacked on the merits of no individual case, but as an Institution wholly abominable and Bedlamite; then the noble or right honourable Barnacle who represented it in the House, would smite that member and cleave him asunder, with a statement of the quantity of business (for the prevention of business) done by the Circumlocution Office. Then would that noble or right honourable Barnacle hold in his hand a paper containing a few figures, to which, with the permission of the House, he would entreat its attention. Then would the inferior Barnacles exclaim, obeying orders, ‘Hear, Hear, Hear!’ and ‘Read!’ Then would the noble or right honourable Barnacle perceive, sir, from this little document, which he thought might carry conviction even to the perversest mind (Derisive laughter and cheering from the Barnacle fry), that within the short compass of the last financial half-year, this much-maligned Department (Cheers) had written and received fifteen thousand letters (Loud cheers), had written twenty-four thousand minutes (Louder cheers), and thirty-two thousand five hundred and seventeen memoranda (Vehement cheering). Nay, an ingenious gentleman connected with the Department, and himself a valuable public servant, had done him the favour to make a curious calculation of the amount of stationery consumed in it during the same period. It formed a part of this same short document; and he derived from it the remarkable fact that the sheets of foolscap paper it had devoted to the public service would pave the footways on both sides of Oxford Street from end to end, and leave nearly a quarter of a mile to spare for the park (Immense cheering and laughter); while of tape—red tape—it had used enough to stretch, in graceful festoons, from Hyde Park Corner to the General Post Office. Then, amidst a burst of official exultation, would the noble or right honourable Barnacle sit down, leaving the mutilated fragments of the Member on the field. No one, after that exemplary demolition of him, would have the hardihood to hint that the more the Circumlocution Office did, the less was done, and that the greatest blessing it could confer on an unhappy public would be to do nothing.

With sufficient occupation on his hands, now that he had this additional task—such a task had many and many a serviceable man died of before his day—Arthur Clennam led a life of slight variety. Regular visits to his mother’s dull sick room, and visits scarcely less regular to Mr Meagles at Twickenham, were its only changes during many months.

He sadly and sorely missed Little Dorrit. He had been prepared to miss her very much, but not so much. He knew to the full extent only through experience, what a large place in his life was left blank when her familiar little figure went out of it. He felt, too, that he must relinquish the hope of its return, understanding the family character sufficiently well to be assured that he and she were divided by a broad ground of separation. The old interest he had had in her, and her old trusting reliance on him, were tinged with melancholy in his mind: so soon had change stolen over them, and so soon had they glided into the past with other secret tendernesses.

When he received her letter he was greatly moved, but did not the less sensibly feel that she was far divided from him by more than distance. It helped him to a clearer and keener perception of the place assigned him by the family. He saw that he was cherished in her grateful remembrance secretly, and that they resented him with the jail and the rest of its belongings.

Through all these meditations which every day of his life crowded about her, he thought of her otherwise in the old way. She was his innocent friend, his delicate child, his dear Little Dorrit. This very change of circumstances fitted curiously in with the habit, begun on the night when the roses floated away, of considering himself as a much older man than his years really made him. He regarded her from a point of view which in its remoteness, tender as it was, he little thought would have been unspeakable agony to her. He speculated about her future destiny, and about the husband she might have, with an affection for her which would have drained her heart of its dearest drop of hope, and broken it.

“Abbandonarlo, o ricominciare tutto da capo?” si chiese Clennam.

“Ecco, in breve, tutta la storia,” disse Doyce.

“Allora, mio amico,” esclamò Clennam, alzandosi e prendendo la sua mano, segnata dai segni del lavoro svolto, “tutto dovrà iniziare da capo!”

Doyce sembrava allarmato e rispose in fretta: “No, no. È meglio rimandare tutto a un altro momento. Sarà sicuramente notato, prima o poi. Posso aspettare. Dimentichi, mio caro Clennam. L’ho già fatto. Tutto è finito.”

“Sì, Doyce,” rispose Clennam, “per quanto riguarda i tuoi sforzi e le tue delusioni, lo ammetto; ma non per quanto riguarda i miei. Sono più giovane di te: sono entrato una sola volta in quell’ufficio prezioso, e per loro sono ancora una ‘preda fresca’. Vieni! Proverò io stesso. Tu farai esattamente ciò che hai fatto finora. Aggiungerò, naturalmente, ai miei sforzi l’intento di farti ottenere giustizia; e a meno che non abbia qualche successo da riferirti, non sentirai più parlare di questa questione.”

Daniel Doyce era ancora riluttante ad acconsentire e continuava a sconsigliare loro di procedere. Ma era naturale che, gradualmente, si lasciasse convincere da Clennam e finisse per cedere. E così fece. Così Arthur poté riprendere quel lungo e disperato tentativo di ottenere risultati dall’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni.

Le sale d’attesa di quel Dipartimento iniziarono presto ad abituarsi alla sua presenza; spesso veniva fatto entrare dai suoi addetti alle pulizie, proprio come un borseggiatore potrebbe essere accompagnato in una stazione di polizia. L’unica differenza era che, nel caso del borseggiatore, lo scopo della visita era quello di trattenere il criminale, mentre nel caso di Clennam, lo scopo era proprio liberarsi di lui. Tuttavia, Clennam era deciso a rimanere in quel Dipartimento; quindi ripresero i soliti lavori: compilazione di moduli, trascrizione di informazioni, stesura di memorandum, firme, controfirme, riferimenti in tutte le direzioni possibili.

Ecco un aspetto particolare dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, non menzionato in precedenza in questi documenti. Quando quel meraviglioso dipartimento si trovava in difficoltà, e veniva attaccato da alcuni membri furibondi del Parlamento – che i “piccoli Barnacle” quasi sospettavano fossero posseduti dal diavolo – non venivano affrontati i singoli casi uno per uno, ma l’intero istituto veniva considerato completamente abominevole e folle. Allora il nobile o onorevole rappresentante di quel dipartimento in Parlamento attaccava con forza quei membri del Parlamento, sottolineando quantissimo lavoro (in realtà finalizzato a impedire qualsiasi attività concreta) fosse svolto dall’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. Poi estraeva un foglio contenente alcune cifre e, con l’autorizzazione del Parlamento, chiedeva all’assemblea di prestargli attenzione. Gli altri membri del gruppo dei “Barnacle”, obbedendo agli ordini, esclamavano “Ascoltate! Leggete!”. Il nobile o onorevole rappresentante, a quel punto, mostrava loro quel documento, sostenendo che fosse sufficiente per convincere anche la mente più ostinata. Seguivano risate derisorie e applausi da parte dei suoi colleghi. Da quel breve rapporto risultava che, nel corso dell’ultimo semestre finanziario, quel tanto criticato dipartimento aveva scritto e ricevuto quindicimila lettere, ventiquattromila minuti di documentazione ufficiale e trentadue migliaia cinquecentosettantasette memorandati. Un gentiluomo coinvolto in quel dipartimento, essendo anche un prezioso funzionario pubblico, aveva addirittura calcolato con precisione la quantità di carta consumata nello stesso periodo: quella carta sarebbe stata sufficiente per coprire entrambi i lati di Oxford Street da cima a fondo, lasciando quasi un quarto di miglio in eccesso per il parco. Quanto alla pellicola adesiva utilizzata per le pratiche burocratiche, beh, sarebbe stata sufficiente per formare graziosi festoni che si estendessero da Hyde Park Corner fino all’Ufficio Postale Generale. Infine, tra applausi ufficiali, il nobile o onorevole rappresentante si sedeva, lasciando i resti distrutti di quel membro del Parlamento sul campo. Dopo un simile “distruttivo intervento”, nessuno avrebbe più avuto il coraggio di sostenere che, più l’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni lavorava, meno veniva effettivamente fatto. E che il maggior beneficio che potesse portare al pubblico sarebbe stato proprio non fare nulla.

Con abbastanza impegni da svolgere e ora che aveva anche questa nuova responsabilità – un compito del genere aveva già causato la morte di molti uomini validi prima ancora che arrivasse il suo turno – Arthur Clennam conduceva una vita piuttosto monotona. Le visite regolari nella noiosa stanza d’ospedale di sua madre, e quelle altrettanto frequenti da parte del signor Meagles a Twickenham, rappresentavano le uniche variazioni nella sua routine quotidiana per molti mesi.

Sentiva una tristezza profonda e intensa per la mancanza di Little Dorrit. Si era preparato ad affrontare questa perdita, ma non fino a questo punto. Solo attraverso l’esperienza capì realmente quanto grande fosse il vuoto che la sua presenza aveva lasciato nella sua vita. Realizzò anche che doveva rinunciare alla speranza del suo ritorno, poiché comprendeva appieno le differenze fondamentali tra loro. L’antico interesse che provava per lei e la fiducia che un tempo lei riponeva in lui erano ormai avvolti nella melancolia: così rapidamente tutto era cambiato, e quei sentimenti erano passati nel passato insieme ad altre emozioni più segrete.

Quando ricevette la sua lettera ne fu profondamente commosso, ma non meno si rese conto, con lucidità, che lei era lontana da lui non solo per la distanza geografica. Questo gli permise di comprendere più chiaramente e intensamente il ruolo che la famiglia gli aveva assegnato. Capì che, nel suo ricordo grato, lui veniva tenuto in considerazione, ma che allo stesso tempo la famiglia lo odiava, rappresentandolo come il simbolo della prigione e di tutto ciò che essa comportava.

Attraverso tutte queste riflessioni che ogni giorno della sua vita lo assediavano, pensava a lei nel vecchio modo, come la sua amica innocente, come la sua delicata bambina, come la sua cara Little Dorrit. Questo stesso cambiamento di circostanze si adattava in modo curioso all’abitudine che aveva preso quella notte in cui i fiori di rosa erano svaniti: considerarsi un uomo molto più anziano di quanto i suoi anni lo rendessero realmente. La guardava da un punto di vista così lontano e tenero, che probabilmente non avrebbe mai immaginato potesse rappresentare per lei un’agonia insopportabile. Rifletteva sul suo futuro destino, sull’uomo che avrebbe potuto sposare, con un affetto tale da prosciugare dal suo cuore l’ultima goccia di >speranza e distruggerlo del tutto.

Everything about him tended to confirm him in the custom of looking on himself as an elderly man, from whom such aspirations as he had combated in the case of Minnie Gowan (though that was not so long ago either, reckoning by months and seasons), were finally departed. His relations with her father and mother were like those on which a widower son-in-law might have stood. If the twin sister who was dead had lived to pass away in the bloom of womanhood, and he had been her husband, the nature of his intercourse with Mr and Mrs Meagles would probably have been just what it was. This imperceptibly helped to render habitual the impression within him, that he had done with, and dismissed that part of life.

He invariably heard of Minnie from them, as telling them in her letters how happy she was, and how she loved her husband; but inseparable from that subject, he invariably saw the old cloud on Mr Meagles’s face. Mr Meagles had never been quite so radiant since the marriage as before. He had never quite recovered the separation from Pet. He was the same good-humoured, open creature; but as if his face, from being much turned towards the pictures of his two children which could show him only one look, unconsciously adopted a characteristic from them, it always had now, through all its changes of expression, a look of loss in it.

One wintry Saturday when Clennam was at the cottage, the Dowager Mrs Gowan drove up, in the Hampton Court equipage which pretended to be the exclusive equipage of so many individual proprietors. She descended, in her shady ambuscade of green fan, to favour Mr and Mrs Meagles with a call.

‘And how do you both do, Papa and Mama Meagles?’ said she, encouraging her humble connections. ‘And when did you last hear from or about my poor fellow?’

My poor fellow was her son; and this mode of speaking of him politely kept alive, without any offence in the world, the pretence that he had fallen a victim to the Meagles’ wiles.

‘And the dear pretty one?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘Have you later news of her than I have?’

Which also delicately implied that her son had been captured by mere beauty, and under its fascination had forgone all sorts of worldly advantages.

‘I am sure,’ said Mrs Gowan, without straining her attention on the answers she received, ‘it’s an unspeakable comfort to know they continue happy. My poor fellow is of such a restless disposition, and has been so used to roving about, and to being inconstant and popular among all manner of people, that it’s the greatest comfort in life. I suppose they’re as poor as mice, Papa Meagles?’

Mr Meagles, fidgety under the question, replied, ‘I hope not, ma’am. I hope they will manage their little income.’

‘Oh! my dearest Meagles!’ returned the lady, tapping him on the arm with the green fan and then adroitly interposing it between a yawn and the company, ‘how can you, as a man of the world and one of the most business-like of human beings—for you know you are business-like, and a great deal too much for us who are not—’

(Which went to the former purpose, by making Mr Meagles out to be an artful schemer.)

‘—How can you talk about their managing their little means? My poor dear fellow! The idea of his managing hundreds! And the sweet pretty creature too. The notion of her managing! Papa Meagles! Don’t!’

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, gravely, ‘I am sorry to admit, then, that Henry certainly does anticipate his means.’

‘My dear good man—I use no ceremony with you, because we are a kind of relations;—positively, Mama Meagles,’ exclaimed Mrs Gowan cheerfully, as if the absurd coincidence then flashed upon her for the first time, ‘a kind of relations! My dear good man, in this world none of us can have everything our own way.’

This again went to the former point, and showed Mr Meagles with all good breeding that, so far, he had been brilliantly successful in his deep designs. Mrs Gowan thought the hit so good a one, that she dwelt upon it; repeating ‘Not everything. No, no; in this world we must not expect everything, Papa Meagles.’

‘And may I ask, ma’am,’ retorted Mr Meagles, a little heightened in colour, ‘who does expect everything?’

‘Oh, nobody, nobody!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I was going to say—but you put me out. You interrupting Papa, what was I going to say?’

Drooping her large green fan, she looked musingly at Mr Meagles while she thought about it; a performance not tending to the cooling of that gentleman’s rather heated spirits.

‘Ah! Yes, to be sure!’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘You must remember that my poor fellow has always been accustomed to expectations. They may have been realised, or they may not have been realised—’

‘Let us say, then, may not have been realised,’ observed Mr Meagles.

The Dowager for a moment gave him an angry look; but tossed it off with her head and her fan, and pursued the tenor of her way in her former manner.

‘It makes no difference. My poor fellow has been accustomed to that sort of thing, and of course you knew it, and were prepared for the consequences. I myself always clearly foresaw the consequences, and am not surprised. And you must not be surprised. In fact, can’t be surprised. Must have been prepared for it.’

Mr Meagles looked at his wife and at Clennam; bit his lip; and coughed.

‘And now here’s my poor fellow,’ Mrs Gowan pursued, ‘receiving notice that he is to hold himself in expectation of a baby, and all the expenses attendant on such an addition to his family! Poor Henry! But it can’t be helped now; it’s too late to help it now. Only don’t talk of anticipating means, Papa Meagles, as a discovery; because that would be too much.’

‘Too much, ma’am?’ said Mr Meagles, as seeking an explanation.

‘There, there!’ said Mrs Gowan, putting him in his inferior place with an expressive action of her hand. ‘Too much for my poor fellow’s mother to bear at this time of day. They are fast married, and can’t be unmarried. There, there! I know that! You needn’t tell me that, Papa Meagles. I know it very well. What was it I said just now? That it was a great comfort they continued happy. It is to be hoped they will still continue happy. It is to be hoped Pretty One will do everything she can to make my poor fellow happy, and keep him contented. Papa and Mama Meagles, we had better say no more about it. We never did look at this subject from the same side, and we never shall. There, there! Now I am good.’

Tutto in lui tendeva a confermare l’idea che si considerasse un uomo anziano; desideri del genere, quelli che aveva combattuto nel caso di Minnie Gowan (sebbene anche quella fosse stata una vicenda non così lontana nel tempo, misurata in mesi e stagioni), ormai erano definitivamente svaniti. I suoi rapporti con i genitori di lei erano quelli che ci si potrebbe aspettare da un genero vedovo. Se la sorella gemella, morta giovane, fosse vissuta fino alla piena maturità e lui ne fosse stato il marito, l’atteggiamento che aveva verso i signori Meagles sarebbe probabilmente rimasto lo stesso. In questo modo, inconsciamente, si consolidava nella sua mente l’impressione di aver definitivamente concluso quella parte della sua vita.

Invariabilmente veniva a sapere da loro di Minnie, poiché lei raccontava nelle sue lettere quanto fosse felice e quanto amasse suo marito; ma, insieme a quei racconti, non mancava mai di notare quella vecchia ombra sul viso del signor Meagles. Da quando si era sposato, il signor Meagles non era mai stato così radioso come prima. Non aveva mai completamente superato la separazione da Pet. Era ancora la stessa persona gentile e aperta di sempre; ma, forse perché il suo viso era costantemente rivolto verso le foto dei suoi due figli – che gli mostravano soltanto un aspetto della loro realtà –, inconsciamente aveva assunto alcuni tratti caratteristici di loro. Così, nonostante tutte le variazioni nell’espressione del suo volto, vi era sempre una traccia di malinconia.

Un sabato invernale, mentre Clennam si trovava nella capanna, la vedova signora Gowan arrivò con la carrozza della famiglia Hampton Court, che fingeva di essere l’equipaggiamento esclusivo di molti proprietari privati. Scendendo dalla carrozza, circondata dal suo ombreggiante ventaglio verde, fece visita al signor e alla signora Meagles.

“E come state voi due, papà e mamma Meagles?” disse lei, cercando di incoraggiare le sue umili conoscenze. “E quando avete sentito notizie, o parlato con, mio povero fratello l’ultima volta?”

Il mio povero amico era suo figlio; e questo modo di parlare di lui in modo educato manteneva viva, senza alcun offesa, l’illusione che fosse stato vittima delle astuzie dei Meagles.

“E quella cara, carina ragazza?”, chiese la signora Gowan. “Avete avuto notizie di lei più recentemente di me?”

Ciò implicava anche, in modo delicato, che suo figlio fosse stato catturato semplicemente dalla bellezza e, sotto il suo fascino, avesse rinunciato a ogni sorta di vantaggio terreno.

“Ne sono sicura,” disse la signora Gowan, senza prestare particolare attenzione alle risposte che riceveva, “è un conforto indescrivibile sapere che continuano a essere felici. Mio povero caro ha una natura così inquieta. È abituato da sempre a viaggiare, ad essere instabile e amato da persone di ogni tipo. Quindi è davvero il più grande conforto nella vita. Immagino che siano poveri come topi, vero, papà Meagles?”

Il signor Meagles, irrequieto di fronte a quella domanda, rispose: “Non lo spero, signora. Spero solo che riescano a gestire quel piccolo reddito che hanno.”

“Oh! mio carissimo Meagles!” rispose la signora, dandogli una pacca sul braccio con il ventaglio verde e poi inserendolo abilmente tra un sbadiglio e il gruppo di persone intorno a loro, “come può essere che tu, essendo un uomo di mondo e uno dei più pratici tra gli esseri umani – sai bene di essere molto pratico, molto più di noi che non lo siamo, ”

(Che servì allo scopo originale, facendo apparire il signor Meagles come un abile calcolatore.)

“–Come puoi parlare del fatto che gestiscano i loro miseri mezzi? Povero caro mio. L’idea che possa gestire centinaia di cose. E poi quella dolce, adorabile creatura. L’idea che anche lei possa gestire qualcosa. Papà Meagles, per favore!”

“Beh, signora,” disse seriamente il signor Meagles, “devo pur ammettere che Henry effettivamente si aspetta di poter contare sui propri mezzi.”

“Mio caro buon uomo. Non uso formalità con te, perché siamo una sorta di parenti; davvero, mamma Meagles,” esclamò felicemente la signora Gowan, come se quell’assurda coincidenza le fosse appena venuta in mente per la prima volta, “una sorta di parenti! Mio caro buon uomo, in questo mondo nessuno di noi può avere tutto secondo i propri desideri.”

Questo argomento tornava di nuovo al punto precedente e dimostrava come il signor Meagles, grazie alla sua buona educazione, avesse finora ottenuto grandi successi nei suoi piani abilmente concepiti. La signora Gowan riteneva che quel colpo fosse davvero efficace e ne parlava spesso, ripetendo: “Non tutto. No, no; in questo mondo non dobbiamo aspettarci tutto, papà Meagles.”

“E posso chiedere, signora,” ribatté il signor Meagles, con il viso un po’ arrossito, “chi si aspetta davvero che tutto vada secondo i piani?”

“Oh, nessuno, nessuno!” disse la signora Gowan. “Stavo per dire, ma mi hai interrotta. Hai interrotto papà; cosa stavo per dire?”

Con il suo grande ventaglio verde abbassato, lei guardava meditabonda il signor Meagles mentre ci pensava. Una scenetta che di certo non contribuiva a raffreddare l’umore piuttosto accalorato di quel gentiluomo.

“Ah! Sì, certamente!” disse la signora Gowan. “Dovete ricordare che il mio povero marito è sempre stato abituato ad aspettarsi qualcosa. Quegli aspettati si possono essere avverati, oppure no, ”

“Allora, possiamo dire che forse non è stato realizzato,” osservò il signor Meagles.

Per un momento la Vedova lo guardò con rabbia; ma scosse la testa e il ventaglio, e continuò per la sua strada nel solito modo.

‘Non fa alcuna differenza. Il mio povero amico è abituato a queste cose, e naturalmente tu lo sapevi e eri preparato alle conseguenze. Anche io ho sempre previsto chiaramente quelle conseguenze, quindi non sono sorpreso. E nemmeno tu dovresti esserlo. In realtà, non si può essere sorpresi: dovevi esserne già preparato.’

Il signor Meagles guardò sua moglie e poi Clennam; si morse il labbro e tossì.

“E ora ecco il mio povero ragazzo,” continuò la signora Gowan, “che riceve la notizia che dovrà prepararsi all’arrivo di un bambino, e tutte le spese legate all’ingresso di un nuovo membro nella famiglia. Povero Henry! Ma ormai non si può fare nulla; è troppo tardi per intervenire. Solo, per favore, non parlate di dover trovare i soldi necessari in anticipo, papà Meagles. Perché sarebbe davvero troppo.”

“Troppo, signora?”, chiese il signor Meagles, cercando una spiegazione.

“Ecco, ecco!” disse la signora Gowan, indicandogli con un gesto della mano il suo posto inferiore. “È troppo per la povera madre di questo ragazzo in questo momento della giornata. Sono sposati ormai, e non possono più rimanere single. Ecco, ecco! Lo so bene! Non c’è bisogno che me lo dica, papà Meagles. Lo so molto bene. Cosa ho detto poco fa? Che è stato un grande conforto vedere che continuavano ad essere felici. Speriamo che continuiano ad esserlo. Speriamo che Pretty One faccia tutto il possibile per rendere mio figlio felice e soddisfatto. Papà e mamma Meagles, forse è meglio non parlarne più. Non abbiamo mai considerato questa questione dallo stesso punto di vista, e non lo faremo mai. Ecco, ora sono tranquilla.”

Truly, having by this time said everything she could say in maintenance of her wonderfully mythical position, and in admonition to Mr Meagles that he must not expect to bear his honours of alliance too cheaply, Mrs Gowan was disposed to forgo the rest. If Mr Meagles had submitted to a glance of entreaty from Mrs Meagles, and an expressive gesture from Clennam, he would have left her in the undisturbed enjoyment of this state of mind. But Pet was the darling and pride of his heart; and if he could ever have championed her more devotedly, or loved her better, than in the days when she was the sunlight of his house, it would have been now, when, as its daily grace and delight, she was lost to it.

‘Mrs Gowan, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I have been a plain man all my life. If I was to try—no matter whether on myself, on somebody else, or both—any genteel mystifications, I should probably not succeed in them.’

‘Papa Meagles,’ returned the Dowager, with an affable smile, but with the bloom on her cheeks standing out a little more vividly than usual as the neighbouring surface became paler, ‘probably not.’

‘Therefore, my good madam,’ said Mr Meagles, at great pains to restrain himself, ‘I hope I may, without offence, ask to have no such mystification played off upon me.’

‘Mama Meagles,’ observed Mrs Gowan, ‘your good man is incomprehensible.’

Her turning to that worthy lady was an artifice to bring her into the discussion, quarrel with her, and vanquish her. Mr Meagles interposed to prevent that consummation.

‘Mother,’ said he, ‘you are inexpert, my dear, and it is not a fair match. Let me beg of you to remain quiet. Come, Mrs Gowan, come! Let us try to be sensible; let us try to be good-natured; let us try to be fair. Don’t you pity Henry, and I won’t pity Pet. And don’t be one-sided, my dear madam; it’s not considerate, it’s not kind. Don’t let us say that we hope Pet will make Henry happy, or even that we hope Henry will make Pet happy,’ (Mr Meagles himself did not look happy as he spoke the words,) ‘but let us hope they will make each other happy.’

‘Yes, sure, and there leave it, father,’ said Mrs Meagles the kind-hearted and comfortable.

‘Why, mother, no,’ returned Mr Meagles, ‘not exactly there. I can’t quite leave it there; I must say just half-a-dozen words more. Mrs Gowan, I hope I am not over-sensitive. I believe I don’t look it.’

‘Indeed you do not,’ said Mrs Gowan, shaking her head and the great green fan together, for emphasis.

‘Thank you, ma’am; that’s well. Notwithstanding which, I feel a little—I don’t want to use a strong word—now shall I say hurt?’ asked Mr Meagles at once with frankness and moderation, and with a conciliatory appeal in his tone.

‘Say what you like,’ answered Mrs Gowan. ‘It is perfectly indifferent to me.’

‘No, no, don’t say that,’ urged Mr Meagles, ‘because that’s not responding amiably. I feel a little hurt when I hear references made to consequences having been foreseen, and to its being too late now, and so forth.’

‘Do you, Papa Meagles?’ said Mrs Gowan. ‘I am not surprised.’

‘Well, ma’am,’ reasoned Mr Meagles, ‘I was in hopes you would have been at least surprised, because to hurt me wilfully on so tender a subject is surely not generous.’

‘I am not responsible,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for your conscience, you know.’

Poor Mr Meagles looked aghast with astonishment.

‘If I am unluckily obliged to carry a cap about with me, which is yours and fits you,’ pursued Mrs Gowan, ‘don’t blame me for its pattern, Papa Meagles, I beg!’

‘Why, good Lord, ma’am!’ Mr Meagles broke out, ‘that’s as much as to state—’

‘Now, Papa Meagles, Papa Meagles,’ said Mrs Gowan, who became extremely deliberate and prepossessing in manner whenever that gentleman became at all warm, ‘perhaps to prevent confusion, I had better speak for myself than trouble your kindness to speak for me. It’s as much as to state, you begin. If you please, I will finish the sentence. It is as much as to state—not that I wish to press it or even recall it, for it is of no use now, and my only wish is to make the best of existing circumstances—that from the first to the last I always objected to this match of yours, and at a very late period yielded a most unwilling consent to it.’

‘Mother!’ cried Mr Meagles. ‘Do you hear this! Arthur! Do you hear this!’

‘The room being of a convenient size,’ said Mrs Gowan, looking about as she fanned herself, ‘and quite charmingly adapted in all respects to conversation, I should imagine I am audible in any part of it.’

Some moments passed in silence, before Mr Meagles could hold himself in his chair with sufficient security to prevent his breaking out of it at the next word he spoke. At last he said: ‘Ma’am, I am very unwilling to revive them, but I must remind you what my opinions and my course were, all along, on that unfortunate subject.’

‘O, my dear sir!’ said Mrs Gowan, smiling and shaking her head with accusatory intelligence, ‘they were well understood by me, I assure you.’

‘I never, ma’am,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘knew unhappiness before that time, I never knew anxiety before that time. It was a time of such distress to me that—’ That Mr Meagles could really say no more about it, in short, but passed his handkerchief before his face.

‘I understood the whole affair,’ said Mrs Gowan, composedly looking over her fan. ‘As you have appealed to Mr Clennam, I may appeal to Mr Clennam, too. He knows whether I did or not.’

‘I am very unwilling,’ said Clennam, looked to by all parties, ‘to take any share in this discussion, more especially because I wish to preserve the best understanding and the clearest relations with Mr Henry Gowan. I have very strong reasons indeed, for entertaining that wish. Mrs Gowan attributed certain views of furthering the marriage to my friend here, in conversation with me before it took place; and I endeavoured to undeceive her. I represented that I knew him (as I did and do) to be strenuously opposed to it, both in opinion and action.’

Veramente, a quel momento, avendo detto tutto ciò che poteva per difendere la sua posizione meravigliosamente mitica e per ammonire il signor Meagles a non aspettarsi di ottenere onori con troppa facilità, la signora Gowan era disposta a lasciare perdere il resto. Se il signor Meagles avesse ceduto a uno sguardo supplichevole da parte sua e a un gesto espressivo da parte di Clennam, l’avrebbe lasciata godere in pace di quel stato d’animo. Ma Pet era la persona più cara e il orgoglio del suo cuore; e se mai avesse potuto difenderla con maggiore devozione o amarla di più, sarebbe stato proprio ora, quando, come fonte quotidiana di grazia e gioia per lui, lei gli era stata strappata via.

“Signora Gowan,” disse il signor Meagles, “ho vissuto tutta la mia vita come una persona semplice. Se provassi a intraprendere qualsiasi tipo di comportamento elegante e misterioso, sia su me stesso che su qualcun altro, o su entrambi, probabilmente non riuscirei.”

“Papà Meagles,” rispose la Vedova con un sorriso affabile, ma il rossore sulle sue guance spiccava ancora di più del solito, mentre le zone circostanti diventavano più pallide; “probabilmente no.”

“Pertanto, mia cara signora,” disse il signor Meagles, facendo grande sforzo per trattenersi, “spero di poter chiedere, senza offendervi, che non mi vengano più giocati simili trucchi.”

“Mamma Meagles”, osservò la signora Gowan, “il tuo buon marito è davvero incomprensibile”.

Il fatto che si rivolgesse a quella nobile signora era un espediente per coinvolgerla nella discussione, litigare con lei e sconfiggerla. Il signor Meagles intervenne per impedire che tutto ciò avvenisse.

“Mamma,” disse lui, “tu non sei esperta in queste cose, cara mia, e questa non è una situazione equa. Ti prego di stare in silenzio. Vieni, signora Gowan, vieni! Cerchiamo di essere ragionevoli, cerchiamo di essere gentili, cerchiamo di essere giusti. Non provi pietà per Henry? Allora nemmeno io proverò pietà per Pet. E non essere parteggiata, mia cara signora: non è né considerato né gentile. Non diciamo che speriamo che Pet renda felice Henry, o nemmeno che speriamo che Henry renda felice Pet” (il signor Meagles stesso, mentre lo diceva, non sembrava affatto felice), “ma cerchiamo semplicemente di sperare che possano rendere felici entrambi.”

“Sì, certo, lasciatelo lì, padre,” disse la gentile e accomodante signora Meagles.

“Perché no, mamma,” rispose il signor Meagles, “non esattamente lì. Non posso proprio lasciarla così; devo aggiungere ancora mezza dozzina di parole. Signora Gowan, spero di non essere troppo sensibile. Credo che non lo sembri.”

“Infatti, non lo fai,” disse la signora Gowan scuotendo la testa e anche il grande ventaglio verde, per sottolineare le sue parole.

“Grazie, signora; è davvero molto gentile da parte sua. Tuttavia, mi sento un po’, non vorrei usare una parola troppo forte, diciamo, ferito”, chiese subito il signor Meagles con franchezza e moderazione, nel tono di chi cerca di essere conciliante.

“Dite pure quello che volete,” rispose la signora Gowan. “Per me non fa alcuna differenza.”

“No, no, non dite così,” insistette il signor Meagles, “perché questo non significa rispondere in modo amichevole. Mi sento un po’ offeso quando si fanno riferimenti al fatto che le conseguenze erano già previste e che ora sia troppo tardi, e simili cose.”

“Davvero, papà Meagles?”, disse la signora Gowan. “Non mi sorprende affatto.”

“Beh, signora,” ragionò il signor Meagles, “speravo almeno che fosse rimasta sorpresa, perché ferirmi intenzionalmente su un argomento così delicato certamente non è generoso.”

“Non sono responsabile,” disse la signora Gowan, “per la tua coscienza, lo sai.”

Povero signor Meagles, sembrava davvero sbalordito.

“Se per sfortuna fossi costretta a portare con me un cappello che appartiene a voi e vi sta bene,” continuò la signora Gowan, “per favore non incolpate me per il suo disegno, papà Meagles. Lo prego!”

“Ma mio Dio, signora!” esclamò il signor Meagles, “vuol dire, ”.

“Ora, Papà Meagles, Papà Meagles,” disse la signora Gowan, che diventava estremamente deliberata e presuntuosa ogni volta che quel gentiluomo mostrava anche solo un minimo di calore nei suoi confronti, “forse per evitare confusione, sarebbe meglio che parlassi io stessa invece di disturbarvi con la vostra gentilezza. È come dire, voi iniziate; se vi piace, io completerò la frase. È come dire, non che voglia insistere o nemmeno ricordarlo, perché ormai non ha più alcuna importanza, e il mio unico desiderio è sfruttare al meglio le circostanze attuali, che fin dall’inizio ho sempre opposto obiezioni a questo vostro matrimonio, e solo molto tempo dopo ho acconsentito con estrema riluttanza.”

“Madre!” gridò il signor Meagles. “La sentite? Arthur! La sentite?”

“La stanza è di dimensioni comode,” disse la signora Gowan, guardandosi intorno mentre si ventilava con un ventaglio, “e in ogni modo molto adatta alle conversazioni; immagino quindi che si possa sentirmi ovunque all’interno.”

Trascorsero alcuni momenti in silenzio, prima che il signor Meagles riuscisse a rimanere seduto sulla sua sedia in modo sufficientemente stabile da evitare di alzarsi di scatto alla prossima parola che avesse detto. Alla fine disse: “Signora, sono molto riluttante a riprendere l’argomento, ma devo ricordarle quali fossero le mie opinioni e la mia posizione su quella sfortunata questione fin dall’inizio.”

“Oh, mio caro signore!” disse la signora Gowan, sorridendo e scuotendo la testa con un’aria di accusa e comprensione, “li ho capiti benissimo, vi assicuro.”

“Non l’avevo mai sperimentata prima, signora,” disse il signor Meagles, “mai conosciuta tanta infelicità. Mai provato un’ansia così profonda. Fu un periodo di tale sofferenza per me che, ” In breve, il signor Meagles non riuscì davvero a dire altro e si coprì il viso con il fazzoletto.

“Ho capito tutta la situazione,” disse la signora Gowan, guardando con calma il proprio ventaglio. “Poiché avete fatto appello al signor Clennam, anch’io posso fare appello a lui. Lui sa se l’ho fatto o meno.”

“Sono assolutamente riluttante,” disse Clennam, osservato da tutti i presenti, “a prendere parte a questa discussione, soprattutto perché desidero mantenere le migliori relazioni e il massimo rispetto verso il signor Henry Gowan. Ho davvero motivi molto forti per nutrire questo desiderio. La signora Gowan attribuì alcune idee riguardanti la promozione di quel matrimonio al mio amico, durante una conversazione con me prima che avvenisse; e io ho cercato di dissuaderla. Le ho spiegato che sapevo (e so ancora) che lui si opponeva fermamente a tale idea, sia in termini di opinione che di azione.”

‘You see?’ said Mrs Gowan, turning the palms of her hands towards Mr Meagles, as if she were Justice herself, representing to him that he had better confess, for he had not a leg to stand on. ‘You see? Very good! Now Papa and Mama Meagles both!’ here she rose; ‘allow me to take the liberty of putting an end to this rather formidable controversy. I will not say another word upon its merits. I will only say that it is an additional proof of what one knows from all experience; that this kind of thing never answers—as my poor fellow himself would say, that it never pays—in one word, that it never does.’

Mr Meagles asked, What kind of thing?

‘It is in vain,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘for people to attempt to get on together who have such extremely different antecedents; who are jumbled against each other in this accidental, matrimonial sort of way; and who cannot look at the untoward circumstance which has shaken them together in the same light. It never does.’

Mr Meagles was beginning, ‘Permit me to say, ma’am—’

‘No, don’t,’ returned Mrs Gowan. ‘Why should you! It is an ascertained fact. It never does. I will therefore, if you please, go my way, leaving you to yours. I shall at all times be happy to receive my poor fellow’s pretty wife, and I shall always make a point of being on the most affectionate terms with her. But as to these terms, semi-family and semi-stranger, semi-goring and semi-boring, they form a state of things quite amusing in its impracticability. I assure you it never does.’

The Dowager here made a smiling obeisance, rather to the room than to any one in it, and therewith took a final farewell of Papa and Mama Meagles. Clennam stepped forward to hand her to the Pill-Box which was at the service of all the Pills in Hampton Court Palace; and she got into that vehicle with distinguished serenity, and was driven away.

Thenceforth the Dowager, with a light and careless humour, often recounted to her particular acquaintance how, after a hard trial, she had found it impossible to know those people who belonged to Henry’s wife, and who had made that desperate set to catch him. Whether she had come to the conclusion beforehand, that to get rid of them would give her favourite pretence a better air, might save her some occasional inconvenience, and could risk no loss (the pretty creature being fast married, and her father devoted to her), was best known to herself. Though this history has its opinion on that point too, and decidedly in the affirmative.

“Vede?” disse la signora Gowan, rivolgendo i palmi delle sue mani verso il signor Meagles, come se fosse lei stessa la giustizia, per fargli capire che era meglio confessare, poiché non aveva alcuna possibilità di difendersi. “Vede? Molto bene! Ora anche papà e mamma Meagles, ” qui si alzò in piedi; “mi permettano di porre fine a questa piuttosto grave controversia. Non dirò una parola riguardo ai suoi meriti. Dirò soltanto che questo è un ulteriore esempio di ciò che si sa per esperienza: questo genere di cose non porta mai a nulla. Come direbbe lui stesso, non pagano mai. In breve, non portano mai a risultati positivi.”

Il signor Meagles chiese: “Di che tipo di cosa si tratta?”

“È inutile,” disse la signora Gowan, “che le persone tentino di andare d’accordo se hanno origini così completamente diverse; se vengono messe insieme in questo modo casuale e matrimoniale; e se non riescono a considerare nella stessa luce quella circostanza sfortunata che le ha fatte incontrare. Non funziona mai.”

“Permettetemi di dire, signora, ” iniziò il signor Meagles

“No, non farlo,” rispose la signora Gowan. “Perché dovresti? È un fatto certo. Non succede mai. Quindi, se mi permetti, seguirò la mia strada e tu la tua. Sarò sempre felice di ricevere la bella moglie del mio povero amico, e farò sempre in modo di mantenere con lei i rapporti più affettuosi possibile. Ma quei rapporti, a metà familiari e a metà estranei, a volte cordiali e altre volte distaccati, rappresentano una situazione davvero divertente, nella loro impraticabilità. Te lo assicuro: non succede mai.”

La vedova fece un inchino sorridente, più rivolto alla stanza che a qualcuno in particolare al suo interno, e con questo si congedò definitivamente da Papa e Mama Meagles. Clennam si avvicinò per aiutarla a salire nella “scatola delle pillole”, utilizzata per il trasporto di tutte le medicine nel Palazzo di Hampton Court; lei vi entrò con grande serenità ed fu poi portata via.

Da allora, la Vedova, con un tono leggero e noncurante, raccontava spesso alle sue amiche intimhe come, dopo molte difficoltà, fosse riuscita a scoprire chi fossero quelle persone che appartenevano alla moglie di Henry e che avevano fatto di tutto per catturarlo. Se avesse già deciso in anticipo che sbarazzarsi di loro le avrebbe dato più credibilità nella sua finzione preferita, l’avrebbe risparmiata da alcuni inconvenienti occasionali e non avrebbe corso alcun rischio (la bella ragazza era ormai sposata e suo padre le era devoto), questo lo sapeva solo lei. Anche questa storia ha la sua opinione su questo punto, e decisamente affermativa.

CHAPTER 9. Appearance and Disappearance

‘Arthur, my dear boy,’ said Mr Meagles, on the evening of the following day, ‘Mother and I have been talking this over, and we don’t feel comfortable in remaining as we are. That elegant connection of ours—that dear lady who was here yesterday—’

‘I understand,’ said Arthur.

‘Even that affable and condescending ornament of society,’ pursued Mr Meagles, ‘may misrepresent us, we are afraid. We could bear a great deal, Arthur, for her sake; but we think we would rather not bear that, if it was all the same to her.’

‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Go on.’

‘You see,’ proceeded Mr Meagles ‘it might put us wrong with our son-in-law, it might even put us wrong with our daughter, and it might lead to a great deal of domestic trouble. You see, don’t you?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ returned Arthur, ‘there is much reason in what you say.’ He had glanced at Mrs Meagles, who was always on the good and sensible side; and a petition had shone out of her honest face that he would support Mr Meagles in his present inclinings.

‘So we are very much disposed, are Mother and I,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘to pack up bags and baggage and go among the Allongers and Marshongers once more. I mean, we are very much disposed to be off, strike right through France into Italy, and see our Pet.’

‘And I don’t think,’ replied Arthur, touched by the motherly anticipation in the bright face of Mrs Meagles (she must have been very like her daughter, once), ‘that you could do better. And if you ask me for my advice, it is that you set off to-morrow.’

‘Is it really, though?’ said Mr Meagles. ‘Mother, this is being backed in an idea!’

Mother, with a look which thanked Clennam in a manner very agreeable to him, answered that it was indeed.

‘The fact is, besides, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, the old cloud coming over his face, ‘that my son-in-law is already in debt again, and that I suppose I must clear him again. It may be as well, even on this account, that I should step over there, and look him up in a friendly way. Then again, here’s Mother foolishly anxious (and yet naturally too) about Pet’s state of health, and that she should not be left to feel lonesome at the present time. It’s undeniably a long way off, Arthur, and a strange place for the poor love under all the circumstances. Let her be as well cared for as any lady in that land, still it is a long way off. just as Home is Home though it’s never so Homely, why you see,’ said Mr Meagles, adding a new version to the proverb, ‘Rome is Rome, though it’s never so Romely.’

‘All perfectly true,’ observed Arthur, ‘and all sufficient reasons for going.’

‘I am glad you think so; it decides me. Mother, my dear, you may get ready. We have lost our pleasant interpreter (she spoke three foreign languages beautifully, Arthur; you have heard her many a time), and you must pull me through it, Mother, as well as you can. I require a deal of pulling through, Arthur,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head, ‘a deal of pulling through. I stick at everything beyond a noun-substantive—and I stick at him, if he’s at all a tight one.’

‘Now I think of it,’ returned Clennam, ‘there’s Cavalletto. He shall go with you, if you like. I could not afford to lose him, but you will bring him safe back.’

‘Well! I am much obliged to you, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, turning it over, ‘but I think not. No, I think I’ll be pulled through by Mother. Cavallooro (I stick at his very name to start with, and it sounds like the chorus to a comic song) is so necessary to you, that I don’t like the thought of taking him away. More than that, there’s no saying when we may come home again; and it would never do to take him away for an indefinite time. The cottage is not what it was. It only holds two little people less than it ever did, Pet, and her poor unfortunate maid Tattycoram; but it seems empty now. Once out of it, there’s no knowing when we may come back to it. No, Arthur, I’ll be pulled through by Mother.’

They would do best by themselves perhaps, after all, Clennam thought; therefore did not press his proposal.

‘If you would come down and stay here for a change, when it wouldn’t trouble you,’ Mr Meagles resumed, ‘I should be glad to think—and so would Mother too, I know—that you were brightening up the old place with a bit of life it was used to when it was full, and that the Babies on the wall there had a kind eye upon them sometimes. You so belong to the spot, and to them, Arthur, and we should every one of us have been so happy if it had fallen out—but, let us see—how’s the weather for travelling now?’ Mr Meagles broke off, cleared his throat, and got up to look out of the window.

They agreed that the weather was of high promise; and Clennam kept the talk in that safe direction until it had become easy again, when he gently diverted it to Henry Gowan and his quick sense and agreeable qualities when he was delicately dealt with; he likewise dwelt on the indisputable affection he entertained for his wife. Clennam did not fail of his effect upon good Mr Meagles, whom these commendations greatly cheered; and who took Mother to witness that the single and cordial desire of his heart in reference to their daughter’s husband, was harmoniously to exchange friendship for friendship, and confidence for confidence. Within a few hours the cottage furniture began to be wrapped up for preservation in the family absence—or, as Mr Meagles expressed it, the house began to put its hair in papers—and within a few days Father and Mother were gone, Mrs Tickit and Dr Buchan were posted, as of yore, behind the parlour blind, and Arthur’s solitary feet were rustling among the dry fallen leaves in the garden walks.

CAPITOLO 9. Apparizione e Scomparsa

‘Arthur, mio caro ragazzo,’ disse il signor Meagles la sera seguente, ‘Mia madre ed io ne abbiamo parlato a lungo, e non ci sentiamo a nostro agio continuando così come stiamo. Quella nobile relazione che abbiamo, quella cara signora che è stata qui ieri, ’

“Capisco,” disse Arthur.

“Anche quel gentile e condiscendente ‘ornamento’ della società,” proseguì il signor Meagles, “potrebbe rappresentarci in modo errato, temiamo. Per amor suo, Arthur, potremmo sopportare molte cose; ma pensiamo che preferiremmo non farlo, anche se per lei non farebbe alcuna differenza.”

“Bene,” disse Arthur. “Continua.”

“Vedete,” proseguì il signor Meagles, “potrebbe creare problemi con nostro genero, potrebbe persino causare difficoltà con nostra figlia, e potrebbe portare a molti problemi familiari. Capite, vero?”

“Sì, certamente,” rispose Arthur, “ci sono molte ragioni in ciò che dici.”
Aveva gettato uno sguardo a Mrs Meagles, che era sempre dalla parte giusta e sensata; sul suo viso onesto si leggeva chiaramente il desiderio che lui appoggiasse Mr Meagles nelle sue attuali intenzioni.

“Sappiamo bene che io e mia madre siamo molto disposti,” disse il signor Meagles, “a preparare i bagagli e partire di nuovo verso le regioni degli Allongers e dei Marshongers. Voglio dire, siamo davvero desiderosi di metterci in viaggio, attraversare la Francia per raggiungere l’Italia e rivedere il nostro Pet.”

“E non credo,” rispose Arthur, commosso dall’anticipazione materna che si leggeva sul viso sorridente della signora Meagles (doveva essere molto simile a sua figlia, un tempo), “che tu possa fare di meglio. E se mi chiedi il mio consiglio, è di partire domani.”

“Davvero lo è?” disse il signor Meagles. “Mamma, questa idea sta ricevendo sostegno!”

“Madre,” rispose lei con uno sguardo che ringraziava Clennam in modo molto piacevole per lui, “infatti è così.”

“Il fatto è,” disse il signor Meagles, con un’ombra di preoccupazione sul viso, “che oltre ad Arthur, anche mio genero si trova di nuovo in debito, e temo che dovrò aiutarlo ancora una volta. Forse, proprio per questo motivo, sarebbe opportuno andare da lui e parlargli in modo amichevole. D’altra parte, mia madre è troppo ansiosa (e naturalmente anche giustificatamente) per la salute di Pet, e non dovrebbe sentirsi sola in un momento del genere. È senz’altro una distanza lunga, Arthur, e un luogo strano. Per quella povera ragazza, in tutte queste circostanze. Lasciamo che venga curata al meglio come qualsiasi altra signora in quel paese. Ma è comunque una distanza lunga. Proprio come Casa è sempre Casa, anche se non è mai davvero “casa”, capisci?” aggiunse il signor Meagles, modificando un po’ il proverbio.

“Tutto perfettamente vero,” osservò Arthur, “e tutti motivi sufficienti per partire.”

“Sono felice che tu la pensi così; questo mi dà la forza necessaria. Madre mia cara, puoi prepararti. Abbiamo perso la nostra brava interprete (parlava meravigliosamente tre lingue straniere, Arthur; l’hai sentita molte volte), e ora devi aiutarmi, madre, nel modo migliore che sai. Ho davvero bisogno del tuo aiuto, Arthur,” disse il signor Meagles scuotendo la testa. “Ho bisogno di un aiuto concreto. Mi attacco a tutto, tranne che alle semplici parole sostantive. E mi attaccherò anche a lui, se si rivelerà davvero difficile da gestire.”

“Ora che ci penso,” rispose Clennam, “c’è Cavalletto. Può venire con te, se vuoi. Non potrei permettermi di perderlo, ma tu lo riporterai sano e salvo.”

“Beh! Sono molto grato a te, mio ragazzo,” disse il signor Meagles, rigirando l’oggetto tra le mani, “ma penso di no. No, credo che mia madre mi aiuterà. Cavallooro (insisto proprio su questo nome: suona come il ritornello di una canzone comica, ) è così necessario per te, che non mi va l’idea di portartelo via. Inoltre, non si sa mai quando torneremo a casa. E non sarebbe affatto giusto portarlo via per un periodo indefinito. La casetta non è più quella di una volta: ora ci stanno solo due persone, Pet e la sua povera cameriera Tattycoram. Ma sembra vuota. Una volta che se ne andrà, chissà quando torneremo lì. No, Arthur, mia madre mi aiuterà.”

Forse sarebbe stato meglio per loro agire da soli, pensò Clennam; quindi non insistette nella sua proposta.

“Se solo volessi scendere e stare qui per un po’, quando questo non ti causasse problemi, ”, riprese il signor Meagles, “mi farebbe molto piacere – e so che anche a tua madre piacerebbe – pensare che tu stia rendendo più vivace questo vecchio posto, dando vita a ciò a cui era abituato quando era pieno di gente. E che quei bambini dipinti sul muro possano, a volte, sentirsi protetti da te. Tu appartieni davvero a questo luogo, e anche a loro, Arthur. Saremmo tutti stati molto felici se fosse andata così. Ma, beh, come è il tempo adesso per viaggiare?” Il signor Meagles si interruppe, si schiarì la voce e andò a guardare fuori dalla finestra.

Concordarono sul fatto che il tempo prometteva bene; Clennam mantenne la conversazione su questi argomenti fino a quando non divenne di nuovo opportuno, dopodiché ne cambiò dolcemente il corso per parlare di Henry Gowan e delle sue qualità positive, soprattutto quando veniva trattato con gentilezza; inoltre, sottolineò l’affetto indiscutibile che provava per sua moglie. Clennam riuscì certamente a influenzare positivamente il buon signor Meagles, il quale fu molto incoraggiato da queste lodi; egli portò persino la madre ad ascoltare, affermando che il desiderio più sincero e profondo del suo cuore riguardo al futuro marito di loro figlia fosse quello di instaurare un rapporto basato sull’amicizia e sulla fiducia reciproca. Nel giro di poche ore, i mobili della casetta iniziarono ad essere imballati per essere conservati durante l’assenza della famiglia, o, come disse il signor Meagles, “la casa iniziò a ‘mettersi i capelli nei fogli’”. Entro pochi giorni, padre e madre se ne andarono; la signora Tickit e il dottor Buchan tornarono, come al solito, dietro le tende del salotto, e i passi solitari di Arthur risuonavano tra le foglie secche cadute nei sentieri del giardino.

As he had a liking for the spot, he seldom let a week pass without paying a visit. Sometimes, he went down alone from Saturday to Monday; sometimes his partner accompanied him; sometimes, he merely strolled for an hour or two about the house and garden, saw that all was right, and returned to London again. At all times, and under all circumstances, Mrs Tickit, with her dark row of curls, and Dr Buchan, sat in the parlour window, looking out for the family return.

On one of his visits Mrs Tickit received him with the words, ‘I have something to tell you, Mr Clennam, that will surprise you.’ So surprising was the something in question, that it actually brought Mrs Tickit out of the parlour window and produced her in the garden walk, when Clennam went in at the gate on its being opened for him.

‘What is it, Mrs Tickit?’ said he.

‘Sir,’ returned that faithful housekeeper, having taken him into the parlour and closed the door; ‘if ever I saw the led away and deluded child in my life, I saw her identically in the dusk of yesterday evening.’

‘You don’t mean Tatty—’

‘Coram yes I do!’ quoth Mrs Tickit, clearing the disclosure at a leap.

‘Where?’

‘Mr Clennam,’ returned Mrs Tickit, ‘I was a little heavy in my eyes, being that I was waiting longer than customary for my cup of tea which was then preparing by Mary Jane. I was not sleeping, nor what a person would term correctly, dozing. I was more what a person would strictly call watching with my eyes closed.’

Without entering upon an inquiry into this curious abnormal condition, Clennam said, ‘Exactly. Well?’

‘Well, sir,’ proceeded Mrs Tickit, ‘I was thinking of one thing and thinking of another, just as you yourself might. Just as anybody might.’

‘Precisely so,’ said Clennam. ‘Well?’

‘And when I do think of one thing and do think of another,’ pursued Mrs Tickit, ‘I hardly need to tell you, Mr Clennam, that I think of the family. Because, dear me! a person’s thoughts,’ Mrs Tickit said this with an argumentative and philosophic air, ‘however they may stray, will go more or less on what is uppermost in their minds. They will do it, sir, and a person can’t prevent them.’

Arthur subscribed to this discovery with a nod.

‘You find it so yourself, sir, I’ll be bold to say,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and we all find it so. It an’t our stations in life that changes us, Mr Clennam; thoughts is free!—As I was saying, I was thinking of one thing and thinking of another, and thinking very much of the family. Not of the family in the present times only, but in the past times too. For when a person does begin thinking of one thing and thinking of another in that manner, as it’s getting dark, what I say is, that all times seem to be present, and a person must get out of that state and consider before they can say which is which.’

He nodded again; afraid to utter a word, lest it should present any new opening to Mrs Tickit’s conversational powers.

‘In consequence of which,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘when I quivered my eyes and saw her actual form and figure looking in at the gate, I let them close again without so much as starting, for that actual form and figure came so pat to the time when it belonged to the house as much as mine or your own, that I never thought at the moment of its having gone away. But, sir, when I quivered my eyes again, and saw that it wasn’t there, then it all flooded upon me with a fright, and I jumped up.’

‘You ran out directly?’ said Clennam.

‘I ran out,’ assented Mrs Tickit, ‘as fast as ever my feet would carry me; and if you’ll credit it, Mr Clennam, there wasn’t in the whole shining Heavens, no not so much as a finger of that young woman.’

Passing over the absence from the firmament of this novel constellation, Arthur inquired of Mrs Tickit if she herself went beyond the gate?

‘Went to and fro, and high and low,’ said Mrs Tickit, ‘and saw no sign of her!’

He then asked Mrs Tickit how long a space of time she supposed there might have been between the two sets of ocular quiverings she had experienced? Mrs Tickit, though minutely circumstantial in her reply, had no settled opinion between five seconds and ten minutes. She was so plainly at sea on this part of the case, and had so clearly been startled out of slumber, that Clennam was much disposed to regard the appearance as a dream. Without hurting Mrs Tickit’s feelings with that infidel solution of her mystery, he took it away from the cottage with him; and probably would have retained it ever afterwards if a circumstance had not soon happened to change his opinion.

He was passing at nightfall along the Strand, and the lamp-lighter was going on before him, under whose hand the street-lamps, blurred by the foggy air, burst out one after another, like so many blazing sunflowers coming into full-blow all at once,—when a stoppage on the pavement, caused by a train of coal-waggons toiling up from the wharves at the river-side, brought him to a stand-still. He had been walking quickly, and going with some current of thought, and the sudden check given to both operations caused him to look freshly about him, as people under such circumstances usually do.

Immediately, he saw in advance—a few people intervening, but still so near to him that he could have touched them by stretching out his arm—Tattycoram and a strange man of a remarkable appearance: a swaggering man, with a high nose, and a black moustache as false in its colour as his eyes were false in their expression, who wore his heavy cloak with the air of a foreigner. His dress and general appearance were those of a man on travel, and he seemed to have very recently joined the girl. In bending down (being much taller than she was), listening to whatever she said to him, he looked over his shoulder with the suspicious glance of one who was not unused to be mistrustful that his footsteps might be dogged. It was then that Clennam saw his face; as his eyes lowered on the people behind him in the aggregate, without particularly resting upon Clennam’s face or any other.

Poiché gli piaceva molto quel posto, raramente lasciava passare una settimana senza andarci a fare visita. A volte vi andava da solo, dal sabato al lunedì; altre volte lo accompagnava il suo compagno; altre ancora si limitava a passeggiare per un’ora o due intorno alla casa e al giardino, per assicurarsi che tutto fosse in ordine, poi tornava a Londra. In ogni momento, e in qualsiasi circostanza, la signora Tickit, con le sue onde di capelli scuri, e il dottor Buchan sedevano nella sala, vicino alla finestra, in attesa del ritorno della famiglia.

Durante una delle sue visite, la signora Tickit lo accolse dicendo: “Ho qualcosa da dirle, signor Clennam, qualcosa che la sorprenderà.” Quella cosa, però, era così sorprendente che fece addirittura uscire la signora Tickit dalla finestra del salotto e portarla nel vialetto del giardino, proprio quando Clennam entrò attraverso il cancello che gli veniva aperto.

“Che c’è, signora Tickit?”, chiese lui.

“Signore,” rispose quella fedele domestica dopo averlo fatto entrare nel salotto e aver chiuso la porta; “se mai nella mia vita ho visto quella bambina ingannata e traviata, l’ho vista esattamente così anche al crepuscolo di ieri sera.”

“Non puoi parlare di Tatty, ”

“Certo che sì!” esclamò la signora Tickit, risolvendo rapidamente la questione.

‘Dove?’

“Signor Clennam,” rispose la signora Tickit, “avevo gli occhi un po’ pesanti, perché stavo aspettando più a lungo del solito il mio tè, che in quel momento Mary Jane stava preparando. Non stavo dormendo, né ciò che si potrebbe correttamente definire sonnecchiare. Più che altro, stavo, ” “Stavo cosa?” la interruppe lui. “Stavo, per così dire, osservando con gli occhi chiusi,” rispose lei.

Senza addentrarsi nell’indagine su questa curiosa condizione anomala,
Clennam disse: “Esattamente. >Bene?”

“Beh, signore,” proseguì la signora Tickit, “stavo pensando a una cosa e poi a un’altra, proprio come potreste fare voi stesso. O come potrebbe farlo chiunque.”

“Esattamente,” disse Clennam. “E poi?”

“E quando penso a una cosa e poi penso a un’altra,” proseguì la signora Tickit, “non c’è bisogno che vi dica, signor Clennam, che penso sempre alla famiglia. Perché, mio caro! i pensieri di una persona,” disse lei con tono argomentativo e filosofico, “per quanto possano deviare, finiscono per concentrarsi su ciò che ha la massima importanza nella sua mente. È inevitabile, signore. Non si può impedirlo.”

Arthur annuì in segno di approvazione di questa scoperta.

“Lo pensate anche voi stesso, signore; oso dirlo,” disse la signora Tickit, “e tutti noi lo pensiamo. Non sono le nostre posizioni nella vita a cambiarci, signor Clennam. I pensieri sono liberi! Come stavo dicendo, pensavo a una cosa e poi a un’altra. E pensavo molto alla famiglia. Non solo alla famiglia di questi tempi, ma anche a quella del passato. Perché quando una persona inizia a pensare a queste cose in questo modo, mentre sta facendosi buio, beh, tutte le epoche sembrano presenti contemporaneamente. E bisogna uscire da questo stato di confusione per poter capire quale sia la realtà.”

Annuì di nuovo; aveva paura di pronunciare una parola, per non offrire così nuove opportunità alle capacità conversazionali della signora Tickit.

‘Di conseguenza,’ disse la signora Tickit, ‘quando mossi le palpebre e vidi quella forma e quel viso reale che guardavano attraverso la porta, le lasciai chiudere di nuovo senza nemmeno sussultare, perché quella forma e quel viso appartenevano così perfettamente a quella casa quanto appartenevano a me o a voi; perciò non pensai affatto che fossero andati via. Ma, signore, quando mossi di nuovo le palpebre e vidi che non c’erano più, tutto mi colpì all’improvviso con terrore, e balzai in piedi.’

“Sei uscito subito dopo?” disse Clennam.

“Sono corsa via,” ammise la signora Tickit, “il più velocemente che i miei piedi potessero portarmi; e se volete credermi, signor Clennam, in tutto il cielo luminoso non c’era nemmeno l’ombra di quella giovane donna.”

Ignorando l’assenza di questa nuova costellazione nel cielo, Arthur chiese a Mrs. Tickit se lei stessa avesse mai oltrepassato quel cancello.

“Sono andata in giro dappertutto, su e giù,” disse la signora Tickit, “ma non ho trovato traccia di lei!”

Allora chiese alla signora Tickit per quanto tempo potesse essere trascorso tra i due episodi di movimenti oculari che aveva osservato. La signora Tickit, sebbene fornisse risposte molto dettagliate, non riuscì a stabilire con certezza un lasso di tempo compreso tra cinque secondi e dieci minuti. Era così chiaramente imbarazzata su questo punto, e così palesemente stata svegliata all’improvviso dal sonno, che Clennam era molto propenso a considerare tutto ciò un >sogno. Senza ferire i sentimenti della signora Tickit con una spiegazione “infedele” del mistero, portò via con sé quella testimonianza; probabilmente l’avrebbe conservata per sempre se non fosse successo qualcosa che poco dopo gli fece cambiare idea.

Stava camminando al crepuscolo lungo il Strand; davanti a lui, l’uomo incaricato di accendere le lanterne procedeva lungo la strada. Sotto la sua luce, i lampioni, offuscati dall’aria nebbiosa, si accendevano uno dopo l’altro, come tanti girasoli in fiore che sbocciano tutti insieme. Quando improvvisamente il traffico venne bloccato a causa di un convoglio di vagoni carichi di carbone che risaliva lungo le banchine sul lato del fiume, dovette fermarsi. Aveva camminato velocemente, immerso nei suoi pensieri; la brusca interruzione lo costrinse a guardarsi intorno, come fanno di solito le persone in tali circostanze.

Immediatamente, vide tutto ciò che sarebbe accaduto: alcune persone intervenivano, ma erano ancora così vicine a lui che avrebbe potuto toccarle allungando il braccio. Tattycoram e un uomo strano, dall’aspetto notevole: un individuo arrogante, con un naso prominente e una barba nera, la cui tintura era altrettanto falsa quanto l’espressione dei suoi occhi; indossava il suo pesante mantello con l’aria di uno straniero. Il suo abbigliamento e il suo aspetto generale indicavano chiaramente che si trattasse di un viaggiatore, e sembrava essere appena arrivato insieme alla ragazza. Mentre si chinava (essendo molto più alto di lei) per ascoltare ciò che gli diceva, guardava alle sue spalle con lo sguardo sospettoso di chi fosse abituato a non fidarsi facilmente. Fu allora che Clennam vide il suo volto; mentre i suoi occhi scorrevano su tutte le persone dietro di lui, senza soffermarsi in particolare sul viso di Clennam o su quello di nessun altro.

He had scarcely turned his head about again, and it was still bent down, listening to the girl, when the stoppage ceased, and the obstructed stream of people flowed on. Still bending his head and listening to the girl, he went on at her side, and Clennam followed them, resolved to play this unexpected play out, and see where they went.

He had hardly made the determination (though he was not long about it), when he was again as suddenly brought up as he had been by the stoppage. They turned short into the Adelphi,—the girl evidently leading,—and went straight on, as if they were going to the Terrace which overhangs the river.

There is always, to this day, a sudden pause in that place to the roar of the great thoroughfare. The many sounds become so deadened that the change is like putting cotton in the ears, or having the head thickly muffled. At that time the contrast was far greater; there being no small steam-boats on the river, no landing places but slippery wooden stairs and foot-causeways, no railroad on the opposite bank, no hanging bridge or fish-market near at hand, no traffic on the nearest bridge of stone, nothing moving on the stream but watermen’s wherries and coal-lighters. Long and broad black tiers of the latter, moored fast in the mud as if they were never to move again, made the shore funereal and silent after dark; and kept what little water-movement there was, far out towards mid-stream. At any hour later than sunset, and not least at that hour when most of the people who have anything to eat at home are going home to eat it, and when most of those who have nothing have hardly yet slunk out to beg or steal, it was a deserted place and looked on a deserted scene.

Such was the hour when Clennam stopped at the corner, observing the girl and the strange man as they went down the street. The man’s footsteps were so noisy on the echoing stones that he was unwilling to add the sound of his own. But when they had passed the turning and were in the darkness of the dark corner leading to the terrace, he made after them with such indifferent appearance of being a casual passenger on his way, as he could assume.

When he rounded the dark corner, they were walking along the terrace towards a figure which was coming towards them. If he had seen it by itself, under such conditions of gas-lamp, mist, and distance, he might not have known it at first sight, but with the figure of the girl to prompt him, he at once recognised Miss Wade.

He stopped at the corner, seeming to look back expectantly up the street as if he had made an appointment with some one to meet him there; but he kept a careful eye on the three. When they came together, the man took off his hat, and made Miss Wade a bow. The girl appeared to say a few words as though she presented him, or accounted for his being late, or early, or what not; and then fell a pace or so behind, by herself. Miss Wade and the man then began to walk up and down; the man having the appearance of being extremely courteous and complimentary in manner; Miss Wade having the appearance of being extremely haughty.

When they came down to the corner and turned, she was saying, ‘If I pinch myself for it, sir, that is my business. Confine yourself to yours, and ask me no question.’

‘By Heaven, ma’am!’ he replied, making her another bow. ‘It was my profound respect for the strength of your character, and my admiration of your beauty.’

‘I want neither the one nor the other from any one,’ said she, ‘and certainly not from you of all creatures. Go on with your report.’

‘Am I pardoned?’ he asked, with an air of half abashed gallantry.

‘You are paid,’ she said, ‘and that is all you want.’

Whether the girl hung behind because she was not to hear the business, or as already knowing enough about it, Clennam could not determine. They turned and she turned. She looked away at the river, as she walked with her hands folded before her; and that was all he could make of her without showing his face. There happened, by good fortune, to be a lounger really waiting for some one; and he sometimes looked over the railing at the water, and sometimes came to the dark corner and looked up the street, rendering Arthur less conspicuous.

When Miss Wade and the man came back again, she was saying, ‘You must wait until to-morrow.’

‘A thousand pardons?’ he returned. ‘My faith! Then it’s not convenient to-night?’

‘No. I tell you I must get it before I can give it to you.’

She stopped in the roadway, as if to put an end to the conference. He of course stopped too. And the girl stopped.

‘It’s a little inconvenient,’ said the man. ‘A little. But, Holy Blue! that’s nothing in such a service. I am without money to-night, by chance. I have a good banker in this city, but I would not wish to draw upon the house until the time when I shall draw for a round sum.’

‘Harriet,’ said Miss Wade, ‘arrange with him—this gentleman here—for sending him some money to-morrow.’ She said it with a slur of the word gentleman which was more contemptuous than any emphasis, and walked slowly on.

The man bent his head again, and the girl spoke to him as they both followed her. Clennam ventured to look at the girl as they moved away. He could note that her rich black eyes were fastened upon the man with a scrutinising expression, and that she kept at a little distance from him, as they walked side by side to the further end of the terrace.

A loud and altered clank upon the pavement warned him, before he could discern what was passing there, that the man was coming back alone. Clennam lounged into the road, towards the railing; and the man passed at a quick swing, with the end of his cloak thrown over his shoulder, singing a scrap of a French song.

The whole vista had no one in it now but himself. The lounger had lounged out of view, and Miss Wade and Tattycoram were gone. More than ever bent on seeing what became of them, and on having some information to give his good friend, Mr Meagles, he went out at the further end of the terrace, looking cautiously about him. He rightly judged that, at first at all events, they would go in a contrary direction from their late companion. He soon saw them in a neighbouring bye-street, which was not a thoroughfare, evidently allowing time for the man to get well out of their way. They walked leisurely arm-in-arm down one side of the street, and returned on the opposite side. When they came back to the street-corner, they changed their pace for the pace of people with an object and a distance before them, and walked steadily away. Clennam, no less steadily, kept them in sight.

Aveva appena girato di nuovo la testa, ancora china verso il basso per ascoltare la ragazza, quando il traffico si fermò e la folla in movimento riprese a fluire. Continuando a tenere la testa bassa e ad ascoltare, camminò al suo fianco; Clennam li seguì, deciso a scoprire dove stavano andando e a vedere come sarebbero finite le cose.

Appena aveva preso questa decisione (sebbene non ci avesse messo molto), fu di nuovo colpito improvvisamente dallo stesso ostacolo che lo aveva fermato in precedenza. Svoltarono verso l’Adelphi, la ragazza evidentemente in testa, e proseguirono dritti, come se stessero andando alla Terrazza che si affaccia sul fiume.

Ancora oggi, in quel luogo si verifica sempre un improvviso silenzio di fronte al fragore del grande viale. Tutti i suoni sembrano attenuarsi completamente, come se ci si mettesse della cotone nelle orecchie o se la testa fosse pesantemente coperta. A quell’epoca, il contrasto era ancora più evidente: non c’erano piccoli vapori sul fiume, nessun molo se non gradini di legno scivolosi e passerelle pedonali, nessuna ferrovia sull’altra riva, nessi ponti sospesi né mercati ittici nelle vicinanze, nessun traffico sul ponte in pietra più vicino; sul fiume non si muoveva nulla se non le barche dei barcaioli e i chiattoni che trasportavano carbone. Lunghe file di quest’ultimi, ancorate saldamente nel fango come se non dovessero mai più muoversi, rendevano la riva cupa e silenziosa dopo il tramonto; l’unica movimentazione dell’acqua si verificava molto più a monte. In qualsiasi ora successiva al tramonto – soprattutto in quel momento in cui la maggior parte delle persone che avevano cibo a casa tornavano a mangiare, mentre coloro che non ne avevano ancora nemmeno cercato di mendicare o rubare – quel luogo appariva deserto e presentava uno scenario desolato.

Era proprio quell’ora in cui Clennam si fermò all’angolo della strada, osservando la ragazza e l’uomo strano mentre scendevano per la via. I passi di quell’uomo rimbombavano così forte sulle pietre che Clennam non voleva aggiungere al rumore il suono dei propri passi. Ma quando loro ebbero superato l’angolo e si trovarono nell’oscurità di quel vicolo buio che conduceva alla terrazza, Clennam li seguì, assumendo un’aria indifferente, come se fosse solo un passante casuale sul proprio cammino.

Quando svoltò l’angolo buio, loro stavano camminando lungo il terrazzo verso una figura che si stava avvicinando a loro. Se l’avesse vista da solo, in quelle condizioni di luce delle lampade a gas, nebbia e distanza, forse non l’avrebbe riconosciuta a prima vista; ma grazie alla presenza della ragazza, la riconobbe immediatamente: era Miss Wade.

Si fermò all’angolo, come se aspettasse qualcuno che dovesse arrivare da quella parte; tuttavia teneva d’occhio attentamente i tre. Quando si riunirono, l’uomo si tolse il cappello e fece un inchino a Miss Wade. La ragazza sembrò dire qualcosa, forse presentandolo o spiegando perché fosse in anticipo o in ritardo; poi si allontanò di qualche passo, da sola. Miss Wade e l’uomo iniziarono quindi a camminare avanti e indietro; lui appariva estremamente cortese e lusinghiero nei modi, mentre Miss Wade sembrava estremamente arrogante.

Quando arrivarono all’angolo e svoltarono, lei stava dicendo: “Se mi pizzico per verificare se è vero, signore, quella è una mia faccenda. Limitatevi alla vostra e non fatemi domande.”

“Per Dio, signora!” rispose, inchinandosi di nuovo. “È stato il mio profondo rispetto per la forza del vostro carattere, e la mia ammirazione per la vostra bellezza.”

“Non voglio né l’uno né l’altro da nessuno,” disse lei, “e certamente non da te, tra tutte le creature. Continua pure con il tuo rapporto.”

“Sono stato perdonato?”, chiese lui, con un tono di mezza imbarazzata galanteria.

“Vi viene pagato”, disse lei, “e questo è tutto ciò che volete.”

Se la ragazza si fosse trattenuta indietro perché non voleva sentire ciò che stava accadendo, o se già ne sapesse abbastanza, Clennam non riusciva a capirlo. Si girarono entrambi, e lei fece lo stesso. Mentre camminava con le mani incrociate davanti al corpo, guardava verso il fiume; ed era tutto ciò che lui riusciva a vedere di lei senza mostrare il proprio viso. Per fortuna, c’era un uomo che stava aspettando qualcuno; di tanto in tanto guardava giù dal parapetto verso l’acqua, oppure si avvicinava all’angolo buio per osservare la strada, il che rendeva Arthur meno visibile.

Quando la signorina Wade e quell’uomo tornarono di nuovo, lei stava dicendo: “Dovete aspettare fino a domani.”

“Mille scuse?” ribatté lui. “La mia fede!]. Allora non è conveniente, di notte?”

“No. Ti dico che devo averlo prima di potertelo dare.”

Si fermò nel mezzo della strada, come se volesse porre fine a quella conversazione. Lui, naturalmente, si fermò anche lui. E la ragazza si fermò anch’essa.

“È un po’ scomodo,” disse l’uomo. “Un po’. Ma, Santo Cielo! Niente di grave per una causa del genere. Per caso, stanotte non ho soldi con me. Ho un buon banchiere in questa città, ma preferirei non ricorrere a lui fino al momento in cui dovrò ritirare una somma considerevole.”

“Harriet,” disse la signorina Wade, “organizza con lui, questo gentiluomo qui, affinché gli mandi del denaro domani.” Lo disse con un tono che rendeva la parola “gentiluomo” particolarmente sprezzante, molto più offensivo di qualsiasi enfasi verbale, e poi proseguì ad andare lentamente.

L’uomo chinò di nuovo la testa, e la ragazza gli parlò mentre entrambi la seguivano. Clennam osò guardare la ragazza mentre si allontanavano; notò che i suoi occhi neri e luminosi erano fissi sull’uomo con un’espressione attenta, e che lei manteneva una certa distanza da lui mentre camminavano fianco a fianco verso l’estremità della terrazza.

Un forte e strano rumore sul marciapiede lo avvertì che l’uomo stava tornando da solo. Prima ancora che riuscisse a capire cosa stesse succedendo, l’uomo gli passò accanto con rapidità, gettandosi la estremità del suo mantello sulla spalla e cantando una canzone francese. Clennam si appoggiò al parapetto della strada e lo osservò mentre si allontanava.

In tutta quella vista non c’era più nessuno, tranne lui stesso. Il giovane che si era sdraiato lì poco prima era ormai scomparso dalla vista, e anche Miss Wade e Tattycoram se n’erano andate. Più desideroso che mai di scoprire cosa fosse successo loro e di poter fornire qualche informazione al suo buon amico, il signor Meagles, uscì dall’altra estremità del terrazzo, guardandosi intorno con attenzione. Intuì correttamente che, per il momento, probabilmente si sarebbero diretti in una direzione opposta rispetto a quella del loro ultimo compagno di viaggio. Poco dopo li vide in una stradina laterale, che non era un viale principale; evidentemente, questo permetteva all’uomo di allontanarsi facilmente da loro. Camminavano tranquillamente, mano nella mano, lungo un lato della strada e poi tornavano dall’altro lato. Quando raggiunsero l’angolo della strada, cambiarono passo, adottando quello tipico di chi ha uno scopo preciso da raggiungere entro una certa distanza, e proseguirono lungo il loro percorso con regolarità. Clennam, altrettanto determinato, continuò a seguirli con attenzione.

They crossed the Strand, and passed through Covent Garden (under the windows of his old lodging where dear Little Dorrit had come that night), and slanted away north-east, until they passed the great building whence Tattycoram derived her name, and turned into the Gray’s Inn Road. Clennam was quite at home here, in right of Flora, not to mention the Patriarch and Pancks, and kept them in view with ease. He was beginning to wonder where they might be going next, when that wonder was lost in the greater wonder with which he saw them turn into the Patriarchal street. That wonder was in its turn swallowed up on the greater wonder with which he saw them stop at the Patriarchal door. A low double knock at the bright brass knocker, a gleam of light into the road from the opened door, a brief pause for inquiry and answer and the door was shut, and they were housed.

After looking at the surrounding objects for assurance that he was not in an odd dream, and after pacing a little while before the house, Arthur knocked at the door. It was opened by the usual maid-servant, and she showed him up at once, with her usual alacrity, to Flora’s sitting-room.

There was no one with Flora but Mr F.’s Aunt, which respectable gentlewoman, basking in a balmy atmosphere of tea and toast, was ensconced in an easy-chair by the fireside, with a little table at her elbow, and a clean white handkerchief spread over her lap on which two pieces of toast at that moment awaited consumption. Bending over a steaming vessel of tea, and looking through the steam, and breathing forth the steam, like a malignant Chinese enchantress engaged in the performance of unholy rites, Mr F.’s Aunt put down her great teacup and exclaimed, ‘Drat him, if he an’t come back again!’

It would seem from the foregoing exclamation that this uncompromising relative of the lamented Mr F., measuring time by the acuteness of her sensations and not by the clock, supposed Clennam to have lately gone away; whereas at least a quarter of a year had elapsed since he had had the temerity to present himself before her.

‘My goodness Arthur!’ cried Flora, rising to give him a cordial reception, ‘Doyce and Clennam what a start and a surprise for though not far from the machinery and foundry business and surely might be taken sometimes if at no other time about mid-day when a glass of sherry and a humble sandwich of whatever cold meat in the larder might not come amiss nor taste the worse for being friendly for you know you buy it somewhere and wherever bought a profit must be made or they would never keep the place it stands to reason without a motive still never seen and learnt now not to be expected, for as Mr F. himself said if seeing is believing not seeing is believing too and when you don’t see you may fully believe you’re not remembered not that I expect you Arthur Doyce and Clennam to remember me why should I for the days are gone but bring another teacup here directly and tell her fresh toast and pray sit near the fire.’

Arthur was in the greatest anxiety to explain the object of his visit; but was put off for the moment, in spite of himself, by what he understood of the reproachful purport of these words, and by the genuine pleasure she testified in seeing him.

‘And now pray tell me something all you know,’ said Flora, drawing her chair near to his, ‘about the good dear quiet little thing and all the changes of her fortunes carriage people now no doubt and horses without number most romantic, a coat of arms of course and wild beasts on their hind legs showing it as if it was a copy they had done with mouths from ear to ear good gracious, and has she her health which is the first consideration after all for what is wealth without it Mr F. himself so often saying when his twinges came that sixpence a day and find yourself and no gout so much preferable, not that he could have lived on anything like it being the last man or that the previous little thing though far too familiar an expression now had any tendency of that sort much too slight and small but looked so fragile bless her?’

Mr F.’s Aunt, who had eaten a piece of toast down to the crust, here solemnly handed the crust to Flora, who ate it for her as a matter of business. Mr F.’s Aunt then moistened her ten fingers in slow succession at her lips, and wiped them in exactly the same order on the white handkerchief; then took the other piece of toast, and fell to work upon it. While pursuing this routine, she looked at Clennam with an expression of such intense severity that he felt obliged to look at her in return, against his personal inclinations.

‘She is in Italy, with all her family, Flora,’ he said, when the dreaded lady was occupied again.

‘In Italy is she really?’ said Flora, ‘with the grapes growing everywhere and lava necklaces and bracelets too that land of poetry with burning mountains picturesque beyond belief though if the organ-boys come away from the neighbourhood not to be scorched nobody can wonder being so young and bringing their white mice with them most humane, and is she really in that favoured land with nothing but blue about her and dying gladiators and Belvederes though Mr F. himself did not believe for his objection when in spirits was that the images could not be true there being no medium between expensive quantities of linen badly got up and all in creases and none whatever, which certainly does not seem probable though perhaps in consequence of the extremes of rich and poor which may account for it.’

Arthur tried to edge a word in, but Flora hurried on again.

‘Venice Preserved too,’ said she, ‘I think you have been there is it well or ill preserved for people differ so and Maccaroni if they really eat it like the conjurors why not cut it shorter, you are acquainted Arthur—dear Doyce and Clennam at least not dear and most assuredly not Doyce for I have not the pleasure but pray excuse me—acquainted I believe with Mantua what has it got to do with Mantua-making for I never have been able to conceive?’

Attraversarono lo Strand e passarono per il Covent Garden (sotto le finestre del suo vecchio alloggio, dove quella notte era arrivata la cara Little Dorrit), poi proseguirono in direzione nord-est fino a superare l’edificio da cui Tattycoram aveva preso il nome, per poi svoltare nella Gray’s Inn Road. Clennam si sentiva davvero a >casa lì, circondato da Flora, per non parlare del Patriarch e di Pancks; riusciva facilmente a tenerli d’occhio. Stava cominciando a chiedersi dove potessero andare ora, quando quella curiosità fu sopraffatta dalla sorpresa ancora maggiore di vederli entrare nella strada del Patriarch. Anche questa meraviglia, però, venne dimenticata di fronte alla sorpresa più grande: li vide fermarsi davanti al portone del Patriarch. Un lieve colpo duplice sul campanello di bronzo brillante; un barlume di luce che filtrava dalla porta aperta; una breve pausa per scambiare qualche parola, e poi la porta si chiuse, e loro furono accolti all’interno.

Dopo aver controllato gli oggetti intorno a sé per assicurarsi di non trovarsi in un sogno strano, e dopo essersi aggirato un po’ davanti alla casa, Arthur bussò alla porta. Fu la solita cameriera ad aprirla, e subito lo accompagnò, con la sua solita efficienza, nella sala da pranzo di Flora.

Non c’era nessuno con Flora se non la zia del signor F., quella rispettabile gentildonna che, immersa in un’atmosfera piacevole di tè e toast, era seduta in una poltrona accanto al camino, con un piccolo tavolino accanto a sé e un fazzoletto bianco pulito disteso sulle ginocchia; su di esso c’erano due fette di pane tostato pronte da essere mangiate. Incurvandosi sopra una tazza di tè fumante, guardando attraverso il vapore e respirando anch’essa quel vapore, come una malvagia strega cinese impegnata in riti osceni, la zia del signor F. posò la sua grande tazza di tè e esclamò: “Maledizione, se non torna subito!”

Sembra che, a giudicare da quell’esclamazione, questa parente intransigente del povero signor F., che misura il tempo in base all’intensità delle proprie sensazioni e non dall’orologio, ritenga che Clennam sia recentemente andato via; mentre in realtà sono trascorsi almeno un quarto di anno da quando ha avuto l’audacia di presentarsi di nuovo davanti a lei.

“Mio Dio, Arthur!” esclamò Flora, alzandosi per dargli un caloroso benvenuto. “Doyce e Clennam, che inizio sorprendente! Anche se non siete lontani dal settore delle macchine e della fonderia, sicuramente potreste venire qui a volte, magari a mezzogiorno, quando un bicchiere di sherry e un semplice panino con del carne fredda in dispensa non farebbero male. E poi, comprando da qualche parte, è naturale che ci sia un profitto. Altrimenti non mantenerebbero certo quel negozio. Non so quale sia il vero motivo per cui lo fanno, ma non credo che possiamo scoprirlo. Come ha detto lo stesso signor F.: anche se vedere significa credere, non vedere significa comunque credere. E quando non vedi nulla, puoi essere sicuro di non essere ricordato. Anche se non mi aspetto certo che voi, Arthur Doyce e Clennam, vi ricordiate di me. Perché i giorni sono passati. Ma portate qui un’altra tazza di tè, ditele di preparare del pane tostato fresco. E pregatevi di sedervi vicino al focolare.”

Arthur era nel più grande imbarazzo nel tentativo di spiegare lo scopo della sua visita; ma, nonostante se stesso, fu trattenuto per il momento da ciò che aveva capito del significato rimproveratorio di quelle parole, e dal vero piacere che lei mostrò nel vederlo.

“E ora dimmi tutto ciò che sai,” disse Flora, avvicinando la sua sedia alla sua, “di quella cara, tranquilla e piccola creatura, e di tutti i cambiamenti nella sua fortuna, nelle sue condizioni di vita, nelle persone che la circondano. Ora nessuno ha più dubbi. E poi ci sono i cavalli. Innumerevoli, davvero romantici. Naturalmente c’è anche lo stemma araldico. E bestie selvatiche in piedi sulle zampe posteriori. Sembrano proprio una copia realizzata con le loro bocche dalla testa ai piedi. Buon Dio. E ha ancora la sua salute? Dopotutto, è questa la cosa più importante. Che tipo di ricchezza potrebbe esserci senza di essa? Lo stesso signor F. lo diceva spesso, quando soffriva di quei dolori. Che sei meglio con soli sei pence al giorno. Anche se non avrebbe mai potuto vivere in quelle condizioni. E poi quella piccola creatura precedente. Anche se ormai è un’espressione troppo comune. Non ha certo alcun significato del genere. È solo una frase banale. Ma sembrava così fragile. Benedetta lei, ”

La zia del signor F., che aveva mangiato un pezzo di pane tostato fino alla crosta, consegnò solennemente quella crosta a Flora, la quale la mangiò senza esitazione. Poi la zia inumidì lentamente i suoi dieci dita sulle labbra e le asciugò nello stesso ordine su un fazzoletto bianco; dopo prese l’altro pezzo di pane tostato e iniziò a mangiarlo. Mentre eseguiva questa routine, guardava Clennam con un’espressione così severa che lui si trovò costretto a ricambiare il suo sguardo, nonostante le sue preferenze personali.

“È in Italia, con tutta la sua famiglia, Flora,” disse lui, quando quella temuta signora fu di nuovo impegnata in altre cose.

“È davvero in Italia?”, disse Flora. “In quel paese dove i grappoli crescono ovunque, e ci sono collane e braccialetti fatti di lava. Quel regno della poesia, con quelle montagne ardenti così pittoresche da sembrare irreali. Anche se, se quei ragazzi che suonano l’organo si allontanassero da quella zona per non essere bruciati, nessuno potrebbe meravigliarsi che una ragazza così giovane vi vada. E porti con sé anche i suoi topi bianchi. Che cosa di più umano si possa immaginare? Ma davvero è in quel luogo incantevole, dove tutto è blu. E ci sono gladiatori morenti e belvedere. Anche se il signor F. stesso non ci credeva. Il suo obiezione era che quelle immagini non potessero essere vere. Non esistendo alcun mezzo tra quantità enormi di lino mal piegato e tutto quanto. Il che certamente sembra improbabile. Anche se forse si possa spiegare con gli estremi della povertà e della ricchezza che caratterizzano quel paese, ”

Arthur cercò di inserire una parola nel discorso, ma Flora continuò rapidamente senza ascoltarlo.

“‘Venezia’ è stata ben conservata anche lei,” disse, “penso che tu ci sia stato. È stata conservata bene o male? Le persone hanno opinioni diverse su questo. E i maccheroni, se davvero li mangiano come fanno quei maghi, perché non tagliarli più corti? Tu conosci Arthur, caro Doyce e Clennam, almeno, anzi, sicuramente non Doyce, perché non ho questo piacere. Ma scusami, per favore. Credo di conoscere qualcosa riguardo a Mantova. Ma cosa c’entra tutto ciò con la produzione dei maccheroni? Non sono mai riuscita a capirlo, ”

‘I believe there is no connection, Flora, between the two,’ Arthur was beginning, when she caught him up again.

‘Upon your word no isn’t there I never did but that’s like me I run away with an idea and having none to spare I keep it, alas there was a time dear Arthur that is to say decidedly not dear nor Arthur neither but you understand me when one bright idea gilded the what’s-his-name horizon of et cetera but it is darkly clouded now and all is over.’

Arthur’s increasing wish to speak of something very different was by this time so plainly written on his face, that Flora stopped in a tender look, and asked him what it was?

‘I have the greatest desire, Flora, to speak to some one who is now in this house—with Mr Casby no doubt. Some one whom I saw come in, and who, in a misguided and deplorable way, has deserted the house of a friend of mine.’

‘Papa sees so many and such odd people,’ said Flora, rising, ‘that I shouldn’t venture to go down for any one but you Arthur but for you I would willingly go down in a diving-bell much more a dining-room and will come back directly if you’ll mind and at the same time not mind Mr F.’s Aunt while I’m gone.’

With those words and a parting glance, Flora bustled out, leaving Clennam under dreadful apprehension of this terrible charge.

The first variation which manifested itself in Mr F.’s Aunt’s demeanour when she had finished her piece of toast, was a loud and prolonged sniff. Finding it impossible to avoid construing this demonstration into a defiance of himself, its gloomy significance being unmistakable, Clennam looked plaintively at the excellent though prejudiced lady from whom it emanated, in the hope that she might be disarmed by a meek submission.

‘None of your eyes at me,’ said Mr F.’s Aunt, shivering with hostility. ‘Take that.’

‘That’ was the crust of the piece of toast. Clennam accepted the boon with a look of gratitude, and held it in his hand under the pressure of a little embarrassment, which was not relieved when Mr F.’s Aunt, elevating her voice into a cry of considerable power, exclaimed, ‘He has a proud stomach, this chap! He’s too proud a chap to eat it!’ and, coming out of her chair, shook her venerable fist so very close to his nose as to tickle the surface. But for the timely return of Flora, to find him in this difficult situation, further consequences might have ensued. Flora, without the least discomposure or surprise, but congratulating the old lady in an approving manner on being ‘very lively to-night’, handed her back to her chair.

‘He has a proud stomach, this chap,’ said Mr F.’s relation, on being reseated. ‘Give him a meal of chaff!’

‘Oh! I don’t think he would like that, aunt,’ returned Flora.

‘Give him a meal of chaff, I tell you,’ said Mr F.’s Aunt, glaring round Flora on her enemy. ‘It’s the only thing for a proud stomach. Let him eat up every morsel. Drat him, give him a meal of chaff!’

Under a general pretence of helping him to this refreshment, Flora got him out on the staircase; Mr F.’s Aunt even then constantly reiterating, with inexpressible bitterness, that he was ‘a chap,’ and had a ‘proud stomach,’ and over and over again insisting on that equine provision being made for him which she had already so strongly prescribed.

‘Such an inconvenient staircase and so many corner-stairs Arthur,’ whispered Flora, ‘would you object to putting your arm round me under my pelerine?’

With a sense of going down-stairs in a highly-ridiculous manner, Clennam descended in the required attitude, and only released his fair burden at the dining-room door; indeed, even there she was rather difficult to be got rid of, remaining in his embrace to murmur, ‘Arthur, for mercy’s sake, don’t breathe it to papa!’

She accompanied Arthur into the room, where the Patriarch sat alone, with his list shoes on the fender, twirling his thumbs as if he had never left off. The youthful Patriarch, aged ten, looked out of his picture-frame above him with no calmer air than he. Both smooth heads were alike beaming, blundering, and bumpy.

‘Mr Clennam, I am glad to see you. I hope you are well, sir, I hope you are well. Please to sit down, please to sit down.’

‘I had hoped, sir,’ said Clennam, doing so, and looking round with a face of blank disappointment, ‘not to find you alone.’

‘Ah, indeed?’ said the Patriarch, sweetly. ‘Ah, indeed?’

‘I told you so you know papa,’ cried Flora.

‘Ah, to be sure!’ returned the Patriarch. ‘Yes, just so. Ah, to be sure!’

‘Pray, sir,’ demanded Clennam, anxiously, ‘is Miss Wade gone?’

‘Miss—? Oh, you call her Wade,’ returned Mr Casby. ‘Highly proper.’

Arthur quickly returned, ‘What do you call her?’

‘Wade,’ said Mr Casby. ‘Oh, always Wade.’

After looking at the philanthropic visage and the long silky white hair for a few seconds, during which Mr Casby twirled his thumbs, and smiled at the fire as if he were benevolently wishing it to burn him that he might forgive it, Arthur began:

‘I beg your pardon, Mr Casby—’

‘Not so, not so,’ said the Patriarch, ‘not so.’

‘—But, Miss Wade had an attendant with her—a young woman brought up by friends of mine, over whom her influence is not considered very salutary, and to whom I should be glad to have the opportunity of giving the assurance that she has not yet forfeited the interest of those protectors.’

‘Really, really?’ returned the Patriarch.

‘Will you therefore be so good as to give me the address of Miss Wade?’

‘Dear, dear, dear!’ said the Patriarch, ‘how very unfortunate! If you had only sent in to me when they were here! I observed the young woman, Mr Clennam. A fine full-coloured young woman, Mr Clennam, with very dark hair and very dark eyes. If I mistake not, if I mistake not?’

Arthur assented, and said once more with new expression, ‘If you would be so good as to give me the address.’

“Credo che non ci sia alcun legame tra i due, Flora,” stava iniziando a dire Arthur, quando lei lo raggiunse di nuovo.

“Per la tua parola, no, non è vero; io non l’ho mai fatto. Ma è proprio il mio carattere: scappo via con un’idea e, non avendo nient’altro da perdere, la tengo. Ahimè, c’è stato un momento, caro Arthur, voglio dire, decisamente né caro né Arthur, ma tu capisci cosa intendo. Quando una bella idea illumina il ‘orizzonte’ di qualcosa, insomma, ma ora tutto è oscurato e finito.”

Il desiderio crescente di Arthur di parlare di qualcosa di completamente diverso era ormai così evidente sul suo viso che Flora, con uno sguardo pieno di tenerezza, gli chiese di cosa si trattasse.

‘Ho il più grande desiderio, Flora: parlare con qualcuno che si trova in questa casa in questo momento, senza alcun dubbio, si tratta del signor Casby. Qualcuno che ho visto entrare e che, in modo errato e deplorevole, ha abbandonato la casa di un mio amico.’

“Mio padre incontra tante persone strane,” disse Flora alzandosi, “che non oserei scendere per nessun altro se non per te, Arthur. Ma per te sarei disposta ad andare anche in una capsula subacquea piuttosto che in un salone da pranzo. Tornerò subito dopo, purché tu non abbia obiezioni, e naturalmente non dimenticherò di prendere in considerazione anche la zia del signor F. mentre sono via.”

Con quelle parole e uno sguardo d’addio, Flora se ne andò in fretta, lasciando Clennam nel terrore di fronte a questa terribile accusa.

La prima manifestazione di questo comportamento si ebbe nell’atteggiamento della zia del signor F.: dopo aver finito il suo tostato, emise un singhiozzo forte e prolungato. Ritenendo impossibile non interpretare tale gesto come una sfida nei suoi confronti – poiché il suo significato cupo era inequivocabile – Clennam guardò con sguardo supplichevole quella signora eccellente, sebbene prevenuta, nella speranza che potesse essere dissuasa da un atteggiamento umile e sottomesso.

“Non guardarmi nemmeno con quegli occhi tuoi,” disse zia del signor F., tremando di ostilità. “Prendilo.”

‘Quella’ era la crosta del pezzo di pane tostato. Clennam accettò quel dono con un’espressione di gratitudine, tenendola in mano sotto l’effetto di una leggera imbarazzo che non si alleviò quando la zia del signor F., alzando la voce in un grido piuttosto forte, esclamò: ‘Ha davvero uno stomaco troppo orgoglioso, questo ragazzo. È troppo presuntuoso per mangiarla!’ E, uscendo dalla sedia, scosse il suo venerabile pugno così vicino al suo naso da quasi farlo starnutire. Se non fosse stato per l’arrivo tempestivo di Flora, che lo trovò in questa situazione imbarazzante, avrebbero potuto verificarsi conseguenze ancora peggiori. Flora, senza il minimo segno di scompiglio o sorpresa, ma congratulandosi con la vecchia signora per essere ‘molto vivace di notte’, la riaccompagnò alla sua sedia.

“Questo ragazzo ha davvero un appetito vorace,” disse il parente del signor F. dopo essere stato riseduto al suo posto. “Dategli da mangiare del mais!”

“Oh! Non credo che gli piacerebbe, zia,” rispose Flora.

“Dategli da mangiare solo crusca,” disse la zia del signor F., guardando Flora con occhi pieni di odio verso il suo nemico. “È l’unica cosa adatta per uno stomaco orgoglioso. Lasciatelo mangiare ogni singola briciola. Maledetto, dategli da mangiare solo crusca!”

Sotto il pretesto generale di aiutarlo con questo rinfrescamento, Flora lo portò fuori sulle scale; anche la zia del signor F. continuava a ripetere, con un’amarezza inesprimibile, che lui era “un ragazzo viziato” e aveva “uno stomaco troppo esigente”, insistendo ancora e ancora affinché gli venisse fornito quel cibo speciale che aveva già prescritto con tanta fermezza.

“Una scala così scomoda e tanti gradini angolari. Arthur,” sussurrò Flora, “ti dispiacerebbe se ti appoggiassi a me sotto il mio mantello?”

Con un senso di ridicola goffaggine, Clennam scese le scale assumendo l’atteggiamento richiesto, e solo alla porta della sala da pranzo riuscì a liberarsi del suo “bel fardello”; anzi, anche lì fu piuttosto difficile sbarazzarsene, poiché lei rimase tra le sue braccia mormorando: “Arthur, per misericordia, non dirlo a papà!”

La accompagnò dentro la stanza dove il Patriarca sedeva da solo, con le sue scarpe da ginnastica appoggiate al bracciolo della sedia, girando i pollici come se non avesse mai smesso di farlo. Il giovane Patriarca, di dieci anni, guardava fuori dal quadro sopra di lui con lo stesso atteggiamento tranquillo e sereno. Entrambi i loro capelli lisci brillavano allo stesso modo; sembravano entrambi un po’ goffi e imprevedibili nel loro comportamento.

“Signor Clennam, sono felice di vederla. Spero che stia bene, signore. Si sieda, per favore.”

“Speravo, signore,” disse Clennam, guardandosi intorno con un’espressione di profonda delusione, “di non trovarvi da solo.”

“Ah, davvero?” disse il Patriarca, con dolcezza. “Ah, davvero?”

“Te l’avevo detto, no?” gridò Flora.

“Ah, certamente!” rispose il Patriarca. “Sì, proprio così. Ah, certamente!”

“Per favore, signore”, chiese ansiosamente Clennam, “la signorina Wade se n’è andata?”

“Miss,? Ah, la chiamate Wade, giusto?” rispose il signor Casby. “Assolutamente appropriato.”

Arthur tornò rapidamente e chiese: “Come la chiami?”

“Wade,” disse il signor Casby. “Oh, sempre Wade.”

Dopo aver osservato per qualche secondo quel volto carico di filantropia e quei lunghi capelli bianchi setosi, mentre il signor Casby girava le dita dei pollici e sorrideva verso il fuoco come se volesse che lo bruciasse affinché potesse perdonarlo, Arthur iniziò:

“Mi scusi, signor Casby, ”

“Non è così, non è così,” disse il Patriarca, “non è così.”

‘–Ma, la signorina Wade aveva con sé una cameriera, una giovane donna cresciuta dai miei amici; l’influenza che lei esercita su di lei non si ritiene molto positiva, e sarei felice di avere l’opportunità di assicurarle che non ha ancora perso l’interesse di quei protettori.’

“Davvero, davvero?” rispose il Patriarca.

“Potrebbe gentilmente darmi l’indirizzo di Miss Wade?”

“Caro, caro, caro!” disse il Patriarca, “che sfortuna terribile! Se solo mi aveste informato quando erano qui. Ho osservato quella giovane donna, signor Clennam. Una bella ragazza dai capelli e dagli occhi molto scuri. Se non mi sbaglio, ”

Arthur acconsentì e disse ancora una volta, con un tono diverso: “Se foste così gentile da darmi l’indirizzo, ”

‘Dear, dear, dear!’ exclaimed the Patriarch in sweet regret. ‘Tut, tut, tut! what a pity, what a pity! I have no address, sir. Miss Wade mostly lives abroad, Mr Clennam. She has done so for some years, and she is (if I may say so of a fellow-creature and a lady) fitful and uncertain to a fault, Mr Clennam. I may not see her again for a long, long time. I may never see her again. What a pity, what a pity!’

Clennam saw now, that he had as much hope of getting assistance out of the Portrait as out of the Patriarch; but he said nevertheless:

‘Mr Casby, could you, for the satisfaction of the friends I have mentioned, and under any obligation of secrecy that you may consider it your duty to impose, give me any information at all touching Miss Wade? I have seen her abroad, and I have seen her at home, but I know nothing of her. Could you give me any account of her whatever?’

‘None,’ returned the Patriarch, shaking his big head with his utmost benevolence. ‘None at all. Dear, dear, dear! What a real pity that she stayed so short a time, and you delayed! As confidential agency business, agency business, I have occasionally paid this lady money; but what satisfaction is it to you, sir, to know that?’

‘Truly, none at all,’ said Clennam.

‘Truly,’ assented the Patriarch, with a shining face as he philanthropically smiled at the fire, ‘none at all, sir. You hit the wise answer, Mr Clennam. Truly, none at all, sir.’

His turning of his smooth thumbs over one another as he sat there, was so typical to Clennam of the way in which he would make the subject revolve if it were pursued, never showing any new part of it nor allowing it to make the smallest advance, that it did much to help to convince him of his labour having been in vain. He might have taken any time to think about it, for Mr Casby, well accustomed to get on anywhere by leaving everything to his bumps and his white hair, knew his strength to lie in silence. So there Casby sat, twirling and twirling, and making his polished head and forehead look largely benevolent in every knob.

With this spectacle before him, Arthur had risen to go, when from the inner Dock where the good ship Pancks was hove down when out in no cruising ground, the noise was heard of that steamer labouring towards him. It struck Arthur that the noise began demonstratively far off, as though Mr Pancks sought to impress on any one who might happen to think about it, that he was working on from out of hearing.

Mr Pancks and he shook hands, and the former brought his employer a letter or two to sign. Mr Pancks in shaking hands merely scratched his eyebrow with his left forefinger and snorted once, but Clennam, who understood him better now than of old, comprehended that he had almost done for the evening and wished to say a word to him outside. Therefore, when he had taken his leave of Mr Casby, and (which was a more difficult process) of Flora, he sauntered in the neighbourhood on Mr Pancks’s line of road.

He had waited but a short time when Mr Pancks appeared. Mr Pancks shaking hands again with another expressive snort, and taking off his hat to put his hair up, Arthur thought he received his cue to speak to him as one who knew pretty well what had just now passed. Therefore he said, without any preface:

‘I suppose they were really gone, Pancks?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pancks. ‘They were really gone.’

‘Does he know where to find that lady?’

‘Can’t say. I should think so.’

Mr Pancks did not? No, Mr Pancks did not. Did Mr Pancks know anything about her?

‘I expect,’ rejoined that worthy, ‘I know as much about her as she knows about herself. She is somebody’s child—anybody’s, nobody’s. Put her in a room in London here with any six people old enough to be her parents, and her parents may be there for anything she knows. They may be in any house she sees, they may be in any churchyard she passes, she may run against ‘em in any street, she may make chance acquaintance of ‘em at any time; and never know it. She knows nothing about ‘em. She knows nothing about any relative whatever. Never did. Never will.’

‘Mr Casby could enlighten her, perhaps?’

‘May be,’ said Pancks. ‘I expect so, but don’t know. He has long had money (not overmuch as I make out) in trust to dole out to her when she can’t do without it. Sometimes she’s proud and won’t touch it for a length of time; sometimes she’s so poor that she must have it. She writhes under her life. A woman more angry, passionate, reckless, and revengeful never lived. She came for money to-night. Said she had peculiar occasion for it.’

‘I think,’ observed Clennam musing, ‘I by chance know what occasion—I mean into whose pocket the money is to go.’

‘Indeed?’ said Pancks. ‘If it’s a compact, I recommend that party to be exact in it. I wouldn’t trust myself to that woman, young and handsome as she is, if I had wronged her; no, not for twice my proprietor’s money! Unless,’ Pancks added as a saving clause, ‘I had a lingering illness on me, and wanted to get it over.’

Arthur, hurriedly reviewing his own observation of her, found it to tally pretty nearly with Mr Pancks’s view.

‘The wonder is to me,’ pursued Pancks, ‘that she has never done for my proprietor, as the only person connected with her story she can lay hold of. Mentioning that, I may tell you, between ourselves, that I am sometimes tempted to do for him myself.’

Arthur started and said, ‘Dear me, Pancks, don’t say that!’

‘Understand me,’ said Pancks, extending five cropped coaly finger-nails on Arthur’s arm; ‘I don’t mean, cut his throat. But by all that’s precious, if he goes too far, I’ll cut his hair!’

Having exhibited himself in the new light of enunciating this tremendous threat, Mr Pancks, with a countenance of grave import, snorted several times and steamed away.

“Caro, caro, caro!” esclamò il Patriarca con dolce rammarico. “Ahimè, ahimè. Che peccato, che peccato! Non ho alcun indirizzo, signore. La signorina Wade vive per lo più all’estero, signor Clennam. Lo fa da alcuni anni ormai, e, beh, è una persona molto incostante e imprevedibile, se posso permettermi di dirlo di una donna e di una signora. Forse non la rivedrò mai più per molto tempo. Forse non la rivedrò mai più. Che peccato, che peccato!”

Ora Clennam si rendeva conto che aveva altrettante possibilità di ottenere aiuto dal “Ritratto” quante ne avesse dal Patriarca; tuttavia, disse comunque:

‘Signor Casby, potrebbe, per il piacere degli amici che ho menzionato e nell’ambito di qualsiasi obbligo di riservatezza che ritenga suo dovere rispettare, fornirmi qualche informazione su Miss Wade? L’ho vista all’estero e anche a casa, ma non so nulla di lei. Potrebbe darmi qualche dettaglio su di lei?’

“Niente,” rispose il Patriarca, scuotendo la sua grande testa con la massima benevolenza. “Assolutamente niente. Caro, caro, caro. Che vera sfortuna che sia rimasta solo per così poco tempo, e che tu abbia ritardato! Come agente segreto, a volte ho pagato questa signora; ma quale soddisfazione può derivarne per te, signore?”

“Davvero, nessuno affatto,” disse Clennam.

“Davvero,” concordò il Patriarca, con il viso radioso mentre sorrideva filantropicamente verso la fiamma, “assolutamente no, signore. Ha dato una risposta saggia, signor Clennam. Davvero, assolutamente no, signore.”

Il modo in cui girava i suoi pollici lisci l’uno attorno all’altro mentre sedeva lì era così tipico di Clennam: lui avrebbe continuato a discutere dell’argomento all’infinito, senza mai rivelarne nuovi aspetti né permettergli di fare il minimo progresso. Questo lo convinse ancora di più che i suoi sforzi fossero stati vani. Avrebbe potuto prendersi tutto il tempo necessario per rifletterci, perché il signor Casby, abituato a risolvere ogni situazione affidandosi soltanto alla propria intuizione e ai propri capelli bianchi, sapeva che la sua forza risiedeva nel silenzio. Così sedeva lì, continuando a girare i pollici, facendo sì che la sua testa e la sua fronte lucide sembrassero estremamente benevole, in ogni singola piega del suo viso.

Di fronte a questo spettacolo, Arthur si era alzato per andarsene, quando dal molo interno, dove il buon navio Pancks era stato attraccato in attesa di poter salpare, si udì il rumore di quel vapore che si avvicinava a lui. A Arthur sembrò che quel rumore iniziasse deliberatamente da lontano, come se il signor Pancks volesse far capire a chiunque potesse pensarci che stava lavorando in modo da non essere udito.

Signor Pancks gli strinse la mano; quest’ultimo portò poi al proprio datore di lavoro una o due lettere da firmare. Durante la stretta di mano, Signor Pancks si grattò semplicemente la fronte con il dito indice sinistro e sbuffò una volta; ma Clennam, che ora lo comprendeva meglio di prima, capì che per lui quella giornata era quasi finita e che voleva parlargli da solo. Pertanto, dopo essersi congedato da Signor Pancks e (il che fu un processo ancora più complicato) anche da Flora, si incamminò lentamente lungo la strada dove abitava Signor Pancks.

Aveva aspettato solo per un breve tempo quando apparve Mr Pancks. Mr Pancks, stringendo di nuovo la mano e emettendo un altro dei suoi caratteristici sospiri, si tolse il cappello per sistemarsi i capelli; Arthur pensò che fosse arrivato il momento giusto per parlare con lui, dato che conosceva abbastanza bene ciò che era appena accaduto. Così, senza alcun preambolo, disse:

“Suppongo che siano davvero andati via, Pancks, ”

“Sì,” rispose Pancks. “Erano davvero spariti.”

“Sa dove trovare quella signora?”

“Non posso dirlo. Direi di sì.”

Signor Pancks non lo sapeva? No, Signor Pancks non lo sapeva. Signor Pancks sapeva qualcosa su di lei?

“Credo di sì,” rispose quell’uomo degno di stima, “so tanto su di lei quanto lei sa su se stessa. Lei è la figlia di qualcuno, di chiunque, o forse di nessuno. Mettetela in una stanza qui a )Londra insieme a sei persone abbastanza grandi da poter essere suoi genitori, e i suoi genitori potrebbero trovarsi lì in qualsiasi momento lei lo sappia. Potrebbero essere in qualsiasi casa lei veda, in qualsiasi cimitero lei passi, potrebbe incrociarli per strada, potrebbe conoscerli casualmente in qualsiasi momento; eppure non lo saprebbe mai. Lei non sa nulla di loro. Non sa nulla su nessun parente che abbia mai avuto. Mai lo ha saputo, e mai lo saprà.”

“Forse il signor Casby potrebbe illuminarla, ”

“Forse,” disse Pancks. “Credo di sì, ma non lo so con certezza. Da tempo ha del denaro affidatole in custodia, per darlo a lei quando ne abbia bisogno. A volte è orgogliosa e non lo tocca per un bel po’; altre volte è così povera che deve assolutamente averlo. Vive in uno stato di continua angoscia. Non c’è mai stata una donna più arrabbiata, appassionata, sconsiderata e vendicativa di lei. È venuta a prendere i soldi stasera. Ha detto di avere un motivo particolare per farlo.”

“Penso,” osservò meditabondo Clennam, “che per caso sappia in quale occasione, intendo, in quale tasca finiranno quei soldi.”

“Davvero?” disse Pancks. “Se si tratta di un accordo preciso, consiglio che entrambe le parti lo rispettino rigorosamente. Non mi fiderei mai di quella donna, per quanto giovane e attraente sia. No, nemmeno per il doppio del denaro del mio datore di lavoro! A meno che, ” aggiunse Pancks come una clausola di salvaguardia, “non soffrissi di una malattia cronica e volessi guarire a tutti i costi.”

Arthur, rivedendo rapidamente le proprie osservazioni su di lei, si rese conto che corrispondevano quasi esattamente al punto di vista di Mr Pancks.

“La cosa che mi meraviglia,” continuò Pancks, “è che lei non abbia mai fatto nulla per il mio proprietario, l’unica persona legata alla sua storia che possa raggiungere. A dire il vero, tra noi due, a volte provo la tentazione di farlo io stesso per lui.”

Arthur iniziò dicendo: “Dio mio, Pancks, non dire così!”

“Capiscimi,” disse Pancks, tendendo cinque unghie corte e nere sulla braccia di Arthur; “Non intendo dire di tagliargli la gola. Ma per l’amor del cielo, se va troppo oltre, gli taglierò i capelli!”

Dopo essersi presentato sotto una nuova luce, enunciando questa terribile minaccia, Signor Pancks, con un’espressione di gravità estrema, sbuffò più volte e se ne andò.

CHAPTER 10. The Dreams of Mrs Flintwinch thicken

The shady waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office, where he passed a good deal of time in company with various troublesome Convicts who were under sentence to be broken alive on that wheel, had afforded Arthur Clennam ample leisure, in three or four successive days, to exhaust the subject of his late glimpse of Miss Wade and Tattycoram. He had been able to make no more of it and no less of it, and in this unsatisfactory condition he was fain to leave it.

During this space he had not been to his mother’s dismal old house. One of his customary evenings for repairing thither now coming round, he left his dwelling and his partner at nearly nine o’clock, and slowly walked in the direction of that grim home of his youth.

It always affected his imagination as wrathful, mysterious, and sad; and his imagination was sufficiently impressible to see the whole neighbourhood under some tinge of its dark shadow. As he went along, upon a dreary night, the dim streets by which he went, seemed all depositories of oppressive secrets. The deserted counting-houses, with their secrets of books and papers locked up in chests and safes; the banking-houses, with their secrets of strong rooms and wells, the keys of which were in a very few secret pockets and a very few secret breasts; the secrets of all the dispersed grinders in the vast mill, among whom there were doubtless plunderers, forgers, and trust-betrayers of many sorts, whom the light of any day that dawned might reveal; he could have fancied that these things, in hiding, imparted a heaviness to the air. The shadow thickening and thickening as he approached its source, he thought of the secrets of the lonely church-vaults, where the people who had hoarded and secreted in iron coffers were in their turn similarly hoarded, not yet at rest from doing harm; and then of the secrets of the river, as it rolled its turbid tide between two frowning wildernesses of secrets, extending, thick and dense, for many miles, and warding off the free air and the free country swept by winds and wings of birds.

The shadow still darkening as he drew near the house, the melancholy room which his father had once occupied, haunted by the appealing face he had himself seen fade away with him when there was no other watcher by the bed, arose before his mind. Its close air was secret. The gloom, and must, and dust of the whole tenement, were secret. At the heart of it his mother presided, inflexible of face, indomitable of will, firmly holding all the secrets of her own and his father’s life, and austerely opposing herself, front to front, to the great final secret of all life.

He had turned into the narrow and steep street from which the court of enclosure wherein the house stood opened, when another footstep turned into it behind him, and so close upon his own that he was jostled to the wall. As his mind was teeming with these thoughts, the encounter took him altogether unprepared, so that the other passenger had had time to say, boisterously, ‘Pardon! Not my fault!’ and to pass on before the instant had elapsed which was requisite to his recovery of the realities about him.

When that moment had flashed away, he saw that the man striding on before him was the man who had been so much in his mind during the last few days. It was no casual resemblance, helped out by the force of the impression the man made upon him. It was the man; the man he had followed in company with the girl, and whom he had overheard talking to Miss Wade.

The street was a sharp descent and was crooked too, and the man (who although not drunk had the air of being flushed with some strong drink) went down it so fast that Clennam lost him as he looked at him. With no defined intention of following him, but with an impulse to keep the figure in view a little longer, Clennam quickened his pace to pass the twist in the street which hid him from his sight. On turning it, he saw the man no more.

Standing now, close to the gateway of his mother’s house, he looked down the street: but it was empty. There was no projecting shadow large enough to obscure the man; there was no turning near that he could have taken; nor had there been any audible sound of the opening and closing of a door. Nevertheless, he concluded that the man must have had a key in his hand, and must have opened one of the many house-doors and gone in.

Ruminating on this strange chance and strange glimpse, he turned into the court-yard. As he looked, by mere habit, towards the feebly lighted windows of his mother’s room, his eyes encountered the figure he had just lost, standing against the iron railings of the little waste enclosure looking up at those windows and laughing to himself. Some of the many vagrant cats who were always prowling about there by night, and who had taken fright at him, appeared to have stopped when he had stopped, and were looking at him with eyes by no means unlike his own from tops of walls and porches, and other safe points of pause. He had only halted for a moment to entertain himself thus; he immediately went forward, throwing the end of his cloak off his shoulder as he went, ascended the unevenly sunken steps, and knocked a sounding knock at the door.

Clennam’s surprise was not so absorbing but that he took his resolution without any incertitude. He went up to the door too, and ascended the steps too. His friend looked at him with a braggart air, and sang to himself.

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine; Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!’

After which he knocked again.

CAPITOLO 10. I sogni della signora Flintwinch diventano sempre più vividi

Le oscure sale d’attesa dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni, dove trascorse molto tempo in compagnia di vari detenuti problematici condannati a essere spezzati vivi su quella Ruota, fornirono a Arthur Clennam abbondante tempo, nel corso di tre o quattro giorni consecutivi, per approfondire l’argomento legato alla sua fugace visione della signorina Wade e di Tattycoram. Non riuscì a scoprire nulla di nuovo, né a confermare alcuna ipotesi; quindi, in questa condizione insoddisfacente, preferì lasciar perdere la questione.

Durante tutto questo tempo, non era mai tornato nella triste vecchia casa di sua madre. Ora che era arrivata l’ora abituale per recarsi lì a riparare alcune cose, lasciò la propria abitazione e la sua compagna verso le nove di sera, e si incamminò lentamente in direzione di quella cupa casa della sua giovinezza.

Sempre influenzava la sua immaginazione; appariva qualcosa di minaccioso, misterioso e triste. La sua immaginazione era abbastanza suggestionabile da far sì che l’intero quartiere sembrasse avvolto in un’oscura ombra. Di notte, le strade deserte parevano custodire terribili segreti: gli uffici abbandonati, con i loro libri e documenti chiusi in cassetti e armadi a chiave; le banche, con le loro stanze segrete e i pozzi nascosti. I segreti di tutti quegli individui che operavano nell’oscurità – ladri, falsari, traditori di ogni sorta – potevano essere rivelati da qualsiasi luce del giorno. Gli sembrava che tutto ciò conferisse all’aria un’atmosfera opprimente. L’ombra si faceva sempre più densa man mano che si avvicinava alla sua fonte. Pensava ai segreti delle solitarie cappelle, dove le persone che avevano nascosto i propri tesori in cassoni di ferro erano a loro volta “nascondute”, ancora pronte a fare del male. E poi ai segreti del fiume, che scorreva con le sue acque torbide tra due regioni desolate e piene di misteri. Un’oscurità densa e impenetrabile, che respingeva l’aria libera e la natura aperta.

L’ombra, che si faceva sempre più densa man mano che si avvicinava alla casa, alla stanza melanconica che un tempo era stata di suo padre. Quel volto attraente, che lui stesso aveva visto svanire insieme a lui, quando non c’era nessun altro presente accanto al letto. Quel ricordo gli tornò alla mente. L’aria stagnante di quella stanza era piena di misteri; l’oscurità e la polvere che avvolgevano tutto l’appartamento erano anch’esse segrete. Al suo interno, sua madre regnava: con il volto immobile, la volontà indomabile, custodiva gelosamente tutti i segreti della vita di lei e di suo padre. E si opponeva con fermezza al più grande segreto di tutta la vita.

Si era trovato in quella strada stretta e ripida da cui si apriva il cortile recintato in cui sorgeva la casa; proprio in quel momento, un altro passo lo seguì alle spalle, così vicino che lo urtò contro il muro. Con la mente piena di questi pensieri, l’incontro lo colse completamente impreparato; l’altro viaggiatore ebbe quindi il tempo di dire, in tono vivace: “Scusi! Non è colpa mia!”, e di proseguire per la sua strada, prima che lui riuscisse a riprendersi e rendersi conto della realtà circostante.

Quando quel momento fu passato, vide che l’uomo che camminava davanti a lui era proprio quell’uomo che aveva occupato così tanto i suoi pensieri negli ultimi giorni. Non si trattava di una somiglianza casuale, ma della conseguenza dell’impressione profonda che quell’uomo gli aveva lasciato. Era proprio lui: l’uomo che aveva seguito insieme alla ragazza, e che aveva sentito parlare con la signorina Wade.

La strada presentava una forte pendenza e anche molte curve; l’uomo (che, sebbene non fosse ubriaco, sembrava essere sotto l’effetto di qualche alcolico forte) la percorreva così velocemente che Clennam perse di vista mentre lo osservava. Senza alcuna intenzione precisa di seguirlo, ma spinto dal desiderio di continuare a vedere quella figura per un po’, Clennam accelerò il passo per superare la curva che lo nascondeva dalla sua vista. Dopo averla superata, non vide più l’uomo.

In piedi ora, vicino all’ingresso della casa di sua madre, guardò lungo la strada: ma era deserta. Non c’era alcuna ombra abbastanza grande da nascondere quell’uomo; non c’erano vie d’uscita possibili nei dintorni; né si udiva alcun suono legato all’apertura o alla chiusura di porte. Eppure, concluse che quell’uomo doveva aver avuto una chiave con sé e doveva essersi aperto una delle molte porte della casa per entrare.

Ruminando su quella strana coincidenza e su quell’insolito incontro, si diresse verso il cortile interno della residenza. Come al solito, guardò verso le finestre debolmente illuminate della stanza di sua madre; i suoi occhi incontrarono la figura che aveva appena perso di vista: stava in piedi contro le ringhiere di ferro di quel piccolo recinto, fissando quelle stesse finestre e ridendo tra sé. Alcune delle tante gatti randagi che solitamente si aggiravano lì di notte, spaventati da lui, sembravano essersi fermate insieme a lui; lo osservavano dai tetti delle case, dagli portici e da altri nascondigli sicuri. Si era fermato solo per un momento, per divertirsi con quei pensieri; subito dopo riprese il cammino, gettando via l’estremità del suo mantello mentre saliva i gradini irregolari e bussò alla porta con forza.

La sorpresa di Clennam non fu così intensa da distoglierlo dalle sue decisioni; prese la sua risoluzione senza alcuna esitazione. Anche lui si avvicinò alla porta e salì le scale. Il suo amico lo guardava con aria trionfante, cantando tra sé e sé.

“Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?
Compagno di Majolaine. Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?
Sempre allegro!”

Dopo di ciò, bussò di nuovo.

‘You are impatient, sir,’ said Arthur.

‘I am, sir. Death of my life, sir,’ returned the stranger, ‘it’s my character to be impatient!’

The sound of Mistress Affery cautiously chaining the door before she opened it, caused them both to look that way. Affery opened it a very little, with a flaring candle in her hands and asked who was that, at that time of night, with that knock! ‘Why, Arthur!’ she added with astonishment, seeing him first. ‘Not you sure? Ah, Lord save us! No,’ she cried out, seeing the other. ‘Him again!’

‘It’s true! Him again, dear Mrs Flintwinch,’ cried the stranger. ‘Open the door, and let me take my dear friend Jeremiah to my arms! Open the door, and let me hasten myself to embrace my Flintwinch!’

‘He’s not at home,’ cried Affery.

‘Fetch him!’ cried the stranger. ‘Fetch my Flintwinch! Tell him that it is his old Blandois, who comes from arriving in England; tell him that it is his little boy who is here, his cabbage, his well-beloved! Open the door, beautiful Mrs Flintwinch, and in the meantime let me to pass upstairs, to present my compliments—homage of Blandois—to my lady! My lady lives always? It is well. Open then!’

To Arthur’s increased surprise, Mistress Affery, stretching her eyes wide at himself, as if in warning that this was not a gentleman for him to interfere with, drew back the chain, and opened the door. The stranger, without ceremony, walked into the hall, leaving Arthur to follow him.

‘Despatch then! Achieve then! Bring my Flintwinch! Announce me to my lady!’ cried the stranger, clanking about the stone floor.

‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ said Arthur aloud and sternly, as he surveyed him from head to foot with indignation; ‘who is this gentleman?’

‘Pray tell me, Affery,’ the stranger repeated in his turn, ‘who—ha, ha, ha!—who is this gentleman?’

The voice of Mrs Clennam opportunely called from her chamber above, ‘Affery, let them both come up. Arthur, come straight to me!’

‘Arthur?’ exclaimed Blandois, taking off his hat at arm’s length, and bringing his heels together from a great stride in making him a flourishing bow. ‘The son of my lady? I am the all-devoted of the son of my lady!’

Arthur looked at him again in no more flattering manner than before, and, turning on his heel without acknowledgment, went up-stairs. The visitor followed him up-stairs. Mistress Affery took the key from behind the door, and deftly slipped out to fetch her lord.

A bystander, informed of the previous appearance of Monsieur Blandois in that room, would have observed a difference in Mrs Clennam’s present reception of him. Her face was not one to betray it; and her suppressed manner, and her set voice, were equally under her control. It wholly consisted in her never taking her eyes off his face from the moment of his entrance, and in her twice or thrice, when he was becoming noisy, swaying herself a very little forward in the chair in which she sat upright, with her hands immovable upon its elbows; as if she gave him the assurance that he should be presently heard at any length he would. Arthur did not fail to observe this; though the difference between the present occasion and the former was not within his power of observation.

‘Madame,’ said Blandois, ‘do me the honour to present me to Monsieur, your son. It appears to me, madame, that Monsieur, your son, is disposed to complain of me. He is not polite.’

‘Sir,’ said Arthur, striking in expeditiously, ‘whoever you are, and however you come to be here, if I were the master of this house I would lose no time in placing you on the outside of it.’

‘But you are not,’ said his mother, without looking at him. ‘Unfortunately for the gratification of your unreasonable temper, you are not the master, Arthur.’

‘I make no claim to be, mother. If I object to this person’s manner of conducting himself here, and object to it so much, that if I had any authority here I certainly would not suffer him to remain a minute, I object on your account.’

‘In the case of objection being necessary,’ she returned, ‘I could object for myself. And of course I should.’

The subject of their dispute, who had seated himself, laughed aloud, and rapped his legs with his hand.

‘You have no right,’ said Mrs Clennam, always intent on Blandois, however directly she addressed her son, ‘to speak to the prejudice of any gentleman (least of all a gentleman from another country), because he does not conform to your standard, or square his behaviour by your rules. It is possible that the gentleman may, on similar grounds, object to you.’

‘I hope so,’ returned Arthur.

‘The gentleman,’ pursued Mrs Clennam, ‘on a former occasion brought a letter of recommendation to us from highly esteemed and responsible correspondents. I am perfectly unacquainted with the gentleman’s object in coming here at present. I am entirely ignorant of it, and cannot be supposed likely to be able to form the remotest guess at its nature;’ her habitual frown became stronger, as she very slowly and weightily emphasised those words; ‘but, when the gentleman proceeds to explain his object, as I shall beg him to have the goodness to do to myself and Flintwinch, when Flintwinch returns, it will prove, no doubt, to be one more or less in the usual way of our business, which it will be both our business and our pleasure to advance. It can be nothing else.’

‘We shall see, madame!’ said the man of business.

‘We shall see,’ she assented. ‘The gentleman is acquainted with Flintwinch; and when the gentleman was in London last, I remember to have heard that he and Flintwinch had some entertainment or good-fellowship together. I am not in the way of knowing much that passes outside this room, and the jingle of little worldly things beyond it does not much interest me; but I remember to have heard that.’

“Siete impaziente, signore,” disse Arthur.

“Sì, signore. La morte della mia vita, signore,” rispose lo sconosciuto, “è proprio nella mia natura essere impaziente!”

Il suono di Mistress Affery che chiudeva con attenzione la porta prima di aprirla fece sì che entrambi guardassero in quella direzione. Affery aprì appena uno spiraglio, tenendo una candela accesa in mano, e chiese chi fosse a quell’ora di notte, con quel bussare, “Ma è Arthur!”, esclamò sorpresa, vedendolo per primo. “Non sei sicura? Ah, Signore, salvateci. No”, gridò poi, vedendo l’altro. “Ancora lui!”

“È vero! È di nuovo lui, cara signora Flintwinch,” gridò lo sconosciuto. “Aprite la porta e lasciate che abbracci il mio caro amico Jeremiah! Aprite la porta e permettetemi di correre ad abbracciare la mia famiglia Flintwinch!”

“Non è a casa,” gridò Affery.

“Portatemelo qui!” gridò lo sconosciuto. “Portatemi il mio Flintwinch! Ditegli che è il suo vecchio Blandois, appena arrivato in Inghilterra; ditegli che è qui suo figlioletto, il suo tesoro, la persona che ama di più al mondo! Aprite la porta, cara signora Flintwinch. Nel frattempo, lasciate che salga al piano di sopra per presentare i miei omaggi, l’omaggio di Blandois, alla mia signora! La mia signora vive ancora? È una cosa meravigliosa. Allora, aprite!”

A grande sorpresa di Arthur, la signora Affery, spalancando gli occhi davanti a lui come per avvertirlo che non si trattava di un gentiluomo con cui potesse interferire, tirò indietro la catena e aprì la porta. Lo sconosciuto, senza alcuna cerimonia, entrò nel salone, lasciando che Arthur lo seguisse.

“Allora sbrigati! Riuscici! Portami il mio Flintwinch! Annuncia la mia presenza alla mia signora!” gridò lo straniero, facendo rumore con gli oggetti che teneva in mano sul pavimento di pietra.

“Dimmi, per favore, Affery,” disse Arthur ad alta voce e con severità, mentre lo esaminava dalla testa ai piedi con indignazione; “chi è questo signore?”

“Dimmi, per favore, Affery,” ripeté a sua volta lo sconosciuto, “chi, ahah, ahah, chi è questo gentiluomo?”

La voce di Signora Clennam chiamò dall’alto, dalla sua stanza:
“Affery, fai salire entrambi. Arthur, vieni subito da me!”

“‘Arthur?’” esclamò Blandois, togliendosi il cappello e facendo un profondo inchino. “Il figlio della mia signora? Sono il più devoto servitore del figlio della mia signora!”

Arthur lo guardò di nuovo con lo stesso tono poco lusinghiero di prima; poi, senza dire una parola, girò sui tacchi e salì le scale. Il visitatore lo seguì. Mistress Affery prese la chiave dietro la porta e uscì silenziosamente per andare a chiamare il suo padrone.

Un osservatore, informato della precedente apparizione di Monsieur Blandois in quella stanza, avrebbe notato una differenza nel modo in cui Mrs Clennam lo riceveva ora. Il suo viso non tradiva nulla; il suo comportamento controllato e il tono della sua voce erano anch’essi sotto il suo controllo. Tutto ciò si manifestava nel fatto che lei non distoglieva mai lo sguardo dal suo volto fin dal momento del suo ingresso, e inoltre, quando lui diventava un po’ troppo rumoroso, lei si spostava leggermente in avanti sulla sedia su cui era seduta, con le mani immobili sui braccioli; come se volesse assicurargli che sarebbe stato ascoltato, qualunque fosse stata la durata del suo discorso. Arthur non mancò di notare tutto ciò; anche se la differenza tra questa situazione e quella precedente non rientrava nel suo campo visivo o nella sua capacità di osservazione.

“Madam,” disse Blandois, “mi faccia l’onore di presentarmi a Monsieur, suo figlio. Mi sembra, madam, che Monsieur, suo figlio, abbia intenzione di lamentarsi di me. Non è molto educato.”

“Signore,” disse Arthur, senza esitazione, “chiunque lei sia e per quale motivo si trovi qui, se fossi il padrone di questa >casa, non perderei un attimo a cacciarla fuori.”

“Ma non lo sei,” disse sua madre, senza guardarlo.
“Purtroppo, per soddisfare il tuo carattere irragionevole, tu non sei il padrone, Arthur.”

“Non pretendo affatto di esserlo, madre. Se mi oppongo al modo in cui questa persona si comporta qui, e lo faccio con tale insistenza che, se avessi qualche autorità in questo luogo, sicuramente non gli permetterei di rimanere nemmeno un minuto. Mi oppongo per il tuo bene.”

“Se dovesse essere necessario sollevare obiezioni,” rispose lei, “potrei farlo per me stessa. E naturalmente lo farei.”

L’oggetto della loro disputa, che si era seduto, rise ad alta voce e si avvolse le gambe con la mano.

“Non hai alcun diritto,” disse Signora Clennam, sempre con lo sguardo fisso su Blandois, “di parlare in modo dispregiativo di qualsiasi gentiluomo (soprattutto non di uno proveniente da un altro paese), solo perché non si conforma ai tuoi standard o non adatta il proprio comportamento alle tue regole. È possibile che anche quel gentiluomo, per motivi simili, possa opporsi a te.”

“Lo spero,” rispose Arthur.

“Quel gentiluomo,” proseguì Mrs Clennam, “in un’occasione precedente ci aveva portato una lettera di raccomandazione da parte di persone molto rispettabili e affidabili. Non ho la minima idea dello scopo per cui il gentiluomo sia venuto qui questa volta; non ne so nulla, e non si può nemmeno supporre che io possa avere la più vaga idea della sua intenzione, ” Il suo solito cipiglio si accentuò mentre pronunciava quelle parole lentamente e con enfasi; “ma quando il gentiluomo deciderà di spiegarmi lo scopo della sua visita, come spero che faccia per me e per Flintwinch non appena lui tornerà, allora senza dubbio si tratterà di qualcosa che rientra nella normale sfera delle nostre attività. E sarà sia un nostro dovere che un nostro piacere occuparcene. Non può essere altro.”

“Lo vedremo, signora!”, disse l’uomo d’affari.

“Lo vedremo,” acconsentì lei. “Quel signore conosce Flintwinch; e l’ultima volta che il signore si trovava a Londra, ricordo di aver sentito dire che lui e Flintwinch avevano trascorso del tempo insieme in modo piacevole. Non sono molto informata su ciò che accade al di fuori di questa stanza, e i dettagli delle piccole cose mondane non mi interessano molto; ma ricordo di aver sentito dire questo.”

‘Right, madame. It is true.’ He laughed again, and whistled the burden of the tune he had sung at the door.

‘Therefore, Arthur,’ said his mother, ‘the gentleman comes here as an acquaintance, and no stranger; and it is much to be regretted that your unreasonable temper should have found offence in him. I regret it. I say so to the gentleman. You will not say so, I know; therefore I say it for myself and Flintwinch, since with us two the gentleman’s business lies.’

The key of the door below was now heard in the lock, and the door was heard to open and close. In due sequence Mr Flintwinch appeared; on whose entrance the visitor rose from his chair, laughing loud, and folded him in a close embrace.

‘How goes it, my cherished friend!’ said he. ‘How goes the world, my Flintwinch? Rose-coloured? So much the better, so much the better! Ah, but you look charming! Ah, but you look young and fresh as the flowers of Spring! Ah, good little boy! Brave child, brave child!’

While heaping these compliments on Mr Flintwinch, he rolled him about with a hand on each of his shoulders, until the staggerings of that gentleman, who under the circumstances was dryer and more twisted than ever, were like those of a teetotum nearly spent.

‘I had a presentiment, last time, that we should be better and more intimately acquainted. Is it coming on you, Flintwinch? Is it yet coming on?’

‘Why, no, sir,’ retorted Mr Flintwinch. ‘Not unusually. Hadn’t you better be seated? You have been calling for some more of that port, sir, I guess?’

‘Ah, Little joker! Little pig!’ cried the visitor. ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ And throwing Mr Flintwinch away, as a closing piece of raillery, he sat down again.

The amazement, suspicion, resentment, and shame, with which Arthur looked on at all this, struck him dumb. Mr Flintwinch, who had spun backward some two or three yards under the impetus last given to him, brought himself up with a face completely unchanged in its stolidity except as it was affected by shortness of breath, and looked hard at Arthur. Not a whit less reticent and wooden was Mr Flintwinch outwardly, than in the usual course of things: the only perceptible difference in him being that the knot of cravat which was generally under his ear, had worked round to the back of his head: where it formed an ornamental appendage not unlike a bagwig, and gave him something of a courtly appearance.

As Mrs Clennam never removed her eyes from Blandois (on whom they had some effect, as a steady look has on a lower sort of dog), so Jeremiah never removed his from Arthur. It was as if they had tacitly agreed to take their different provinces. Thus, in the ensuing silence, Jeremiah stood scraping his chin and looking at Arthur as though he were trying to screw his thoughts out of him with an instrument.

After a little, the visitor, as if he felt the silence irksome, rose, and impatiently put himself with his back to the sacred fire which had burned through so many years. Thereupon Mrs Clennam said, moving one of her hands for the first time, and moving it very slightly with an action of dismissal:

‘Please to leave us to our business, Arthur.’

‘Mother, I do so with reluctance.’

‘Never mind with what,’ she returned, ‘or with what not. Please to leave us. Come back at any other time when you may consider it a duty to bury half an hour wearily here. Good night.’

She held up her muffled fingers that he might touch them with his, according to their usual custom, and he stood over her wheeled chair to touch her face with his lips. He thought, then, that her cheek was more strained than usual, and that it was colder. As he followed the direction of her eyes, in rising again, towards Mr Flintwinch’s good friend, Mr Blandois, Mr Blandois snapped his finger and thumb with one loud contemptuous snap.

‘I leave your—your business acquaintance in my mother’s room, Mr Flintwinch,’ said Clennam, ‘with a great deal of surprise and a great deal of unwillingness.’

The person referred to snapped his finger and thumb again.

‘Good night, mother.’

‘Good night.’

‘I had a friend once, my good comrade Flintwinch,’ said Blandois, standing astride before the fire, and so evidently saying it to arrest Clennam’s retreating steps, that he lingered near the door; ‘I had a friend once, who had heard so much of the dark side of this city and its ways, that he wouldn’t have confided himself alone by night with two people who had an interest in getting him under the ground—my faith! not even in a respectable house like this—unless he was bodily too strong for them. Bah! What a poltroon, my Flintwinch! Eh?’

‘A cur, sir.’

‘Agreed! A cur. But he wouldn’t have done it, my Flintwinch, unless he had known them to have the will to silence him, without the power. He wouldn’t have drunk from a glass of water under such circumstances—not even in a respectable house like this, my Flintwinch—unless he had seen one of them drink first, and swallow too!’

Disdaining to speak, and indeed not very well able, for he was half-choking, Clennam only glanced at the visitor as he passed out. The visitor saluted him with another parting snap, and his nose came down over his moustache and his moustache went up under his nose, in an ominous and ugly smile.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Affery,’ whispered Clennam, as she opened the door for him in the dark hall, and he groped his way to the sight of the night-sky, ‘what is going on here?’

Her own appearance was sufficiently ghastly, standing in the dark with her apron thrown over her head, and speaking behind it in a low, deadened voice.

‘Don’t ask me anything, Arthur. I’ve been in a dream for ever so long. Go away!’

He went out, and she shut the door upon him. He looked up at the windows of his mother’s room, and the dim light, deadened by the yellow blinds, seemed to say a response after Affery, and to mutter, ‘Don’t ask me anything. Go away!’

“Giusto, signora. È vero.” Rise di nuovo e iniziò a suonare la melodia che aveva cantato alla porta.

“Pertanto, Arthur,” disse sua madre, “questo signore viene qui come conoscente, e non come estraneo; è davvero molto spiacevole che il tuo carattere irragionevole abbia offeso i suoi sentimenti. Mi dispiace sinceramente. Lo dico anche a lui stesso. So che tu non lo ammetterai mai; quindi lo dico per me e per Flintwinch, poiché è con noi due che questo signore ha bisogno di aiuto.”

Si sentì ora la chiave della porta sottostante girare nella serratura, e poi la porta aprirsi e richiudersi. In sequenza, apparve il signor Flintwinch; non appena entrò, l’ospite si alzò dalla sedia ridendo ad alta voce e lo abbracciò stretto.

“Come stai, mio caro amico?” disse. “Com’è andata la vita, mio Flintwinch, dai colori della rosa? Meglio ancora, molto meglio! Ah, ma sembri davvero incantevole. Ah, sei giovane e fresco come i fiori della primavera! Ah, bravo bambino. Coraggioso ragazzo, coraggioso ragazzo!”

Mentre riversava queste lodi su Mr Flintwinch, lo faceva girare avanti e indietro tenendolo per le spalle, fino a quando i passi incerti di quel gentiluomo, che in quelle circostanze era ancora più magro e contorto del solito, assomigliavano a quelli di un giocattolo a molla ormai quasi esaurito.

“L’ultima volta avevo un presentimento che noi due saremmo diventati migliori amici e ci saremmo conosciuti più a fondo. Anche tu lo senti, Flintwinch? Sta per succedere?”

“Perché no, signore,” ribatté il signor Flintwinch. “Non è affatto insolito. Non sarebbe meglio che si sedesse? Immagino che desideri ancora un po’ di quel vino rosso, vero?”

“Ah, piccolo buffone! Piccolo maiale!” gridò il visitatore. “Ha ha ha ha!” E, gettando via il signor Flintwinch come ultima battuta sarcastica, si sedette di nuovo.

Lo stupore, il sospetto, l’astio e la vergogna con cui Arthur osservava tutto ciò lo lasciarono senza parole. Il signor Flintwinch, che era stato spinto all’indietro di circa due o tre metri a causa dell’ultima spinta ricevuta, si rialzò con un viso completamente immutato nella sua solita rigidità, se non per il respiro affannoso; guardò attentamente Arthur. Esteriormente, il signor Flintwinch era altrettanto reticente e rigido del solito; l’unica differenza evidente era che il nodo della cravatta, che di solito gli pendeva sotto l’orecchio, ora si trovava dietro la testa, formando un ornamento simile a una parrucca posticcia e donandogli un aspetto piuttosto elegante.

Poiché Mrs Clennam non distoglieva mai lo sguardo da Blandois (il quale, come accade spesso con i cani di bassa razza, ne era influenzato dal suo sguardo fisso), allo stesso modo Jeremiah non distoglieva mai il proprio sguardo da Arthur. Era come se avessero concordato tacitamente di occuparsi ciascuno delle proprie “province”. Così, nel silenzio che seguì, Jeremiah rimase lì a grattarsi il mento, fissando Arthur come se cercasse di estrarre i suoi pensieri con qualche strumento.

Dopo un po’, il visitatore, come se trovasse fastidiosa quella silenzio, si alzò e, con impazienza, si allontanò, voltando le spalle al sacro fuoco che aveva bruciato per tanti anni. Allora Signora Clennam mosse una delle sue mani, per la prima volta, e lo fece con un gesto leggero, come a indicare che voleva che se ne andasse.

“Per favore, lasciateci in pace con i nostri affari, Arthur.”

“Mamma, lo faccio con riluttanza.”

“Non importa con cosa,” rispose lei, “o con cosa altro. Per favore, lasciateci in pace. Tornate un’altra volta, quando riterrete opportuno dedicare mezz’ora stancamente a questo compito. Buona notte.”

Alzò le dita coperte dal fazzoletto affinché lui potesse toccarle, secondo la loro abitudine consueta; lui si chinò sopra la sua sedia a rotelle per baciare il suo viso con le labbra. Allora pensò che la sua guancia fosse più tesa del solito e anche più fredda. Seguendo la direzione del suo sguardo, alzò lo sguardo verso il buon amico di Mr Flintwinch, Mr Blandois. Ma Mr Blandois fece schioccare le dita con un sonoro gesto di disprezzo.

“Ho lasciato il vostro conoscente d’affari nella stanza di mia madre, signor Flintwinch,” disse Clennam, “con grande sorpresa e non senza riluttanza.”

La persona in questione fece schioccare di nuovo il dito mignolo e il pollice.

“Buona notte, mamma.”

“Buona notte.”

“Un tempo avevo un amico, il mio caro compagno Flintwinch,” disse Blandois, fermandosi davanti al fuoco e parlando chiaramente con l’intento di fermare i passi di Clennam che si allontanavano; “un tempo avevo un amico che aveva sentito parlare così tanto del lato oscuro di questa città e dei suoi abitanti, che non avrebbe mai confidato in loro da solo di notte, soprattutto se si trattava di persone interessate a farlo finire nei guai. Mio Dio! Nemmeno in una casa rispettabile come questa. A meno che non fosse fisicamente troppo forte per loro. Bah! Che codardo, quel mio Flintwinch, ”

“Una cagna, signore.”

‘D’accordo! Una cura. Ma non l’avrebbe fatto, il mio Flintwinch, se non avesse saputo che avevano la volontà di zittirlo, anche senza avere i mezzi per farlo. Non avrebbe bevuto nemmeno da un bicchiere d’acqua in quelle circostanze. Nemmeno in una rispettabile casa come questa, il mio Flintwinch. A meno che non avesse visto uno di loro bere per primo e poi ingoiare l’acqua!’

Rifiutando di parlare e, in realtà, non essendo molto in grado di farlo – poiché stava quasi soffocando – Clennam gettò solo uno sguardo al visitatore mentre questi se ne andava. Il visitatore lo salutò con un altro di quei gesti sprezzanti; il suo naso si abbassò sopra il mustacchio, e il mustacchio si sollevò sotto il naso, in un sorriso minaccioso e orribile.

“Per l’amor del cielo, Affery,” sussurrò Clennam mentre lei gli apriva la porta nel corridoio buio; lui si fece strada verso il cielo notturno e chiese: “Cosa sta succedendo qui?”

Il suo aspetto stesso era già abbastanza orribile: in piedi nell’oscurità, con il grembiule gettato sulla testa, parlava con una voce bassa e soffocata dietro di esso.

“Non chiedermi nulla, Arthur. Sono stato in un sogno da molto tempo. Vattene!”

Uscì, e lei chiuse la porta dietro di lui. Alzò lo sguardo verso le finestre della stanza di sua madre; la luce fioca, attenuata dalle tende gialle, sembrava rispondere alle parole di Affery, mormorando: “Non chiedermi nulla. Vattene!”

CHAPTER 11. A Letter from Little Dorrit

Dear Mr Clennam,

As I said in my last that it was best for nobody to write to me, and as my sending you another little letter can therefore give you no other trouble than the trouble of reading it (perhaps you may not find leisure for even that, though I hope you will some day), I am now going to devote an hour to writing to you again. This time, I write from Rome.

We left Venice before Mr and Mrs Gowan did, but they were not so long upon the road as we were, and did not travel by the same way, and so when we arrived we found them in a lodging here, in a place called the Via Gregoriana. I dare say you know it.

Now I am going to tell you all I can about them, because I know that is what you most want to hear. Theirs is not a very comfortable lodging, but perhaps I thought it less so when I first saw it than you would have done, because you have been in many different countries and have seen many different customs. Of course it is a far, far better place—millions of times—than any I have ever been used to until lately; and I fancy I don’t look at it with my own eyes, but with hers. For it would be easy to see that she has always been brought up in a tender and happy home, even if she had not told me so with great love for it.

Well, it is a rather bare lodging up a rather dark common staircase, and it is nearly all a large dull room, where Mr Gowan paints. The windows are blocked up where any one could look out, and the walls have been all drawn over with chalk and charcoal by others who have lived there before—oh,—I should think, for years! There is a curtain more dust-coloured than red, which divides it, and the part behind the curtain makes the private sitting-room. When I first saw her there she was alone, and her work had fallen out of her hand, and she was looking up at the sky shining through the tops of the windows. Pray do not be uneasy when I tell you, but it was not quite so airy, nor so bright, nor so cheerful, nor so happy and youthful altogether as I should have liked it to be.

On account of Mr Gowan’s painting Papa’s picture (which I am not quite convinced I should have known from the likeness if I had not seen him doing it), I have had more opportunities of being with her since then than I might have had without this fortunate chance. She is very much alone. Very much alone indeed.

Shall I tell you about the second time I saw her? I went one day, when it happened that I could run round by myself, at four or five o’clock in the afternoon. She was then dining alone, and her solitary dinner had been brought in from somewhere, over a kind of brazier with a fire in it, and she had no company or prospect of company, that I could see, but the old man who had brought it. He was telling her a long story (of robbers outside the walls being taken up by a stone statue of a Saint), to entertain her—as he said to me when I came out, ‘because he had a daughter of his own, though she was not so pretty.’

I ought now to mention Mr Gowan, before I say what little more I have to say about her. He must admire her beauty, and he must be proud of her, for everybody praises it, and he must be fond of her, and I do not doubt that he is—but in his way. You know his way, and if it appears as careless and discontented in your eyes as it does in mine, I am not wrong in thinking that it might be better suited to her. If it does not seem so to you, I am quite sure I am wholly mistaken; for your unchanged poor child confides in your knowledge and goodness more than she could ever tell you if she was to try. But don’t be frightened, I am not going to try.

Owing (as I think, if you think so too) to Mr Gowan’s unsettled and dissatisfied way, he applies himself to his profession very little. He does nothing steadily or patiently; but equally takes things up and throws them down, and does them, or leaves them undone, without caring about them. When I have heard him talking to Papa during the sittings for the picture, I have sat wondering whether it could be that he has no belief in anybody else, because he has no belief in himself. Is it so? I wonder what you will say when you come to this! I know how you will look, and I can almost hear the voice in which you would tell me on the Iron Bridge.

Mr Gowan goes out a good deal among what is considered the best company here—though he does not look as if he enjoyed it or liked it when he is with it—and she sometimes accompanies him, but lately she has gone out very little. I think I have noticed that they have an inconsistent way of speaking about her, as if she had made some great self-interested success in marrying Mr Gowan, though, at the same time, the very same people, would not have dreamed of taking him for themselves or their daughters. Then he goes into the country besides, to think about making sketches; and in all places where there are visitors, he has a large acquaintance and is very well known. Besides all this, he has a friend who is much in his society both at home and away from home, though he treats this friend very coolly and is very uncertain in his behaviour to him. I am quite sure (because she has told me so), that she does not like this friend. He is so revolting to me, too, that his being away from here, at present, is quite a relief to my mind. How much more to hers!

But what I particularly want you to know, and why I have resolved to tell you so much while I am afraid it may make you a little uncomfortable without occasion, is this. She is so true and so devoted, and knows so completely that all her love and duty are his for ever, that you may be certain she will love him, admire him, praise him, and conceal all his faults, until she dies. I believe she conceals them, and always will conceal them, even from herself. She has given him a heart that can never be taken back; and however much he may try it, he will never wear out its affection. You know the truth of this, as you know everything, far far better than I; but I cannot help telling you what a nature she shows, and that you can never think too well of her.

CAPITOLO 11. Una lettera da Little Dorrit

Caro signor Clennam,

Come ho detto nella mia ultima lettera, è meglio che nessuno mi scriva; pertanto, inviarti un’altra breve missiva non potrà causarti altro disturbo se non quello di leggerla (forse non avrai nemmeno il tempo per farlo, anche se >spero che un giorno lo avrai). Ora dedicherò un’ora a scriverti di nuovo. Questa volta, scrivo da Roma.

Abbiamo lasciato Venezia prima del signore e della signora Gowan, ma loro non sono rimasti in viaggio per molto tempo e non hanno seguito lo stesso itinerario; quindi, quando siamo arrivati, li abbiamo trovati in una locanda qui, in un posto chiamato Via Gregoriana. Scommetto che la conosciate.

Ora vi racconterò tutto ciò che so su di loro, perché so che è proprio questo che desiderate sentire di più. Il loro alloggio non è molto confortevole, ma forse l’ho giudicato meno così quando l’ho visto per la prima volta rispetto a come lo fareste voi, dato che avete viaggiato in molti paesi diversi e avete visto molte usanze diverse. Certo, è un posto molto, molto migliore di qualsiasi altro a cui fossi abituata fino a poco tempo fa; e credo di non vederlo con i miei occhi, ma con i suoi. Perché sarebbe facile capire che lei è sempre stata cresciuta in un ambiente tenero e felice, anche se non me l’avesse detto con tanto amore per esso.

Beh, è una sistemazione piuttosto spartana, situata in un corridoio buio e scarsamente illuminato; per lo più si tratta di una grande stanza monotona dove il signor Gowan dipinge. Le finestre sono tutte coperte in modo che nessuno possa guardare fuori, e le pareti sono state completamente ricoperte di gesso e carbone da persone che hanno vissuto lì prima, oh, credo per anni! C’è una tenda di un colore più simile al polvere che al rosso che divide la stanza in due parti; quella dietro la tenda costituisce il salotto privato. La prima volta che la vidi lì, era da sola, il lavoro le era caduto di mano e stava guardando il cielo che filtrava attraverso le finestre. Per favore, non vi preoccupate, ma l’ambiente non era affatto così arioso, luminoso, allegro o gioioso come avrei voluto che fosse.

A causa del dipinto di Mr Gowan, quel ritratto di papà (di cui non sono del tutto convinta che avrei dovuto riconoscerlo dalla somiglianza, se non lo avessi visto dipingerlo), da allora ho avuto molte più occasioni di stare con lei di quante ne avrei avute senza questa fortunata coincidenza. Lei è davvero molto sola. Davvero molto sola, in effetti.

Devo raccontarti della seconda volta che l’ho vista? Un giorno, quando potevo muovermi da solo, verso le quattro o cinque del pomeriggio, sono andato da lei. In quel momento stava pranzando da sola; il suo pasto era stato portato da qualche parte, su un tipo di braciere acceso. Non aveva compagnia, almeno per quanto potessi vedere. Solo quell’uomo anziano che glielo aveva portato. Le stava raccontando una lunga storia (di banditi fuori dalle mura catturati da una statua di pietra di un Santo) per distrarla. Come mi disse quando uscii: “Perché lui aveva anche una figlia sua, anche se non era così bella, ”

Ora dovrei menzionare il signor Gowan, prima di dire ciò che ho ancora da aggiungere su di lei. Deve sicuramente ammirarne la bellezza e deve essere orgoglioso di lei, perché tutti ne lodano le qualità. E devo anche credere che provi per lei dei sentimenti affettuosi; non dubito affatto che sia così, ma a modo suo. Conoscete bene il suo modo di comportarsi: forse vi sembra negligente e insoddisfatto, proprio come a me. Ma potrebbe essere più adatto a lei. Se a voi non lo sembra, allora sono sicuramente in errore; perché la vostra povera figlia, che non è mai cambiata, si fida della vostra saggezza e della vostra bontà più di quanto potrebbe mai esprimere a parole. Ma non temete: non ho intenzione di cercare di capire meglio.

A causa del modo incerto e insoddisfatto del signor Gowan, si dedica molto poco alla sua professione. Non fa nulla con costanza o pazienza; prende in mano un progetto e lo abbandona subito dopo, senza curarsene affatto. Quando l’ho sentito parlare con papà durante le sessioni di lavoro per il dipinto, mi sono chiesta se potesse essere che non abbia fiducia in nessuno, perché non ha fiducia nemmeno in sé stesso. È davvero così? Mi chiedo cosa dirai quando verrai a saperlo. So già come sarai e quasi riesco a immaginare la tua voce mentre me lo dirai sul Ponte di Ferro.

Il signor Gowan frequenta spesso le compagnie ritenute le migliori di qui; tuttavia non sembra che gli piaccia davvero stare con loro. A volte lei lo accompagna, ma ultimamente esce molto meno di prima. Ho notato che la gente parla di lei in modo contraddittorio: come se avesse ottenuto un grande successo sposando il signor Gowan, per motivi puramente egoistici. Eppure le stesse persone non avrebbero mai pensato di prenderlo per marito loro o per le loro figlie. Inoltre, lui va spesso in campagna per disegnare schizzi; ovunque ci siano visitatori, è molto conosciuto e apprezzato. Ha anche un amico che frequenta assiduamente sia a casa sua che fuori. Ma lui tratta questo amico in modo molto freddo e il suo comportamento nei suoi confronti è davvero incerto. Sono sicura (perché me l’ha detto lei stessa) che a lei non piaccia affatto questo amico. Anche a me sembra davvero disgustoso; quindi il fatto che al momento sia lontano da qui mi rallegra molto. E chissà quanto la rallegri anche lei!

Ma ciò che desidero particolarmente che voi sappiate, e il motivo per cui ho deciso di raccontarvi tutto questo, anche se temo possa mettervi a disagio senza alcuna necessità, è questo: lei è così sincera e devota, e comprende così pienamente che tutto il suo amore e i suoi doveri appartengono a lui per sempre, che potete essere certi che lo amerà, lo ammirerà, lo loderà e nasconderà tutti i suoi difetti fino alla fine dei suoi giorni. Credo davvero che li nasconda, e che continuerà sempre a farlo, anche da sé stessa. Gli ha donato un cuore che non potrà mai essere ripreso indietro; e per quanto lui possa cercare di spezzarlo, non riuscirà mai ad esaurirne l’affetto. Voi conoscete la verità di queste cose, come conoscete tutto il resto, molto meglio di me; ma non posso fare a meno di dirvi quale tipo di persona sia, e che non potete mai giudicarla abbastanza bene.

I have not yet called her by her name in this letter, but we are such friends now that I do so when we are quietly together, and she speaks to me by my name—I mean, not my Christian name, but the name you gave me. When she began to call me Amy, I told her my short story, and that you had always called me Little Dorrit. I told her that the name was much dearer to me than any other, and so she calls me Little Dorrit too.

Perhaps you have not heard from her father or mother yet, and may not know that she has a baby son. He was born only two days ago, and just a week after they came. It has made them very happy. However, I must tell you, as I am to tell you all, that I fancy they are under a constraint with Mr Gowan, and that they feel as if his mocking way with them was sometimes a slight given to their love for her. It was but yesterday, when I was there, that I saw Mr Meagles change colour, and get up and go out, as if he was afraid that he might say so, unless he prevented himself by that means. Yet I am sure they are both so considerate, good-humoured, and reasonable, that he might spare them. It is hard in him not to think of them a little more.

I stopped at the last full stop to read all this over. It looked at first as if I was taking on myself to understand and explain so much, that I was half inclined not to send it. But when I thought it over a little, I felt more hopeful for your knowing at once that I had only been watchful for you, and had only noticed what I think I have noticed, because I was quickened by your interest in it. Indeed, you may be sure that is the truth.

And now I have done with the subject in the present letter, and have little left to say.

We are all quite well, and Fanny improves every day. You can hardly think how kind she is to me, and what pains she takes with me. She has a lover, who has followed her, first all the way from Switzerland, and then all the way from Venice, and who has just confided to me that he means to follow her everywhere. I was much confused by his speaking to me about it, but he would. I did not know what to say, but at last I told him that I thought he had better not. For Fanny (but I did not tell him this) is much too spirited and clever to suit him. Still, he said he would, all the same. I have no lover, of course.

If you should ever get so far as this in this long letter, you will perhaps say, Surely Little Dorrit will not leave off without telling me something about her travels, and surely it is time she did. I think it is indeed, but I don’t know what to tell you. Since we left Venice we have been in a great many wonderful places, Genoa and Florence among them, and have seen so many wonderful sights, that I am almost giddy when I think what a crowd they make. But you can tell me so much more about them than I can tell you, that why should I tire you with my accounts and descriptions?

Dear Mr Clennam, as I had the courage to tell you what the familiar difficulties in my travelling mind were before, I will not be a coward now. One of my frequent thoughts is this:—Old as these cities are, their age itself is hardly so curious, to my reflections, as that they should have been in their places all through those days when I did not even know of the existence of more than two or three of them, and when I scarcely knew of anything outside our old walls. There is something melancholy in it, and I don’t know why. When we went to see the famous leaning tower at Pisa, it was a bright sunny day, and it and the buildings near it looked so old, and the earth and the sky looked so young, and its shadow on the ground was so soft and retired! I could not at first think how beautiful it was, or how curious, but I thought, ‘O how many times when the shadow of the wall was falling on our room, and when that weary tread of feet was going up and down the yard—O how many times this place was just as quiet and lovely as it is to-day!’ It quite overpowered me. My heart was so full that tears burst out of my eyes, though I did what I could to restrain them. And I have the same feeling often—often.

Do you know that since the change in our fortunes, though I appear to myself to have dreamed more than before, I have always dreamed of myself as very young indeed! I am not very old, you may say. No, but that is not what I mean. I have always dreamed of myself as a child learning to do needlework. I have often dreamed of myself as back there, seeing faces in the yard little known, and which I should have thought I had quite forgotten; but, as often as not, I have been abroad here—in Switzerland, or France, or Italy—somewhere where we have been—yet always as that little child. I have dreamed of going down to Mrs General, with the patches on my clothes in which I can first remember myself. I have over and over again dreamed of taking my place at dinner at Venice when we have had a large company, in the mourning for my poor mother which I wore when I was eight years old, and wore long after it was threadbare and would mend no more. It has been a great distress to me to think how irreconcilable the company would consider it with my father’s wealth, and how I should displease and disgrace him and Fanny and Edward by so plainly disclosing what they wished to keep secret. But I have not grown out of the little child in thinking of it; and at the self-same moment I have dreamed that I have sat with the heart-ache at table, calculating the expenses of the dinner, and quite distracting myself with thinking how they were ever to be made good. I have never dreamed of the change in our fortunes itself; I have never dreamed of your coming back with me that memorable morning to break it; I have never even dreamed of you.

Dear Mr Clennam, it is possible that I have thought of you—and others—so much by day, that I have no thoughts left to wander round you by night. For I must now confess to you that I suffer from home-sickness—that I long so ardently and earnestly for home, as sometimes, when no one sees me, to pine for it. I cannot bear to turn my face further away from it. My heart is a little lightened when we turn towards it, even for a few miles, and with the knowledge that we are soon to turn away again. So dearly do I love the scene of my poverty and your kindness. O so dearly, O so dearly!

Heaven knows when your poor child will see England again. We are all fond of the life here (except me), and there are no plans for our return. My dear father talks of a visit to London late in this next spring, on some affairs connected with the property, but I have no hope that he will bring me with him.

I have tried to get on a little better under Mrs General’s instruction, and I hope I am not quite so dull as I used to be. I have begun to speak and understand, almost easily, the hard languages I told you about. I did not remember, at the moment when I wrote last, that you knew them both; but I remembered it afterwards, and it helped me on. God bless you, dear Mr Clennam. Do not forget

Your ever grateful and affectionate

LITTLE DORRIT.

P.S.—Particularly remember that Minnie Gowan deserves the best remembrance in which you can hold her. You cannot think too generously or too highly of her. I forgot Mr Pancks last time. Please, if you should see him, give him your Little Dorrit’s kind regard. He was very good to Little D.

Non l’ho ancora chiamata per nome in questa lettera, ma ora siamo così amiche che lo faccio quando siamo da sole in tranquillità, e lei mi parla anche con il mio nome. Intendo, non il mio nome cristiano, ma quello che tu mi hai dato. Quando ha iniziato a chiamarmi Amy, le ho raccontato la mia storia breve e le ho detto che tu mi avevi sempre chiamata Little Dorrit. Le ho spiegato che quel nome era molto più caro per me di qualsiasi altro, e così ora anche lei mi chiama Little Dorrit.

Forse non avete ancora ricevuto notizie da suo padre o sua madre, e potreste non sapere che ha avuto un bambino maschio. È nato soltanto due giorni fa, appena una settimana dopo il loro arrivo. Questo li ha resi molto felici. Tuttavia devo dirvi, proprio come lo dico a tutti voi, che credo siano sotto qualche tipo di costrizione da parte del signor Gowan. E che il suo modo sarcastico e derisorio nei loro confronti sembri a volte una offesa alla loro amore per lei. Ieri stesso, quando ero lì, ho visto il signor Meagles cambiare colore, alzarsi e uscire. Come se temesse di dirlo ad alta voce, se non si fosse trattenuto in quel modo. Eppure sono sicura che entrambi siano così premurosi, gentili e ragionevoli. Che lui potrebbe risparmiarli. È difficile per lui non pensare un po’ di più a loro.

Mi sono fermato all’ultima punteggiatura per rileggere tutto quanto. All’inizio mi è sembrato che assumessi su di me la responsabilità di comprendere e spiegare tante cose, al punto da essere quasi tentato a non inviarlo. Ma dopo averci pensato un po’ di più, ho ripreso fiducia nel fatto che tu possa capire immediatamente che ho semplicemente prestato attenzione a ciò che ritengo sia importante, e l’ho fatto soltanto perché il tuo interesse per l’argomento mi ha motivato. In effetti, puoi essere certo che questa è la verità.

E ora ho finito di trattare l’argomento in questa lettera; non mi resta molto da dire.

Tutti noi stiamo abbastanza bene, e Fanny migliora ogni giorno. È difficile immaginare quanto sia gentile con me e quante attenzioni mi dedichi. Ha un amante che l’ha seguita: prima fino alla Svizzera, poi fino a >Venezia, e mi ha appena confidato che intende seguirla ovunque vada. Sono stata molto confusa quando me ne ha parlato, ma lui insisteva. Non sapevo cosa dire, ma alla fine gli ho detto che forse non sarebbe stato meglio per lui. Perché Fanny (ma non gliel’ho detto) è troppo vivace e intelligente per lui. Comunque, lui ha insistito lo stesso. Io, naturalmente, non ho nessun amante.

Se mai arrivaste fino a questa parte di questa lunga lettera, forse direste: “Di certo Little Dorrit non smetterà senza raccontarmi qualcosa dei suoi viaggi. E sicuramente è già ora che lo faccia”. Penso proprio che lo sia, ma non so cosa dirvi. Da quando abbiamo lasciato Venezia, siamo stati in moltissimi posti meravigliosi: Genova, Firenze. E abbiamo visto tante cose straordinarie che quasi mi gira la testa al pensiero di quante siano. Ma voi potete raccontarmi molto di più su di esse di quanto io possa farlo. Quindi, perché dovrei stancarvi con i miei resoconti e descrizioni?

Caro signor Clennam, poiché ho avuto il coraggio di raccontarvi in precedenza delle difficoltà che la mia mente ha nel viaggiare attraverso il tempo, ora non sarò certo un codardo. Uno dei miei pensieri più frequenti è questo: per quanto queste città siano antiche, la loro stessa età, a mio parere, non è certo ciò che le rende davvero interessanti. Piuttosto, ciò che le rende straordinarie è il fatto che siano esistite in quei tempi lontani, quando io non conoscevo nemmeno l’esistenza di due o tre di esse, e quando sapevo ben poco di tutto ciò che si trovava al di fuori delle nostre antiche mura. C’è qualcosa di melancolico in questo pensiero. Non so esattamente perché. Quando siamo andati a vedere la famosa torre inclinata di Pisa, era una giornata serena e soleggiata; la torre e gli edifici circostanti sembravano così antichi, mentre la terra e il cielo apparivano così giovani. L’ombra che proiettava a terra era così dolce e delicata. All’inizio non riuscivo nemmeno a capire quanto fosse bella. Ma poi ho pensato: “Quante volte, in passato, l’ombra di quella torre cadeva sulla nostra stanza, e quei passi stanchi salivano e scendevano per il cortile. Quante volte questo posto era proprio così tranquillo e incantevole come oggi, ” Quel pensiero mi ha completamente sopraffatto. Il mio cuore si è riempito di emozione, e le lacrime sono scese dai miei occhi. Anche ora provo spesso lo stesso sentimento.

Sai che, da quando sono cambiate le nostre fortune, anche se a me sembra di sognare più spesso del solito, i miei sogni riguardano sempre me stessa da bambina? Non sono molto vecchia, potresti dire. No, non è questo che intendo. I miei sogni mostrano sempre una me piccola che impara a fare lavori di cucito; spesso sogno di essere lì, nel cortile, a osservare volti poco conosciuti, che avrei dovuto pensare di aver completamente dimenticato. Ma molto spesso mi trovo all’estero: in Svizzera, in Francia o in Italia, in posti dove siamo stati. E sempre come quella piccola bambina. Ho sognato di andare da Madame General, con i rattoppi sui miei vestiti. Ho sognato più e più volte di sedermi a tavola durante una cena a Venezia, quando c’era molta gente; ho sognato di indossare il lutto per mia povera madre, quel vestito che portavo all’età di otto anni. E che continuavo a indossare anche dopo che era diventato logoro e non si poteva più riparare. È stato molto doloroso pensare a come tutti avrebbero trovato incompatibile tutto questo con la ricchezza di mio padre. E a come avrei potuto deluderlo, disonorarlo insieme a Fanny ed Edward, rivelando così apertamente ciò che loro volevano tenere segreto. Ma nel pensare a queste cose, non sono mai cresciuta oltre quella piccola bambina. E nello stesso tempo, ho sognato di sedermi a tavola con quel dolore nel cuore, calcolando le spese per la cena. E cercando disperatamente un modo per coprirle. Non ho mai sognato il cambiamento delle nostre fortune in sé; non ho mai sognato il tuo ritorno con me quella mattina memorabile che ha cambiato tutto. Non ho nemmeno mai sognato di te.

Caro signor Clennam, è possibile che di giorno pensi così spesso a voi e ad altri, da non avere più alcun pensiero che possa vagare intorno a voi di notte. Devo ora confessarvi che soffro di una sorta di “malattia del cuore” legata alla casa. Desidero ardentemente tornare a casa mia, talvolta, quando nessuno mi vede, provo un dolore profondo per la sua lontananza. Non riesco proprio a distogliere lo sguardo da essa. Il mio cuore si rallegra anche solo per pochi chilometri percorsi verso casa, e soprattutto sapendo che presto tornerò indietro. Amo così tanto quel luogo segnato dalla mia povertà, e la vostra gentilezza. Oh, quanto la amo!

Solo il cielo sa quando tuo povero >bambino riuscirà a vedere di nuovo l’Inghilterra. A noi tutti piace molto la vita qui (tranne che a me), e non ci sono piani per il nostro ritorno. Mio caro padre parla di una visita a >Londra verso la fine della prossima Primavera, per questioni legate alla proprietà, ma non ho alcuna >speranza che mi porti con sé.

Ho cercato di migliorare un po’ sotto la guida della signora Generale, e >spero di non essere più così noioso come prima. Ho iniziato a parlare e a capire, quasi facilmente, quelle lingue difficili di cui vi ho parlato. Non mi ricordavo, nel momento in cui ho scritto l’ultima volta, che le conoscevate entrambe; ma me ne sono ricordato dopo, e questo mi è stato d’aiuto. Che Dio vi benedica, caro signor Clennam. Non dimenticate.

Sempre grato e affettuoso

Piccola Dorrit.

P.S.: Ricordatevi soprattutto che Minnie Gowan merita il miglior ricordo possibile da parte vostra. Non potete pensare a lei in modo troppo generoso o troppo lusinghiero. L’ultima volta ho dimenticato di menzionare Mr Pancks. Per favore, se lo incontrate, trasmettetegli i miei saluti affettuosi da parte di Little Dorrit. È stato davvero molto gentile con lei.

CHAPTER 12. In which a Great Patriotic Conference is holden

The famous name of Merdle became, every day, more famous in the land. Nobody knew that the Merdle of such high renown had ever done any good to any one, alive or dead, or to any earthly thing; nobody knew that he had any capacity or utterance of any sort in him, which had ever thrown, for any creature, the feeblest farthing-candle ray of light on any path of duty or diversion, pain or pleasure, toil or rest, fact or fancy, among the multiplicity of paths in the labyrinth trodden by the sons of Adam; nobody had the smallest reason for supposing the clay of which this object of worship was made, to be other than the commonest clay, with as clogged a wick smouldering inside of it as ever kept an image of humanity from tumbling to pieces. All people knew (or thought they knew) that he had made himself immensely rich; and, for that reason alone, prostrated themselves before him, more degradedly and less excusably than the darkest savage creeps out of his hole in the ground to propitiate, in some log or reptile, the Deity of his benighted soul.

Nay, the high priests of this worship had the man before them as a protest against their meanness. The multitude worshipped on trust—though always distinctly knowing why—but the officiators at the altar had the man habitually in their view. They sat at his feasts, and he sat at theirs. There was a spectre always attendant on him, saying to these high priests, ‘Are such the signs you trust, and love to honour; this head, these eyes, this mode of speech, the tone and manner of this man? You are the levers of the Circumlocution Office, and the rulers of men. When half-a-dozen of you fall out by the ears, it seems that mother earth can give birth to no other rulers. Does your qualification lie in the superior knowledge of men which accepts, courts, and puffs this man? Or, if you are competent to judge aright the signs I never fail to show you when he appears among you, is your superior honesty your qualification?’ Two rather ugly questions these, always going about town with Mr Merdle; and there was a tacit agreement that they must be stifled.

In Mrs Merdle’s absence abroad, Mr Merdle still kept the great house open for the passage through it of a stream Of visitors. A few of these took affable possession of the establishment. Three or four ladies of distinction and liveliness used to say to one another, ‘Let us dine at our dear Merdle’s next Thursday. Whom shall we have?’ Our dear Merdle would then receive his instructions; and would sit heavily among the company at table and wander lumpishly about his drawing-rooms afterwards, only remarkable for appearing to have nothing to do with the entertainment beyond being in its way.

The Chief Butler, the Avenging Spirit of this great man’s life, relaxed nothing of his severity. He looked on at these dinners when the bosom was not there, as he looked on at other dinners when the bosom was there; and his eye was a basilisk to Mr Merdle. He was a hard man, and would never bate an ounce of plate or a bottle of wine. He would not allow a dinner to be given, unless it was up to his mark. He set forth the table for his own dignity. If the guests chose to partake of what was served, he saw no objection; but it was served for the maintenance of his rank. As he stood by the sideboard he seemed to announce, ‘I have accepted office to look at this which is now before me, and to look at nothing less than this.’ If he missed the presiding bosom, it was as a part of his own state of which he was, from unavoidable circumstances, temporarily deprived, just as he might have missed a centre-piece, or a choice wine-cooler, which had been sent to the Banker’s.

Mr Merdle issued invitations for a Barnacle dinner. Lord Decimus was to be there, Mr Tite Barnacle was to be there, the pleasant young Barnacle was to be there; and the Chorus of Parliamentary Barnacles who went about the provinces when the House was up, warbling the praises of their Chief, were to be represented there. It was understood to be a great occasion. Mr Merdle was going to take up the Barnacles. Some delicate little negotiations had occurred between him and the noble Decimus—the young Barnacle of engaging manners acting as negotiator—and Mr Merdle had decided to cast the weight of his great probity and great riches into the Barnacle scale. Jobbery was suspected by the malicious; perhaps because it was indisputable that if the adherence of the immortal Enemy of Mankind could have been secured by a job, the Barnacles would have jobbed him—for the good of the country, for the good of the country.

Mrs Merdle had written to this magnificent spouse of hers, whom it was heresy to regard as anything less than all the British Merchants since the days of Whittington rolled into one, and gilded three feet deep all over—had written to this spouse of hers, several letters from Rome, in quick succession, urging upon him with importunity that now or never was the time to provide for Edmund Sparkler. Mrs Merdle had shown him that the case of Edmund was urgent, and that infinite advantages might result from his having some good thing directly. In the grammar of Mrs Merdle’s verbs on this momentous subject, there was only one mood, the Imperative; and that Mood had only one Tense, the Present. Mrs Merdle’s verbs were so pressingly presented to Mr Merdle to conjugate, that his sluggish blood and his long coat-cuffs became quite agitated.

In which state of agitation, Mr Merdle, evasively rolling his eyes round the Chief Butler’s shoes without raising them to the index of that stupendous creature’s thoughts, had signified to him his intention of giving a special dinner: not a very large dinner, but a very special dinner. The Chief Butler had signified, in return, that he had no objection to look on at the most expensive thing in that way that could be done; and the day of the dinner was now come.

CAPITOLO 12. In cui si tiene una grande conferenza patriottica

Il famoso nome di Merdle diveniva, giorno dopo giorno, sempre più noto in quel paese. Nessuno sapeva che quel personaggio così rinomato avesse mai fatto del bene a qualcuno, vivo o morto, né a qualsiasi cosa terrena; nessuno sapeva che possedesse alcuna capacità o abilità in grado di guidare, anche solo minimamente, chiunque lungo il cammino del dovere o del piacere, del lavoro o del riposo, della realtà o dell’immaginazione, tra le infinite possibilità offerte dal mondo. Nessuno aveva la minima ragione per supporre che quella “statua” di adorazione fosse fatta di qualcosa di diverso dalla comune argilla, e che al suo interno ci fosse una “cera” in grado di far brillare, anche solo per un istante, una luce di speranza o saggezza. Tutti sapevano (o pensavano di sapere) che si era arricchito enormemente; ed era proprio per questo motivo che tutti si prostravano davanti a lui, in modo ancora più umiliante e incomprensibile di quanto facciano i selvaggi più primitivi quando cercano di placare la loro dea oscura, attraverso un tronco d’albero o un rettile.

No, i grandi sacerdoti di questo culto avevano quell’uomo davanti a loro come simbolo della loro meschinità. La folla pregava in fiducia – anche se sempre consapevole del motivo per cui lo faceva – ma coloro che officiavano all’altare lo tenevano costantemente sotto gli occhi: partecipavano alle sue feste, e lui alle loro. C’era sempre uno “spettro” che lo accompagnava, dicendo a quei grandi sacerdoti: “Sono questi i segni in cui confidate, che amate e onorate? Questa testa, questi occhi, questo modo di parlare, il tono e l’atteggiamento di quest’uomo. Voi siete i governanti degli uomini; quando una mezza dozzina di voi litiga aspramente, sembra che la terra non possa generare altri capi. La vostra qualifica risiede forse nella conoscenza superiore degli esseri umani, che accetta, lusinga e esalta quest’uomo? Oppure, se siete davvero in grado di giudicare correttamente i segni che io non manco mai di mostrarvi quando appare tra voi, è la vostra integrità a costituire la vostra qualifica?” Due domande piuttosto spiacevoli, sempre presenti in città insieme a Mr Merdle; e c’era un tacito accordo per soffocarle.

In assenza della signora Merdle all’estero, il signor Merdle continuava a tenere aperta la grande casa per permettere il passaggio di numerosi visitatori. Alcuni di questi presero possesso dell’edificio con aria amichevole. Tre o quattro dame distinte e vivaci si dicevano l’un l’altra: “Andiamo a cena da nostro caro Merdle la prossima giovedì. Chi inviteremo?” Il signor Merdle riceveva poi le istruzioni necessarie; durante il pasto sedeva pesantemente tra gli ospiti, mentre dopo si aggirava goffamente per i salotti, senza sembrare avere alcun ruolo effettivo nell’organizzazione degli eventi, se non quello di ostacolarli.

Il Capo Cameriere, lo “spirito vendicatore” della vita di questo grande uomo, non allentava mai la sua severità. Guardava queste cene con lo stesso distacco con cui osservava le altre; per Mr Merdle il suo sguardo era davvero terribile. Era un uomo duro: non permetteva che venisse servita nemmeno una fetta di carne in più o una bottiglia di vino in meno. Non tollerava che si organizzasse una cena che non fosse all’altezza delle sue aspettative; allestiva la tavola soltanto per il proprio prestigio. Se gli ospiti decidevano di mangiare ciò che veniva servito, lui non aveva obiezioni, ma tutto veniva preparato esclusivamente al fine di mantenere la sua posizione sociale. Mentre stava accanto all’armadietto dei bicchieri, sembrava dichiarare: “Ho assunto questo incarico proprio per vegliare su ciò che mi sta davanti, e nient’altro”. Se mancava il personale addetto al servizio, era come se fosse temporaneamente privato di un elemento essenziale per la sua funzione, proprio come se gli fossero mancati un piatto centrale o un ottimo frigorifero da vini inviati dal Banchiere.

Mr Merdle inviò gli inviti per una cena organizzata dai “Barnacle”. Avrebbero partecipato Lord Decimus, Mr Tite Barnacle, il giovane e affabile Barnacle. E anche il “Coro” dei membri del Parlamento appartenenti al gruppo dei “Barnacle”, che viaggiavano per le province quando la Casa era in sessione, cantando lodi per il loro capo. Si trattava senz’altro di un’occasione importante. Mr Merdle intendeva assumere un ruolo di primo piano all’interno del gruppo dei “Barnacle”. Erano avvenute alcune delicate negoziazioni tra lui e il nobile Decimus – con il giovane Barnacle, dal comportamento impeccabile, che agiva da intermediario – e Mr Merdle aveva deciso di utilizzare tutto il peso della propria integrità e delle proprie immense ricchezze per influenzare le decisioni del gruppo. I maliziosi sospettavano che si trattasse di pratiche illecite. Forse perché era indiscutibile che, se l’adesione dell’“Immortale Nemico dell’Umanità” avesse potuto essere ottenuta attraverso corruzione, i “Barnacle” l’avrebbero certamente fatto. Per il bene del paese, naturalmente.

La signora Merdle aveva scritto a questo suo magnifico coniuge, al quale era eresia considerarlo qualcosa di meno che la somma di tutti i commercianti britannici dai tempi di Whittington in poi. Aveva inviato diverse lettere da Roma, insistendo con insistenza sul fatto che ora o mai fosse il momento giusto per provvedere a Edmund Sparkler. Gli aveva mostrato quanto la situazione di Edmund fosse urgente, e che ottenere qualcosa di concreto per lui potesse portare a innumerevoli vantaggi. Nel “grammatico” dei verbi utilizzati dalla signora Merdle su questo argomento così importante, esisteva soltanto un modo verbale: l’Imperativo; e quel modo verbale aveva soltanto un tempo: il Presente. I verbi della signora Merdle venivano presentati a il signor Merdle in modo così pressante che il suo sangue lento e le sue lunghe maniche del cappotto finirono per agitarsi notevolmente.

In quale stato di agitazione, Signor Merdle, con movimenti evasivi degli occhi intorno alle scarpe del Capo Cameriere, senza riuscire a comprendere i pensieri di quella straordinaria persona, aveva espresso l’intenzione di organizzare una cena speciale: non una cena molto grande, ma davvero molto speciale. Il Capo Cameriere, a sua volta, aveva fatto capire che non aveva obiezioni ad occuparsi della preparazione dell’evento nel modo più costoso possibile; e ora era arrivato il giorno della cena.

Mr Merdle stood in one of his drawing-rooms, with his back to the fire, waiting for the arrival of his important guests. He seldom or never took the liberty of standing with his back to the fire unless he was quite alone. In the presence of the Chief Butler, he could not have done such a deed. He would have clasped himself by the wrists in that constabulary manner of his, and have paced up and down the hearthrug, or gone creeping about among the rich objects of furniture, if his oppressive retainer had appeared in the room at that very moment. The sly shadows which seemed to dart out of hiding when the fire rose, and to dart back into it when the fire fell, were sufficient witnesses of his making himself so easy. They were even more than sufficient, if his uncomfortable glances at them might be taken to mean anything.

Mr Merdle’s right hand was filled with the evening paper, and the evening paper was full of Mr Merdle. His wonderful enterprise, his wonderful wealth, his wonderful Bank, were the fattening food of the evening paper that night. The wonderful Bank, of which he was the chief projector, establisher, and manager, was the latest of the many Merdle wonders. So modest was Mr Merdle withal, in the midst of these splendid achievements, that he looked far more like a man in possession of his house under a distraint, than a commercial Colossus bestriding his own hearthrug, while the little ships were sailing into dinner.

Behold the vessels coming into port! The engaging young Barnacle was the first arrival; but Bar overtook him on the staircase. Bar, strengthened as usual with his double eye-glass and his little jury droop, was overjoyed to see the engaging young Barnacle; and opined that we were going to sit in Banco, as we lawyers called it, to take a special argument?

‘Indeed,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle, whose name was Ferdinand; ‘how so?’

‘Nay,’ smiled Bar. ‘If you don’t know, how can I know? You are in the innermost sanctuary of the temple; I am one of the admiring concourse on the plain without.’

Bar could be light in hand, or heavy in hand, according to the customer he had to deal with. With Ferdinand Barnacle he was gossamer. Bar was likewise always modest and self-depreciatory—in his way. Bar was a man of great variety; but one leading thread ran through the woof of all his patterns. Every man with whom he had to do was in his eyes a jury-man; and he must get that jury-man over, if he could.

‘Our illustrious host and friend,’ said Bar; ‘our shining mercantile star;—going into politics?’

‘Going? He has been in Parliament some time, you know,’ returned the engaging young Barnacle.

‘True,’ said Bar, with his light-comedy laugh for special jury-men, which was a very different thing from his low-comedy laugh for comic tradesmen on common juries: ‘he has been in Parliament for some time. Yet hitherto our star has been a vacillating and wavering star? Humph?’

An average witness would have been seduced by the Humph? into an affirmative answer, But Ferdinand Barnacle looked knowingly at Bar as he strolled up-stairs, and gave him no answer at all.

‘Just so, just so,’ said Bar, nodding his head, for he was not to be put off in that way, ‘and therefore I spoke of our sitting in Banco to take a special argument—meaning this to be a high and solemn occasion, when, as Captain Macheath says, “the judges are met: a terrible show!” We lawyers are sufficiently liberal, you see, to quote the Captain, though the Captain is severe upon us. Nevertheless, I think I could put in evidence an admission of the Captain’s,’ said Bar, with a little jocose roll of his head; for, in his legal current of speech, he always assumed the air of rallying himself with the best grace in the world; ‘an admission of the Captain’s that Law, in the gross, is at least intended to be impartial. For what says the Captain, if I quote him correctly—and if not,’ with a light-comedy touch of his double eye-glass on his companion’s shoulder, ‘my learned friend will set me right:

“Since laws were made for every degree, To curb vice in others as well as in me, I wonder we ha’n’t better company Upon Tyburn Tree!”’

These words brought them to the drawing-room, where Mr Merdle stood before the fire. So immensely astounded was Mr Merdle by the entrance of Bar with such a reference in his mouth, that Bar explained himself to have been quoting Gay. ‘Assuredly not one of our Westminster Hall authorities,’ said he, ‘but still no despicable one to a man possessing the largely-practical Mr Merdle’s knowledge of the world.’

Mr Merdle looked as if he thought he would say something, but subsequently looked as if he thought he wouldn’t. The interval afforded time for Bishop to be announced.

Bishop came in with meekness, and yet with a strong and rapid step as if he wanted to get his seven-league dress-shoes on, and go round the world to see that everybody was in a satisfactory state. Bishop had no idea that there was anything significant in the occasion. That was the most remarkable trait in his demeanour. He was crisp, fresh, cheerful, affable, bland; but so surprisingly innocent.

Bar sidled up to prefer his politest inquiries in reference to the health of Mrs Bishop. Mrs Bishop had been a little unfortunate in the article of taking cold at a Confirmation, but otherwise was well. Young Mr Bishop was also well. He was down, with his young wife and little family, at his Cure of Souls.

The representatives of the Barnacle Chorus dropped in next, and Mr Merdle’s physician dropped in next. Bar, who had a bit of one eye and a bit of his double eye-glass for every one who came in at the door, no matter with whom he was conversing or what he was talking about, got among them all by some skilful means, without being seen to get at them, and touched each individual gentleman of the jury on his own individual favourite spot. With some of the Chorus, he laughed about the sleepy member who had gone out into the lobby the other night, and voted the wrong way: with others, he deplored that innovating spirit in the time which could not even be prevented from taking an unnatural interest in the public service and the public money: with the physician he had a word to say about the general health; he had also a little information to ask him for, concerning a professional man of unquestioned erudition and polished manners—but those credentials in their highest development he believed were the possession of other professors of the healing art (jury droop)—whom he had happened to have in the witness-box the day before yesterday, and from whom he had elicited in cross-examination that he claimed to be one of the exponents of this new mode of treatment which appeared to Bar to—eh?—well, Bar thought so; Bar had thought, and hoped, Physician would tell him so. Without presuming to decide where doctors disagreed, it did appear to Bar, viewing it as a question of common sense and not of so-called legal penetration, that this new system was—might be, in the presence of so great an authority—say, Humbug? Ah! Fortified by such encouragement, he could venture to say Humbug; and now Bar’s mind was relieved.

Signor Merdle stava in uno dei suoi salotti, con le spalle rivolte verso il focolare, in attesa dell’arrivo dei suoi importanti ospiti. Raramente, o mai, si permetteva di stare con le spalle al focolare se non quando era completamente sicuro di essere da solo. In presenza del maggiordomo capo, non avrebbe mai osato farlo: si sarebbe afferrato i polsi in quel suo modo caratteristico e avrebbe camminato avanti e indietro sul tappeto del camino, o si sarebbe aggirato tra gli oggetti costosi dell’arredamento, se solo il suo oppressivo attendente fosse apparso nella stanza in quel momento. Le ombre sottili che sembravano uscire dal nascondiglio quando il focolare si ravvivava, e ritirarsi nuovamente quando si spegneva, erano prove sufficienti del suo comportamento disinvolto. Anzi, erano più che sufficienti, se si poteva dare un significato ai suoi sguardi imbarazzati verso di esse.

La mano destra di Mr Merdle era piena del giornale serale, e quel giornale serale era pieno di notizie su Mr Merdle. La sua meravigliosa impresa, la sua immensa ricchezza, la sua straordinaria banca, tutto questo costituiva il “cibo” principale del giornale serale di quella notte. Quella banca, della quale lui era il principale ideatore, fondatore e direttore, rappresentava l’ultima delle molteplici “meraviglie” di Merdle. Eppure, nonostante tutti questi straordinari successi, Mr Merdle era così umile che sembrava molto più un uomo il cui “casa” era sotto sequestro, piuttosto che un colosso del mondo degli affari che dominava completamente la propria vita, proprio mentre i suoi piccoli “navicelli commerciali” continuavano a “ navigare verso il successo”.

Ecco i battelli che entrano in porto! Il affascinante giovane Barnacle è arrivato per primo; ma Bar lo ha raggiunto sulle scale. Bar, come al solito rinforzato dal suo doppio occhialino e dalla sua tipica espressione pensierosa, era estremamente felice di vedere il giovane Barnacle; e ha detto che probabilmente avremmo seduto insieme, come noi avvocati diciamo, per discutere di un argomento particolare.

“Infatti,” disse il vivace giovane Barnacle, il cui nome era Ferdinando; “perché?”

“No,” sorrise Bar. “Se tu non lo sai, come posso io saperlo? Tu ti trovi nel santuario più segreto del tempio; io sono solo uno dei tanti che lo ammirano da fuori.”

Il bicchiere poteva essere leggero o pesante, a seconda della persona con cui si aveva a che fare. Con Ferdinand Barnacle era estremamente gentile e rispettoso; in ogni caso, il suo comportamento era sempre modesto e auto-deprecatorio, nel proprio modo. Era un uomo molto versatile, ma c’era un filo conduttore che attraversava tutti i suoi modi di comportarsi: per lui, ogni persona con cui aveva a che fare rappresentava, in un certo senso, un “giurato”; e doveva cercare in ogni modo di conquistare la loro simpatia.

“Il nostro illustre ospite e amico,” disse Bar, “la nostra luminosa stella del commercio, sta entrando in politica?”

“Vai via? Sai, è già stato al Parlamento per un po’ di tempo,” rispose il giovane e affascinante Barnacle.

“Vero,” disse Bar, con quella sua risata leggermente comica rivolta ai membri del giurì speciale, una risata molto diversa da quella sua risata bassa e comica rivolta ai commercianti comuni nei giurì ordinari: “È stato nel Parlamento per un po’ di tempo. Eppure finora la nostra ‘stella’ è stata incerta e vacillante? Humph, ”

Un testimone qualunque sarebbe stato indotto da Humph a dare una risposta affermativa, ma Ferdinando Barnacle guardò Bar con aria complice mentre questi saliva le scale e non gli diede affatto alcuna risposta.

“Proprio così, proprio così,” disse Bar annuendo con la testa, perché non voleva essere dissuaso in quel modo; “e per questo ho parlato del nostro incontro in Banco per discutere un argomento particolare, intendendo che si trattasse di un’occasione importante e solenne, quando, come dice il Capitano Macheath, ‘i giudici si riuniscono: uno spettacolo terribile!’ Noi avvocati siamo abbastanza liberali, vedete, da citare le parole del Capitano, anche se lui è severo con noi. Comunque, credo di poter presentare una dichiarazione del Capitano che confermi che la Legge, nel suo insieme, intenda comunque essere imparziale. Perché cosa dice il Capitano, se ricordo bene, e se non ricordo bene,” aggiunse con un leggero tocco umoristico, posando il proprio occhialino sulle spalle del compagno, “il mio stimato amico mi correggerà, ”

“Poiché le leggi sono fatte per ogni situazione,
per reprimere il vizio negli altri tanto quanto in me stesso,
mi chiedo perché non abbiamo compagnia più adatta
sul patibolo di Tyburn, ”

Queste parole li portarono nel salotto, dove Signor Merdle stava davanti al >focolare. Signor Merdle era così sbalordito dall’arrivo di Bar con una citazione del genere che quest’ultimo spiegò di aver semplicemente riportato le parole di Gay. “Certamente non uno degli autori autorevoli della Westminster Hall,” disse, “ma comunque nessuno di poco valore per un uomo che possiede la vasta e pratica conoscenza del mondo del Signor Merdle.”

Signor Merdle sembrava volesse dire qualcosa, ma poi cambiò idea. Quel breve intervallo permise che venisse annunciato l’arrivo di Bishop.

Bishop entrò con umiltà, ma camminava con passi decisi e veloci, come se volesse mettersi subito i suoi lunghi stivali e viaggiare in giro per il mondo per assicurarsi che tutti fossero in buone condizioni. Bishop non aveva la minima idea che ci fosse qualcosa di importante in quell’occasione. Questa era la caratteristica più straordinaria del suo comportamento: era fresco, allegro, affabile, ma incredibilmente innocente.

Bar si avvicinò con le sue domande più gentili riguardo alla salute della signora Bishop. La signora Bishop aveva avuto un piccolo inconveniente, essersi raffreddata durante una cerimonia di confermazione, ma per il resto stava >bene. Anche il giovane signor Bishop stava >bene; si trovava a casa sua, con la moglie e la piccola famiglia.

I rappresentanti del Coro dei Barnacle arrivarono dopo, e subito dopo arrivò anche il medico di Mr Merdle. Bar, che aveva un occhio intero e una parte dell’altro occhiale per ogni persona che entrava dalla porta, indipendentemente da con chi stesse conversando o di cosa stesse parlando, riusciva in qualche modo abile ad avvicinarsi a tutti loro senza essere visto, toccando ogni singolo membro della giuria nel punto preferito da ciascuno. Con alcuni membri del Coro, rideva dell’individuo assonnato che la sera prima era uscito nel corridoio e aveva votato in modo sbagliato; con altri, deplorava quel spirito innovativo dei tempi presenti che non riusciva nemmeno a essere fermato dal prendere un interesse eccessivo per il servizio pubblico e i soldi del popolo; con il medico, aveva qualcosa da dire riguardo alla salute in generale, e anche alcune informazioni da chiedergli su un professionista di indubbia erudizione e modi raffinati. Ma Bar riteneva che tali qualità fossero possedute anche da altri medici (la giuria sembrava assopita, ); quegli stessi medici, infatti, si trovavano nel banco dei testimoni il giorno prima, e durante l’interrogatorio Bar aveva appreso che si consideravano tra i sostenitori di questo nuovo metodo di trattamento. Beh, Bar pensava proprio così; sperava anche che il medico glielo confermasse. Senza pretendere di stabilire dove i medici fossero in disaccordo, a Bar sembrava evidente – considerando la questione dal punto di vista del buon senso e non di una presunta competenza legale – che questo nuovo sistema fosse, beh, forse solo un’illusione? Ah! Rafforzato da queste considerazioni, Bar osava dire che si trattasse di un’illusione. E ora la sua mente era finalmente tranquilla.

Mr Tite Barnacle, who, like Dr Johnson’s celebrated acquaintance, had only one idea in his head and that was a wrong one, had appeared by this time. This eminent gentleman and Mr Merdle, seated diverse ways and with ruminating aspects on a yellow ottoman in the light of the fire, holding no verbal communication with each other, bore a strong general resemblance to the two cows in the Cuyp picture over against them.

But now, Lord Decimus arrived. The Chief Butler, who up to this time had limited himself to a branch of his usual function by looking at the company as they entered (and that, with more of defiance than favour), put himself so far out of his way as to come up-stairs with him and announce him. Lord Decimus being an overpowering peer, a bashful young member of the Lower House who was the last fish but one caught by the Barnacles, and who had been invited on this occasion to commemorate his capture, shut his eyes when his Lordship came in.

Lord Decimus, nevertheless, was glad to see the Member. He was also glad to see Mr Merdle, glad to see Bishop, glad to see Bar, glad to see Physician, glad to see Tite Barnacle, glad to see Chorus, glad to see Ferdinand his private secretary. Lord Decimus, though one of the greatest of the earth, was not remarkable for ingratiatory manners, and Ferdinand had coached him up to the point of noticing all the fellows he might find there, and saying he was glad to see them. When he had achieved this rush of vivacity and condescension, his Lordship composed himself into the picture after Cuyp, and made a third cow in the group.

Bar, who felt that he had got all the rest of the jury and must now lay hold of the Foreman, soon came sidling up, double eye-glass in hand. Bar tendered the weather, as a subject neatly aloof from official reserve, for the Foreman’s consideration. Bar said that he was told (as everybody always is told, though who tells them, and why, will ever remain a mystery), that there was to be no wall-fruit this year. Lord Decimus had not heard anything amiss of his peaches, but rather believed, if his people were correct, he was to have no apples. No apples? Bar was lost in astonishment and concern. It would have been all one to him, in reality, if there had not been a pippin on the surface of the earth, but his show of interest in this apple question was positively painful. Now, to what, Lord Decimus—for we troublesome lawyers loved to gather information, and could never tell how useful it might prove to us—to what, Lord Decimus, was this to be attributed? Lord Decimus could not undertake to propound any theory about it. This might have stopped another man; but Bar, sticking to him fresh as ever, said, ‘As to pears, now?’

Long after Bar got made Attorney-General, this was told of him as a master-stroke. Lord Decimus had a reminiscence about a pear-tree formerly growing in a garden near the back of his dame’s house at Eton, upon which pear-tree the only joke of his life perennially bloomed. It was a joke of a compact and portable nature, turning on the difference between Eton pears and Parliamentary pairs; but it was a joke, a refined relish of which would seem to have appeared to Lord Decimus impossible to be had without a thorough and intimate acquaintance with the tree. Therefore, the story at first had no idea of such a tree, sir, then gradually found it in winter, carried it through the changing season, saw it bud, saw it blossom, saw it bear fruit, saw the fruit ripen; in short, cultivated the tree in that diligent and minute manner before it got out of the bed-room window to steal the fruit, that many thanks had been offered up by belated listeners for the trees having been planted and grafted prior to Lord Decimus’s time. Bar’s interest in apples was so overtopped by the wrapt suspense in which he pursued the changes of these pears, from the moment when Lord Decimus solemnly opened with ‘Your mentioning pears recalls to my remembrance a pear-tree,’ down to the rich conclusion, ‘And so we pass, through the various changes of life, from Eton pears to Parliamentary pairs,’ that he had to go down-stairs with Lord Decimus, and even then to be seated next to him at table in order that he might hear the anecdote out. By that time, Bar felt that he had secured the Foreman, and might go to dinner with a good appetite.

It was a dinner to provoke an appetite, though he had not had one. The rarest dishes, sumptuously cooked and sumptuously served; the choicest fruits; the most exquisite wines; marvels of workmanship in gold and silver, china and glass; innumerable things delicious to the senses of taste, smell, and sight, were insinuated into its composition. O, what a wonderful man this Merdle, what a great man, what a master man, how blessedly and enviably endowed—in one word, what a rich man!

He took his usual poor eighteenpennyworth of food in his usual indigestive way, and had as little to say for himself as ever a wonderful man had. Fortunately Lord Decimus was one of those sublimities who have no occasion to be talked to, for they can be at any time sufficiently occupied with the contemplation of their own greatness. This enabled the bashful young Member to keep his eyes open long enough at a time to see his dinner. But, whenever Lord Decimus spoke, he shut them again.

The agreeable young Barnacle, and Bar, were the talkers of the party. Bishop would have been exceedingly agreeable also, but that his innocence stood in his way. He was so soon left behind. When there was any little hint of anything being in the wind, he got lost directly. Worldly affairs were too much for him; he couldn’t make them out at all.

This was observable when Bar said, incidentally, that he was happy to have heard that we were soon to have the advantage of enlisting on the good side, the sound and plain sagacity—not demonstrative or ostentatious, but thoroughly sound and practical—of our friend Mr Sparkler.

Il signor Tite Barnacle, che, proprio come il famoso conoscente del dottor Johnson, aveva nella testa soltanto un’idea, e quella era sbagliata, era già arrivato a quell’ora. Questo eminente gentiluomo e il signor Merdle, seduti in modi diversi e con espressioni meditative su un divano giallo, alla luce del fuoco, senza scambiare una parola tra loro, assomigliavano molto alle due mucche raffigurate nel dipinto di Cuyp che si trovava proprio di fronte a loro.

Ma ora arrivò Lord Decimus. Il Capo Cameriere, che fino a quel momento si era limitato a svolgere una parte delle sue solite funzioni osservando i presenti mentre entravano (e lo faceva con più sfida che favore), si prese la briga di accompagnarlo personalmente al piano di sopra per annunciarne l’arrivo. Essendo Lord Decimus un nobile di grande influenza, quel giovane timido membro della Basse Casa – l’ultimo ad essere stato invitato in quell’occasione per commemorare il proprio “ingresso” nella società nobiliare – chiuse gli occhi non appena Lord Decimus entrò.

Tuttavia, Lord Decimus fu felice di vedere quel membro del gruppo. Fu anche felice di vedere Mr Merdle, il vescovo, il barone, il medico, Tite Barnacle, il coro e Ferdinand, il suo segretario personale. Sebbene Lord Decimus fosse uno dei più importanti uomini del mondo, non era noto per le sue maniere ossequiose; Ferdinand lo aveva istruito affinché notasse tutti coloro che si trovavano lì e dicesse di essere felice di vederli. Una volta raggiunto questo livello di vivacità e condiscendenza, Lord Decimus assunse l’atteggiamento tipico dei personaggi ritratti da Cuyp, aggiungendosi al gruppo come una terza “mucca” nella scena.

Bar, convinto di aver già conquistato l’approvazione del resto della giuria e di dover ora ottenere anche quella del presidente, si avvicinò lentamente, tenendo in mano i suoi occhiali doppio vetro. Iniziò parlando del tempo, un argomento apparentemente neutro e lontano da qualsiasi questione ufficiale, per attirare l’attenzione del presidente. Disse di aver sentito (come tutti sentono sempre, anche se non si sa mai chi li informi o perché), che quest’anno non ci sarebbero stati frutti di stagione. Lord Decimus non aveva ricevuto alcuna notizia negativa riguardo ai suoi peschi, anzi riteneva, se le persone a lui affidate erano corrette, di non dover aspettarsi nemmeno mele. Niente mele? Bar era davvero sbalordito e preoccupato. In realtà, per lui sarebbe stato lo stesso anche se sulla superficie della terra non ci fossero stati frutti di alcun tipo; ma la sua apparente interesse per questa questione delle mele risultava davvero fastidioso. A cosa, allora, tutto questo poteva essere attribuito? Lord Decimus non riusciva a proporre nessuna teoria al riguardo. Questo avrebbe potuto fermare un altro uomo; ma Bar, sempre attaccato a lui come prima, chiese: “E per quanto riguarda le pere,?”

Molto tempo dopo che Bar fu nominato Procuratore Generale, si continuò a parlare di questa sua mossa come di un vero capolavoro. Lord Decimus ricordava un pero che un tempo cresceva in un giardino situato dietro la casa della sua padrona a Eton; quel pero era l’oggetto di uno scherzo che, per lui, rappresentava il culmine dell’umorismo. Uno scherzo basato sulla differenza tra i pere di Eton e le “coppie” parlamentari. Ma si trattava di uno scherzo così raffinato che Lord Decimus riteneva impossibile comprenderlo senza una conoscenza approfondita di quel pero stesso. All’inizio, la storia non menzionava affatto tale albero; poi, gradualmente, iniziò a “coltivarlo” durante l’inverno, osservandone i cambiamenti stagionali: il germogliare, la fioritura, la fruttificazione. Insomma, si prese cura di quel pero con grande attenzione, fino al punto che “scivolò” fuori dalla finestra della camera da letto per rubarne i frutti. E molti ascoltatori, giunti troppo tardi per assistere all’intero racconto, ringraziarono per l’esistenza di quel pero, poiché era stato piantato e innestato molto prima dell’epoca di Lord Decimus. L’interesse di Bar per le mele venne completamente oscurato dall’attenzione spasmodica che dedicava a questi pere: dal momento in cui Lord Decimus iniziò il racconto con “Il vostro accenno alle pere mi ha fatto ricordare quel pero, ”, fino alla conclusione: “E così, attraverso i vari cambiamenti della vita, passiamo dalle pere di Eton alle ‘coppie’ parlamentari, ” Per ascoltare fino in fondo la storia, Bar dovette scendere le scale insieme a Lord Decimus e sedersi persino accanto a lui a tavola. A quel punto, si rese conto di aver “conquistato” il favore del suo interlocutore. E poté quindi andare a cena con un ottimo appetito.

Era una cena pensata per stimolare l’appetito, anche se lui non ne aveva alcuno. I piatti più rari, preparati e serviti con grande sfarzo; le frutta più selezionate; i vini più pregiati; opere d’arte squisite realizzate in oro, argento, porcellana e vetro; innumerevoli cose deliziose per i sensi del gusto, dell’olfatto e della vista. Tutto questo era stato incluso nella composizione di quella cena. Oh, che meraviglioso uomo fosse questo Merdle: che grande uomo, che maestro nel suo campo. Quanto fortunato e invidiabile fosse. In una parola: che ricco uomo!

Prese il solito pasto misero da diciotto penny e lo mangiò con il solito modo poco digeribile; aveva altrettanto da dire quanto qualsiasi altro meraviglioso uomo. Fortunatamente, Lord Decimus apparteneva a quegli esseri sublimi che non hanno bisogno di essere interpellati, poiché possono sempre dedicarsi pienamente alla contemplazione della propria grandezza. Questo permise al timido giovane membro del parlamento di tenere gli occhi aperti abbastanza a lungo da riuscire a vedere il proprio pasto. Ma non appena Lord Decimus iniziava a parlare, lui li chiudeva immediatamente.

I giovani e piacevoli Barnacle e Bar erano i protagonisti delle conversazioni del gruppo. Anche Bishop sarebbe stato estremamente gradevole, ma la sua innocenza gli ostacolava il cammino. Veniva quindi lasciato indietro molto presto. Non appena c’era anche solo il minimo accenno a qualcosa che potesse succedere, lui si perdeva immediatamente. Gli affari mondani erano troppo complicati per lui; non riusciva assolutamente a comprenderli.

Ciò fu evidente quando Bar, tra l’altro, disse di essere felice di aver appreso che presto avremmo avuto il vantaggio di disporre dell’aiuto e della saggezza solida, sincera e pratica – non ostentata né esibizionistica, ma davvero affidabile e concreta – del nostro amico signor Sparkler.

Ferdinand Barnacle laughed, and said oh yes, he believed so. A vote was a vote, and always acceptable.

Bar was sorry to miss our good friend Mr Sparkler to-day, Mr Merdle.

‘He is away with Mrs Merdle,’ returned that gentleman, slowly coming out of a long abstraction, in the course of which he had been fitting a tablespoon up his sleeve. ‘It is not indispensable for him to be on the spot.’

‘The magic name of Merdle,’ said Bar, with the jury droop, ‘no doubt will suffice for all.’

‘Why—yes—I believe so,’ assented Mr Merdle, putting the spoon aside, and clumsily hiding each of his hands in the coat-cuff of the other hand. ‘I believe the people in my interest down there will not make any difficulty.’

‘Model people!’ said Bar.

‘I am glad you approve of them,’ said Mr Merdle.

‘And the people of those other two places, now,’ pursued Bar, with a bright twinkle in his keen eye, as it slightly turned in the direction of his magnificent neighbour; ‘we lawyers are always curious, always inquisitive, always picking up odds and ends for our patchwork minds, since there is no knowing when and where they may fit into some corner;—the people of those other two places now? Do they yield so laudably to the vast and cumulative influence of such enterprise and such renown; do those little rills become absorbed so quietly and easily, and, as it were by the influence of natural laws, so beautifully, in the swoop of the majestic stream as it flows upon its wondrous way enriching the surrounding lands; that their course is perfectly to be calculated, and distinctly to be predicated?’

Mr Merdle, a little troubled by Bar’s eloquence, looked fitfully about the nearest salt-cellar for some moments, and then said hesitating:

‘They are perfectly aware, sir, of their duty to Society. They will return anybody I send to them for that purpose.’

‘Cheering to know,’ said Bar. ‘Cheering to know.’

The three places in question were three little rotten holes in this Island, containing three little ignorant, drunken, guzzling, dirty, out-of-the-way constituencies, that had reeled into Mr Merdle’s pocket. Ferdinand Barnacle laughed in his easy way, and airily said they were a nice set of fellows. Bishop, mentally perambulating among paths of peace, was altogether swallowed up in absence of mind.

‘Pray,’ asked Lord Decimus, casting his eyes around the table, ‘what is this story I have heard of a gentleman long confined in a debtors’ prison proving to be of a wealthy family, and having come into the inheritance of a large sum of money? I have met with a variety of allusions to it. Do you know anything of it, Ferdinand?’

‘I only know this much,’ said Ferdinand, ‘that he has given the Department with which I have the honour to be associated;’ this sparkling young Barnacle threw off the phrase sportively, as who should say, We know all about these forms of speech, but we must keep it up, we must keep the game alive; ‘no end of trouble, and has put us into innumerable fixes.’

‘Fixes?’ repeated Lord Decimus, with a majestic pausing and pondering on the word that made the bashful Member shut his eyes quite tight. ‘Fixes?’

‘A very perplexing business indeed,’ observed Mr Tite Barnacle, with an air of grave resentment.

‘What,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘was the character of his business; what was the nature of these—a—Fixes, Ferdinand?’

‘Oh, it’s a good story, as a story,’ returned that gentleman; ‘as good a thing of its kind as need be. This Mr Dorrit (his name is Dorrit) had incurred a responsibility to us, ages before the fairy came out of the Bank and gave him his fortune, under a bond he had signed for the performance of a contract which was not at all performed. He was a partner in a house in some large way—spirits, or buttons, or wine, or blacking, or oatmeal, or woollen, or pork, or hooks and eyes, or iron, or treacle, or shoes, or something or other that was wanted for troops, or seamen, or somebody—and the house burst, and we being among the creditors, detainees were lodged on the part of the Crown in a scientific manner, and all the rest of it. When the fairy had appeared and he wanted to pay us off, Egad we had got into such an exemplary state of checking and counter-checking, signing and counter-signing, that it was six months before we knew how to take the money, or how to give a receipt for it. It was a triumph of public business,’ said this handsome young Barnacle, laughing heartily, ‘You never saw such a lot of forms in your life. “Why,” the attorney said to me one day, “if I wanted this office to give me two or three thousand pounds instead of take it, I couldn’t have more trouble about it.” “You are right, old fellow,” I told him, “and in future you’ll know that we have something to do here.”’ The pleasant young Barnacle finished by once more laughing heartily. He was a very easy, pleasant fellow indeed, and his manners were exceedingly winning.

Mr Tite Barnacle’s view of the business was of a less airy character. He took it ill that Mr Dorrit had troubled the Department by wanting to pay the money, and considered it a grossly informal thing to do after so many years. But Mr Tite Barnacle was a buttoned-up man, and consequently a weighty one. All buttoned-up men are weighty. All buttoned-up men are believed in. Whether or no the reserved and never-exercised power of unbuttoning, fascinates mankind; whether or no wisdom is supposed to condense and augment when buttoned up, and to evaporate when unbuttoned; it is certain that the man to whom importance is accorded is the buttoned-up man. Mr Tite Barnacle never would have passed for half his current value, unless his coat had been always buttoned-up to his white cravat.

‘May I ask,’ said Lord Decimus, ‘if Mr Darrit—or Dorrit—has any family?’

Nobody else replying, the host said, ‘He has two daughters, my lord.’

‘Oh! you are acquainted with him?’ asked Lord Decimus.

Ferdinando Barnacle rise e disse: “Oh sì, ne era convinto”. Un voto è un voto, e quindi sempre accettabile.

A Bar dispiaceva molto non aver potuto incontrare oggi il nostro caro amico, il signor Sparkler, ovvero il signor Merdle.

“È via con la signora Merdle,” rispose quel gentiluomo, uscendo lentamente da una lunga distrazione durante la quale aveva cercato di infilarsi un cucchiaio nella manica. “Non è assolutamente necessario che sia presente sul posto.”

“Il nome magico di Merdle,” disse Bar; il giurì ascoltava in silenzio. “Nessun dubbio: quel nome sarà sufficiente per tutto.”

“Perché, sì, credo di sì,” convenne Signor Merdle, mettendo da parte la cucchiaiata e nascondendo goffamente entrambe le mani nella manica del proprio cappotto. “Credo che le persone che hanno interesse ai miei affari laggiù non creeranno alcun problema.”

“Modellatevi sugli esseri umani!”, disse Bar.

“Sono felice che tu li approvi,” disse Signor Merdle.

“E la gente di quelle altre due località, ora, ” proseguì Bar, con uno scintillio luminoso negli occhi acuti, mentre questi si rivolgevano leggermente verso il suo magnifico vicino; “noi avvocati siamo sempre curiosi, sempre indagatori, sempre intenti a raccogliere informazioni per le nostre menti ‘tessute’ di frammenti vari, perché non si sa mai quando e dove possano esserci utili in qualche contesto. La gente di quelle altre due località, ora? Si lascia influenzare così positivamente dall’enorme impatto di queste iniziative e da questa fama? Quei piccoli corsi d’acqua vengono assorbiti così silenziosamente ed facilmente, quasi per effetto di leggi naturali, nel flusso maestoso del fiume che scorre lungo il suo meraviglioso percorso arricchendo le terre circostanti. Al punto che il loro corso possa essere perfettamente calcolato e predetto con certezza?”

Signor Merdle, un po’ turbato dall’eloquenza di Bar, guardò intorno alla saliera più vicina per alcuni momenti, poi disse esitando:

“Sono perfettamente consapevoli, signore, del loro dovere verso la Società. Ritorneranno chiunque io invii loro a tale scopo.”

“Molto interessante saperlo,” disse Bar. “Molto interessante saperlo.”

I tre luoghi in questione erano semplicemente tre piccole “fessure” presenti su quell’isola; rappresentavano tre piccoli e ignoranti elettorati, ubriachi, dissoluti e lontani da ogni norma sociale, che erano finiti nelle tasche di Mr Merdle. Ferdinand Barnacle rise con noncuranza, affermando che si trattasse di un bel gruppo di persone. Bishop, immerso nei suoi pensieri sereni, era completamente assorbito da una sorta di distacco mentale.

“Pregate,” chiese Lord Decimus, guardandosi intorno al tavolo, “di cosa si tratta questa storia che ho sentito riguardo a un gentiluomo a lungo rinchiuso in una prigione per debitori, che in realtà proveniva da una famiglia ricca e aveva ereditato una grande somma di denaro? Ho incontrato diverse allusioni a questa storia. Ne sapete qualcosa, Ferdinand?”

“So solo questo,” disse Ferdinand, “che ha affidato il Dipartimento con cui ho l’onore di essere associato, ”; questo giovane e vivace Barnacle pronunciò queste parole in modo disinvolto, come se volesse dire: “Conosciamo bene queste forme di espressione, ma dobbiamo continuare così, dobbiamo mantenere viva la ‘partita’, ” “Un sacco di problemi, e ci ha messo in innumerevoli difficoltà.”

“‘Soluzioni’?” ripeté Lord Decimus, con una pausa maestosa e riflessiva su quella parola che fece chiudere gli occhi stretti del timido membro del parlamento. “‘Soluzioni’?”

“Una situazione davvero molto complicata,” osservò il signor Tite Barnacle, con un tono di profondo risentimento.

“Che tipo di affari erano questi?” disse Lord Decimus. “Qual era la >natura di queste persone. Fixes, Ferdinand?”

“Oh, è una buona storia, come storia. Una delle migliori del suo genere,” rispose quel gentiluomo; “Questo signor Dorrit (si chiama proprio Dorrit) ci aveva assunto delle responsabilità molto tempo prima che la fata uscisse dalla banca e gli donasse la sua fortuna, in base a un impegno scritto che però non fu mai adempiuto. Era socio di una ditta che vendeva alcolici, bottoni, vino, tè nero, fiocchi d’avena, tessuti di lana, carne di maiale, ganci e occhielli, ferro, sciroppo d’acero, scarpe, insomma, tutto ciò di cui c’era bisogno per le truppe o i marinai. Quando la ditta fallì, noi creditori fummo messi sotto custodia da parte della Corona. Insomma, una vera e propria situazione complicata. Quando poi la fata apparve e lui cercò di saldare i suoi debiti, beh, ci trovavamo in un tale stato di controlli reciproci, firme e controfirme, che passarono sei mesi prima che riuscissimo a capire come prendere i soldi o come emettere una ricevuta. È stato davvero un trionfo degli affari pubblici,” disse quel giovane Barnacle ridendo di cuore; “Non avete mai visto tante pratiche burocratiche in vita vostra. Un giorno l’avvocato mi disse: ‘Se volessi che questa segreteria mi desse due o tremila sterline invece di prenderle, non avrei certo meno problemi.’ ‘Hai ragione, vecchio mio,’ gli risposi, ‘e in futuro capirai che abbiamo davvero qualcosa da fare qui.’” Il giovane Barnacle concluse ridendo ancora una volta. Era davvero un uomo molto gentile e piacevole, con modi estremamente affascinanti.

La visione che il signor Tite Barnacle aveva degli affari era di natura molto più rigida e conservativa. Gli dispiaceva profondamente che il signor Dorrit avesse causato problemi al dipartimento cercando di pagare quei soldi, e riteneva che fosse una comportamento estremamente irrispettoso dopo tanti anni. Ma il signor Tite Barnacle era un uomo molto rigido nei suoi principi. E tutti gli uomini rigidi nei loro principi sono considerati importanti. È certo che l’uomo a cui viene attribuita importanza è proprio quello che si attiene rigorosamente alle regole. Il signor Tite Barnacle non avrebbe mai raggiunto nemmeno la metà del valore che ha oggi, se il suo cappotto non fosse sempre stato abbottonato fino al colletto bianco.

“Posso chiedere,” disse Lord Decimus, “se il signor Darrit, o Dorrit, abbia qualche familiare?”

Nessuno rispondeva, così l’ospite disse: “Ha due figlie, mio signore.”

“Ah! Lo conosci?” chiese Lord Decimus.

‘Mrs Merdle is. Mr Sparkler is, too. In fact,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I rather believe that one of the young ladies has made an impression on Edmund Sparkler. He is susceptible, and—I—think—the conquest—’ Here Mr Merdle stopped, and looked at the table-cloth, as he usually did when he found himself observed or listened to.

Bar was uncommonly pleased to find that the Merdle family, and this family, had already been brought into contact. He submitted, in a low voice across the table to Bishop, that it was a kind of analogical illustration of those physical laws, in virtue of which Like flies to Like. He regarded this power of attraction in wealth to draw wealth to it, as something remarkably interesting and curious—something indefinably allied to the loadstone and gravitation. Bishop, who had ambled back to earth again when the present theme was broached, acquiesced. He said it was indeed highly important to Society that one in the trying situation of unexpectedly finding himself invested with a power for good or for evil in Society, should become, as it were, merged in the superior power of a more legitimate and more gigantic growth, the influence of which (as in the case of our friend at whose board we sat) was habitually exercised in harmony with the best interests of Society. Thus, instead of two rival and contending flames, a larger and a lesser, each burning with a lurid and uncertain glare, we had a blended and a softened light whose genial ray diffused an equable warmth throughout the land. Bishop seemed to like his own way of putting the case very much, and rather dwelt upon it; Bar, meanwhile (not to throw away a jury-man), making a show of sitting at his feet and feeding on his precepts.

The dinner and dessert being three hours long, the bashful Member cooled in the shadow of Lord Decimus faster than he warmed with food and drink, and had but a chilly time of it. Lord Decimus, like a tall tower in a flat country, seemed to project himself across the table-cloth, hide the light from the honourable Member, cool the honourable Member’s marrow, and give him a woeful idea of distance. When he asked this unfortunate traveller to take wine, he encompassed his faltering steps with the gloomiest of shades; and when he said, ‘Your health sir!’ all around him was barrenness and desolation.

At length Lord Decimus, with a coffee-cup in his hand, began to hover about among the pictures, and to cause an interesting speculation to arise in all minds as to the probabilities of his ceasing to hover, and enabling the smaller birds to flutter up-stairs; which could not be done until he had urged his noble pinions in that direction. After some delay, and several stretches of his wings which came to nothing, he soared to the drawing-rooms.

And here a difficulty arose, which always does arise when two people are specially brought together at a dinner to confer with one another. Everybody (except Bishop, who had no suspicion of it) knew perfectly well that this dinner had been eaten and drunk, specifically to the end that Lord Decimus and Mr Merdle should have five minutes’ conversation together. The opportunity so elaborately prepared was now arrived, and it seemed from that moment that no mere human ingenuity could so much as get the two chieftains into the same room. Mr Merdle and his noble guest persisted in prowling about at opposite ends of the perspective. It was in vain for the engaging Ferdinand to bring Lord Decimus to look at the bronze horses near Mr Merdle. Then Mr Merdle evaded, and wandered away. It was in vain for him to bring Mr Merdle to Lord Decimus to tell him the history of the unique Dresden vases. Then Lord Decimus evaded and wandered away, while he was getting his man up to the mark.

‘Did you ever see such a thing as this?’ said Ferdinand to Bar when he had been baffled twenty times.

‘Often,’ returned Bar.

‘Unless I butt one of them into an appointed corner, and you butt the other,’ said Ferdinand, ‘it will not come off after all.’

‘Very good,’ said Bar. ‘I’ll butt Merdle, if you like; but not my lord.’

Ferdinand laughed, in the midst of his vexation. ‘Confound them both!’ said he, looking at his watch. ‘I want to get away. Why the deuce can’t they come together! They both know what they want and mean to do. Look at them!’

They were still looming at opposite ends of the perspective, each with an absurd pretence of not having the other on his mind, which could not have been more transparently ridiculous though his real mind had been chalked on his back. Bishop, who had just now made a third with Bar and Ferdinand, but whose innocence had again cut him out of the subject and washed him in sweet oil, was seen to approach Lord Decimus and glide into conversation.

‘I must get Merdle’s doctor to catch and secure him, I suppose,’ said Ferdinand; ‘and then I must lay hold of my illustrious kinsman, and decoy him if I can—drag him if I can’t—to the conference.’

‘Since you do me the honour,’ said Bar, with his slyest smile, to ask for my poor aid, it shall be yours with the greatest pleasure. I don’t think this is to be done by one man. But if you will undertake to pen my lord into that furthest drawing-room where he is now so profoundly engaged, I will undertake to bring our dear Merdle into the presence, without the possibility of getting away.’

‘Done!’ said Ferdinand. ‘Done!’ said Bar.

Bar was a sight wondrous to behold, and full of matter, when, jauntily waving his double eye-glass by its ribbon, and jauntily drooping to an Universe of Jurymen, he, in the most accidental manner ever seen, found himself at Mr Merdle’s shoulder, and embraced that opportunity of mentioning a little point to him, on which he particularly wished to be guided by the light of his practical knowledge. (Here he took Mr Merdle’s arm and walked him gently away.) A banker, whom we would call A. B., advanced a considerable sum of money, which we would call fifteen thousand pounds, to a client or customer of his, whom he would call P. Q. (Here, as they were getting towards Lord Decimus, he held Mr Merdle tight.) As a security for the repayment of this advance to P. Q. whom we would call a widow lady, there were placed in A. B.’s hands the title-deeds of a freehold estate, which we would call Blinkiter Doddles. Now, the point was this. A limited right of felling and lopping in the woods of Blinkiter Doddles, lay in the son of P. Q. then past his majority, and whom we would call X. Y.—but really this was too bad! In the presence of Lord Decimus, to detain the host with chopping our dry chaff of law, was really too bad! Another time! Bar was truly repentant, and would not say another syllable. Would Bishop favour him with half-a-dozen words? (He had now set Mr Merdle down on a couch, side by side with Lord Decimus, and to it they must go, now or never.)

“La signora Merdle lo è. Anche il signor Sparkler lo è. Infatti,” disse il signor Merdle, “credo piuttosto che una delle giovani signore abbia fatto colpo su Edmund Sparkler. Lui è suscettibile, e, penso che la conquista, ” Qui il signor Merdle si fermò e guardò il tovagliolo, come faceva sempre quando si rendeva conto di essere osservato o ascoltato.

Bar fu insolitamente soddisfatto nello scoprire che la famiglia Merdle, e questa famiglia in particolare, fossero già entrate in contatto. A bassa voce, dietro il tavolo, disse a Bishop che ciò rappresentava una sorta di illustrazione analogica di quelle leggi fisiche secondo cui “il simile attira il simile”. Considerava questa capacità del denaro di attrarre altro denaro qualcosa di estremamente interessante e curioso, qualcosa, in definitiva, strettamente collegato al magnete e alla gravitazione. Bishop, che era tornato a concentrarsi sul tema attuale, concordò con lui. Disse infatti che fosse davvero molto importante per la Società che una persona, trovandosi improvvisamente nella condizione di disporre di un potere, positivo o negativo che fosse, lo utilizzasse in modo da integrarsi nel potere superiore di qualcosa di più legittimo e significativo, un’influenza che, come nel caso del nostro amico seduto a tavola con noi, venisse sempre esercitata nell’interesse comune della Società. Così, invece di due fiamme rivali e in conflitto – una più grande e l’altra più piccola, entrambe luminose ma incerte – avevamo ora una luce unificata e dolce, il cui calore equilibrato si diffondeva su tutto il territorio. A Bishop sembrava molto piacere il modo in cui aveva espresso il concetto, e ne parlò a lungo; intanto Bar, beh, per non perdere l’attenzione del pubblico, fingeva di ascoltare attentamente i suoi insegnamenti.

La cena e il dessert durarono tre ore; il timido membro si raffreddò nell’ombra di Lord Decimus più velocemente di quanto si fosse riscaldato con cibo e bevande, trascorrendo quindi un momento davvero gelido. Lord Decimus, simile a una torre alta in una pianura, sembrava “proiettarsi” sopra la tovaglia, oscurando la luce che avrebbe potuto riscaldare il membro onorevole, raffreddandone le ossa e facendogli percepire un senso di distanza insopportabile. Quando invitò questo sfortunato “viaggiatore” a bere vino, i suoi passi incerti furono avvolti dalle ombre più cupe; e quando disse: “Alla vostra salute, signore!”, intorno a lui non c’era che desolazione.

Finalmente, Lord Decimus, con una tazza di caffè in mano, iniziò a muoversi tra i quadri, suscitando nell’immaginazione di tutti la curiosità riguardo alle probabilità che smettesse di “fluttuare” lì intorno e permettesse così ai piccoli uccellini di volare su per le scale. Il tutto, ovviamente, era possibile soltanto se lui stesso spingesse i propri nobili artigli in quella direzione. Dopo alcuni tentativi falliti e diversi movimenti delle ali che non portarono a nulla, riuscì finalmente ad ascendere nelle sale da pranzo.

E qui sorse una difficoltà, che sempre si presenta quando due persone vengono appositamente riunite a cena per discutere tra loro. Tutti (tranne il Vescovo, che non ne aveva la minima idea) sapevano perfettamente che quella cena era stata organizzata proprio al fine che Lord Decimus e Mr Merdle potessero avere cinque minuti di conversazione insieme. L’opportunità, preparata con tanta cura, era finalmente arrivata, ma sembrava impossibile, per qualsiasi ingegnosità umana, far sì che i due uomini finissero nella stessa stanza. Mr Merdle e il suo nobile ospite continuavano a muoversi ai capi opposti della sala. Fu inutile che l’affascinante Ferdinand cercasse di farli incontrare, facendo osservare a Lord Decimus i cavalli di bronzo vicino a Mr Merdle; quest’ultimo si allontanava immediatamente. Fu anche inutile che Mr Merdle raccontasse a Lord Decimus la storia dei singolari vasi di Dresda. Lord Decimus continuava comunque ad evitare qualsiasi incontro, nonostante i tentativi di Ferdinand di farli incontrare.

“Hai mai visto una cosa del genere?” disse Ferdinando a Bar, dopo essere stato messo in imbarazzo venti volte.

“Spesso,” rispose Bar.

“Se non metto uno di loro in un angolo prestabilito e tu metti l’altro,” disse Ferdinando, “non riusciremo comunque a risolvere la questione.”

“Molto bene,” disse Bar. “Posso occuparmi di Merdle, se volete; ma non del mio signore.”

Ferdinando rise, nonostante la sua irritazione. “Maledetti tutti e due!” disse, guardando l’orologio. “Voglio andarmene. Perché diavolo non riescono a mettersi d’accordo? Sanno entrambi cosa vogliono fare. Guardali!”

Erano ancora lì, ai due estremi della prospettiva, ognuno con l’assurda pretesa di non pensare all’altro. Una finzione palesemente ridicola, visto che i loro veri pensieri erano evidenti a tutti. Bishop, che poco prima aveva formato un terzo gruppo con Bar e Ferdinand, ma la cui “innocenza” lo aveva di nuovo escluso dalla conversazione, si avvicinò a Lord Decimus e iniziò a parlare con lui.

“Devo assicurarmi che il dottore di Merdle lo catturi e lo tenga sotto controllo,” disse Ferdinando; “e poi devo prendere in mano mio illustre parente e, se possibile, attirarlo, o trascinarlo, se necessario, alla riunione.”

“Poiché mi fai questa onore,” disse Bar, con il suo sorriso più astuto, “chiedendomi di prestare il mio aiuto, sarà un piacere per me accontentarti. Non credo che ciò possa essere fatto da una sola persona. Ma se tu ti incarichi di portare mio signore in quella sala dove si trova attualmente, impegnato in conversazioni così intense, io mi occuperò di far arrivare nostra cara Merdle lì, senza che abbia la possibilità di scappare.”

“Fatto!” disse Ferdinando. “Fatto!” disse Bar.

Bar era davvero uno spettacolo meraviglioso da vedere: pieno di vita e movimento. Mentre agitava allegramente i suoi occhiali da vista, tenendoli legati con un nastro, si avvicinò con disinvoltura a un gruppo di giurati e, in modo del tutto casuale, si trovò accanto a Mr Merdle, cogliendo l’occasione per menzionargli un particolare aspetto su cui desiderava ricevere i suoi consigli, basati sulla sua esperienza pratica. (A quel punto prese il braccio di Mr Merdle e lo guidò gentilmente via.) Un banchiere, che chiameremo A. B., offrì una somma considerevole di denaro – quindicimila sterline – a un suo cliente, che chiameremo P. Q. (Mentre si avvicinavano a Lord Decimus, tenne stretto Mr Merdle per il braccio.) Come garanzia del rimborso di questa somma, vennero consegnate nelle mani di A. B. le carte relative a un terreno proprietà di P. Q., che chiameremo Blinkiter Doddles. Il problema era questo: il diritto limitato di tagliare legna nei boschi di Blinkiter Doddles apparteneva al figlio di P. Q., all’epoca ancora minorenne, e che chiameremo X. Y. Ma davvero, era troppo spiacevole! In presenza di Lord Decimus, non sarebbe stato appropriato perdere tempo in discussioni legali così banali. Un’altra volta, forse. Bar si pentiva sinceramente e non voleva dire una parola in più. Il Vescovo gli avrebbe concesso qualche parola di conforto? (A quel punto aveva fatto sedere Mr Merdle su un divano, accanto a Lord Decimus; ora dovevano andare da loro, subito.)

And now the rest of the company, highly excited and interested, always excepting Bishop, who had not the slightest idea that anything was going on, formed in one group round the fire in the next drawing-room, and pretended to be chatting easily on the infinite variety of small topics, while everybody’s thoughts and eyes were secretly straying towards the secluded pair. The Chorus were excessively nervous, perhaps as labouring under the dreadful apprehension that some good thing was going to be diverted from them! Bishop alone talked steadily and evenly. He conversed with the great Physician on that relaxation of the throat with which young curates were too frequently afflicted, and on the means of lessening the great prevalence of that disorder in the church. Physician, as a general rule, was of opinion that the best way to avoid it was to know how to read, before you made a profession of reading. Bishop said dubiously, did he really think so? And Physician said, decidedly, yes he did.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, was the only one of the party who skirmished on the outside of the circle; he kept about mid-way between it and the two, as if some sort of surgical operation were being performed by Lord Decimus on Mr Merdle, or by Mr Merdle on Lord Decimus, and his services might at any moment be required as Dresser. In fact, within a quarter of an hour Lord Decimus called to him ‘Ferdinand!’ and he went, and took his place in the conference for some five minutes more. Then a half-suppressed gasp broke out among the Chorus; for Lord Decimus rose to take his leave. Again coached up by Ferdinand to the point of making himself popular, he shook hands in the most brilliant manner with the whole company, and even said to Bar, ‘I hope you were not bored by my pears?’ To which Bar retorted, ‘Eton, my lord, or Parliamentary?’ neatly showing that he had mastered the joke, and delicately insinuating that he could never forget it while his life remained.

All the grave importance that was buttoned up in Mr Tite Barnacle, took itself away next; and Ferdinand took himself away next, to the opera. Some of the rest lingered a little, marrying golden liqueur glasses to Buhl tables with sticky rings; on the desperate chance of Mr Merdle’s saying something. But Merdle, as usual, oozed sluggishly and muddily about his drawing-room, saying never a word.

In a day or two it was announced to all the town, that Edmund Sparkler, Esquire, son-in-law of the eminent Mr Merdle of worldwide renown, was made one of the Lords of the Circumlocution Office; and proclamation was issued, to all true believers, that this admirable appointment was to be hailed as a graceful and gracious mark of homage, rendered by the graceful and gracious Decimus, to that commercial interest which must ever in a great commercial country—and all the rest of it, with blast of trumpet. So, bolstered by this mark of Government homage, the wonderful Bank and all the other wonderful undertakings went on and went up; and gapers came to Harley Street, Cavendish Square, only to look at the house where the golden wonder lived.

And when they saw the Chief Butler looking out at the hall-door in his moments of condescension, the gapers said how rich he looked, and wondered how much money he had in the wonderful Bank. But, if they had known that respectable Nemesis better, they would not have wondered about it, and might have stated the amount with the utmost precision.

E ora il resto del gruppo, profondamente eccitato e interessato – ad eccezione di Bishop, che non aveva la minima idea di ciò che stesse accadendo – si riunì in un gruppo intorno al focolare nell’altra sala da pranzo, fingendo di chiacchierare tranquillamente su svariati argomenti banali, mentre tutti i loro pensieri e gli sguardi erano segretamente rivolti verso quella coppia appartata. I Coristi erano estremamente nervosi, forse perché temevano che qualcosa di importante venisse loro sottratto. Solo Bishop parlava con calma e coerenza; discuteva con il “grande Medico” riguardo a quel problema di tensione alla gola che affliggeva troppo spesso i giovani curati, e sui modi per ridurre la diffusione di tale disturbo nella chiesa. Il “Medico”, in generale, riteneva che il modo migliore per evitarlo fosse imparare a leggere prima ancora di intraprendere una carriera nel campo della lettura. Bishop rispose con scetticismo: davvero lo pensava? E il “Medico” replicò con fermezza: sì, ne era assolutamente convinto.

Ferdinand, intanto, era l’unico del gruppo che si muoveva all’esterno del cerchio; si trovava più o meno a metà strada tra lui e i due altri, come se Lord Decimus stesse eseguendo qualche tipo di operazione chirurgica su Mr Merdle, o viceversa. E sembrava che da un momento all’altro potessero aver bisogno delle sue competenze. Come assistente, per esempio. Infatti, dopo appena quindici minuti Lord Decimus lo chiamò: “Ferdinand!”, e lui andò a prendere parte alla conversazione per altri cinque minuti circa. Poi, tra il Coro, si levò un sospiro soffocato, perché Lord Decimus stava per congedarsi. Ancora una volta guidato da Ferdinand verso l’essere popolare, strinse la mano a tutti in modo davvero eccezionale. E addirittura disse a Bar: “>Spero che le mie storie non vi siano state noiose, ” A cui Bar rispose: “Eton, mio signore, o il Parlamento?”, dimostrando così di aver ben capito la battuta, e insinuando delicatamente che non l’avrebbe mai dimenticata finché avesse vissuto.

Tutta quell’importanza gravissima che caratterizzava il signor Tite Barnacle scomparve subito dopo; anche Ferdinand se ne andò, diretto all’opera. Alcuni degli altri rimasero ancora un po’, abbinando bicchieri di liquore dorato a tavoli Buhl con anelli appiccicosi, nella speranza disperata che il signor Merdle dicesse qualcosa. Ma Merdle, come al solito, si muoveva lentamente e in modo confuso per il suo salotto, senza pronunciare una parola.

In un giorno o due, fu annunciato in tutta la città che Edmund Sparkler, figlio di famiglia e genero dell’eminente Mr Merdle, noto in tutto il mondo, era stato nominato uno dei membri del Consiglio della Circumlocution Office; fu anche emessa una proclamazione, indirizzata a tutti i veri credenti, nella quale si dichiarava che questa meravigliosa nomina doveva essere considerata un segno di rispetto e gratitudine da parte del nobile Decimus nei confronti degli interessi commerciali di quel paese – e tutto ciò veniva annunciato con grande pompa. Così, sostenuti da questo simbolo di riconoscimento da parte del Governo, la meravigliosa Banca e tutte le altre imprese continuarono a prosperare; molte persone si recavano in Harley Street e Cavendish Square soltanto per ammirare la casa dove risiedeva quel “meraviglioso” individuo.

E quando vedevano il Capo Cameriere guardare fuori dalla porta d’ingresso nei suoi momenti di condiscendenza, coloro che lo osservavano commentavano quanto fosse ricco e si chiedevano quanta denaro avesse in quella meravigliosa banca. Ma se lo conoscessero meglio, non si sarebbero mai posti quelle domande, e avrebbero potuto indicare l’importo con estrema precisione.

CHAPTER 13. The Progress of an Epidemic

That it is at least as difficult to stay a moral infection as a physical one; that such a disease will spread with the malignity and rapidity of the Plague; that the contagion, when it has once made head, will spare no pursuit or condition, but will lay hold on people in the soundest health, and become developed in the most unlikely constitutions: is a fact as firmly established by experience as that we human creatures breathe an atmosphere. A blessing beyond appreciation would be conferred upon mankind, if the tainted, in whose weakness or wickedness these virulent disorders are bred, could be instantly seized and placed in close confinement (not to say summarily smothered) before the poison is communicable.

As a vast fire will fill the air to a great distance with its roar, so the sacred flame which the mighty Barnacles had fanned caused the air to resound more and more with the name of Merdle. It was deposited on every lip, and carried into every ear. There never was, there never had been, there never again should be, such a man as Mr Merdle. Nobody, as aforesaid, knew what he had done; but everybody knew him to be the greatest that had appeared.

Down in Bleeding Heart Yard, where there was not one unappropriated halfpenny, as lively an interest was taken in this paragon of men as on the Stock Exchange. Mrs Plornish, now established in the small grocery and general trade in a snug little shop at the crack end of the Yard, at the top of the steps, with her little old father and Maggy acting as assistants, habitually held forth about him over the counter in conversation with her customers. Mr Plornish, who had a small share in a small builder’s business in the neighbourhood, said, trowel in hand, on the tops of scaffolds and on the tiles of houses, that people did tell him as Mr Merdle was the one, mind you, to put us all to rights in respects of that which all on us looked to, and to bring us all safe home as much as we needed, mind you, fur toe be brought. Mr Baptist, sole lodger of Mr and Mrs Plornish was reputed in whispers to lay by the savings which were the result of his simple and moderate life, for investment in one of Mr Merdle’s certain enterprises. The female Bleeding Hearts, when they came for ounces of tea, and hundredweights of talk, gave Mrs Plornish to understand, That how, ma’am, they had heard from their cousin Mary Anne, which worked in the line, that his lady’s dresses would fill three waggons. That how she was as handsome a lady, ma’am, as lived, no matter wheres, and a busk like marble itself. That how, according to what they was told, ma’am, it was her son by a former husband as was took into the Government; and a General he had been, and armies he had marched again and victory crowned, if all you heard was to be believed. That how it was reported that Mr Merdle’s words had been, that if they could have made it worth his while to take the whole Government he would have took it without a profit, but that take it he could not and stand a loss. That how it was not to be expected, ma’am, that he should lose by it, his ways being, as you might say and utter no falsehood, paved with gold; but that how it was much to be regretted that something handsome hadn’t been got up to make it worth his while; for it was such and only such that knowed the heighth to which the bread and butchers’ meat had rose, and it was such and only such that both could and would bring that heighth down.

So rife and potent was the fever in Bleeding Heart Yard, that Mr Pancks’s rent-days caused no interval in the patients. The disease took the singular form, on those occasions, of causing the infected to find an unfathomable excuse and consolation in allusions to the magic name.

‘Now, then!’ Mr Pancks would say, to a defaulting lodger. ‘Pay up! Come on!’

‘I haven’t got it, Mr Pancks,’ Defaulter would reply. ‘I tell you the truth, sir, when I say I haven’t got so much as a single sixpence of it to bless myself with.’

‘This won’t do, you know,’ Mr Pancks would retort. ‘You don’t expect it will do; do you?’

Defaulter would admit, with a low-spirited ‘No, sir,’ having no such expectation.

‘My proprietor isn’t going to stand this, you know,’ Mr Pancks would proceed. ‘He don’t send me here for this. Pay up! Come!’

The Defaulter would make answer, ‘Ah, Mr Pancks. If I was the rich gentleman whose name is in everybody’s mouth—if my name was Merdle, sir—I’d soon pay up, and be glad to do it.’

Dialogues on the rent-question usually took place at the house-doors or in the entries, and in the presence of several deeply interested Bleeding Hearts. They always received a reference of this kind with a low murmur of response, as if it were convincing; and the Defaulter, however black and discomfited before, always cheered up a little in making it.

‘If I was Mr Merdle, sir, you wouldn’t have cause to complain of me then. No, believe me!’ the Defaulter would proceed with a shake of the head. ‘I’d pay up so quick then, Mr Pancks, that you shouldn’t have to ask me.’

The response would be heard again here, implying that it was impossible to say anything fairer, and that this was the next thing to paying the money down.

Mr Pancks would be now reduced to saying as he booked the case, ‘Well! You’ll have the broker in, and be turned out; that’s what’ll happen to you. It’s no use talking to me about Mr Merdle. You are not Mr Merdle, any more than I am.’

‘No, sir,’ the Defaulter would reply. ‘I only wish you were him, sir.’

The response would take this up quickly; replying with great feeling, ‘Only wish you were him, sir.’

‘You’d be easier with us if you were Mr Merdle, sir,’ the Defaulter would go on with rising spirits, ‘and it would be better for all parties. Better for our sakes, and better for yours, too. You wouldn’t have to worry no one, then, sir. You wouldn’t have to worry us, and you wouldn’t have to worry yourself. You’d be easier in your own mind, sir, and you’d leave others easier, too, you would, if you were Mr Merdle.’

Capitolo 13: L’evoluzione di un’epidemia

È altrettanto difficile rimanere vittima di un’“infezione morale” quanto di una fisica; tale malattia si diffonderà con la stessa malignità e rapidità della Peste; una volta iniziata, non risparmierà nessuno, né condizione sociale o stato di salute, attaccando persino le persone più robuste e sviluppandosi anche nelle costituzioni più fragili. Questo è un fatto ampiamente confermato dall’esperienza, tanto quanto il fatto che noi esseri umani respiriamo un’atmosfera. Sarebbe una vera benedizione per l’umanità se coloro che diffondono queste malattie velenose potessero essere immediatamente catturati e messi in isolamento stretto (per non dire eliminati senza indugio), prima che il “veleno” possa propagarsi.

Come un vasto incendio riempie l’aria con il suo ruggito per una grande distanza, così la sacra fiamma che i potenti Barnacles avevano alimentato fece sì che l’aria risuonasse sempre di più con il nome di Merdle. Quel nome fu impresso su ogni labbro e portato in ogni orecchio. Non c’era mai stato, non c’era mai stato prima, e non ci sarebbe mai stato mai più un uomo come Mr Merdle. Nessuno, come detto sopra, sapeva cosa avesse fatto; ma tutti sapevano che era il più grande che fosse mai apparso.

Giù, nel cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard, dove non c’era un solo penny che non fosse stato sfruttato a proprio vantaggio, l’interesse suscitato da questo “esempio di uomo” era altrettanto vivo quanto quello riservato alla Borsa Valori. La signora Plornish, ormai impegnata nel piccolo commercio di alimentari e generi vari in un negozietto situato all’estremità del cortile, in cima alle scale, con il suo vecchio padre e Maggy come assistenti, aveva l’abitudine di parlare spesso di lui con i clienti. Il signor Plornish, che possedeva una piccola quota in un’impresa edilizia del quartiere, diceva, mentre lavorava sugli impalcati o sulle tegole delle case, che la gente gli riferiva chiaramente che il vero responsabile di tutto ciò che tutti noi aspettavamo era proprio il signor Merdle; lui, insomma, avrebbe sistemato tutte le cose per noi e ci avrebbe riportati “a casa” sani e salvi, senza trascurare nulla. Si diceva anche che il signor Baptist, unico inquilino della famiglia Plornish, stesse risparmiando i soldi guadagnati con la sua vita semplice e moderata per investirli in uno dei progetti del signor Merdle. Le donne del cortile, quando venivano a prendere tè o a chiacchierare, facevano capire alla signora Plornish che avevano sentito dalla loro cugina Mary Anne, che lavorava nel settore, che i vestiti della moglie di quel signor Merdle avrebbero potuto riempire tre carri interi; che lei era una donna davvero bellissima e che suo figlio, nato da un precedente matrimonio, era stato assunto dal Governo, e che, a quanto si diceva, era un generale che aveva guidato eserciti verso la vittoria. Si raccontava anche che il signor Merdle avesse detto chiaramente che, se solo ne fosse valsa la pena, avrebbe preso tutto il Governo senza alcun profitto, ma che non poteva permetterselo e quindi subiva delle perdite. Si riteneva inoltre che non fosse possibile che lui perdesse, visto che i suoi metodi di lavoro erano davvero “coperti d’oro”; tuttavia era molto spiacevole che non si riuscisse a trovare qualcosa di veramente interessante da offrirgli, perché solo così avrebbe potuto essere motivato a investire, poiché era proprio lui il responsabile del grande successo che avevano ottenuto nel settore alimentare, e era proprio lui colui che avrebbe potuto rovinarlo tutto.

La febbre nel Bleeding Heart Yard era così intensa e potente che i giorni di pagamento dell’affitto stabiliti dal signor Pancks non causavano alcuna interruzione nelle cure dei pazienti. In quelle occasioni, la malattia assumeva una forma particolare: faceva sì che le persone infette trovassero scuse e consolazioni inesplorabili nell’alludere a quel nome magico.

“Ora sì!” diceva Signor Pancks a un inquilino che non pagava le rate. “Paga subito! Forza!”

“Non ce l’ho, Signor Pancks”, rispondeva Defaulter. “Vi dico la verità, signore: non ho nemmeno sei pence, per potermi comprare qualcosa”.

“Questo non andrà bene, lo sai,” ribatteva sempre Signor Pancks. “Non ti aspetti mica che funzioni, vero?”

Il trasgressore avrebbe ammesso, con un tono scoraggiato “No, signore”, poiché non si aspettava affatto una tale reazione.

“Mio padrone non tollererà questa situazione, lo sapete,” continuava Signor Pancks. “Non mi ha mandato qui per questo. Pagate subito! Forza!”

Il debitore avrebbe risposto: “Ah, Signor Pancks. Se fossi quel ricco gentiluomo di cui tutti parlano, se il mio nome fosse Merdle, signore, pagherei subito, e lo farei con piacere.”

I dialoghi riguardanti la questione dell’affitto avvenivano solitamente davanti alle porte delle case o negli ingressi, e in presenza di diverse persone profondamente interessate. Queste ascoltavano sempre con un mormorio di approvazione, come se quelle argomentazioni fossero convincenti; e il debitore, per quanto in difficoltà e imbarazzato in precedenza, si rallegrava sempre un po’ nel presentarle.

“Se fossi io Signor Merdle, signore, non avreste motivo di lamentarvi di me. No, credetemi!” insisteva il Defaulter scuotendo la testa. “Pagherei subito, Signor Pancks, così velocemente che nemmeno sareste costretto a chiedermelo.”

La risposta sarebbe stata udita di nuovo qui, il che implicava che fosse impossibile dire qualcosa di più giusto, e che questo rappresentasse praticamente lo stesso che pagare subito in contanti.

Signor Pancks ora sarebbe costretto a dire, come quando aveva preso in carico il caso: ‘Beh! Farai entrare quel broker e poi verrai mandato via; è quello che ti succederà. Non ha senso parlarmi di Signor Merdle. Tu non sei Signor Merdle, proprio come io non lo sono.’

“No, signore,” rispondeva il debitore inadempiente. “Vorrei solo che lei fosse lui, signore.”

La risposta affrontò rapidamente la questione; rispondendo con grande sentimento, si disse: “Vorrei solo che lei fosse lui, signore.”

“Sarebbe molto più facile per voi stare con noi se foste il signor Merdle, signore,” continuava il Defaulter con crescente entusiasmo, “e sarebbe meglio per tutte le parti coinvolte. Meglio per noi e anche per voi. Non dovreste preoccuparvi di nessuno, signore: né di noi, né di voi stesso. Sareste più tranquillo nella vostra mente, e lasciereste anche gli altri più sereni, vero? Se foste il signor Merdle, ”

Mr Pancks, in whom these impersonal compliments produced an irresistible sheepishness, never rallied after such a charge. He could only bite his nails and puff away to the next Defaulter. The responsive Bleeding Hearts would then gather round the Defaulter whom he had just abandoned, and the most extravagant rumours would circulate among them, to their great comfort, touching the amount of Mr Merdle’s ready money.

From one of the many such defeats of one of many rent-days, Mr Pancks, having finished his day’s collection, repaired with his note-book under his arm to Mrs Plornish’s corner. Mr Pancks’s object was not professional, but social. He had had a trying day, and wanted a little brightening. By this time he was on friendly terms with the Plornish family, having often looked in upon them at similar seasons, and borne his part in recollections of Miss Dorrit.

Mrs Plornish’s shop-parlour had been decorated under her own eye, and presented, on the side towards the shop, a little fiction in which Mrs Plornish unspeakably rejoiced. This poetical heightening of the parlour consisted in the wall being painted to represent the exterior of a thatched cottage; the artist having introduced (in as effective a manner as he found compatible with their highly disproportionate dimensions) the real door and window. The modest sunflower and hollyhock were depicted as flourishing with great luxuriance on this rustic dwelling, while a quantity of dense smoke issuing from the chimney indicated good cheer within, and also, perhaps, that it had not been lately swept. A faithful dog was represented as flying at the legs of the friendly visitor, from the threshold; and a circular pigeon-house, enveloped in a cloud of pigeons, arose from behind the garden-paling. On the door (when it was shut), appeared the semblance of a brass-plate, presenting the inscription, Happy Cottage, T. and M. Plornish; the partnership expressing man and wife. No Poetry and no Art ever charmed the imagination more than the union of the two in this counterfeit cottage charmed Mrs Plornish. It was nothing to her that Plornish had a habit of leaning against it as he smoked his pipe after work, when his hat blotted out the pigeon-house and all the pigeons, when his back swallowed up the dwelling, when his hands in his pockets uprooted the blooming garden and laid waste the adjacent country. To Mrs Plornish, it was still a most beautiful cottage, a most wonderful deception; and it made no difference that Mr Plornish’s eye was some inches above the level of the gable bed-room in the thatch. To come out into the shop after it was shut, and hear her father sing a song inside this cottage, was a perfect Pastoral to Mrs Plornish, the Golden Age revived. And truly if that famous period had been revived, or had ever been at all, it may be doubted whether it would have produced many more heartily admiring daughters than the poor woman.

Warned of a visitor by the tinkling bell at the shop-door, Mrs Plornish came out of Happy Cottage to see who it might be. ‘I guessed it was you, Mr Pancks,’ said she, ‘for it’s quite your regular night; ain’t it? Here’s father, you see, come out to serve at the sound of the bell, like a brisk young shopman. Ain’t he looking well? Father’s more pleased to see you than if you was a customer, for he dearly loves a gossip; and when it turns upon Miss Dorrit, he loves it all the more. You never heard father in such voice as he is at present,’ said Mrs Plornish, her own voice quavering, she was so proud and pleased. ‘He gave us Strephon last night to that degree that Plornish gets up and makes him this speech across the table. “John Edward Nandy,” says Plornish to father, “I never heard you come the warbles as I have heard you come the warbles this night.” An’t it gratifying, Mr Pancks, though; really?’

Mr Pancks, who had snorted at the old man in his friendliest manner, replied in the affirmative, and casually asked whether that lively Altro chap had come in yet? Mrs Plornish answered no, not yet, though he had gone to the West-End with some work, and had said he should be back by tea-time. Mr Pancks was then hospitably pressed into Happy Cottage, where he encountered the elder Master Plornish just come home from school. Examining that young student, lightly, on the educational proceedings of the day, he found that the more advanced pupils who were in the large text and the letter M, had been set the copy ‘Merdle, Millions.’

‘And how are you getting on, Mrs Plornish,’ said Pancks, ‘since we’re mentioning millions?’

‘Very steady, indeed, sir,’ returned Mrs Plornish. ‘Father, dear, would you go into the shop and tidy the window a little bit before tea, your taste being so beautiful?’

John Edward Nandy trotted away, much gratified, to comply with his daughter’s request. Mrs Plornish, who was always in mortal terror of mentioning pecuniary affairs before the old gentleman, lest any disclosure she made might rouse his spirit and induce him to run away to the workhouse, was thus left free to be confidential with Mr Pancks.

‘It’s quite true that the business is very steady indeed,’ said Mrs Plornish, lowering her voice; ‘and has a excellent connection. The only thing that stands in its way, sir, is the Credit.’

This drawback, rather severely felt by most people who engaged in commercial transactions with the inhabitants of Bleeding Heart Yard, was a large stumbling-block in Mrs Plornish’s trade. When Mr Dorrit had established her in the business, the Bleeding Hearts had shown an amount of emotion and a determination to support her in it, that did honour to human nature. Recognising her claim upon their generous feelings as one who had long been a member of their community, they pledged themselves, with great feeling, to deal with Mrs Plornish, come what would and bestow their patronage on no other establishment. Influenced by these noble sentiments, they had even gone out of their way to purchase little luxuries in the grocery and butter line to which they were unaccustomed; saying to one another, that if they did stretch a point, was it not for a neighbour and a friend, and for whom ought a point to be stretched if not for such? So stimulated, the business was extremely brisk, and the articles in stock went off with the greatest celerity. In short, if the

Signor Pancks, il quale provava una timidezza irresistibile di fronte a questi complimenti impersonali, non riusciva mai a riprendersi dopo un simile attacco. Poteva solo mordersi le unghie e aspettare con impazienza il prossimo debitore inadempiente. I fedeli seguaci del Signor Pancks si riunivano poi intorno al debitore che aveva appena abbandonato, e tra di loro circolavano voci sempre più esagerate riguardo alla quantità di denaro contante posseduto da Signor Merdle, il che li rincuorava molto.

Dopo una delle tante sconfitte subite in uno dei tanti giorni di riscossione, Mr Pancks, dopo aver terminato la sua giornata di lavoro, si diresse verso l’angolo della casa della signora Plornish, con il suo quaderno sotto il braccio. Lo scopo di Mr Pancks non era professionale, ma sociale: aveva trascorso una giornata difficile e voleva un po’ di distrazione. A quel momento, era ormai in buoni rapporti con la famiglia Plornish; spesso andava a trovarli in periodi simili dell’anno e partecipava alle ricordi legati alla signorina Dorrit.

Il salotto del negozio di Mrs Plornish era stato decorato sotto la sua diretta supervisione; sul lato rivolto verso il negozio, era stata realizzata una piccola rappresentazione artistica che le procurava immensa gioia. Questa “poetica” decorazione consisteva nel fatto che il muro era stato dipinto in modo da simulare l’esterno di una capanna di paglia; l’artista aveva inserito, nel modo più efficace possibile considerando le dimensioni assai disproporzionate della struttura, la vera porta e la finestra. Il modesto girasole e il cespuglio di ibisco erano raffigurati come fioriti rigogliosamente su quella dimora rustica; una densa nuvola di fumo che usciva dal camino indicava l’allegria che regnava all’interno, e forse anche il fatto che non fosse stata pulita di recente. Un cane fedele era raffigurato mentre “attaccava” le gambe dei visitatori amichevoli, appena entrati; dietro la siepe del giardino sorgeva una piccola colombaia circolare, avvolta in una nuvola di uccelli. Sulla porta, quando era chiusa, appariva l’immagine di una targa di bronzo con la scritta “Happy Cottage, T. e M. Plornish”: un simbolo dell’unione tra marito e moglie. Nessuna poesia, nessun’arte avrebbero mai incantato tanto l’immaginazione di Mrs Plornish quanto quella falsa rappresentazione di una casa idilliaca. Non le importava affatto che Plornish avesse l’abitudine di appoggiarsi contro la porta mentre fumava la pipa dopo il lavoro, facendo sì che la colombaia e tutti gli uccelli venissero nascosti dalla sua ombra; né che la sua figura ingombrasse interamente l’interno della casa. Per Mrs Plornish, quella era comunque una capanna meravigliosa, un’illusione incantevole. E non faceva alcuna differenza il fatto che gli occhi di Plornish fossero molto più in alto del livello della camera da letto situata sul tetto. Uscire nel negozio dopo che era chiuso e sentire suo padre cantare all’interno di quella “falsa” casa rappresentava per lei un vero paradiso, l’Età d’Oro rivivita. E davvero, se quell’epoca leggendaria fosse mai esistita realmente, è improbabile che avrebbe prodotto molte più figlie pienamente ammirative di quella povera donna.

Avvertita dell’arrivo di un visitatore dal suono della campanella alla porta del negozio, la signora Plornish uscì da Happy Cottage per vedere chi potesse essere. “Ho immaginato che fossi tu, signor Pancks,” disse, “perché è proprio la tua solita notte, vero? Ecco papà: viene subito ad aprire al suono della campanella, come un giovane commerciante diligente. Non sembra forse in ottima forma? A lui fa più piacere vederti che se fossi un cliente. Gli piace tantissimo chiacchierare, soprattutto quando si tratta di Miss Dorrit. Non l’hai mai sentito parlare con quel tono, vero?” La voce della signora Plornish tremava per l’orgoglio e la gioia. “L’altra notte ci ha raccontato così tanto di Strephon che Plornish si è alzato e gli ha detto: ‘John Edward Nandy, non ti ho mai sentito parlare in questo modo come stasera, ’ Non è davvero gratificante, signor Pancks?”

Signor Pancks, che aveva snortato con tono cordiale all’indirizzo dell’uomo anziano, rispose affermativamente e chiese casualmente se quel vivace giovane fosse già arrivato. La signora Plornish rispose di no, ancora no; tuttavia lui era andato in West-End per un lavoro e aveva detto che sarebbe tornato entro l’ora del tè. Signor Pancks fu quindi invitato con gentilezza a soggiornare nella “Casetta Felice”, dove incontrò il signor Plornish appena rientrato da scuola. Esaminando quel giovane studente, fece qualche domanda su come procedessero gli studi in quei giorni e scoprì che agli alunni più avanzati, quelli che studiavano testi più complessi e la lettera “M”, era stato assegnato il libro intitolato “Merdle, Millions”.

“E come va lei, signora Plornish,” disse Pancks, “visto che stiamo parlando di milioni?”

“Molto stabile, davvero, signore,” rispose la signora Plornish. “Caro padre, potreste andare nel negozio e sistemare un po’ la vetrina prima di cena? Il vostro gusto è davvero squisito, ”

John Edward Nandy se ne andò felice di poter soddisfare la richiesta di sua figlia. La signora Plornish, che aveva sempre una terribile paura di menzionare questioni finanziarie davanti al vecchio gentiluomo, temendo che qualsiasi rivelazione potesse scatenare in lui un accesso di furia e spingerlo a fuggire verso l’ospizio per indigenti, poté così parlare liberamente con il signor Pancks.

“È davvero vero che l’attività è molto stabile,” disse la signora Plornish, abbassando la voce; “e ha anche ottimi collegamenti commerciali. L’unica cosa che potrebbe ostacolarla, signore, è il problema del credito.”

Questo svantaggio, piuttosto grave per la maggior parte delle persone che intrattenevano transazioni commerciali con gli abitanti di Bleeding Heart Yard, rappresentava un grosso ostacolo nel commercio della signora Plornish. Quando il signor Dorrit l’aveva introdotta in questo settore, gli abitanti di Bleeding Heart Yard avevano dimostrato un notevole impegno e determinazione a sostenerla, il che rappresentava davvero una onore per la natura umana. Riconoscendo il suo diritto a beneficiare dei loro sentimenti generosi, in quanto membro da tempo della loro comunità, si erano impegnati con grande sincerità ad acquistare i prodotti della signora Plornish e a non favorire alcun altro negozio. Influenzati da questi nobili sentimenti, avevano persino fatto lo sforzo di acquistare piccoli lussi, come cibi prelibati e burro, che normalmente non consumavano; si dicevano a vicenda che, se decidevano di spendere di più, era certamente per una vicina e un’amica. E chi, se non lei, meritava tale sacrificio? Grazie a questo incoraggiamento, gli affari andarono estremamente bene: i prodotti in magazzino venivano venduti con grande rapidità. In breve, se.

Bleeding Hearts had but paid, the undertaking would have been a complete success; whereas, by reason of their exclusively confining themselves to owing, the profits actually realised had not yet begun to appear in the books.

Mr Pancks was making a very porcupine of himself by sticking his hair up in the contemplation of this state of accounts, when old Mr Nandy, re-entering the cottage with an air of mystery, entreated them to come and look at the strange behaviour of Mr Baptist, who seemed to have met with something that had scared him. All three going into the shop, and watching through the window, then saw Mr Baptist, pale and agitated, go through the following extraordinary performances. First, he was observed hiding at the top of the steps leading down into the Yard, and peeping up and down the street with his head cautiously thrust out close to the side of the shop-door. After very anxious scrutiny, he came out of his retreat, and went briskly down the street as if he were going away altogether; then, suddenly turned about, and went, at the same pace, and with the same feint, up the street. He had gone no further up the street than he had gone down, when he crossed the road and disappeared. The object of this last manoeuvre was only apparent, when his entering the shop with a sudden twist, from the steps again, explained that he had made a wide and obscure circuit round to the other, or Doyce and Clennam, end of the Yard, and had come through the Yard and bolted in. He was out of breath by that time, as he might well be, and his heart seemed to jerk faster than the little shop-bell, as it quivered and jingled behind him with his hasty shutting of the door.

‘Hallo, old chap!’ said Mr Pancks. ‘Altro, old boy! What’s the matter?’

Mr Baptist, or Signor Cavalletto, understood English now almost as well as Mr Pancks himself, and could speak it very well too. Nevertheless, Mrs Plornish, with a pardonable vanity in that accomplishment of hers which made her all but Italian, stepped in as interpreter.

‘E ask know,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘what go wrong?’

‘Come into the happy little cottage, Padrona,’ returned Mr Baptist, imparting great stealthiness to his flurried back-handed shake of his right forefinger. ‘Come there!’

Mrs Plornish was proud of the title Padrona, which she regarded as signifying: not so much Mistress of the house, as Mistress of the Italian tongue. She immediately complied with Mr Baptist’s request, and they all went into the cottage.

‘E ope you no fright,’ said Mrs Plornish then, interpreting Mr Pancks in a new way with her usual fertility of resource. ‘What appen? Peaka Padrona!’

‘I have seen some one,’ returned Baptist. ‘I have rincontrato him.’

‘Im? Oo him?’ asked Mrs Plornish.

‘A bad man. A baddest man. I have hoped that I should never see him again.’

‘Ow you know him bad?’ asked Mrs Plornish.

‘It does not matter, Padrona. I know it too well.’

‘E see you?’ asked Mrs Plornish.

‘No. I hope not. I believe not.’

‘He says,’ Mrs Plornish then interpreted, addressing her father and Pancks with mild condescension, ‘that he has met a bad man, but he hopes the bad man didn’t see him—Why,’ inquired Mrs Plornish, reverting to the Italian language, ‘why ope bad man no see?’

‘Padrona, dearest,’ returned the little foreigner whom she so considerately protected, ‘do not ask, I pray. Once again I say it matters not. I have fear of this man. I do not wish to see him, I do not wish to be known of him—never again! Enough, most beautiful. Leave it.’

The topic was so disagreeable to him, and so put his usual liveliness to the rout, that Mrs Plornish forbore to press him further: the rather as the tea had been drawing for some time on the hob. But she was not the less surprised and curious for asking no more questions; neither was Mr Pancks, whose expressive breathing had been labouring hard since the entrance of the little man, like a locomotive engine with a great load getting up a steep incline. Maggy, now better dressed than of yore, though still faithful to the monstrous character of her cap, had been in the background from the first with open mouth and eyes, which staring and gaping features were not diminished in breadth by the untimely suppression of the subject. However, no more was said about it, though much appeared to be thought on all sides: by no means excepting the two young Plornishes, who partook of the evening meal as if their eating the bread and butter were rendered almost superfluous by the painful probability of the worst of men shortly presenting himself for the purpose of eating them. Mr Baptist, by degrees began to chirp a little; but never stirred from the seat he had taken behind the door and close to the window, though it was not his usual place. As often as the little bell rang, he started and peeped out secretly, with the end of the little curtain in his hand and the rest before his face; evidently not at all satisfied but that the man he dreaded had tracked him through all his doublings and turnings, with the certainty of a terrible bloodhound.

The entrance, at various times, of two or three customers and of Mr Plornish, gave Mr Baptist just enough of this employment to keep the attention of the company fixed upon him. Tea was over, and the children were abed, and Mrs Plornish was feeling her way to the dutiful proposal that her father should favour them with Chloe, when the bell rang again, and Mr Clennam came in.

Clennam had been poring late over his books and letters; for the waiting-rooms of the Circumlocution Office ravaged his time sorely. Over and above that, he was depressed and made uneasy by the late occurrence at his mother’s. He looked worn and solitary. He felt so, too; but, nevertheless, was returning home from his counting-house by that end of the Yard to give them the intelligence that he had received another letter from Miss Dorrit.

Se “Bleeding Hearts” avesse semplicemente adempiuto ai propri obblighi, l’impresa sarebbe stata un completo successo; invece, poiché si erano limitati esclusivamente al pagamento dei debiti, i profitti effettivamente realizzati non erano ancora apparsi nei bilanci.

Mr Pancks si stava comportando in modo davvero strano, con i capelli ritti per la concentrazione nel controllare quei documenti finanziari, quando il vecchio Mr Nandy, rientrando nella casetta con aria misteriosa, li invitò a venire a vedere il comportamento insolito di Mr Baptist, che sembrava aver incontrato qualcosa che lo aveva spaventato. I tre entrarono nel negozio e, guardando attraverso la finestra, videro Mr Baptist, pallido e agitato, compiere alcune azioni straordinarie: prima si nascose in cima alle scale che conducevano nel cortile, poi spiò avanti e indietro lungo la strada, tenendo la testa molto vicina al bordo della porta del negozio. Dopo aver osservato attentamente per un po’, uscì dal suo nascondiglio e si allontanò rapidamente lungo la strada; poi, improvvisamente, tornò indietro, procedendo allo stesso ritmo e con lo stesso stratagemma. Non aveva fatto molta strada quando attraversò la strada e scomparve. Lo scopo di questa ultima manovra divenne chiaro solo quando rientrò nel negozio facendo una brusca svolta: evidentemente aveva fatto un lungo giro attorno al lato opposto del cortile, per poi entrare di nuovo dal retro. A quel momento era senza fiato, e il suo cuore sembrava battere ancora più velocemente del piccolo campanello del negozio, che tremolava e tintinnava mentre lui chiudeva la porta in fretta.

“Ciao, vecchio mio!” disse Signor Pancks. “Ancora una volta, vecchio amico. Che c’è?”

Il signor Baptist, o il signor Cavalletto, ormai capiva l’inglese quasi altrettanto bene quanto lo stesso signor Pancks, e riusciva anche a parlarlo molto bene. Tuttavia, la signora Plornish, con una perdonabile vanità riguardo a questa sua abilità che la rendeva quasi italiana, intervenne come interprete.

“E chiedete e saprete,” disse la signora Plornish, “cosa è andato storto.”

“Entrate in quella piccola casetta felice, Signora,” rispose il signor Baptist, muovendo con grande discrezione il dito indice destro in un gesto rapido e furtivo. “Venite qui!”

La signora Plornish era orgogliosa del titolo di “Padrona”, che considerava significasse non tanto “Signora della casa”, quanto piuttosto “Signora della lingua italiana”. Obbedì immediatamente alla richiesta del signor Baptist, e tutti andarono nella capanna.

“E non avere paura,” disse allora la signora Plornish, interpretando il comportamento del signor Pancks in modo nuovo, grazie alla sua solita ingegnosità. “Che cosa è successo? Signora Peake!”

“Ho visto qualcuno, ”, rispose il Battista. “L’ho incontrato di nuovo.”

“Che cosa? Oh mio Dio?” chiese la signora Plornish.

“Un uomo cattivo. Il più cattivo di tutti. Speravo davvero di non doverlo rivedere mai più.”

“Ah, lo conosci bene, vero?” chiese la signora Plornish.

“Non importa, Signora. Lo so anch’io molto bene.”

“E ci vediamo poi?” chiese la signora Plornish.

“No. Non lo spero. Credo di no.”

“Dice,” interpretò poi la signora Plornish, rivolgendosi a suo padre e a Pancks con un leggero tono di superiorità, “che ha incontrato un uomo cattivo, ma spera che quell’uomo non lo abbia visto. Perché,” chiese la signora Plornish, tornando all’italiano, “perché quell’uomo non dovrebbe averlo visto?”

“Padrona, mia adorata,” rispose la piccola straniera che lei proteggeva con tanta premura, “per favore, non chiedere. Ancora una volta dico che non ha importanza. Ho paura di quest’uomo. Non voglio vederlo, non voglio che lui sappia della mia esistenza, mai più! Basta, mia bella. Lascia perdere.”

L’argomento gli risultava così sgradevole che rovinava completamente il suo solito spirito vivace; per questo la signora Plornish decise di non insistere oltre, soprattutto perché il tè era già da un po’ in cottura sul fornello. Tuttavia, né lei né il signor Pancks smisero di essere sorpresi e curiosi; anzi, il respiro affannoso del signor Pancks sembrava indicare che fosse particolarmente turbato dall’intera situazione, come una locomotiva sotto grande carico che tentasse di salire una pendenza ripida. Maggy, ora vestita in modo più presentabile rispetto al passato – sebbene continuasse a indossare quel cappello orribile – stava in un angolo, con la bocca e gli occhi spalancati, e quell’espressione attonita non sembrava affatto diminuire nonostante l’argomento fosse stato bruscamente abbandonato. Comunque, non si parlò più dell’argomento, anche se tutti ne pensavano molto, tranne i due giovani Plornish, che mangiarono la cena come se il semplice fatto di mangiare pane e burro diventasse quasi superfluo, data la terribile probabilità che qualcuno venisse a ucciderli da un momento all’altro. Il signor Baptist iniziò gradualmente a canticchiare sommessamente, ma non si mosse mai dal posto dove si era seduto, dietro la porta e vicino alla finestra, anche se non era il suo solito posto. Ogni volta che suonava la campanella, lui sobbalzava e spiava fuori in segreto, tenendo un angolo della tendina davanti al viso, chiaramente insoddisfatto, come se quell’uomo che temeva lo avesse seguito passo dopo passo, con la certezza di un cane da caccia implacabile.

L’ingresso, a diversi momenti, di due o tre clienti e del signor Plornish, fornì al signor Baptist abbastanza occasioni per mantenere l’attenzione di tutti su di sé. Il tè era finito, i bambini erano andati a letto, e la signora Plornish stava pensando a come proporre con doverosità che suo padre concedesse loro Chloe, quando il campanello suonò di nuovo e il signor Clennam entrò.

Clennam aveva passato le ore tarde a studiare i suoi libri e a leggere le sue lettere; inoltre, le attese nelle sale d’attesa dell’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni gli avevano gravemente consumato il tempo. Su tutto ciò, si sentiva depresso e angosciato per l’incidente avvenuto di recente a casa sua. Sembrava stanco e solo. Lo era davvero; tuttavia, quella sera tornava a >casa dalla sua banca, passando per quel tratto del cortile, per comunicare loro che aveva ricevuto un’altra lettera da Miss Dorrit.

The news made a sensation in the cottage which drew off the general attention from Mr Baptist. Maggy, who pushed her way into the foreground immediately, would have seemed to draw in the tidings of her Little Mother equally at her ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, but that the last were obstructed by tears. She was particularly delighted when Clennam assured her that there were hospitals, and very kindly conducted hospitals, in Rome. Mr Pancks rose into new distinction in virtue of being specially remembered in the letter. Everybody was pleased and interested, and Clennam was well repaid for his trouble.

‘But you are tired, sir. Let me make you a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘if you’d condescend to take such a thing in the cottage; and many thanks to you, too, I am sure, for bearing us in mind so kindly.’

Mr Plornish deeming it incumbent on him, as host, to add his personal acknowledgments, tendered them in the form which always expressed his highest ideal of a combination of ceremony with sincerity.

‘John Edward Nandy,’ said Mr Plornish, addressing the old gentleman. ‘Sir. It’s not too often that you see unpretending actions without a spark of pride, and therefore when you see them give grateful honour unto the same, being that if you don’t, and live to want ‘em, it follows serve you right.’

To which Mr Nandy replied:

‘I am heartily of your opinion, Thomas, and which your opinion is the same as mine, and therefore no more words and not being backwards with that opinion, which opinion giving it as yes, Thomas, yes, is the opinion in which yourself and me must ever be unanimously jined by all, and where there is not difference of opinion there can be none but one opinion, which fully no, Thomas, Thomas, no!’

Arthur, with less formality, expressed himself gratified by their high appreciation of so very slight an attention on his part; and explained as to the tea that he had not yet dined, and was going straight home to refresh after a long day’s labour, or he would have readily accepted the hospitable offer. As Mr Pancks was somewhat noisily getting his steam up for departure, he concluded by asking that gentleman if he would walk with him? Mr Pancks said he desired no better engagement, and the two took leave of Happy Cottage.

‘If you will come home with me, Pancks,’ said Arthur, when they got into the street, ‘and will share what dinner or supper there is, it will be next door to an act of charity; for I am weary and out of sorts to-night.’

‘Ask me to do a greater thing than that,’ said Pancks, ‘when you want it done, and I’ll do it.’

Between this eccentric personage and Clennam, a tacit understanding and accord had been always improving since Mr Pancks flew over Mr Rugg’s back in the Marshalsea Yard. When the carriage drove away on the memorable day of the family’s departure, these two had looked after it together, and had walked slowly away together. When the first letter came from little Dorrit, nobody was more interested in hearing of her than Mr Pancks. The second letter, at that moment in Clennam’s breast-pocket, particularly remembered him by name. Though he had never before made any profession or protestation to Clennam, and though what he had just said was little enough as to the words in which it was expressed, Clennam had long had a growing belief that Mr Pancks, in his own odd way, was becoming attached to him. All these strings intertwining made Pancks a very cable of anchorage that night.

‘I am quite alone,’ Arthur explained as they walked on. ‘My partner is away, busily engaged at a distance on his branch of our business, and you shall do just as you like.’

‘Thank you. You didn’t take particular notice of little Altro just now; did you?’ said Pancks.

‘No. Why?’

‘He’s a bright fellow, and I like him,’ said Pancks. ‘Something has gone amiss with him to-day. Have you any idea of any cause that can have overset him?’

‘You surprise me! None whatever.’

Mr Pancks gave his reasons for the inquiry. Arthur was quite unprepared for them, and quite unable to suggest an explanation of them.

‘Perhaps you’ll ask him,’ said Pancks, ‘as he’s a stranger?’

‘Ask him what?’ returned Clennam.

‘What he has on his mind.’

‘I ought first to see for myself that he has something on his mind, I think,’ said Clennam. ‘I have found him in every way so diligent, so grateful (for little enough), and so trustworthy, that it might look like suspecting him. And that would be very unjust.’

‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘But, I say! You oughtn’t to be anybody’s proprietor, Mr Clennam. You’re much too delicate.’

‘For the matter of that,’ returned Clennam laughing, ‘I have not a large proprietary share in Cavalletto. His carving is his livelihood. He keeps the keys of the Factory, watches it every alternate night, and acts as a sort of housekeeper to it generally; but we have little work in the way of his ingenuity, though we give him what we have. No! I am rather his adviser than his proprietor. To call me his standing counsel and his banker would be nearer the fact. Speaking of being his banker, is it not curious, Pancks, that the ventures which run just now in so many people’s heads, should run even in little Cavalletto’s?’

‘Ventures?’ retorted Pancks, with a snort. ‘What ventures?’

‘These Merdle enterprises.’

‘Oh! Investments,’ said Pancks. ‘Ay, ay! I didn’t know you were speaking of investments.’

His quick way of replying caused Clennam to look at him, with a doubt whether he meant more than he said. As it was accompanied, however, with a quickening of his pace and a corresponding increase in the labouring of his machinery, Arthur did not pursue the matter, and they soon arrived at his house.

A dinner of soup and a pigeon-pie, served on a little round table before the fire, and flavoured with a bottle of good wine, oiled Mr Pancks’s works in a highly effective manner; so that when Clennam produced his Eastern pipe, and handed Mr Pancks another Eastern pipe, the latter gentleman was perfectly comfortable.

La notizia suscitò grande scalpore nella capanna, attirando l’attenzione generale lontano da Mr Baptist. Maggy, che si fece subito avanti, sembrava voler assorbire tutte le informazioni riguardo a sua “Piccola Madre” attraverso orecchie, naso, bocca e occhi, ma questi ultimi erano ostruiti dalle lacrime. Fu particolarmente felice quando Clennam le assicurò che a Roma esistevano ospedali, e anzi ospedali molto ben gestiti. Mr Pancks guadagnò nuova notorietà grazie al fatto di essere stato menzionato specificamente nella lettera. Tutti furono felici e interessati; Clennam ricevette quindi una vera ricompensa per i suoi sforzi.

“Ma lei è stanco, signore. Lasci che le prepari una tazza di tè,” disse la signora Plornish, “se avrà la gentilezza di accettare qualcosa del genere nella capanna; e le sono davvero molto grata per averci tenuti così a cuore.”

Il signor Plornish, ritenendo che fosse suo dovere, in qualità di ospite, esprimere i suoi ringraziamenti personali, lo fece nel modo che sempre rifletteva il suo più alto ideale di combinazione tra cerimonia e sincerità.

“John Edward Nandy,” disse il signor Plornish rivolgendosi al vecchio gentiluomo.
“Sir. Non capita spesso di vedere comportamenti schietti e senza un briciolo di orgoglio; per questo, quando li si osserva, bisogna riconoscerne con gratitudine il valore. Altrimenti, se poi si desiderano in seguito, sarà solo colpa propria.”

A cui il signor Nandy rispose:

‘Condivido pienamente il tuo punto di vista, Thomas; il tuo parere è lo stesso del mio. Pertanto, non c’è bisogno di aggiungere altro. Essendo d’accordo su questa opinione, tu ed io dobbiamo sempre essere uniti in modo unanime da tutti. Laddove non esistono differenze di opinione, può essercene soltanto una. E quella opinione è senz’altro la giusta, Thomas.’

Arthur, in modo meno formale, esprimeva la sua gratitudine per il loro grande apprezzamento per un gesto così insignificante da parte sua; spiegò anche che non aveva ancora cenato e stava andando direttamente a casa per riposarsi dopo una lunga giornata di lavoro, altrimenti avrebbe accettato volentieri l’offerta ospitale. Poiché Mr Pancks si stava preparando ad andarsene in modo piuttosto rumoroso, Arthur gli chiese se volesse accompagnarlo; Mr Pancks rispose che non desiderava nulla di meglio, e così i due presero congedo da Happy Cottage.

“Se vuoi venire a casa con me, Pancks,” disse Arthur non appena uscirono in strada, “e condividere la cena o la colazione che abbiamo, sarebbe quasi un atto di carità; perché sono stanco e mi sento male fino a notte.”

“Chiedetemi di fare qualcosa di ancora più grande,” disse Pancks, “quando vorrete che lo faccia, e lo farò.”

Tra questo personaggio eccentrico e Clennam esisteva un tacito accordo e una comprensione reciproca che continuavano ad approfondirsi da quando Mr Pancks aveva fatto quella strana scenata nel Marshalsea Yard. Il giorno memorabile della partenza della famiglia, i due si erano presi cura insieme del carro e poi se ne erano andati lentamente insieme. Quando arrivò la prima lettera da parte di piccola Dorrit, nessuno era più interessato a sapere notizie su di lei di Mr Pancks. La seconda lettera, in quel momento nella tasca del petto di Clennam, gli ricordava particolarmente il nome di Pancks. Anche se Pancks non aveva mai espresso apertamente alcun sentimento o protesta nei confronti di Clennam, e anche se ciò che aveva detto era stato molto poco in termini di parole, Clennam da tempo aveva l’impressione che Pancks, a modo suo strano, stesse iniziando a provare affetto per lui. Tutti questi legami intrecciati rendevano Pancks una sorta di “cavo di ancoraggio” molto solido per Clennam.

“Sono piuttosto solo,” spiegò Arthur mentre camminavano. “Il mio compagno è via, impegnato in un’altra parte con la sua attività all’interno della nostra azienda, e tu puoi fare ciò che vuoi.”

“Grazie. Non avete prestato particolare attenzione a quel piccolo Altro poco fa, vero?” disse Pancks.

“No. Perché?”

“È un ragazzo intelligente, e mi piace,” disse Pancks. “Qualcosa non va in lui oggi. Hai qualche idea di cosa possa essere?”

“Mi sorprendi davvero. Per niente.”

Signor Pancks espresse le ragioni della sua indagine. Arthur non era affatto preparato ad ascoltarle e non riusciva assolutamente a fornire alcuna spiegazione al riguardo.

“Forse dovresti chiederglielo tu, visto che è uno sconosciuto, ” disse Pancks.

“Chiedigli cosa?” rispose Clennam.

“Ciò che ha in mente.”

“Dovrei prima constatare con i miei occhi se abbia davvero qualcosa in mente,” disse Clennam. “Lo ho trovato in ogni modo così diligente, così grato (per cose così insignificanti) e così affidabile, che sospettarlo sembrerebbe davvero ingiusto.”

“Vero,” disse Pancks. “Ma, dico io. Non dovreste essere la proprietà di nessuno, signor Clennam. Siete troppo delicato.”

“Per quanto riguarda questo,” rispose Clennam ridendo, “non possiedo una grande quota di proprietà in Cavalletto. La sua scultura è la sua fonte di sostentamento. Lui custodisce le chiavi della fabbrica, la sorveglia ogni seconda notte e, in un certo senso, ne fa anche la “casiera”; tuttavia non abbiamo molto bisogno del suo ingegno, anche se gli diamo tutto ciò che abbiamo. No. Sono più il suo consigliere che il suo proprietario. Chiamarmi il suo consulente principale e il suo banchiere sarebbe più appropriato. A proposito di essere il suo banchiere. Non è curioso, Pancks, che le stesse iniziative che al momento passano per la testa di molte persone vengano anche in mente a quel piccolo Cavalletto?”

“Avventure?”, ribatté Pancks con un sogghigno. “Quali avventure?”

“Queste imprese di Merdle, ”

“Ah, gli investimenti, ”, disse Pancks. “Ah sì, non sapevo che stessi parlando di investimenti.”

Il suo modo rapido di rispondere fece sì che Clennam lo guardasse con dubbio, chiedendosi se intendesse qualcosa di più di ciò che aveva detto. Tuttavia, poiché questo comportamento era accompagnato da un aumento del suo passo e da una conseguente intensificazione dello sforzo che doveva compiere per muoversi, Arthur non approfondì l’argomento e presto arrivarono a casa sua.

Una cena composta da zuppa e una torta di piccione, servita su un piccolo tavolo rotondo davanti al fuoco, e arricchita da una bottiglia di ottimo vino. Questo contribuì in modo efficace a rendere l’atmosfera molto piacevole; così quando Clennam tirò fuori la sua pipa orientale e ne porse un’altra a Mr Pancks, quest’ultimo si trovava perfettamente a suo agio.

They puffed for a while in silence, Mr Pancks like a steam-vessel with wind, tide, calm water, and all other sea-going conditions in her favour. He was the first to speak, and he spoke thus:

‘Yes. Investments is the word.’

Clennam, with his former look, said ‘Ah!’

‘I am going back to it, you see,’ said Pancks.

‘Yes. I see you are going back to it,’ returned Clennam, wondering why.

‘Wasn’t it a curious thing that they should run in little Altro’s head? Eh?’ said Pancks as he smoked. ‘Wasn’t that how you put it?’

‘That was what I said.’

‘Ay! But think of the whole Yard having got it. Think of their all meeting me with it, on my collecting days, here and there and everywhere. Whether they pay, or whether they don’t pay. Merdle, Merdle, Merdle. Always Merdle.’

‘Very strange how these runs on an infatuation prevail,’ said Arthur.

‘An’t it?’ returned Pancks. After smoking for a minute or so, more drily than comported with his recent oiling, he added: ‘Because you see these people don’t understand the subject.’

‘Not a bit,’ assented Clennam.

‘Not a bit,’ cried Pancks. ‘Know nothing of figures. Know nothing of money questions. Never made a calculation. Never worked it, sir!’

‘If they had—’ Clennam was going on to say; when Mr Pancks, without change of countenance, produced a sound so far surpassing all his usual efforts, nasal or bronchial, that he stopped.

‘If they had?’ repeated Pancks in an inquiring tone.

‘I thought you—spoke,’ said Arthur, hesitating what name to give the interruption.

‘Not at all,’ said Pancks. ‘Not yet. I may in a minute. If they had?’

‘If they had,’ observed Clennam, who was a little at a loss how to take his friend, ‘why, I suppose they would have known better.’

‘How so, Mr Clennam?’ Pancks asked quickly, and with an odd effect of having been from the commencement of the conversation loaded with the heavy charge he now fired off. ‘They’re right, you know. They don’t mean to be, but they’re right.’

‘Right in sharing Cavalletto’s inclination to speculate with Mr Merdle?’

‘Per-fectly, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘I’ve gone into it. I’ve made the calculations. I’ve worked it. They’re safe and genuine.’ Relieved by having got to this, Mr Pancks took as long a pull as his lungs would permit at his Eastern pipe, and looked sagaciously and steadily at Clennam while inhaling and exhaling too.

In those moments, Mr Pancks began to give out the dangerous infection with which he was laden. It is the manner of communicating these diseases; it is the subtle way in which they go about.

‘Do you mean, my good Pancks,’ asked Clennam emphatically, ‘that you would put that thousand pounds of yours, let us say, for instance, out at this kind of interest?’

‘Certainly,’ said Pancks. ‘Already done it, sir.’

Mr Pancks took another long inhalation, another long exhalation, another long sagacious look at Clennam.

‘I tell you, Mr Clennam, I’ve gone into it,’ said Pancks. ‘He’s a man of immense resources—enormous capital—government influence. They’re the best schemes afloat. They’re safe. They’re certain.’

‘Well!’ returned Clennam, looking first at him gravely and then at the fire gravely. ‘You surprise me!’

‘Bah!’ Pancks retorted. ‘Don’t say that, sir. It’s what you ought to do yourself! Why don’t you do as I do?’

Of whom Mr Pancks had taken the prevalent disease, he could no more have told than if he had unconsciously taken a fever. Bred at first, as many physical diseases are, in the wickedness of men, and then disseminated in their ignorance, these epidemics, after a period, get communicated to many sufferers who are neither ignorant nor wicked. Mr Pancks might, or might not, have caught the illness himself from a subject of this class; but in this category he appeared before Clennam, and the infection he threw off was all the more virulent.

‘And you have really invested,’ Clennam had already passed to that word, ‘your thousand pounds, Pancks?’

‘To be sure, sir!’ replied Pancks boldly, with a puff of smoke. ‘And only wish it ten!’

Now, Clennam had two subjects lying heavy on his lonely mind that night; the one, his partner’s long-deferred hope; the other, what he had seen and heard at his mother’s. In the relief of having this companion, and of feeling that he could trust him, he passed on to both, and both brought him round again, with an increase and acceleration of force, to his point of departure.

It came about in the simplest manner. Quitting the investment subject, after an interval of silent looking at the fire through the smoke of his pipe, he told Pancks how and why he was occupied with the great National Department. ‘A hard case it has been, and a hard case it is on Doyce,’ he finished by saying, with all the honest feeling the topic roused in him.

‘Hard indeed,’ Pancks acquiesced. ‘But you manage for him, Mr Clennam?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Manage the money part of the business?’

‘Yes. As well as I can.’

‘Manage it better, sir,’ said Pancks. ‘Recompense him for his toils and disappointments. Give him the chances of the time. He’ll never benefit himself in that way, patient and preoccupied workman. He looks to you, sir.’

‘I do my best, Pancks,’ returned Clennam, uneasily. ‘As to duly weighing and considering these new enterprises of which I have had no experience, I doubt if I am fit for it, I am growing old.’

‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Ha, ha!’

There was something so indubitably genuine in the wonderful laugh, and series of snorts and puffs, engendered in Mr Pancks’s astonishment at, and utter rejection of, the idea, that his being quite in earnest could not be questioned.

‘Growing old?’ cried Pancks. ‘Hear, hear, hear! Old? Hear him, hear him!’

The positive refusal expressed in Mr Pancks’s continued snorts, no less than in these exclamations, to entertain the sentiment for a single instant, drove Arthur away from it. Indeed, he was fearful of something happening to Mr Pancks in the violent conflict that took place between the breath he jerked out of himself and the smoke he jerked into himself. This abandonment of the second topic threw him on the third.

Rimasero in silenzio per un po’; Mr Pancks respirava con affanno, come una nave a vapore che avesse il vento, la marea, acque calme e tutte le condizioni favorevoli per navigare. Fu lui il primo a parlare, e disse così:

“Sì. Gli investimenti sono la risposta.”

“Clennam, con il suo aspetto di un tempo, esclamò: ‘Ah!’”

“Tornerò ad occuparmene, capite,” disse Pancks.

“Sì. Vedo che ne riparli,” rispose Clennam, chiedendosi il motivo.

“Non era forse una cosa curiosa il fatto che quei pensieri continuassero a girare nella testa di quel piccolo Altro? Eh?” disse Pancks fumando. “Non è così che l’hai definito tu, vero?”

“Ecco quello che ho detto.”

“Ahimè. Ma pensa solo a come l’intero Yard ne sarebbe felice. Pensaci: tutti mi aspetterebbero con quelle cose nei giorni in cui le raccolgo, qui e là, ovunque. Che paghino o no. Sempre Merdle, sempre Merdle.”

“È davvero strano come queste passioni improvvisate possano durare così a lungo,” disse Arthur.

“Non è vero?” rispose Pancks. Dopo aver fumato per un minuto o due, in modo più secco di quanto ci si aspetterebbe da qualcuno che si era appena unto con olio, aggiunse: “Perché, vedi, queste persone non capiscono affatto l’argomento.”

“Nemmeno un po’,” concordò Clennam.

“Nemmeno un po’,” gridò Pancks. “Non so nulla di numeri. Non conosco nulla riguardo alle questioni finanziarie. Non ho mai fatto nessun calcolo. Non ne ho mai avuto bisogno, signore!”

“Se avessero, ” stava per dire Clennam; quando Signor Pancks, senza cambiare espressione, emise un suono che superava di gran lunga tutti i suoi soliti sforzi, sia nasali che bronchiali, si fermò immediatamente.

“Se l’avessero fatto?” ripeté Pancks con tono interrogativo.

“Pensavo che tu, stessi parlando,” disse Arthur, esitando su quale nome dare a quell’interruzione.

“Assolutamente no,” disse Pancks. “Non ancora. Forse tra un minuto. E se l’avessero fatto?”

“Se l’avessero fatto,” osservò Clennam, che non sapeva bene come interpretare le parole del suo amico, “be’, immagino che avrebbero saputo cosa fare.”

“Come mai, signor Clennam?” chiese Pancks rapidamente, con un effetto strano: fin dall’inizio della conversazione aveva già espresso un’opinione pesante, e ora la ripeteva ancora. “Hanno ragione, sa. Non lo intendono certo, ma hanno ragione.”

“Esatto, nel condividere l’abitudine di Cavalletto di speculare insieme a Signor Merdle?”

“Per-fettamente, signore,” disse Pancks. “Ho fatto i calcoli necessari; tutto è sicuro e autentico.” Sollevato per essere riuscito a risolvere la questione, il signor Pancks tirò dalla sua pipa orientale per tutta la durata che i suoi polmoni gli permisero, osservando Clennam con aria sagace e concentrata mentre inspirava ed espirava.

In quei momenti, Signor Pancks iniziò a diffondere l’infezione pericolosa che portava con sé. È proprio questo il modo in cui queste malattie si trasmettono; è attraverso mezzi subdoli e insidiosi che avanzano.

“Volete dire, mio caro Pancks,” chiese Clennam con enfasi, “che sareste disposto a investire quei mille sterline dei vostri, per esempio, con un tasso di interesse del genere?”

“Certamente,” disse Pancks. “L’ho già fatto, signore.”

Signor Pancks fece un’altra lunga inspirazione, un’altra lunga espirazione, e poi lanciò un altro lungo sguardo sagace verso Clennam.

“Le dico io, signor Clennam, ci ho messo le mani dentro,” disse Pancks. “Quell’uomo dispone di risorse immense: un capitale enorme e una grande influenza presso il governo. Sono i progetti migliori che esistano al momento. Sono sicuri, affidabili.”

“Beh!”, rispose Clennam, guardandolo prima con serietà e poi, allo stesso modo, verso il fuoco. “Mi sorprendi davvero!”

“Bah!” ribatté Pancks. “Non dite così, signore. È proprio quello che dovreste fare voi stesso! Perché non fate come faccio io?”

Di questi, Signor Pancks aveva contratto la malattia più diffusa; non avrebbe potuto dirlo diversamente, come se inconsapevolmente si fosse ammalato di febbre. Queste epidemie, che inizialmente sorgono dalla malvagità degli uomini e poi si diffondono a causa della loro ignoranza, dopo un certo periodo colpiscono anche molte persone che non sono né ignoranti né malvagie. Signor Pancks poteva essersi contagiato da qualcuno appartenente a questa categoria; ma quando apparve davanti a Clennam, l’infezione che trasmetteva era ancora più virulenta.

“E davvero hai investito,” aveva già iniziato a dire Clennam, “i tuoi mille sterline, Pancks?”

“Certamente, signore!” rispose Pancks con coraggio, emettendo una boccata di fumo. “E vorrei che fossero addirittura dieci!”

Ora, quella notte, due questioni gravavano pesantemente sulla mente solitaria di Clennam: da un lato, la >speranza a lungo attesa del suo compagno; dall’altro, ciò che aveva visto e sentito nella casa di sua madre. Grazie alla presenza di questo compagno, e al fatto di sentirsi in grado di fidarsi di lui, affrontò entrambe le questioni, e queste lo riportarono, con maggiore intensità e rapidità, al punto di partenza.

Tutto accadde nel modo più semplice. Abbandonando l’argomento degli investimenti, dopo aver fissato in silenzio la fiamma attraverso il fumo della sua pipa, raccontò a Pancks come e perché si fosse occupato di quel grande Dipartimento Nazionale. “È stato un caso difficile, e lo è ancora per Doyce,” concluse, con tutto l’onestà che quell’argomento suscitava in lui.

“Davvero difficile,” convenne Pancks. “Ma riuscirete a farcela per lui, signor Clennam?”

“Cosa intendi dire?”

“Gestire la parte finanziaria dell’attività?”

“Sì. Per quanto ne sono capace.”

“Gestite la situazione meglio, signore,” disse Pancks. “Ricompensatelo per i suoi sforzi e le delusioni subite. Dategli le opportunità che il tempo offre. In quel modo non riuscirà mai a trarre beneficio da sé stesso. Quel lavoratore paziente e dedicato guarda a voi, signore.”

“Faccio del mio meglio, Pancks,” rispose Clennam, a disagio. “Per quanto riguarda il valutare e considerare adeguatamente queste nuove iniziative di cui non ho esperienza. Dubito di essere all’altezza; sto invecchiando.”

“Invecchiare?”, esclamò Pancks. “Ahah!”

C’era qualcosa di indubbiamente autentico in quella meravigliosa risata, nonché nelle serie di sbuffi e risate che ne derivavano; tutto ciò scaturiva dall’assoluto stupore e dalla totale ripulsa da parte di Mr Pancks all’idea che potesse davvero parlare seriamente. Non si poteva nemmeno mettere in dubbio che stesse dicendo sul serio.

“Invecchiare?” esclamò Pancks. “Ascoltate, ascoltate! Invecchiare. Sentite cosa dice!”

Il rifiuto deciso espresso dai continui sospiri di Signor Pancks, non meno che da queste esclamazioni, nel non voler nemmeno per un istante accettare tale sentimento, spinse Arthur a allontanarsene. Infatti, temeva che potesse succedere qualcosa a Signor Pancks nel violento conflitto che si verificava tra il respiro che egli espelleva e il fumo che inalava. Questo abbandono del secondo argomento lo portò inevitabilmente al terzo.

‘Young, old, or middle-aged, Pancks,’ he said, when there was a favourable pause, ‘I am in a very anxious and uncertain state; a state that even leads me to doubt whether anything now seeming to belong to me, may be really mine. Shall I tell you how this is? Shall I put a great trust in you?’

‘You shall, sir,’ said Pancks, ‘if you believe me worthy of it.’

‘I do.’

‘You may!’ Mr Pancks’s short and sharp rejoinder, confirmed by the sudden outstretching of his coaly hand, was most expressive and convincing. Arthur shook the hand warmly.

He then, softening the nature of his old apprehensions as much as was possible consistently with their being made intelligible and never alluding to his mother by name, but speaking vaguely of a relation of his, confided to Mr Pancks a broad outline of the misgivings he entertained, and of the interview he had witnessed. Mr Pancks listened with such interest that, regardless of the charms of the Eastern pipe, he put it in the grate among the fire-irons, and occupied his hands during the whole recital in so erecting the loops and hooks of hair all over his head, that he looked, when it came to a conclusion, like a journeyman Hamlet in conversation with his father’s spirit.

‘Brings me back, sir,’ was his exclamation then, with a startling touch on Clennam’s knee, ‘brings me back, sir, to the Investments! I don’t say anything of your making yourself poor to repair a wrong you never committed. That’s you. A man must be himself. But I say this, fearing you may want money to save your own blood from exposure and disgrace—make as much as you can!’

Arthur shook his head, but looked at him thoughtfully too.

‘Be as rich as you can, sir,’ Pancks adjured him with a powerful concentration of all his energies on the advice. ‘Be as rich as you honestly can. It’s your duty. Not for your sake, but for the sake of others. Take time by the forelock. Poor Mr Doyce (who really is growing old) depends upon you. Your relative depends upon you. You don’t know what depends upon you.’

‘Well, well, well!’ returned Arthur. ‘Enough for to-night.’

‘One word more, Mr Clennam,’ retorted Pancks, ‘and then enough for to-night. Why should you leave all the gains to the gluttons, knaves, and impostors? Why should you leave all the gains that are to be got to my proprietor and the like of him? Yet you’re always doing it. When I say you, I mean such men as you. You know you are. Why, I see it every day of my life. I see nothing else. It’s my business to see it. Therefore I say,’ urged Pancks, ‘Go in and win!’

‘But what of Go in and lose?’ said Arthur.

‘Can’t be done, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘I have looked into it. Name up everywhere—immense resources—enormous capital—great position—high connection—government influence. Can’t be done!’

Gradually, after this closing exposition, Mr Pancks subsided; allowed his hair to droop as much as it ever would droop on the utmost persuasion; reclaimed the pipe from the fire-irons, filled it anew, and smoked it out. They said little more; but were company to one another in silently pursuing the same subjects, and did not part until midnight. On taking his leave, Mr Pancks, when he had shaken hands with Clennam, worked completely round him before he steamed out at the door. This, Arthur received as an assurance that he might implicitly rely on Pancks, if he ever should come to need assistance; either in any of the matters of which they had spoken that night, or any other subject that could in any way affect himself.

At intervals all next day, and even while his attention was fixed on other things, he thought of Mr Pancks’s investment of his thousand pounds, and of his having ‘looked into it.’ He thought of Mr Pancks’s being so sanguine in this matter, and of his not being usually of a sanguine character. He thought of the great National Department, and of the delight it would be to him to see Doyce better off. He thought of the darkly threatening place that went by the name of Home in his remembrance, and of the gathering shadows which made it yet more darkly threatening than of old. He observed anew that wherever he went, he saw, or heard, or touched, the celebrated name of Merdle; he found it difficult even to remain at his desk a couple of hours, without having it presented to one of his bodily senses through some agency or other. He began to think it was curious too that it should be everywhere, and that nobody but he should seem to have any mistrust of it. Though indeed he began to remember, when he got to this, even he did not mistrust it; he had only happened to keep aloof from it.

Such symptoms, when a disease of the kind is rife, are usually the signs of sickening.

“Giovane, vecchio o di mezza età che tu sia, Pancks,” disse lui, quando ci fu un momento propizio per continuare, “mi trovo in uno stato di grande ansia e incertezza; uno stato che persino mi spinge a dubitare che ciò che ora sembra appartenermi possa davvero esserlo. Devo raccontarti come stanno le cose? Devo affidarmi completamente a te?”

“Lo farà, signore,” disse Pancks, “se ritiene che io ne sia degno.”

‘I do.’

“Puoi farlo!” la risposta breve e decisa di Mr Pancks, confermata dal rapido allungamento della sua mano scura come il carbone, fu molto esplicita e convincente. Arthur strinse la sua mano con calore.

Poi, attenuando al massimo la durezza delle sue vecchie preoccupazioni, nel modo più coerente possibile con il fatto che queste venissero espresse in termini comprensibili, senza mai menzionare il nome di sua madre ma parlando vagamente di una parentela sua, rivelò a Mr Pancks i dubbi che nutriva e l’incontro di cui aveva fatto da testimone. Mr Pancks ascoltò con tale interesse che, nonostante il fascino del flauto orientale, lo mise nel camino tra gli attizzapiedi, e durante tutta la narrazione si occupò di sistemare i riccioli e le ciocche di capelli sulla propria testa; al termine della storia, sembrava davvero un viaggiatore che conversava con lo spirito di suo padre.

“Mi riporta indietro, signore,” esclamò allora, posando con forza la mano sul ginocchio di Clennam, “mi riporta indietro agli affari finanziari! Non parlo certo del fatto che siate disposti a impoverirvi per rimediare a un torto che non avete mai commesso. Questo è tipico di voi: un uomo deve essere se stesso. Ma dico questo perché temo che possiate aver bisogno di denaro per salvare la vostra stessa famiglia dall’umiliazione e dal disonore. Guadagnate quante più possibilità potete!”

Arthur scosse la testa, ma lo guardò anche con pensierosità.

“Siate il più ricco possibile, signore,” lo esortò Pancks, concentrando tutte le sue energie in quel consiglio. “Siate il più ricco che possiate onestamente diventare. È il vostro dovere. Non per voi stesso, ma per gli altri. Affrettatevi. Povero signor Doyce (che davvero sta invecchiando) dipende da voi. Anche il vostro parente dipende da voi. Non sapete quante persone dipendano da voi.”

“Beh, beh, beh!” rispose Arthur. “Basta per questa notte.”

“Una parola ancora, signor Clennam,” ribatté Pancks, “e poi basta per questa notte. Perché lasciare tutti i guadagni ai glottoni, ai furfanti e agli imbroglioni? Perché lasciare tutti i guadagni che si possono ottenere a mio padrone e a persone del genere? Eppure lo fate sempre. Quando dico ‘voi’, intendo uomini come voi. Lo sapete bene. Lo vedo ogni giorno della mia vita; non vedo altro. È il mio compito osservarlo. Quindi vi dico,” insistette Pancks, “entrate e vincete!”

“Ma che dire se entri e perdi?” disse Arthur.

“Non è possibile, signore,” rispose Pancks. “Ho controllato tutto: risorse immense, capitale considerevole, una posizione strategica, grandi contatti e anche influenza all’interno del governo. Non è fattibile!”

Gradualmente, dopo questa lunga esposizione, Signor Pancks si calmò; lasciò che i suoi capelli pendessero liberamente, come avrebbero potuto fare sotto qualsiasi circostanza; riprese la pipa dalle griglie del camino, la riempì di tabacco e iniziò a fumare. Non dissero molto altro; ma rimasero insieme, discutendo silenziosamente degli stessi argomenti, fino a mezzanotte. Quando Signor Pancks si congedò, dopo aver stretto la mano a Clennam, fece il giro completo intorno a lui prima di uscire dalla porta. Arthur interpretò questo gesto come una garanzia che potesse contare completamente su Pancks, qualora avesse mai avuto bisogno di aiuto: sia per gli argomenti di cui avevano parlato quella notte, sia per qualsiasi altra questione che potesse riguardarlo.

Nel corso della giornata successiva, a intervalli regolari, e anche quando la sua attenzione era concentrata su altre cose, pensava all’investimento di mille sterline fatto da Mr Pancks e al fatto che questi aveva “esaminato attentamente la situazione”. Pensava alla fiducia eccessiva di Mr Pancks in questa questione, considerando che di solito non era una persona così ottimista. Pensava anche al grande Ministero Nazionale e a quanto sarebbe stato bello vedere Doyce migliorare economicamente. Ricordava quel luogo cupo e minaccioso chiamato Home, e le ombre sempre più dense che lo rendevano ancora più inquietante di prima. Notò nuovamente che ovunque andasse, vedeva, sentiva o veniva a contatto con il famoso nome di Merdle; gli risultava persino difficile rimanere alla sua scrivania per un paio d’ore senza che quel nome gli venisse presentato in qualche modo dai suoi sensi. Cominciò anche a chiedersi perché quel nome fosse ovunque, e perché sembrasse che nessuno, tranne lui, nutrisse il minimo sospetto nei suoi confronti. Anche se, a pensarci bene, nemmeno lui stesso lo sospettava; semplicemente aveva deciso di tenersene alla larga.

Tali sintomi, quando una malattia di questo tipo è diffusa, sono solitamente segni di grave patologia.

CHAPTER 14. Taking Advice

When it became known to the Britons on the shore of the yellow Tiber that their intelligent compatriot, Mr Sparkler, was made one of the Lords of their Circumlocution Office, they took it as a piece of news with which they had no nearer concern than with any other piece of news—any other Accident or Offence—in the English papers. Some laughed; some said, by way of complete excuse, that the post was virtually a sinecure, and any fool who could spell his name was good enough for it; some, and these the more solemn political oracles, said that Decimus did wisely to strengthen himself, and that the sole constitutional purpose of all places within the gift of Decimus, was, that Decimus should strengthen himself. A few bilious Britons there were who would not subscribe to this article of faith; but their objection was purely theoretical. In a practical point of view, they listlessly abandoned the matter, as being the business of some other Britons unknown, somewhere, or nowhere. In like manner, at home, great numbers of Britons maintained, for as long as four-and-twenty consecutive hours, that those invisible and anonymous Britons ‘ought to take it up;’ and that if they quietly acquiesced in it, they deserved it. But of what class the remiss Britons were composed, and where the unlucky creatures hid themselves, and why they hid themselves, and how it constantly happened that they neglected their interests, when so many other Britons were quite at a loss to account for their not looking after those interests, was not, either upon the shore of the yellow Tiber or the shore of the black Thames, made apparent to men.

Mrs Merdle circulated the news, as she received congratulations on it, with a careless grace that displayed it to advantage, as the setting displays the jewel. Yes, she said, Edmund had taken the place. Mr Merdle wished him to take it, and he had taken it. She hoped Edmund might like it, but really she didn’t know. It would keep him in town a good deal, and he preferred the country. Still, it was not a disagreeable position—and it was a position. There was no denying that the thing was a compliment to Mr Merdle, and was not a bad thing for Edmund if he liked it. It was just as well that he should have something to do, and it was just as well that he should have something for doing it. Whether it would be more agreeable to Edmund than the army, remained to be seen.

Thus the Bosom; accomplished in the art of seeming to make things of small account, and really enhancing them in the process. While Henry Gowan, whom Decimus had thrown away, went through the whole round of his acquaintance between the Gate of the People and the town of Albano, vowing, almost (but not quite) with tears in his eyes, that Sparkler was the sweetest-tempered, simplest-hearted, altogether most lovable jackass that ever grazed on the public common; and that only one circumstance could have delighted him (Gowan) more, than his (the beloved jackass’s) getting this post, and that would have been his (Gowan’s) getting it himself. He said it was the very thing for Sparkler. There was nothing to do, and he would do it charmingly; there was a handsome salary to draw, and he would draw it charmingly; it was a delightful, appropriate, capital appointment; and he almost forgave the donor his slight of himself, in his joy that the dear donkey for whom he had so great an affection was so admirably stabled. Nor did his benevolence stop here. He took pains, on all social occasions, to draw Mr Sparkler out, and make him conspicuous before the company; and, although the considerate action always resulted in that young gentleman’s making a dreary and forlorn mental spectacle of himself, the friendly intention was not to be doubted.

Unless, indeed, it chanced to be doubted by the object of Mr Sparkler’s affections. Miss Fanny was now in the difficult situation of being universally known in that light, and of not having dismissed Mr Sparkler, however capriciously she used him. Hence, she was sufficiently identified with the gentleman to feel compromised by his being more than usually ridiculous; and hence, being by no means deficient in quickness, she sometimes came to his rescue against Gowan, and did him very good service. But, while doing this, she was ashamed of him, undetermined whether to get rid of him or more decidedly encourage him, distracted with apprehensions that she was every day becoming more and more immeshed in her uncertainties, and tortured by misgivings that Mrs Merdle triumphed in her distress. With this tumult in her mind, it is no subject for surprise that Miss Fanny came home one night in a state of agitation from a concert and ball at Mrs Merdle’s house, and on her sister affectionately trying to soothe her, pushed that sister away from the toilette-table at which she sat angrily trying to cry, and declared with a heaving bosom that she detested everybody, and she wished she was dead.

‘Dear Fanny, what is the matter? Tell me.’

‘Matter, you little Mole,’ said Fanny. ‘If you were not the blindest of the blind, you would have no occasion to ask me. The idea of daring to pretend to assert that you have eyes in your head, and yet ask me what’s the matter!’

‘Is it Mr Sparkler, dear?’

‘Mis-ter Spark-ler!’ repeated Fanny, with unbounded scorn, as if he were the last subject in the Solar system that could possibly be near her mind. ‘No, Miss Bat, it is not.’

Immediately afterwards, she became remorseful for having called her sister names; declaring with sobs that she knew she made herself hateful, but that everybody drove her to it.

‘I don’t think you are well to-night, dear Fanny.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ replied the young lady, turning angry again; ‘I am as well as you are. Perhaps I might say better, and yet make no boast of it.’

CAPITOLO 14. Accettare i consigli

Quando i britannici sulla riva del giallo Tevere vennero a sapere che il loro intelligente connazionale, il signor Sparkler, era stato nominato uno dei Lord dell’Ufficio della Circumlocuzione, considerarono la notizia come qualcosa di completamente irrilevante per loro, tanto quanto qualsiasi altra notizia, qualsiasi altro evento o reato riportato sui giornali inglesi. Alcuni risero; altri, giustificando la cosa, dissero che quel posto era praticamente una sinecura, e che qualsiasi idiota in grado di scrivere il proprio nome fosse adatto per ricoprirlo; ancora altri, i più seri tra questi, affermarono che Decimus avesse agito saggiamente nel rafforzare la propria posizione, e che lo scopo costituzionale di tutti quei posti sotto il controllo di Decimus fosse proprio quello di permettergli di rafforzarsi. C’erano però alcuni britannici irascibili che non erano d’accordo con questa interpretazione; ma le loro obiezioni erano puramente teoriche. Dal punto di vista pratico, abbandonarono la questione senza curarsene, considerandola un affare di altri britannici sconosciuti, da qualche parte, o forse da nessuna parte. Allo stesso modo, in casa, molti britannici sostenevano, per ben ventiquattro ore consecutive, che quei britannici invisibili e anonimi “dovessero occuparsene”; e che se si limitavano a tacere e accettare la situazione, era proprio loro colpa. Ma di quale classe fossero questi britannici negligenti, dove si nascondessero quelle sfortunate creature, perché si nascondessero, e come mai continuassero a trascurare i propri interessi, mentre tanti altri britannici non riuscivano proprio a spiegarsi il motivo per cui loro non se ne occupavano. Queste domande, né sulla riva del giallo Tevere né su quella del nero Tamigi, rimasero senza risposta.

La signora Merdle diffuse la notizia, ricevendo congratulazioni al riguardo, con una disinvoltura che ne metteva in risalto i vantaggi, proprio come l’ambiente circostante valorizza un >jewello. Sì, disse, Edmund aveva preso quel posto. Il signor Merdle desiderava che lo prendesse, e lui l’aveva fatto. Sperava che a Edmund piacesse, ma in realtà non ne era sicura. Quel ruolo gli avrebbe permesso di rimanere in città per un bel po’, mentre lui preferiva la campagna. Comunque, non si trattava di una posizione sgradevole. E dopotutto era pur sempre una posizione importante. Non si poteva negare che fosse un complimento per il signor Merdle, e non era affatto una cosa negativa per Edmund se gli piaceva. Era semplicemente giusto che avesse qualcosa da fare. E altrettanto giusto che avesse qualcosa con cui occupare quel tempo. Se fosse stato più piacevole per Edmund di prestare servizio nell’esercito, beh, questo restava da vedere.

Ecco quindi il modo di comportarsi: fingere di dare poco valore alle cose, ma in realtà renderle ancora più preziose nel processo stesso. Mentre Henry Gowan, che Decimus aveva rifiutato, percorreva l’intera cerchia dei suoi conoscenti, tra la Porta del Popolo e la città di Albano, giurando – quasi (ma non del tutto) con le lacrime agli occhi – che Sparkler era il somaro dal carattere più mite, dal cuore più semplice e, in definitiva, l’animale più adorabile che avesse mai pascolato sulle pubbliche aree comuni; e che solo una cosa avrebbe potuto renderlo ancora più felice di quanto non lo fosse già il fatto che Sparkler avesse ottenuto quel posto, ed era che quel posto fosse stato assegnato a lui stesso. Diceva che quella era proprio la posizione adatta per Sparkler. Non c’era nulla da fare, e lui l’avrebbe svolta in modo impeccabile; c’era un ottimo stipendio da ricevere, e lui lo avrebbe incassato con eleganza; si trattava di una nomina deliziosa, appropriata e molto prestigiosa. E quasi perdonò al donatore il modo in cui questi lo aveva trattato, nella sua gioia per il fatto che quel caro somaro, per il quale provava tanta affetto, fosse stato sistemato in modo così eccellente. La sua benevolenza non si fermava qui: in tutte le occasioni sociali, faceva di tutto per far emergere Mr Sparkler e renderlo visibile davanti al gruppo; e anche se questo comportamento finiva sempre per far sì che quel giovane gentiluomo si presentasse in modo noioso e imbarazzante agli occhi degli altri, l’intenzione sincera dietro tutto ciò non poteva essere messa in dubbio.

A meno che, forse, l’oggetto degli affetti del signor Sparkler non avesse iniziato a dubitarne. La signorina Fanny si trovava ora in una situazione difficile: era universalmente conosciuta in quel senso, e non aveva rifiutato le attenzioni del signor Sparkler, per quanto capricciose fossero state le sue manifestazioni d’affetto. Pertanto, essendo ormai strettamente legata a lui, si sentiva imbarazzata dal suo comportamento sempre più ridicolo; e, non essendo affatto lenta nel prendere decisioni, a volte lo difendeva contro Gowan, facendogli davvero un grande favore. Tuttavia, mentre lo faceva, provava vergogna per lui, incerta se liberarsi di lui o incoraggiarlo ancora di più. Era tormentata dal timore di trovarsi sempre più coinvolta in quelle incertezze, e angosciata dall’idea che la signora Merdle trionfasse sulla sua sofferenza. Con tutto questo caos nella mente, non sorprende affatto che una sera, tornando a casa da un concerto e da un ballo presso la casa della signora Merdle, la signorina Fanny fosse in uno stato di profonda agitazione. Quando sua sorella cercò con affetto di consolarla, lei la scacciò dal comodino davanti al quale sedeva, furiosa, cercando di piangere, e dichiarò con il petto che si sollevava convulsivamente che odiava tutti, e che avrebbe voluto essere morta.

“Carissima Fanny, che cosa c’è? Dimmelo.”

“Matter, tu piccola sciocca,” disse Fanny. “Se non fossi la più cieca di tutte, non avresti nemmeno bisogno di chiedermelo. Come osi anche solo pretendere di avere gli occhi in testa, e poi chiedermi cosa c’è che non va!”

“È il signor Sparkler, caro?”

“Mis-tro Spark-ler!”, ripeté Fanny con disprezzo infinito, come se fosse l’ultima persona al mondo che potesse anche solo interessarla. “No, signorina Bat, non è così.”

Subito dopo, iniziò a provare rimorso per aver insultato sua sorella; singhiozzando, dichiarò di sapere di essersi resa odiosa, ma che tutti la spingevano a farlo.

“Non credo che tu sia in condizioni a uscire stasera, cara Fanny.”

“Sciocchezze!” rispose la giovane signora, arrabbiandosi di nuovo; “Sono altrettanto in salute di te. Forse addirittura di più, eppure non mi vanto affatto.”

Poor Little Dorrit, not seeing her way to the offering of any soothing words that would escape repudiation, deemed it best to remain quiet. At first, Fanny took this ill, too; protesting to her looking-glass, that of all the trying sisters a girl could have, she did think the most trying sister was a flat sister. That she knew she was at times a wretched temper; that she knew she made herself hateful; that when she made herself hateful, nothing would do her half the good as being told so; but that, being afflicted with a flat sister, she never was told so, and the consequence resulted that she was absolutely tempted and goaded into making herself disagreeable. Besides (she angrily told her looking-glass), she didn’t want to be forgiven. It was not a right example, that she should be constantly stooping to be forgiven by a younger sister. And this was the Art of it—that she was always being placed in the position of being forgiven, whether she liked it or not. Finally she burst into violent weeping, and, when her sister came and sat close at her side to comfort her, said, ‘Amy, you’re an Angel!’

‘But, I tell you what, my Pet,’ said Fanny, when her sister’s gentleness had calmed her, ‘it now comes to this; that things cannot and shall not go on as they are at present going on, and that there must be an end of this, one way or another.’

As the announcement was vague, though very peremptory, Little Dorrit returned, ‘Let us talk about it.’

‘Quite so, my dear,’ assented Fanny, as she dried her eyes. ‘Let us talk about it. I am rational again now, and you shall advise me. Will you advise me, my sweet child?’

Even Amy smiled at this notion, but she said, ‘I will, Fanny, as well as I can.’

‘Thank you, dearest Amy,’ returned Fanny, kissing her. ‘You are my anchor.’

Having embraced her Anchor with great affection, Fanny took a bottle of sweet toilette water from the table, and called to her maid for a fine handkerchief. She then dismissed that attendant for the night, and went on to be advised; dabbing her eyes and forehead from time to time to cool them.

‘My love,’ Fanny began, ‘our characters and points of view are sufficiently different (kiss me again, my darling), to make it very probable that I shall surprise you by what I am going to say. What I am going to say, my dear, is, that notwithstanding our property, we labour, socially speaking, under disadvantages. You don’t quite understand what I mean, Amy?’

‘I have no doubt I shall,’ said Amy, mildly, ‘after a few words more.’

‘Well, my dear, what I mean is, that we are, after all, newcomers into fashionable life.’

‘I am sure, Fanny,’ Little Dorrit interposed in her zealous admiration, ‘no one need find that out in you.’

‘Well, my dear child, perhaps not,’ said Fanny, ‘though it’s most kind and most affectionate in you, you precious girl, to say so.’ Here she dabbed her sister’s forehead, and blew upon it a little. ‘But you are,’ resumed Fanny, ‘as is well known, the dearest little thing that ever was! To resume, my child. Pa is extremely gentlemanly and extremely well informed, but he is, in some trifling respects, a little different from other gentlemen of his fortune: partly on account of what he has gone through, poor dear: partly, I fancy, on account of its often running in his mind that other people are thinking about that, while he is talking to them. Uncle, my love, is altogether unpresentable. Though a dear creature to whom I am tenderly attached, he is, socially speaking, shocking. Edward is frightfully expensive and dissipated. I don’t mean that there is anything ungenteel in that itself—far from it—but I do mean that he doesn’t do it well, and that he doesn’t, if I may so express myself, get the money’s-worth in the sort of dissipated reputation that attaches to him.’

‘Poor Edward!’ sighed Little Dorrit, with the whole family history in the sigh.

‘Yes. And poor you and me, too,’ returned Fanny, rather sharply. ‘Very true! Then, my dear, we have no mother, and we have a Mrs General. And I tell you again, darling, that Mrs General, if I may reverse a common proverb and adapt it to her, is a cat in gloves who will catch mice. That woman, I am quite sure and confident, will be our mother-in-law.’

‘I can hardly think, Fanny—’ Fanny stopped her.

‘Now, don’t argue with me about it, Amy,’ said she, ‘because I know better.’ Feeling that she had been sharp again, she dabbed her sister’s forehead again, and blew upon it again. ‘To resume once more, my dear. It then becomes a question with me (I am proud and spirited, Amy, as you very well know: too much so, I dare say) whether I shall make up my mind to take it upon myself to carry the family through.’

‘How?’ asked her sister, anxiously.

‘I will not,’ said Fanny, without answering the question, ‘submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General; and I will not submit to be, in any respect whatever, either patronised or tormented by Mrs Merdle.’

Little Dorrit laid her hand upon the hand that held the bottle of sweet water, with a still more anxious look. Fanny, quite punishing her own forehead with the vehement dabs she now began to give it, fitfully went on.

‘That he has somehow or other, and how is of no consequence, attained a very good position, no one can deny. That it is a very good connection, no one can deny. And as to the question of clever or not clever, I doubt very much whether a clever husband would be suitable to me. I cannot submit. I should not be able to defer to him enough.’

‘O, my dear Fanny!’ expostulated Little Dorrit, upon whom a kind of terror had been stealing as she perceived what her sister meant. ‘If you loved any one, all this feeling would change. If you loved any one, you would no more be yourself, but you would quite lose and forget yourself in your devotion to him. If you loved him, Fanny—’ Fanny had stopped the dabbing hand, and was looking at her fixedly.

Povera piccola Dorrit. Non riuscendo a trovare parole di conforto che non venissero rifiutate, decise fosse meglio rimanere in silenzio. All’inizio anche Fanny la prese male; si lamentava davanti al suo specchio, dicendo che, tra tutte le sorelle possibili, quella più difficile da sopportare era proprio lei. Sapeva di avere un carattere terribile, sapeva di rendersi odiosa agli occhi degli altri. Eppure, essendo afflitta da questa “sorella difficile”, nessuno mai glielo diceva. Il risultato? Era costantemente spinta a comportarsi in modo sgradevole. Inoltre (disse con rabbia al suo specchio), non voleva essere perdonata. Non era certo un buon esempio, dover sempre cercare il perdono di una sorella più giovane. E proprio questo rappresentava il vero problema: veniva costantemente messa in quella posizione, che le piacesse o no. Alla fine scoppiò in lacrime; quando sua sorella venne a sedersi accanto a lei per consolarla, disse: “Amy, tu sei un angelo!”

“Ma, ascoltami bene, mio caro,” disse Fanny quando la gentilezza di sua sorella l’ebbe calmata, “la situazione è arrivata a questo punto: le cose non possono e non devono continuare come stanno andando ora, e questa situazione deve finire, in un modo o nell’altro.”

Poiché l’annuncio era vago, sebbene molto perentorio, Little Dorrit rispose: “Parliamone.”

“Esattamente, caro mio,” acconsentì Fanny mentre si asciugava gli occhi. “Parliamone. Ora sono di nuovo razionale, e tu mi darai dei consigli. Mi darai davvero dei consigli, mio adorato bambino?”

Anche Amy sorrise all’idea, ma disse: “Lo farò, Fanny, per quanto mi sarà possibile.”

“Grazie, cara Amy,” rispose Fanny baciandola. “Sei il mio punto di appoggio.”

Avendo abbracciato il suo “Ancora” con grande affetto, Fanny prese una bottiglia d’acqua profumata dal tavolo e chiamò la sua cameriera per chiederle un fazzoletto elegante. Poi congedò quella domestica per la notte e continuò a tamponarsi gli occhi e la fronte di tanto in tanto per rinfrescarsi.

“Mio amore”, cominciò Fanny, “i nostri caratteri e punti di vista sono abbastanza diversi (baciami di nuovo, mio caro), per cui è molto probabile che ti sorprenda con ciò che sto per dire. Quello che sto per dirti, mio caro, è che, nonostante la nostra proprietà, socialmente parlando siamo in svantaggio. Non capisci del tutto cosa intendo, Amy?”

“Non ho alcun dubbio che ci riuscirò,” disse Amy con dolcezza, “dopo aver scambiato ancora qualche parola.”

“Beh, cara mia, quello che voglio dire è che, dopotutto, siamo ancora dei novellini nel mondo della vita mondana.”

“Ne sono sicura, Fanny,” intervenne Little Dorrit con la sua fervente ammirazione, “nessuno ha bisogno di scoprirlo in te.”

“Beh, mio caro bambino, forse no,” disse Fanny, “anche se è molto gentile e pieno di affetto da parte tua, tesoro. Ma tu sei, come è ben noto, la persona più adorabile che esista! A proposito, mio bambino: papà è estremamente gentiluomo e molto colto, ma in alcuni piccoli aspetti è un po’ diverso dagli altri signori della sua condizione sociale. In parte a causa di ciò che ha dovuto attraversare, povero caro; in parte, credo, perché spesso gli viene in mente che gli altri possano pensare certe cose mentre lui parla con loro. Zio, mio adorato zio, invece è del tutto inadatto alle circostanze sociali. Anche se è una persona molto cara a cui sono profondamente legata, dal punto di vista sociale è davvero scioccante. Edward, poi, è terribilmente spendaccione e dissoluto. Non intendo dire che ci sia qualcosa di sconveniente in questo, anzi no, ma non riesce certo a ottenere il valore del denaro che spende con quel tipo di reputazione disonesta che lo accompagna.”

“Povero Edward!”, sospirò Little Dorrit, contenendo tutta la storia della famiglia in quel sospiro.

“Sì. E poveri noi due anche,” rispose Fanny, piuttosto bruscamente.
“Assolutamente vero! Allora, cara, non abbiamo una madre, e invece abbiamo la ‘Signora Generale’. E ti dico di nuovo, cara: quella donna, se posso ribaltare un vecchio proverbio e adattarlo a lei, è come un gatto in guanti che farà prendere i topi. Sono assolutamente sicura che diventerà la nostra suocera.”

“Non riesco quasi a pensare, Fanny, ” Fanny la interruppe.

“Ora, non discutere con me su questo argomento, Amy,” disse lei, “perché io lo so meglio.” Sentendosi di nuovo intelligente e astuta, accarezzò di nuovo la fronte della sorella e soffiò su di essa. “Riprendendo il discorso. Per me diventa una questione importante: sono orgogliosa e decisa, Amy, come tu ben sai. Forse troppo, oserei dire. Quindi devo decidere se assumermi la responsabilità di portare avanti la famiglia.”

“Come?” chiese sua sorella, ansiosamente.

“Non lo farò,” disse Fanny, senza rispondere alla domanda, “non permetterò che la signora Generale diventi mia suocera; e non permetterò nemmeno che la signora Merdle mi tratti con paternalismo o mi tormenti in alcun modo.”

La piccola Dorrit posò la sua mano su quella che teneva la bottiglia di dolce acqua, con uno sguardo ancora più ansioso. Fanny, premendo con forza la propria fronte con i colpi violenti che iniziò a darle, continuava febbrilmente nel suo gesto.

Che, in un modo o nell’altro – e non importa come – abbia raggiunto una posizione molto vantaggiosa, nessuno può negarlo. Che si tratti di un ottimo contatto, nemmeno questo può essere contestato. Per quanto riguarda la questione di sapere se sia intelligente o meno, io dubito molto che un marito intelligente possa essere adatto a me. Non riesco ad accettarlo; non potrei mai sottomettermi abbastanza a lui.

“Oh, mia cara Fanny!” esclamò Little Dorrit, mentre un certo terrore iniziava a invaderla nel comprendere ciò che sua sorella intendeva dire. “Se amassi qualcuno, tutti questi sentimenti cambierebbero. Se amassi qualcuno, non sarei più me stessa; mi perderei completamente nella mia devozione verso di lui. Se lo amassi, Fanny, ” Fanny aveva fermato la mano che le puliva il viso e la fissava con intensità.

‘O, indeed!’ cried Fanny. ‘Really? Bless me, how much some people know of some subjects! They say every one has a subject, and I certainly seem to have hit upon yours, Amy. There, you little thing, I was only in fun,’ dabbing her sister’s forehead; ‘but don’t you be a silly puss, and don’t you think flightily and eloquently about degenerate impossibilities. There! Now, I’ll go back to myself.’

‘Dear Fanny, let me say first, that I would far rather we worked for a scanty living again than I would see you rich and married to Mr Sparkler.’

‘Let you say, my dear?’ retorted Fanny. ‘Why, of course, I will let you say anything. There is no constraint upon you, I hope. We are together to talk it over. And as to marrying Mr Sparkler, I have not the slightest intention of doing so to-night, my dear, or to-morrow morning either.’

‘But at some time?’

‘At no time, for anything I know at present,’ answered Fanny, with indifference. Then, suddenly changing her indifference into a burning restlessness, she added, ‘You talk about the clever men, you little thing! It’s all very fine and easy to talk about the clever men; but where are they? I don’t see them anywhere near me!’

‘My dear Fanny, so short a time—’

‘Short time or long time,’ interrupted Fanny. ‘I am impatient of our situation. I don’t like our situation, and very little would induce me to change it. Other girls, differently reared and differently circumstanced altogether, might wonder at what I say or may do. Let them. They are driven by their lives and characters; I am driven by mine.’

‘Fanny, my dear Fanny, you know that you have qualities to make you the wife of one very superior to Mr Sparkler.’

‘Amy, my dear Amy,’ retorted Fanny, parodying her words, ‘I know that I wish to have a more defined and distinct position, in which I can assert myself with greater effect against that insolent woman.’

‘Would you therefore—forgive my asking, Fanny—therefore marry her son?’

‘Why, perhaps,’ said Fanny, with a triumphant smile. ‘There may be many less promising ways of arriving at an end than that, my dear. That piece of insolence may think, now, that it would be a great success to get her son off upon me, and shelve me. But, perhaps, she little thinks how I would retort upon her if I married her son. I would oppose her in everything, and compete with her. I would make it the business of my life.’

Fanny set down the bottle when she came to this, and walked about the room; always stopping and standing still while she spoke.

‘One thing I could certainly do, my child: I could make her older. And I would!’

This was followed by another walk.

‘I would talk of her as an old woman. I would pretend to know—if I didn’t, but I should from her son—all about her age. And she should hear me say, Amy: affectionately, quite dutifully and affectionately: how well she looked, considering her time of life. I could make her seem older at once, by being myself so much younger. I may not be as handsome as she is; I am not a fair judge of that question, I suppose; but I know I am handsome enough to be a thorn in her side. And I would be!’

‘My dear sister, would you condemn yourself to an unhappy life for this?’

‘It wouldn’t be an unhappy life, Amy. It would be the life I am fitted for. Whether by disposition, or whether by circumstances, is no matter; I am better fitted for such a life than for almost any other.’

There was something of a desolate tone in those words; but, with a short proud laugh she took another walk, and after passing a great looking-glass came to another stop.

‘Figure! Figure, Amy! Well. The woman has a good figure. I will give her her due, and not deny it. But is it so far beyond all others that it is altogether unapproachable? Upon my word, I am not so sure of it. Give some much younger woman the latitude as to dress that she has, being married; and we would see about that, my dear!’

Something in the thought that was agreeable and flattering, brought her back to her seat in a gayer temper. She took her sister’s hands in hers, and clapped all four hands above her head as she looked in her sister’s face laughing:

‘And the dancer, Amy, that she has quite forgotten—the dancer who bore no sort of resemblance to me, and of whom I never remind her, oh dear no!—should dance through her life, and dance in her way, to such a tune as would disturb her insolent placidity a little. Just a little, my dear Amy, just a little!’

Meeting an earnest and imploring look in Amy’s face, she brought the four hands down, and laid only one on Amy’s lips.

‘Now, don’t argue with me, child,’ she said in a sterner way, ‘because it is of no use. I understand these subjects much better than you do. I have not nearly made up my mind, but it may be. Now we have talked this over comfortably, and may go to bed. You best and dearest little mouse, Good night!’ With those words Fanny weighed her Anchor, and—having taken so much advice—left off being advised for that occasion.

Thenceforward, Amy observed Mr Sparkler’s treatment by his enslaver, with new reasons for attaching importance to all that passed between them. There were times when Fanny appeared quite unable to endure his mental feebleness, and when she became so sharply impatient of it that she would all but dismiss him for good. There were other times when she got on much better with him; when he amused her, and when her sense of superiority seemed to counterbalance that opposite side of the scale. If Mr Sparkler had been other than the faithfullest and most submissive of swains, he was sufficiently hard pressed to have fled from the scene of his trials, and have set at least the whole distance from Rome to London between himself and his enchantress. But he had no greater will of his own than a boat has when it is towed by a steam-ship; and he followed his cruel mistress through rough and smooth, on equally strong compulsion.

“Oh, davvero!” esclamò Fanny. “Davvero? Mio Dio, quanto sappiano alcune persone su certi argomenti. Dicono che ognuno abbia il proprio argomento preferito, e a me sembra proprio di aver indovinato il tuo, Amy. Ehi, piccola mia, stavo solo scherzando,” disse accarezzando la fronte della sorella; “ma non essere sciocca, e non pensare troppo in modo avventato o appassionato a cose impossibili. Ora, torno a occuparmi delle mie faccende.”

“Cara Fanny, lascia che ti dica prima di tutto che preferirei di gran lunga lavorare per guadagnare poco piuttosto che vederti ricca e sposata con il signor Sparkler.”

“Dici davvero, caro mio?” ribatté Fanny. “Ma certo, ti lascio dire tutto ciò che vuoi. Non c’è alcuna restrizione per te, spero. Siamo qui insieme per parlarne. E riguardo al matrimonio con il signor Sparkler, non ho la minima intenzione di farlo, né stasera, né domani mattina, caro mio.”

“Ma in qualche momento?”

“Nessun momento, per quanto ne so al momento”, rispose Fanny con indifferenza. Poi, improvvisamente cambiando quell’indifferenza in un’ansia febbrile, aggiunse: “Parli sempre di quegli uomini intelligenti. È facile parlare di loro, ma dove sono? Io non li vedo affatto vicino a me!”

“Mia cara Fanny, in così poco tempo, ”

“Che si tratti di poco tempo o di molto tempo,” interruppe Fanny, “non riesco ad avere pazienza riguardo alla nostra situazione. Non mi piace affatto e ben poco potrebbe convincermi a cambiarla. Altre ragazze, cresciute in modi diversi e in circostanze completamente diverse, forse si chiederebbero cosa dico o cosa faccio. Lasciatele fare. Sono guidate dalle loro vite e dai loro caratteri; io sono guidata dal mio.”

“Fanny, mia cara Fanny, sai che possiedi qualità che potrebbero renderti la moglie di una persona molto superiore al signor Sparkler.”

“Amy, mia cara Amy,” ribatté Fanny, parodizzando le sue parole, “so che desidero avere una posizione più chiara e definita, in modo da potermi affermare con maggiore efficacia contro quella donna insopportabile.”

“Quindi, perdonami se te lo chiedo, Fanny, saresti disposta a sposare suo figlio?”

“Forse sì,” disse Fanny con un sorriso trionfante. “Potrebbero esserci molti modi meno promettenti per raggiungere lo stesso scopo, cara mia. Quella donna insolente potrebbe pensare che sia un grande successo far affidare suo figlio a me e poi liberarsi di me. Ma forse non immagina affatto come le risponderei se sposassi suo figlio. Mi opporrei a lei in tutto, competirei con lei. Ne farei la mia missione nella vita.”

Quando Fanny arrivò a questo punto, posò la bottiglia e iniziò a camminare per la stanza; si fermava di continuo mentre parlava.

“Una cosa che potrei sicuramente fare, mio bambino. Potrei farla invecchiare. E lo farò!”

A questo ne seguì un altro.

‘La parlassi come di una donna anziana. Fingerei di sapere – anche se in realtà non lo so, ma dovrebbe saperlo suo figlio – tutto riguardo alla sua età. E lei mi sentirebbe dire, con affetto, con vera devozione: quanto fosse bella, considerando la sua età. Potrei farla sembrare più anziana, semplicemente perché io sono molto più giovane di lei. Forse non sono così attraente come lei; probabilmente non sono un buon giudice in materia. Ma so di essere abbastanza affascinante da diventare una vera seccatura per lei. E lo farò!’

“Mia cara sorella, vorresti condannarti a una vita infelice per questo?”

“Non sarebbe una vita infelice, Amy. Sarebbe la vita adatta a me. Che si tratti di mia natura o delle circostanze, non ha importanza: sono più adatto a tale vita che a quasi qualsiasi altra.”

C’era un tono di desolazione in quelle parole; ma, con una breve risata orgogliosa, continuò a camminare e, dopo essere passata davanti a uno specchio molto grande, si fermò di nuovo.

“Mio Dio! Guarda, Amy. Quella donna ha davvero una bella figura. Devo ammetterlo, senza negarlo. Ma è davvero così superiore a tutte le altre da essere completamente inaccessibile? Onestamente, non ne sono così sicura. Dà a una donna molto più giovane la stessa libertà di vestirsi che ha lei, essendo sposata. E vedremo cosa succederà, cara!”

Qualcosa di piacevole e lusinghiero in quel pensiero la fece tornare al suo posto con umore più allegro. Prese le mani della sua sorella nelle sue, e tutte e quattro alzarono le mani sopra la testa mentre si guardavano ridendo:

‘E quella ballerina, Amy, di cui ha completamente dimenticato l’esistenza, quella ballerina che non assomigliava affatto a me, e di cui non le parlo mai, oh no, dovrebbe continuare a “ballare” nella sua vita, a intralciarla con i suoi passi, su una melodia capace di disturbare, anche solo un po’, la sua insolenza e la sua tranquillità. Solo un po’, cara Amy, solo un po’!’

Incontrando lo sguardo sincero e supplicante di Amy, abbassò le quattro mani e ne posizionò una sola sulle labbra di lei.

“Ora, non discutere con me, bambino,” disse lei in tono più severo, “perché è inutile. Capisco queste cose molto meglio di te. Non ho ancora preso una decisione, ma potrei farlo. Ora che abbiamo parlato tranquillamente, possiamo andare a letto. Tu, il mio carissimo topolino. Buona notte!” Con queste parole, Fanny “mise l’ancora” e, avendo ricevuto così tanti consigli, smise di chiederne altri per quell’occasione.

Da quel momento in poi, Amy osservò con attenzione il modo in cui il signor Sparkler veniva trattato dal suo “schiavista”, e questo le diede ulteriori motivi per attribuire importanza a tutto ciò che accadeva tra loro. C’erano momenti in cui Fanny sembrava davvero incapace di sopportare la sua debolezza mentale; arrivava persino al punto di essere così impaziente da volerlo allontanare per sempre. Altre volte, invece, andavano molto meglio insieme: lui la divertiva, e il suo senso di superiorità sembrava bilanciare appieno quell’aspetto negativo del suo carattere. Se il signor Sparkler non fosse stato uno dei più fedeli e sottomessi tra gli uomini, probabilmente avrebbe già fuggito da quel luogo pieno di sofferenze, mettendo almeno una distanza considerevole – come quella che separa Roma da Londra – tra sé e la sua “strega”. Ma lui non possedeva alcuna volontà propria; era come una barca trascinata da una nave a vapore: seguiva ciecamente la sua crudele padrona, attraverso momenti difficili e tranquilli, spinto da una forza irresistibile.

Mrs Merdle, during these passages, said little to Fanny, but said more about her. She was, as it were, forced to look at her through her eye-glass, and in general conversation to allow commendations of her beauty to be wrung from her by its irresistible demands. The defiant character it assumed when Fanny heard these extollings (as it generally happened that she did), was not expressive of concessions to the impartial bosom; but the utmost revenge the bosom took was, to say audibly, ‘A spoilt beauty—but with that face and shape, who could wonder?’

It might have been about a month or six weeks after the night of the new advice, when Little Dorrit began to think she detected some new understanding between Mr Sparkler and Fanny. Mr Sparkler, as if in attendance to some compact, scarcely ever spoke without first looking towards Fanny for leave. That young lady was too discreet ever to look back again; but, if Mr Sparkler had permission to speak, she remained silent; if he had not, she herself spoke. Moreover, it became plain whenever Henry Gowan attempted to perform the friendly office of drawing him out, that he was not to be drawn. And not only that, but Fanny would presently, without any pointed application in the world, chance to say something with such a sting in it that Gowan would draw back as if he had put his hand into a bee-hive.

There was yet another circumstance which went a long way to confirm Little Dorrit in her fears, though it was not a great circumstance in itself. Mr Sparkler’s demeanour towards herself changed. It became fraternal. Sometimes, when she was in the outer circle of assemblies—at their own residence, at Mrs Merdle’s, or elsewhere—she would find herself stealthily supported round the waist by Mr Sparkler’s arm. Mr Sparkler never offered the slightest explanation of this attention; but merely smiled with an air of blundering, contented, good-natured proprietorship, which, in so heavy a gentleman, was ominously expressive.

Little Dorrit was at home one day, thinking about Fanny with a heavy heart. They had a room at one end of their drawing-room suite, nearly all irregular bay-window, projecting over the street, and commanding all the picturesque life and variety of the Corso, both up and down. At three or four o’clock in the afternoon, English time, the view from this window was very bright and peculiar; and Little Dorrit used to sit and muse here, much as she had been used to while away the time in her balcony at Venice. Seated thus one day, she was softly touched on the shoulder, and Fanny said, ‘Well, Amy dear,’ and took her seat at her side. Their seat was a part of the window; when there was anything in the way of a procession going on, they used to have bright draperies hung out of the window, and used to kneel or sit on this seat, and look out at it, leaning on the brilliant colour. But there was no procession that day, and Little Dorrit was rather surprised by Fanny’s being at home at that hour, as she was generally out on horseback then.

‘Well, Amy,’ said Fanny, ‘what are you thinking of, little one?’

‘I was thinking of you, Fanny.’

‘No? What a coincidence! I declare here’s some one else. You were not thinking of this some one else too; were you, Amy?’

Amy had been thinking of this some one else too; for it was Mr Sparkler. She did not say so, however, as she gave him her hand. Mr Sparkler came and sat down on the other side of her, and she felt the fraternal railing come behind her, and apparently stretch on to include Fanny.

‘Well, my little sister,’ said Fanny with a sigh, ‘I suppose you know what this means?’

‘She’s as beautiful as she’s doated on,’ stammered Mr Sparkler—‘and there’s no nonsense about her—it’s arranged—’

‘You needn’t explain, Edmund,’ said Fanny.

‘No, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘In short, pet,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘on the whole, we are engaged. We must tell papa about it either to-night or to-morrow, according to the opportunities. Then it’s done, and very little more need be said.’

‘My dear Fanny,’ said Mr Sparkler, with deference, ‘I should like to say a word to Amy.’

‘Well, well! Say it for goodness’ sake,’ returned the young lady.

‘I am convinced, my dear Amy,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that if ever there was a girl, next to your highly endowed and beautiful sister, who had no nonsense about her—’

‘We know all about that, Edmund,’ interposed Miss Fanny. ‘Never mind that. Pray go on to something else besides our having no nonsense about us.’

‘Yes, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘And I assure you, Amy, that nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself—next to the happiness of being so highly honoured with the choice of a glorious girl who hasn’t an atom of—’

‘Pray, Edmund, pray!’ interrupted Fanny, with a slight pat of her pretty foot upon the floor.

‘My love, you’re quite right,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘and I know I have a habit of it. What I wished to declare was, that nothing can be a greater happiness to myself, myself-next to the happiness of being united to pre-eminently the most glorious of girls—than to have the happiness of cultivating the affectionate acquaintance of Amy. I may not myself,’ said Mr Sparkler manfully, ‘be up to the mark on some other subjects at a short notice, and I am aware that if you were to poll Society the general opinion would be that I am not; but on the subject of Amy I AM up to the mark!’

Mr Sparkler kissed her, in witness thereof.

‘A knife and fork and an apartment,’ proceeded Mr Sparkler, growing, in comparison with his oratorical antecedents, quite diffuse, ‘will ever be at Amy’s disposal. My Governor, I am sure, will always be proud to entertain one whom I so much esteem. And regarding my mother,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘who is a remarkably fine woman, with—’

‘Edmund, Edmund!’ cried Miss Fanny, as before.

‘With submission, my soul,’ pleaded Mr Sparkler. ‘I know I have a habit of it, and I thank you very much, my adorable girl, for taking the trouble to correct it; but my mother is admitted on all sides to be a remarkably fine woman, and she really hasn’t any.’

‘That may be, or may not be,’ returned Fanny, ‘but pray don’t mention it any more.’

‘I will not, my love,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘Then, in fact, you have nothing more to say, Edmund; have you?’ inquired Fanny.

‘So far from it, my adorable girl,’ answered Mr Sparkler, ‘I apologise for having said so much.’

Mr Sparkler perceived, by a kind of inspiration, that the question implied had he not better go? He therefore withdrew the fraternal railing, and neatly said that he thought he would, with submission, take his leave. He did not go without being congratulated by Amy, as well as she could discharge that office in the flutter and distress of her spirits.

When he was gone, she said, ‘O Fanny, Fanny!’ and turned to her sister in the bright window, and fell upon her bosom and cried there. Fanny laughed at first; but soon laid her face against her sister’s and cried too—a little. It was the last time Fanny ever showed that there was any hidden, suppressed, or conquered feeling in her on the matter. From that hour the way she had chosen lay before her, and she trod it with her own imperious self-willed step.

Durante questi momenti, la signora Merdle parlò poco con Fanny, ma ne disse molto di più su di lei. In un certo senso, era costretta a “guardarla” attraverso i suoi occhiali e, durante le conversazioni ordinarie, permetteva che si lodasse la sua bellezza per via delle pressioni insistenti. Quando Fanny ascoltava queste lodi (il che accadeva spesso), il suo atteggiamento ribelle non rifletteva alcuna concessione da parte di quel “cuore imparziale”; l’unica “vendetta” che quel cuore poteva prendersi era dire ad alta voce: “Una bellezza viziata, ma con quel viso e quella figura, chi potrebbe meravigliarsene?”

Forse un mese o sei settimane dopo quella notte in cui furono date quelle nuove indicazioni, Little Dorrit cominciò a notare che c’era una nuova intesa tra Mr Sparkler e Fanny. Mr Sparkler, come se fosse vincolato da qualche accordo tacito, raramente parlava senza prima guardare verso Fanny per chiederle il permesso. Quella giovane signora era troppo discreta per ricambiare quegli sguardi; ma se Mr Sparkler aveva il permesso di parlare, lei rimaneva in silenzio; se non lo aveva, allora era lei stessa a prendere la parola. Inoltre, diventò evidente che ogni volta che Henry Gowan cercava di avvicinarsi a lui per conversare amichevolmente, Mr Sparkler si ritraeva immediatamente. E non solo: Fanny, senza alcun sforzo apparente, riusciva spesso a dire qualcosa di così pungente da far arretrare Gowan come se avesse messo la mano in un alveare.

C’era ancora un’altra circostanza che contribuì notevolmente ad alimentare le paure di Little Dorrit, anche se di per sé non era una circostanza particolarmente rilevante. Il comportamento di Mr Sparkler nei suoi confronti cambiò: divenne più affettuoso e fraterno. A volte, quando si trovava nel gruppo degli invitati durante le riunioni – a casa loro, da Mrs Merdle o altrove – si accorgeva che Mr Sparkler le appoggiava silenziosamente il braccio intorno alla vita. Mr Sparkler non fornì mai alcuna spiegazione per questo comportamento; si limitava a sorridere con un’aria di compiaciuta e bonaria possessività, che, in un gentiluomo così serio, aveva un significato piuttosto inquietante.

Un giorno, Little Dorrit era a casa, e pensava a Fanny con il cuore pesante. Avevano una stanza all’estremità del loro soggiorno; la finestra, di forma irregolare, si affacciava sulla strada, offrendo una vista incantevole su tutto il movimento e la varietà che caratterizzavano il Corso, sia in alto che in basso. Verso le tre o le quattro del pomeriggio, secondo l’orario inglese, il panorama da quella finestra era particolarmente vivido e suggestivo; Little Dorrit aveva l’abitudine di sedersi lì a riflettere, proprio come faceva un tempo sul suo balcone a Venezia. Un giorno, mentre era così seduta, qualcuno le toccò dolcemente la spalla; Fanny le disse: “Ebbene, cara Amy, ”, e si sedette al suo fianco. Il loro posto era proprio accanto alla finestra; quando passava qualche processione, appendevano tende colorate fuori dalla finestra e si sedevano lì a guardare, appoggiandosi a quei colori vivaci. Ma quel giorno non c’era nessuna processione. E Little Dorrit rimase sorpresa dal fatto che Fanny fosse a casa a quell’ora, visto che di solito era fuori a cavallo in quel periodo.

“Beh, Amy,” disse Fanny, “a cosa stai pensando, piccola?”

“Pensavo a te, Fanny.”

“No? Che coincidenza! Devo dire che si tratta di un’altra persona. Non stavi pensando anche tu a questa altra persona, vero, Amy?”

Amy aveva pensato anche a un’altra persona, si trattava di Mr Sparkler. Tuttavia non lo disse quando gli porse la mano. Mr Sparkler si avvicinò e si sedette dall’altro lato di lei; lei sentì che quella sorta di “barriera fraterna” si estendeva anche a Fanny.

“Beh, mia sorellina,” disse Fanny sospirando, “immagino tu sappia cosa significa questo, ”

“È bella proprio quanto si dice,” balbettò il signor Sparkler, “e non ci sono dubbi al riguardo. È tutto già organizzato, ”

“Non c’è bisogno che spieghi, Edmund”, disse Fanny.

“No, mio amore”, disse il signor Sparkler.

“In breve, tesoro,” proseguì Fanny, “in definitiva siamo fidanzati. Dobbiamo dirlo a papà stasera o domani, a seconda delle circostanze. Una volta fatto questo, non c’è molto altro da aggiungere.”

“Mia cara Fanny,” disse il signor Sparkler con rispetto, “vorrei dire una parola ad Amy.”

“Beh, beh. Dillo per l’amor del cielo,” rispose la giovane signora.

“Sono convinto, mia cara Amy,” disse il signor Sparkler, “che se mai esistesse una ragazza, al di là di tua sorella così dotata e bellissima, che non si comportasse in modo sciocco, ”

“Ne sappiamo già tutto, Edmund”, intervenne la signorina Fanny. “Lascia perdere quell’argomento. Per favore, continua a parlare di qualcos’altro, invece di rimanere sempre sulle nostre sciocchezze.”

“Sì, mio amore”, disse il signor Sparkler. “E ti assicuro, Amy, che nulla potrebbe darmi più felicità, dopo la gioia di essere così onorato dalla scelta di una ragazza meravigliosa, che non possiede nemmeno un briciolo di, ”

“Prega, Edmund, prega!” interruppe Fanny, dando leggermente un colpetto con il suo bel piedino sul pavimento.

“Mia amata, hai perfettamente ragione,” disse il signor Sparkler, “e so di avere questa abitudine. Quello che volevo dichiarare è che nulla potrebbe rappresentare per me una felicità maggiore, dopo quella di essere unito alla più splendida delle ragazze, di poter coltivare un rapporto affettuoso con Amy. Forse in altri ambiti,” aggiunse il signor Sparkler con coraggio, “non sono all’altezza delle aspettative, e so che se si facesse un sondaggio tra la gente, l’opinione generale sarebbe che non lo sia; ma per quanto riguarda Amy. IO LO SONO!”

Il signor Sparkler la baciò, a dimostrazione di ciò.

“Un coltello, una forchetta e un appartamento,” proseguì il signor Sparkler, diventando, rispetto ai suoi precedenti discorsi, piuttosto prolisso, “saranno sempre a disposizione di Amy. Sono certo che il mio governatore sarà sempre orgoglioso di ospitare una persona che stimo così tanto. E per quanto riguarda mia madre,” aggiunse il signor Sparkler, “che è una donna davvero eccezionale, ”

“‘Edmund, Edmund!’”, gridò Miss Fanny, proprio come prima.

“Con tutto il rispetto, mia ‘anima, ”, supplicò il signor Sparkler. “So di avere questa abitudine, e vi ringrazio molto, mia adorabile ragazza, per esservi presa la briga di correggerla; ma tutti concordano nel riconoscere che mia madre è una donna davvero eccezionale. E lei, sinceramente, non ne ha affatto bisogno.”

“Può darsi, oppure no, ”, rispose Fanny, “ma ti prego, non ne parliamo più.”

“Non lo farò, mio amore”, disse il signor Sparkler.

“Allora, in realtà, non hai più nulla da dire, Edmund; vero?” chiese Fanny.

“Niente affatto, mia adorabile ragazza,” rispose il signor Sparkler, “mi scuso per aver detto quelle cose.”

Mr Sparkler, per una sorta di intuizione, capì che la situazione suggeriva che fosse meglio andarsene. Così tolse via quella sorta di “barriera fraterna” e disse educatamente che, con riluttanza, avrebbe preso congedo. Non se ne andò senza essere ringraziato da Amy, nel modo migliore possibile, data l’agitazione e il turbamento del suo stato d’animo in quel momento.

Quando lui se ne fu andato, lei disse: “Oh Fanny, Fanny!” e si rivolse verso sua sorella, alla luce della finestra, si gettò tra le sue braccia e pianse lì. All’inizio Fanny rise; ma presto appoggiò il viso contro quello di sua sorella e anche lei iniziò a piangere, un po’. Quella fu l’ultima volta che Fanny mostrò di avere qualche sentimento nascosto, represso o domato al riguardo. Da quel momento in poi, il percorso che aveva scelto le si aprì davanti; lei lo percorse con passi decisi, guidata dalla propria volontà imperiosa.

CHAPTER 15. No just Cause or Impediment why these Two Persons should not be joined together

Mr Dorrit, on being informed by his elder daughter that she had accepted matrimonial overtures from Mr Sparkler, to whom she had plighted her troth, received the communication at once with great dignity and with a large display of parental pride; his dignity dilating with the widened prospect of advantageous ground from which to make acquaintances, and his parental pride being developed by Miss Fanny’s ready sympathy with that great object of his existence. He gave her to understand that her noble ambition found harmonious echoes in his heart; and bestowed his blessing on her, as a child brimful of duty and good principle, self-devoted to the aggrandisement of the family name.

To Mr Sparkler, when Miss Fanny permitted him to appear, Mr Dorrit said, he would not disguise that the alliance Mr Sparkler did him the honour to propose was highly congenial to his feelings; both as being in unison with the spontaneous affections of his daughter Fanny, and as opening a family connection of a gratifying nature with Mr Merdle, the master spirit of the age. Mrs Merdle also, as a leading lady rich in distinction, elegance, grace, and beauty, he mentioned in very laudatory terms. He felt it his duty to remark (he was sure a gentleman of Mr Sparkler’s fine sense would interpret him with all delicacy), that he could not consider this proposal definitely determined on, until he should have had the privilege of holding some correspondence with Mr Merdle; and of ascertaining it to be so far accordant with the views of that eminent gentleman as that his (Mr Dorrit’s) daughter would be received on that footing which her station in life and her dowry and expectations warranted him in requiring that she should maintain in what he trusted he might be allowed, without the appearance of being mercenary, to call the Eye of the Great World. While saying this, which his character as a gentleman of some little station, and his character as a father, equally demanded of him, he would not be so diplomatic as to conceal that the proposal remained in hopeful abeyance and under conditional acceptance, and that he thanked Mr Sparkler for the compliment rendered to himself and to his family. He concluded with some further and more general observations on the—ha—character of an independent gentleman, and the—hum—character of a possibly too partial and admiring parent. To sum the whole up shortly, he received Mr Sparkler’s offer very much as he would have received three or four half-crowns from him in the days that were gone.

Mr Sparkler, finding himself stunned by the words thus heaped upon his inoffensive head, made a brief though pertinent rejoinder; the same being neither more nor less than that he had long perceived Miss Fanny to have no nonsense about her, and that he had no doubt of its being all right with his Governor. At that point the object of his affections shut him up like a box with a spring lid, and sent him away.

Proceeding shortly afterwards to pay his respects to the Bosom, Mr Dorrit was received by it with great consideration. Mrs Merdle had heard of this affair from Edmund. She had been surprised at first, because she had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Society had not thought Edmund a marrying man. Still, of course she had seen, as a woman (we women did instinctively see these things, Mr Dorrit!), that Edmund had been immensely captivated by Miss Dorrit, and she had openly said that Mr Dorrit had much to answer for in bringing so charming a girl abroad to turn the heads of his countrymen.

‘Have I the honour to conclude, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘that the direction which Mr Sparkler’s affections have taken, is—ha-approved of by you?’

‘I assure you, Mr Dorrit,’ returned the lady, ‘that, personally, I am charmed.’

That was very gratifying to Mr Dorrit.

‘Personally,’ repeated Mrs Merdle, ‘charmed.’

This casual repetition of the word ‘personally,’ moved Mr Dorrit to express his hope that Mr Merdle’s approval, too, would not be wanting?

‘I cannot,’ said Mrs Merdle, ‘take upon myself to answer positively for Mr Merdle; gentlemen, especially gentlemen who are what Society calls capitalists, having their own ideas of these matters. But I should think—merely giving an opinion, Mr Dorrit—I should think Mr Merdle would be upon the whole,’ here she held a review of herself before adding at her leisure, ‘quite charmed.’

At the mention of gentlemen whom Society called capitalists, Mr Dorrit had coughed, as if some internal demur were breaking out of him. Mrs Merdle had observed it, and went on to take up the cue.

‘Though, indeed, Mr Dorrit, it is scarcely necessary for me to make that remark, except in the mere openness of saying what is uppermost to one whom I so highly regard, and with whom I hope I may have the pleasure of being brought into still more agreeable relations. For one cannot but see the great probability of your considering such things from Mr Merdle’s own point of view, except indeed that circumstances have made it Mr Merdle’s accidental fortune, or misfortune, to be engaged in business transactions, and that they, however vast, may a little cramp his horizons. I am a very child as to having any notion of business,’ said Mrs Merdle; ‘but I am afraid, Mr Dorrit, it may have that tendency.’

This skilful see-saw of Mr Dorrit and Mrs Merdle, so that each of them sent the other up, and each of them sent the other down, and neither had the advantage, acted as a sedative on Mr Dorrit’s cough. He remarked with his utmost politeness, that he must beg to protest against its being supposed, even by Mrs Merdle, the accomplished and graceful (to which compliment she bent herself), that such enterprises as Mr Merdle’s, apart as they were from the puny undertakings of the rest of men, had any lower tendency than to enlarge and expand the genius in which they were conceived. ‘You are generosity itself,’ said Mrs Merdle in return, smiling her best smile; ‘let us hope so. But I confess I am almost superstitious in my ideas about business.’

CAPITOLO 15. Nessuna giusta causa o impedimento che possa impedire che queste due persone si uniscano.

Il signor Dorrit, venuto a sapere dalla figlia maggiore che aveva accettato le proposte di matrimonio del signor Sparkler, con cui si era promessa in sposa, accolse la notizia con grande dignità e un notevole senso di orgoglio paterno. La sua dignità aumentò al pensiero delle opportunità che questa situazione gli offriva per ampliare le sue relazioni sociali, mentre il suo orgoglio paterno fu ancora più alimentato dal fatto che la signorina Fanny condivideva appieno quell’obiettivo fondamentale della sua esistenza. Le fece capire che la sua nobile ambizione trovava riscontro nel suo cuore; e le diede la sua benedizione, definendola una ragazza piena di dovere e buoni principi, devotissima al rafforzamento del nome della famiglia.

A Mr Sparkler, quando Miss Fanny gli permise di presentarsi, Mr Dorrit disse che non avrebbe nascosto quanto l’offerta che Mr Sparkler gli aveva fatto fosse estremamente gradita ai suoi sentimenti; sia perché era in linea con i sentimenti spontanei di sua figlia Fanny, sia perché avrebbe creato un legame familiare di natura molto piacevole con Mr Merdle, l’uomo più influente dell’epoca. Anche Mrs Merdle, essendo una donna di raffinatezza, eleganza e bellezza, fu menzionata da lui in termini molto lusinghieri. Sentì però dovere sottolineare (era certo che un gentiluomo con il buon senso di Mr Sparkler avrebbe interpretato le sue parole con delicatezza) che non poteva considerare questa proposta definitivamente accettata, finché non avesse avuto l’opportunità di intrattenere corrispondenza con Mr Merdle e di verificare che essa fosse in piena armonia con i punti di vista di quel distinto signore, al punto che sua figlia potesse essere accettata secondo lo status sociale che le spettava, nonché il suo dote e le sue aspettative. Mentre diceva queste cose – cose che il suo ruolo di gentiluomo di modesto rango e quello di padre gli imponevano – non nascose che l’offerta rimaneva in sospeso e soggetta a condizioni, e ringraziò Mr Sparkler per il complimento rivolto a lui e alla sua famiglia. Concluse poi con alcune osservazioni più generali sul carattere di un gentiluomo indipendente, e su quello di un genitore forse troppo devoto e ammiratore dei propri figli. In breve, accolse l’offerta di Mr Sparkler esattamente come avrebbe accolto tre o quattro mezze corone da lui in tempi passati.

Il signor Sparkler, trovandosi sbalordito da tutte quelle parole che gli erano state riversate addosso in modo così improvviso e inaspettato, rispose brevemente ma con pertinenza: non fece altro che confermare ciò che da tempo aveva notato, ovvero che la signorina Fanny non era affatto una donna frivola o superficiale, e che non aveva alcun >dubbio sul fatto che tutto andasse per il meglio nella sua relazione con lei. A quel punto, la persona del suo cuore lo fece tacere all’improvviso, come se avesse chiuso una scatola con un coperchio a molla, e lo mandò via.

Poco dopo, il signor Dorrit si recò per rendere omaggio alla Signora del Cuore, e fu accolto con grande considerazione da lei. La signora Merdle aveva sentito parlare di questa faccenda da Edmund. All’inizio ne era rimasta sorpresa, perché non riteneva che Edmund fosse un uomo adatto al matrimonio; nemmeno la società lo considerava tale. Tuttavia, essendo una donna (noi donne percepiamo queste cose istintivamente, signor Dorrit!), aveva notato chiaramente che Edmund era profondamente affascinato dalla signorina Dorrit, e aveva apertamente affermato che il signor Dorrit avesse molte responsabilità per aver portato all’estero una ragazza così incantevole, facendola ammirare dai suoi connazionali.

“Ho l’onore di concludere, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “che la direzione verso cui si sono rivolte le affettioni del signor Sparkler è, beh, è stata approvata da voi?”

“Le assicuro, signor Dorrit,” rispose la signora, “che personalmente sono incantata.”

Fu molto gratificante per il signor Dorrit.

“Personalmente,” ripeté la signora Merdle, “incantata.”

Questa ripetizione casuale della parola “personalmente” spinse il signor Dorrit a esprimere la sua >speranza che anche l’approvazione del signor Merdle non fosse negativa.

“Non posso,” disse la signora Merdle, “assumermi l’impegno di rispondere in modo categorico riguardo al signor Merdle; signori, soprattutto coloro che nella società sono considerati capitalisti e hanno le loro idee su queste questioni. Ma penso, soltanto per esprimere un parere, signor Dorrit, penso che il signor Merdle, nel complesso, sia, ” Qui si fermò, come se stesse valutando attentamente la propria opinione, prima di aggiungere con calma: “molto affascinante.”

Alla menzione di quei gentiluomini che la società chiamava capitalisti, il signor Dorrit aveva tossito, come se qualcosa dentro di lui si ribellasse contro quella definizione. La signora Merdle se n’era accorta e ne aveva approfittato per continuare il discorso su quel tema.

“Tuttavia, signor Dorrit, in realtà non è affatto necessario che io faccia questa osservazione, se non per la semplice volontà di esprimere ciò che mi viene in mente riguardo a una persona che stimo molto e con la quale spero di poter instaurare relazioni ancora più piacevoli. Infatti, è facile intuire che lei possa considerare queste cose dal punto di vista del signor Merdle. A meno che le circostanze non abbiano reso la fortuna, o la sfortuna, casuale del signor Merdle legata proprio alle attività commerciali, e che queste, per quanto vaste, possano in qualche modo restringere il suo orizzonte. Io, personalmente, sono assolutamente ignorante di queste cose, ”, disse la signora Merdle; “ma temo che, signor Dorrit, ci sia questa possibilità.”

Questo abile “andirivieni” tra il signor Dorrit e la signora Merdle, in cui ciascuno dei due cercava di mettere l’altro in svantaggio senza riuscirci, ebbe l’effetto di calmare la tosse del signor Dorrit. Egli osservò con la massima cortesia che doveva protestare contro l’idea, persino da parte della signora Merdle – che si considerava una donna eccezionale e raffinata (un complimento al quale lei rispose con un sorriso) – che iniziative del genere, per quanto diverse dalle meschine attività degli altri uomini, potessero avere lo scopo di ridurre o limitare il talento da cui erano nate. “Siete davvero generosissimo,” disse la signora Merdle in risposta, sorridendo con tutto il suo fascino; “speriamo proprio che sia così. Ma devo ammettere di essere quasi superstiziosa riguardo alle questioni d’affari.”

Mr Dorrit threw in another compliment here, to the effect that business, like the time which was precious in it, was made for slaves; and that it was not for Mrs Merdle, who ruled all hearts at her supreme pleasure, to have anything to do with it. Mrs Merdle laughed, and conveyed to Mr Dorrit an idea that the Bosom flushed—which was one of her best effects.

‘I say so much,’ she then explained, ‘merely because Mr Merdle has always taken the greatest interest in Edmund, and has always expressed the strongest desire to advance his prospects. Edmund’s public position, I think you know. His private position rests solely with Mr Merdle. In my foolish incapacity for business, I assure you I know no more.’

Mr Dorrit again expressed, in his own way, the sentiment that business was below the ken of enslavers and enchantresses. He then mentioned his intention, as a gentleman and a parent, of writing to Mr Merdle. Mrs Merdle concurred with all her heart—or with all her art, which was exactly the same thing—and herself despatched a preparatory letter by the next post to the eighth wonder of the world.

In his epistolary communication, as in his dialogues and discourses on the great question to which it related, Mr Dorrit surrounded the subject with flourishes, as writing-masters embellish copy-books and ciphering-books: where the titles of the elementary rules of arithmetic diverge into swans, eagles, griffins, and other calligraphic recreations, and where the capital letters go out of their minds and bodies into ecstasies of pen and ink. Nevertheless, he did render the purport of his letter sufficiently clear, to enable Mr Merdle to make a decent pretence of having learnt it from that source. Mr Merdle replied to it accordingly. Mr Dorrit replied to Mr Merdle; Mr Merdle replied to Mr Dorrit; and it was soon announced that the corresponding powers had come to a satisfactory understanding.

Now, and not before, Miss Fanny burst upon the scene, completely arrayed for her new part. Now and not before, she wholly absorbed Mr Sparkler in her light, and shone for both, and twenty more. No longer feeling that want of a defined place and character which had caused her so much trouble, this fair ship began to steer steadily on a shaped course, and to swim with a weight and balance that developed her sailing qualities.

‘The preliminaries being so satisfactorily arranged, I think I will now, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘announce—ha—formally, to Mrs General—’

‘Papa,’ returned Fanny, taking him up short upon that name, ‘I don’t see what Mrs General has got to do with it.’

‘My dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘it will be an act of courtesy to—hum—a lady, well bred and refined—’

‘Oh! I am sick of Mrs General’s good breeding and refinement, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I am tired of Mrs General.’

‘Tired,’ repeated Mr Dorrit in reproachful astonishment, ‘of—ha—Mrs General.’

‘Quite disgusted with her, papa,’ said Fanny. ‘I really don’t see what she has to do with my marriage. Let her keep to her own matrimonial projects—if she has any.’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with a grave and weighty slowness upon him, contrasting strongly with his daughter’s levity: ‘I beg the favour of your explaining—ha—what it is you mean.’

‘I mean, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘that if Mrs General should happen to have any matrimonial projects of her own, I dare say they are quite enough to occupy her spare time. And that if she has not, so much the better; but still I don’t wish to have the honour of making announcements to her.’

‘Permit me to ask you, Fanny,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘why not?’

‘Because she can find my engagement out for herself, papa,’ retorted Fanny. ‘She is watchful enough, I dare say. I think I have seen her so. Let her find it out for herself. If she should not find it out for herself, she will know it when I am married. And I hope you will not consider me wanting in affection for you, papa, if I say it strikes me that will be quite enough for Mrs General.’

‘Fanny,’ returned Mr Dorrit, ‘I am amazed, I am displeased by this—hum—this capricious and unintelligible display of animosity towards—ha—Mrs General.’

‘Do not, if you please, papa,’ urged Fanny, ‘call it animosity, because I assure you I do not consider Mrs General worth my animosity.’

At this, Mr Dorrit rose from his chair with a fixed look of severe reproof, and remained standing in his dignity before his daughter. His daughter, turning the bracelet on her arm, and now looking at him, and now looking from him, said, ‘Very well, papa. I am truly sorry if you don’t like it; but I can’t help it. I am not a child, and I am not Amy, and I must speak.’

‘Fanny,’ gasped Mr Dorrit, after a majestic silence, ‘if I request you to remain here, while I formally announce to Mrs General, as an exemplary lady, who is—hum—a trusted member of this family, the—ha—the change that is contemplated among us; if I—ha—not only request it, but—hum—insist upon it—’

‘Oh, papa,’ Fanny broke in with pointed significance, ‘if you make so much of it as that, I have in duty nothing to do but comply. I hope I may have my thoughts upon the subject, however, for I really cannot help it under the circumstances.’ So, Fanny sat down with a meekness which, in the junction of extremes, became defiance; and her father, either not deigning to answer, or not knowing what to answer, summoned Mr Tinkler into his presence.

‘Mrs General.’

Mr Tinkler, unused to receive such short orders in connection with the fair varnisher, paused. Mr Dorrit, seeing the whole Marshalsea and all its testimonials in the pause, instantly flew at him with, ‘How dare you, sir? What do you mean?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ pleaded Mr Tinkler, ‘I was wishful to know—’

‘You wished to know nothing, sir,’ cried Mr Dorrit, highly flushed. ‘Don’t tell me you did. Ha. You didn’t. You are guilty of mockery, sir.’

Il signor Dorrit aggiunse un altro complimento, affermando che gli affari, proprio come il tempo che in essi era prezioso, erano fatti per gli schiavi; e che non spettava alla signora Merdle, che dominava tutti i cuori a suo piacimento, averci nulla a che fare. La signora Merdle rise e fece capire al signor Dorrit che il suo viso si era arrossito, il che era uno dei suoi effetti più belli.

“Dico queste cose,” spiegò poi, “solo perché Signor Merdle ha sempre mostrato un grande interesse per Edmund e ha sempre espresso il più forte desiderio di favorire la sua carriera. La posizione pubblica di Edmund, penso che lo sappiate. Quella privata dipende interamente da Signor Merdle. Nella mia sciocca incompetenza in materia di affari, vi assicuro che non so nulla di più.”

Il signor Dorrit esprimeva ancora, a suo modo, l’idea che gli affari fossero al di fuori della comprensione degli schiavisti e delle streghe. Poi menzionò la sua intenzione, da gentiluomo e da genitore, di scrivere al signor Merdle. La signora Merdle concordava pienamente, o meglio, utilizzava tutta la sua “arte” per farlo, il che era esattamente la stessa cosa, e lei stessa inviò una lettera preparatoria con la prossima posta all’ottavo “miracolo” del mondo.

Nelle sue comunicazioni epistolari, così come nei suoi dialoghi e discorsi sul grande argomento di cui trattava, il signor Dorrit circondava l’argomento stesso con ornamenti e fronzoli, proprio come gli esperti calligrafi abbelliscono i libri di esercizi e i quaderni di cifrario: dove i titoli delle regole elementari dell’aritmetica si trasformavano in cigni, aquile, grifoni e altre figure decorative, e dove le lettere maiuscole sembravano perdere ogni limite, esprimendosi con estrema creatività attraverso la penna e l’inchiostro. Tuttavia, riuscì comunque a rendere il contenuto della sua lettera abbastanza chiaro, tanto da permettere al signor Merdle di fingere in modo plausibile di averne appreso il significato da quella fonte. Il signor Merdle rispose di conseguenza; il signor Dorrit rispose al signor Merdle; il signor Merdle rispose ancora una volta al signor Dorrit, e presto si annunciò che le parti interessate erano giunte a un’intesa soddisfacente.

Ora, e solo ora, la signorina Fanny fece il suo ingresso sulla scena, completamente preparata per il suo nuovo ruolo. Ora, e solo ora, riuscì a catturare completamente l’attenzione del signor Sparkler con la sua bellezza, brillando sia per lui che per altri venti uomini ancora. Non sentendosi più tormentata da quella mancanza di un ruolo e di una personalità ben definiti che le avevano causato tanti problemi, questa bella damigella iniziò finalmente a navigare con sicurezza lungo la sua strada, muovendosi con equilibrio e grazia, sviluppando così al massimo le sue qualità.

“Poiché le procedure preliminari sono state organizzate in modo molto soddisfacente, penso che ora possa annunciare ufficialmente, mia cara,” disse il signor Dorrit, “alla signora generale, ”

“Papà,” rispose Fanny, interrompendolo non appena menzionò quel nome, “non capisco cosa abbia a che fare la signora generale con questa faccenda.”

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Dorrit, “sarebbe un atto di cortesia verso una signora, bene educata e raffinata, ”

“Ohi! Ne ho abbastanza della buona educazione e della raffinatezza della signora Generale, papà,” disse Fanny. “Sono stanca di quella signora Generale.”

“Stanco, ”, ripeté il signor Dorrit con stupore e rimprovero, “di, ah, la signora generale.”

“Sono davvero disgustata da lei, papà,” disse Fanny. “Non capisco proprio cosa abbia a che fare con il mio mattrimonio. Lasciate che si occupi dei suoi progetti matrimoniali, se ne ha qualcuno.”

“Fanny,” rispose il signor Dorrit con una lentezza grave e solenne, che contrastava fortemente con la leggerezza di sua figlia: “Le chiedo il favore di spiegarmi, cosa intende dire.”

“Voglio dire, papà,” disse Fanny, “se per caso la signora generale avesse qualche progetto matrimoniale personale, sono sicura che le basterebbe completamente per occupare il suo tempo libero. E se non ne ha, tanto meglio; ma comunque non vorrei avere l’onore di doverle fare alcuna comunicazione in merito.”

“Permettetemi di chiedervelo, Fanny”, disse il signor Dorrit, “perché no?”

“Perché può scoprire da sola della mia promessa, papà,” ribatté Fanny. “Direi che sia abbastanza attenta. Penso di averla vista farlo. Lasciate che lo scopra da sola. Se non ci riuscirà, lo saprà comunque quando mi sposerò. E spero davvero che non penserete che io vi manchi d’affetto, papà. Se vi dico che a me sembra sufficiente per la signora Generale, ”

“Fanny,” rispose il signor Dorrit, “sono sorpreso, sono scontento di questa, ehm, questa capricciosa e incomprensibile manifestazione di ostilità verso, ah, la signora generale.”

“Per favore, papà, non chiamarlo astio,” supplicò Fanny, “perché ti assicuro che non ritengo la signora Generale degna del mio astio.”

A questo punto, il signor Dorrit si alzò dalla sedia con uno sguardo severo e pieno di rimprovero, e rimase in piedi, mantenendo la propria dignità davanti a sua figlia. Sua figlia, girando il braccialetto sul proprio polso, ora lo guardava, ora distoglieva lo sguardo da lui, e disse: “Molto bene, papà. Mi dispiace davvero se non vi piace; ma non posso farci nulla. Non sono più una bambina, e non sono Amy. Devo parlare.”

“Fanny,” disse ansimando il signor Dorrit, dopo un lungo e maestoso silenzio, “se vi chiedo di rimanere qui mentre annuncio formalmente alla signora generale, come donna esemplare e membro fidato di questa famiglia, il cambiamento che stiamo prendendo in considerazione, se non solo ve lo chiedo, ma, insisto su questo, ”

“Oh, papà,” intervenne Fanny con un tono significativo, “se ci tieni così tanto, non ho altra scelta se non obbedire. Tuttavia, spero di poter esprimere il mio parere sull’argomento, perché, date le circostanze, proprio non posso fare altrimenti.” Così Fanny si sedette con una docilità che, in quel contesto di estremi, diventò in realtà un segno di sfida; e suo padre, o perché non degnò di rispondere, o perché non sapeva cosa dire, chiamò il signor Tinkler al suo cospetto.

“La signora generale”.

Il signor Tinkler, non abituato a ricevere ordini così brevi riguardo al lucidante per mobili, esitò. Il signor Dorrit, vedendo tutta quella situazione e tutti quei testimoni presenti in quell’attimo di silenzio, gli si scagliò addosso gridando: “Come osate, signore? Cosa intendete?”

“Perdonatemi, signore,” supplicò il signor Tinkler, “volevo solo sapere, ”

“Volevate non sapere nulla, signore,” gridò il signor Dorrit, con il viso rosso di vergogna.
“Non ditemi che lo volevate davvero. Ah no, non lo volevate affatto. Siete colpevole di sarcasmo, signore.”

‘I assure you, sir—’ Mr Tinkler began.

‘Don’t assure me!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I will not be assured by a domestic. You are guilty of mockery. You shall leave me—hum—the whole establishment shall leave me. What are you waiting for?’

‘Only for my orders, sir.’

‘It’s false,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘you have your orders. Ha—hum. My compliments to Mrs General, and I beg the favour of her coming to me, if quite convenient, for a few minutes. Those are your orders.’

In his execution of this mission, Mr Tinkler perhaps expressed that Mr Dorrit was in a raging fume. However that was, Mrs General’s skirts were very speedily heard outside, coming along—one might almost have said bouncing along—with unusual expedition. Albeit, they settled down at the door and swept into the room with their customary coolness.

‘Mrs General,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘take a chair.’

Mrs General, with a graceful curve of acknowledgment, descended into the chair which Mr Dorrit offered.

‘Madam,’ pursued that gentleman, ‘as you have had the kindness to undertake the—hum—formation of my daughters, and as I am persuaded that nothing nearly affecting them can—ha—be indifferent to you—’

‘Wholly impossible,’ said Mrs General in the calmest of ways.

‘—I therefore wish to announce to you, madam, that my daughter now present—’

Mrs General made a slight inclination of her head to Fanny, who made a very low inclination of her head to Mrs General, and came loftily upright again.

‘—That my daughter Fanny is—ha—contracted to be married to Mr Sparkler, with whom you are acquainted. Hence, madam, you will be relieved of half your difficult charge—ha—difficult charge.’ Mr Dorrit repeated it with his angry eye on Fanny. ‘But not, I hope, to the—hum—diminution of any other portion, direct or indirect, of the footing you have at present the kindness to occupy in my family.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloved hands resting on one another in exemplary repose, ‘is ever considerate, and ever but too appreciative of my friendly services.’

(Miss Fanny coughed, as much as to say, ‘You are right.’)

‘Miss Dorrit has no doubt exercised the soundest discretion of which the circumstances admitted, and I trust will allow me to offer her my sincere congratulations. When free from the trammels of passion,’ Mrs General closed her eyes at the word, as if she could not utter it, and see anybody; ‘when occurring with the approbation of near relatives; and when cementing the proud structure of a family edifice; these are usually auspicious events. I trust Miss Dorrit will allow me to offer her my best congratulations.’

Here Mrs General stopped, and added internally, for the setting of her face, ‘Papa, potatoes, poultry, Prunes, and prism.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ she superadded aloud, ‘is ever most obliging; and for the attention, and I will add distinction, of having this confidence imparted to me by himself and Miss Dorrit at this early time, I beg to offer the tribute of my thanks. My thanks, and my congratulations, are equally the meed of Mr Dorrit and of Miss Dorrit.’

‘To me,’ observed Miss Fanny, ‘they are excessively gratifying—inexpressibly so. The relief of finding that you have no objection to make, Mrs General, quite takes a load off my mind, I am sure. I hardly know what I should have done,’ said Fanny, ‘if you had interposed any objection, Mrs General.’

Mrs General changed her gloves, as to the right glove being uppermost and the left undermost, with a Prunes and Prism smile.

‘To preserve your approbation, Mrs General,’ said Fanny, returning the smile with one in which there was no trace of those ingredients, ‘will of course be the highest object of my married life; to lose it, would of course be perfect wretchedness. I am sure your great kindness will not object, and I hope papa will not object, to my correcting a small mistake you have made, however. The best of us are so liable to mistakes, that even you, Mrs General, have fallen into a little error. The attention and distinction you have so impressively mentioned, Mrs General, as attaching to this confidence, are, I have no doubt, of the most complimentary and gratifying description; but they don’t at all proceed from me. The merit of having consulted you on the subject would have been so great in me, that I feel I must not lay claim to it when it really is not mine. It is wholly papa’s. I am deeply obliged to you for your encouragement and patronage, but it was papa who asked for it. I have to thank you, Mrs General, for relieving my breast of a great weight by so handsomely giving your consent to my engagement, but you have really nothing to thank me for. I hope you will always approve of my proceedings after I have left home and that my sister also may long remain the favoured object of your condescension, Mrs General.’

With this address, which was delivered in her politest manner, Fanny left the room with an elegant and cheerful air—to tear up-stairs with a flushed face as soon as she was out of hearing, pounce in upon her sister, call her a little Dormouse, shake her for the better opening of her eyes, tell her what had passed below, and ask her what she thought of Pa now?

Towards Mrs Merdle, the young lady comported herself with great independence and self-possession; but not as yet with any more decided opening of hostilities. Occasionally they had a slight skirmish, as when Fanny considered herself patted on the back by that lady, or as when Mrs Merdle looked particularly young and well; but Mrs Merdle always soon terminated those passages of arms by sinking among her cushions with the gracefullest indifference, and finding her attention otherwise engaged. Society (for that mysterious creature sat upon the Seven Hills too) found Miss Fanny vastly improved by her engagement. She was much more accessible, much more free and engaging, much less exacting; insomuch that she now entertained a host of followers and admirers, to the bitter indignation of ladies with daughters to marry, who were to be regarded as Having revolted from Society on the Miss Dorrit grievance, and erected a rebellious standard. Enjoying the flutter she caused. Miss Dorrit not only haughtily moved through it in her own proper person, but haughtily, even Ostentatiously, led Mr Sparkler through it too: seeming to say to them all, ‘If I think proper to march among you in triumphal procession attended by this weak captive in bonds, rather than a stronger one, that is my business. Enough that I choose to do it!’ Mr Sparkler for his part, questioned nothing; but went wherever he was taken, did whatever he was told, felt that for his bride-elect to be distinguished was for him to be distinguished on the easiest terms, and was truly grateful for being so openly acknowledged.

“Vi assicuro, signore, ” iniziò il signor Tinkler.

“Non cercare di rassicurarmi!” disse il signor Dorrit. “Non mi lascerò convincere da una domestica. Sei colpevole di sarcasmo. Devi andartene. Tutti voi dovete lasciarmi. Cosa aspetti ancora?”

“Solo per i miei ordini, signore.”

“È falso,” disse il signor Dorrit, “avete ricevuto gli ordini. Ehm. Porgo i miei complimenti alla signora generale e le chiedo la gentilezza di venire da me, se possibile, per qualche minuto. Questi sono gli ordini.”

Nell’esecuzione di questa missione, forse il signor Tinkler volle esprimere che il signor Dorrit era furioso. Comunque fosse, le gonne della signora Generale si sentirono molto rapidamente fuori dalla porta, avvicinarsi con una velocità insolita. Si sarebbe quasi potuto dire che “balzassero” verso l’interno. Tuttavia, si fermarono davanti alla porta ed entrarono nella stanza con la loro solita freddezza.

“Signora Generale,” disse il signor Dorrit, “si sieda, per favore.”

Signora Generale, con un grazioso gesto di ringraziamento, si sedette nella sedia che il signor Dorrit le offrì.

“Signora,” continuò quel gentiluomo, “poiché avete avuto la gentilezza di occuparvi dell’educazione delle mie figlie, e poiché sono convinto che nulla che le riguardi possa esservi indifferente, ”

“Del tutto impossibile,” disse la signora generale con estrema calma.

“– Pertanto, desidero annunciare a voi, signora, che mia figlia è qui presente in questo momento, ”

La signora Generale fece un leggero inchino verso Fanny, che rispose con un inchino ancora più profondo e poi si rialzò con aria dignitosa.

“–Mia figlia Fanny è, è fidanzata con il signor Sparkler, che voi conoscete. Quindi, signora, vi sarà sollevato metà di questo onere così difficile, ” Il signor Dorrit ripeté queste parole fissando Fanny con uno sguardo furioso. “Ma non spero certo che ciò comporti alcuna riduzione, diretta o indiretta, delle responsabilità che attualmente avete la gentilezza di assumervi nella mia famiglia.”

“Signor Dorrit,” rispose la signora Generale, con le mani guantate posate una sull’altra in un esempio di tranquillità, “si è sempre dimostrato grato e molto apprezzativo dei miei servizi amichevoli.”

“Miss Fanny tossì, come per dire: ‘Hai ragione.’”

‘Miss Dorrit ha certamente dimostrato la massima discrezione che le circostanze permettevano, e spero mi concederà l’onore di rivolgerle i miei più sinceri complimenti. Quando un legame nasce con il consenso dei parenti più stretti, e quando contribuisce a rafforzare la struttura solida di una famiglia, questi sono solitamente eventi propizi. Spero davvero che Miss Dorrit mi permetta di esprimerle le mie felicitazioni.’

Qui la signora generale si fermò e aggiunse tra sé, in base all’espressione del suo viso: “Papà, patate, pollame, prugne, e prismi.”

“Signor Dorrit,” aggiunse ad alta voce, “è sempre estremamente gentile; e per l’attenzione, e devo anche dire la distinzione, con cui mi ha confidato questa informazione personalmente, lui stesso e la signorina Dorrit, a quest’ora così mattutina, desidero esprimere la mia gratitudine. La mia ringraziamento, e le mie congratulazioni, sono rivolte sia al signor Dorrit che alla signorina Dorrit.”

“Per me,” osservò la signorina Fanny, “sono estremamente gratificanti, in modo indescrivibile. Il fatto di scoprire che non avete alcuna obiezione, signora generale, mi solleva davvero un grande peso dal cuore. Non so proprio cosa avrei fatto,” disse Fanny, “se aveste espresso qualche obiezione, signora generale.”

La signora Generale cambiò i guanti, assicurandosi che il guanto destro fosse posto sopra e quello sinistro sotto, con un sorriso compiaciuto.

“Per conservare la vostra approvazione, signora generale,” disse Fanny, ricambiando il sorriso con uno che non conteneva traccia di quelle emozioni, “certamente sarà l’obiettivo principale della mia vita coniugale; perderla significherebbe una vera e propria desolazione. Sono sicura che la vostra grande gentilezza non avrà obiezioni, e spero anche che papà non le abbia, se correggo un piccolo errore che avete commesso. Anche i migliori di noi sono soggetti a sbagliare; persino voi, signora generale, avete fatto una piccola distrazione. L’attenzione e la considerazione di cui avete parlato riguardo a questa confidenza sono, senza dubbio, molto lusinghiere e gratificanti. Ma non derivano affatto da me. Il merito di avervi consultata su questo argomento sarebbe stato davvero grande da parte mia, quindi non posso attribuirmelo quando in realtà non lo è affatto. È interamente merito di papà. Sono profondamente grata per il vostro incoraggiamento e la vostra protezione, ma è stato papà a chiederli. Devo ringraziarvi, signora generale, per aver sollevato un grande peso dal mio cuore acconsentendo così generosamente al mio fidanzamento. Ma in realtà non avete nulla di cui ringraziarmi. Spero che approverete sempre le mie decisioni una volta lasciata la casa, e che anche mia sorella possa continuare a essere l’oggetto della vostra benevolenza, signora generale.”

Con questo discorso, pronunciato nel modo più gentile possibile, Fanny lasciò la stanza con un’aria elegante e allegra; ma non appena fu fuori portata d’orecchio, salì di corsa le scale con il viso arrossito, si precipitò da sua sorella, la chiamò “piccola Topolina”, la scosse per farle aprire meglio gli occhi, le raccontò ciò che era accaduto di sotto e le chiese cosa pensasse ora di Pa.

Di fronte a Mrs Merdle, la giovane signorina si comportava con grande indipendenza e autocontrollo; ma per il momento non c’erano ancora attacchi più decisi da parte sua. Di tanto in tanto scaturivano piccole “scaramucce”: ad esempio, quando Fanny riteneva di essere stata lusingata da quella signora, o quando Mrs Merdle appariva particolarmente giovane e attraente; tuttavia Mrs Merdle finiva sempre per porre fine a queste “scaramucce” con la massima indifferenza, immergendosi tra i suoi cuscini e fingendo di essere distratta da altro. La società (poiché anche quella misteriosa entità risiedeva sulle Sette Colline, ) riteneva che Miss Fanny fosse molto migliorata grazie a questo fidanzamento: era diventata più accessibile, più disinvolta e affabile, meno esigente, tanto da attirare un gran numero di seguaci e ammiratori, il che provocava la profonda indignazione delle signore con figlie da maritare, le quali consideravano Miss Dorrit una ribelle che aveva sfidato le regole della società, godendosi ovviamente tutto lo scalpore che causava. Miss Dorrit, non solo si muoveva con aria sprezzante tra quelle persone, ma portava anche Mr Sparkler con sé in modo altrettanto sprezzante e addirittura ostentato; sembrava dire a tutti loro: “Se ritengo opportuno camminare tra voi in processione trionfale, accompagnata da questo debole prigioniero incatenato, invece che da uno più forte, beh, è affar mio. L’importante è che io abbia scelto di farlo!” Mr Sparkler, dal canto suo, non metteva mai in discussione nulla; andava dove gli veniva detto, faceva ciò che gli veniva chiesto, e si considerava davvero fortunato ad essere così apertamente riconosciuto dalla sua futura sposa.

The winter passing on towards the spring while this condition of affairs prevailed, it became necessary for Mr Sparkler to repair to England, and take his appointed part in the expression and direction of its genius, learning, commerce, spirit, and sense. The land of Shakespeare, Milton, Bacon, Newton, Watt, the land of a host of past and present abstract philosophers, natural philosophers, and subduers of Nature and Art in their myriad forms, called to Mr Sparkler to come and take care of it, lest it should perish. Mr Sparkler, unable to resist the agonised cry from the depths of his country’s soul, declared that he must go.

It followed that the question was rendered pressing when, where, and how Mr Sparkler should be married to the foremost girl in all this world with no nonsense about her. Its solution, after some little mystery and secrecy, Miss Fanny herself announced to her sister.

‘Now, my child,’ said she, seeking her out one day, ‘I am going to tell you something. It is only this moment broached; and naturally I hurry to you the moment it is broached.’

‘Your marriage, Fanny?’

‘My precious child,’ said Fanny, ‘don’t anticipate me. Let me impart my confidence to you, you flurried little thing, in my own way. As to your guess, if I answered it literally, I should answer no. For really it is not my marriage that is in question, half as much as it is Edmund’s.’

Little Dorrit looked, and perhaps not altogether without cause, somewhat at a loss to understand this fine distinction.

‘I am in no difficulty,’ exclaimed Fanny, ‘and in no hurry. I am not wanted at any public office, or to give any vote anywhere else. But Edmund is. And Edmund is deeply dejected at the idea of going away by himself, and, indeed, I don’t like that he should be trusted by himself. For, if it’s possible—and it generally is—to do a foolish thing, he is sure to do it.’

As she concluded this impartial summary of the reliance that might be safely placed upon her future husband, she took off, with an air of business, the bonnet she wore, and dangled it by its strings upon the ground.

‘It is far more Edmund’s question, therefore, than mine. However, we need say no more about that. That is self-evident on the face of it. Well, my dearest Amy! The point arising, is he to go by himself, or is he not to go by himself, this other point arises, are we to be married here and shortly, or are we to be married at home months hence?’

‘I see I am going to lose you, Fanny.’

‘What a little thing you are,’ cried Fanny, half tolerant and half impatient, ‘for anticipating one! Pray, my darling, hear me out. That woman,’ she spoke of Mrs Merdle, of course, ‘remains here until after Easter; so, in the case of my being married here and going to London with Edmund, I should have the start of her. That is something. Further, Amy. That woman being out of the way, I don’t know that I greatly object to Mr Merdle’s proposal to Pa that Edmund and I should take up our abode in that house—you know—where you once went with a dancer, my dear, until our own house can be chosen and fitted up. Further still, Amy. Papa having always intended to go to town himself, in the spring,—you see, if Edmund and I were married here, we might go off to Florence, where papa might join us, and we might all three travel home together. Mr Merdle has entreated Pa to stay with him in that same mansion I have mentioned, and I suppose he will. But he is master of his own actions; and upon that point (which is not at all material) I can’t speak positively.’

The difference between papa’s being master of his own actions and Mr Sparkler’s being nothing of the sort, was forcibly expressed by Fanny in her manner of stating the case. Not that her sister noticed it; for she was divided between regret at the coming separation, and a lingering wish that she had been included in the plans for visiting England.

‘And these are the arrangements, Fanny dear?’

‘Arrangements!’ repeated Fanny. ‘Now, really, child, you are a little trying. You know I particularly guarded myself against laying my words open to any such construction. What I said was, that certain questions present themselves; and these are the questions.’

Little Dorrit’s thoughtful eyes met hers, tenderly and quietly.

‘Now, my own sweet girl,’ said Fanny, weighing her bonnet by the strings with considerable impatience, ‘it’s no use staring. A little owl could stare. I look to you for advice, Amy. What do you advise me to do?’

‘Do you think,’ asked Little Dorrit, persuasively, after a short hesitation, ‘do you think, Fanny, that if you were to put it off for a few months, it might be, considering all things, best?’

‘No, little Tortoise,’ retorted Fanny, with exceeding sharpness. ‘I don’t think anything of the kind.’

Here, she threw her bonnet from her altogether, and flounced into a chair. But, becoming affectionate almost immediately, she flounced out of it again, and kneeled down on the floor to take her sister, chair and all, in her arms.

‘Don’t suppose I am hasty or unkind, darling, because I really am not. But you are such a little oddity! You make one bite your head off, when one wants to be soothing beyond everything. Didn’t I tell you, you dearest baby, that Edmund can’t be trusted by himself? And don’t you know that he can’t?’

‘Yes, yes, Fanny. You said so, I know.’

‘And you know it, I know,’ retorted Fanny. ‘Well, my precious child! If he is not to be trusted by himself, it follows, I suppose, that I should go with him?’

‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit.

‘Therefore, having heard the arrangements that are feasible to carry out that object, am I to understand, dearest Amy, that on the whole you advise me to make them?’

‘It—seems so, love,’ said Little Dorrit again.

‘Very well,’ cried Fanny with an air of resignation, ‘then I suppose it must be done! I came to you, my sweet, the moment I saw the doubt, and the necessity of deciding. I have now decided. So let it be.’

L’inverno passava verso la primavera, e mentre questa situazione persisteva, divenne necessario che il signor Sparkler tornasse in Inghilterra per assumersi il proprio ruolo nel promuovere lo sviluppo del suo genio, della sua cultura, del suo commercio, del suo spirito e delle sue capacità intellettuali. La terra di Shakespeare, di Milton, di Bacon, di Newton, di Watt, la terra di innumerevoli filosofi, scienziati e innovatori che hanno dominato la natura e le arti sotto le loro infinite forme, chiamava il signor Sparkler a prendersene cura, per evitare che andasse perduta. Il signor Sparkler, incapace di resistere al grido disperato proveniente dalle profondità dell’anima del suo paese, decise di partire.

Di conseguenza, la domanda divenne urgente: quando, dove e come il signor Sparkler dovesse sposare la ragazza più importante di tutto questo mondo, senza alcuna complicazione. La soluzione, dopo un po’ di mistero e segretezza, fu rivelata personalmente da Miss Fanny a sua sorella.

“Ora, mio bambino,” disse un giorno mentre lo cercava, “devo raccontarti qualcosa. È una questione di cui abbiamo appena iniziato a parlare; quindi naturalmente mi affretto a dirtelo non appena ne ho l’occasione.”

“Tuo mattrimono, Fanny?”

“Mio caro bambino”, disse Fanny, “non anticiparmi. Lascia che ti confidi le mie pensieri, a mio modo. Per quanto riguarda la tua supposizione, se la rispondessi letteralmente, direi di no. In realtà, non è affatto il mio matrimonio in discussione, ma piuttosto quello di Edmund.”

Little Dorrit guardò, e forse non senza motivo, un po’ perplessa nel tentativo di comprendere questa sottile distinzione.

“Non ho alcuna difficoltà,” esclamò Fanny, “e non ho alcuna fretta. Non sono richiesta in nessuna carica pubblica, né devo votare da nessun’altra parte. Ma Edmund sì. E Edmund è profondamente scoraggiato all’idea di dover partire da solo; in effetti, non mi piace che debba affidarsi a se stesso. Perché, se è possibile – e di solito lo è – commettere un errore, lui sicuramente lo farà.”

Dopo aver concluso questo riassunto imparziale riguardo alla fiducia che si poteva riporre con sicurezza nel suo futuro marito, si tolse il cappello che indossava con aria decisa e lo appese per le cordicelle a terra.

“È quindi molto di più una questione che riguarda Edmund che la mia. Tuttavia, non c’è bisogno di dire altro al riguardo: è evidente a prima vista. Bene, mia adorata Amy. La domanda che sorge ora è: dovrà partire da solo, o no? Un’altra domanda è: dovremmo sposarci qui e subito, oppure tra alcuni mesi a casa?”

“Vedo che perderò te, Fanny.”

“Che piccola creatura sei,” esclamò Fanny, metà tollerante e metà impaziente, “per aver già previsto tutto! Per favore, carina mia, ascoltami fino in fondo. Quella donna,” stava parlando naturalmente di Mrs Merdle, “rimarrà qui fino a dopo Pasqua; quindi, nel caso in cui mi sposassi qui e andassi a Londra con Edmund, avrei il vantaggio su di lei. Questo è un aspetto importante. Inoltre, Amy: ora che quella donna non rappresenta più un ostacolo, non mi dispiace affatto se Mr Merdle chiederà a papà che io e Edmund ci trasferiamo in quella casa, quella stessa in cui una volta sei andata con una ballerina, cara, finché non avremo trovato e arredato la nostra casa. Ancora di più, Amy: poiché papà ha sempre intenzione di andare in città lui stesso nella primavera, se io e Edmund ci sposassimo qui, potremmo partire per Firenze, dove papà potrebbe unirsi a noi e poi tornare a casa insieme. Mr Merdle ha pregato papà di restare con lui nella stessa casa di cui ho parlato, e immagino che lo farà. Ma è libero di decidere per sé; su questo punto (che del resto non è affatto importante) non posso dire nulla con certezza.”

La differenza tra il fatto che papà fosse padrone delle proprie azioni e il fatto che il signor Sparkler non lo fosse affatto, fu espresa con chiarezza da Fanny nel modo in cui enunciò la questione. Non che sua sorella se ne accorgesse; infatti, lei era divisa tra il rimpianto per la prossima separazione e il desiderio persistente di essere inclusa nei piani per il viaggio in Inghilterra.

“E queste sono le disposizioni, cara Fanny?”

“Accordi!” ripeté Fanny. “Davvero, bambino, stai esagerando un po’. Sai bene che ho cercato di evitare che le mie parole potessero essere interpretate in quel senso. Quello che ho detto è che si presentano alcune domande, e queste sono proprio quelle domande.”

Gli occhi pensierosi di Little Dorrit incontrarono i suoi, con tenerezza e silenzio.

“Ora, mia cara ragazza,” disse Fanny, pesando il proprio cappello con notevole impazienza, “non ha senso stare a fissare così. Anche una piccola civetta potrebbe stare a fissare allo stesso modo. Mi aspetto un tuo consiglio, Amy. Cosa mi suggerisci di fare?”

“Pensi davvero,” chiese Little Dorrit in tono persuasivo, dopo una breve esitazione, “pensi davvero, Fanny, che se lo rimandassi di qualche mese, potrebbe essere, considerando tutto, la cosa migliore?”

“No, piccola Tartaruga,” ribatté Fanny con estrema fermezza. “Non penso affatto a nulla del genere.”

Qui, si tolse completamente il cappello e si lasciò cadere su una sedia. Ma quasi immediatamente divenne affettuosa, saltò di nuovo fuori dalla sedia e si inginocchiò per abbracciare sia la sorella che la sedia stessa.

“Non pensare che io sia affrettata o crudele, caro, davvero non lo sono.
Ma tu sei proprio una piccola stranezza! Riesci a far perdere la pazienza a chiunque, quando invece si vorrebbe solo consolarti. Non ti ho forse detto, tesoro mio, che Edmund non può essere lasciato da solo? E non lo sai già?”

“Sì, sì, Fanny. Lo hai detto tu, lo so.”

“E lo sai bene, lo so anch’io,” ribatté Fanny. “Beh, mio caro bambino. Se non si può fidare che se ne occupi da solo, allora, immagino, dovrei andare io con lui.”

“Sembra proprio così, amore mio”, disse Little Dorrit.

“Quindi, avendo sentito parlare di queste misure praticabili per realizzare quel scopo, devo intendere, cara Amy, che in generale tu mi consigli di attuarle?”

“Sembra proprio così, amore mio”, disse di nuovo Little Dorrit.

“Molto bene,” esclamò Fanny con un tono di rassegnazione, “allora suppongo che debba essere fatto! Sono venuta da te, mio caro, non appena ho visto quella dubbio e la necessità di prendere una decisione. Ora ho deciso. E sia così.”

After yielding herself up, in this pattern manner, to sisterly advice and the force of circumstances, Fanny became quite benignant: as one who had laid her own inclinations at the feet of her dearest friend, and felt a glow of conscience in having made the sacrifice. ‘After all, my Amy,’ she said to her sister, ‘you are the best of small creatures, and full of good sense; and I don’t know what I shall ever do without you!’

With which words she folded her in a closer embrace, and a really fond one.

‘Not that I contemplate doing without You, Amy, by any means, for I hope we shall ever be next to inseparable. And now, my pet, I am going to give you a word of advice. When you are left alone here with Mrs General—’

‘I am to be left alone here with Mrs General?’ said Little Dorrit, quietly.

‘Why, of course, my precious, till papa comes back! Unless you call Edward company, which he certainly is not, even when he is here, and still more certainly is not when he is away at Naples or in Sicily. I was going to say—but you are such a beloved little Marplot for putting one out—when you are left alone here with Mrs General, Amy, don’t you let her slide into any sort of artful understanding with you that she is looking after Pa, or that Pa is looking after her. She will if she can. I know her sly manner of feeling her way with those gloves of hers. But don’t you comprehend her on any account. And if Pa should tell you when he comes back, that he has it in contemplation to make Mrs General your mama (which is not the less likely because I am going away), my advice to you is, that you say at once, “Papa, I beg to object most strongly. Fanny cautioned me about this, and she objected, and I object.” I don’t mean to say that any objection from you, Amy, is likely to be of the smallest effect, or that I think you likely to make it with any degree of firmness. But there is a principle involved—a filial principle—and I implore you not to submit to be mother-in-lawed by Mrs General, without asserting it in making every one about you as uncomfortable as possible. I don’t expect you to stand by it—indeed, I know you won’t, Pa being concerned—but I wish to rouse you to a sense of duty. As to any help from me, or as to any opposition that I can offer to such a match, you shall not be left in the lurch, my love. Whatever weight I may derive from my position as a married girl not wholly devoid of attractions—used, as that position always shall be, to oppose that woman—I will bring to bear, you May depend upon it, on the head and false hair (for I am confident it’s not all real, ugly as it is and unlikely as it appears that any One in their Senses would go to the expense of buying it) of Mrs General!’

Little Dorrit received this counsel without venturing to oppose it but without giving Fanny any reason to believe that she intended to act upon it. Having now, as it were, formally wound up her single life and arranged her worldly affairs, Fanny proceeded with characteristic ardour to prepare for the serious change in her condition.

The preparation consisted in the despatch of her maid to Paris under the protection of the Courier, for the purchase of that outfit for a bride on which it would be extremely low, in the present narrative, to bestow an English name, but to which (on a vulgar principle it observes of adhering to the language in which it professes to be written) it declines to give a French one. The rich and beautiful wardrobe purchased by these agents, in the course of a few weeks made its way through the intervening country, bristling with custom-houses, garrisoned by an immense army of shabby mendicants in uniform who incessantly repeated the Beggar’s Petition over it, as if every individual warrior among them were the ancient Belisarius: and of whom there were so many Legions, that unless the Courier had expended just one bushel and a half of silver money relieving their distresses, they would have worn the wardrobe out before it got to Rome, by turning it over and over. Through all such dangers, however, it was triumphantly brought, inch by inch, and arrived at its journey’s end in fine condition.

There it was exhibited to select companies of female viewers, in whose gentle bosoms it awakened implacable feelings. Concurrently, active preparations were made for the day on which some of its treasures were to be publicly displayed. Cards of breakfast-invitation were sent out to half the English in the city of Romulus; the other half made arrangements to be under arms, as criticising volunteers, at various outer points of the solemnity. The most high and illustrious English Signor Edgardo Dorrit, came post through the deep mud and ruts (from forming a surface under the improving Neapolitan nobility), to grace the occasion. The best hotel and all its culinary myrmidons, were set to work to prepare the feast. The drafts of Mr Dorrit almost constituted a run on the Torlonia Bank. The British Consul hadn’t had such a marriage in the whole of his Consularity.

The day came, and the She-Wolf in the Capitol might have snarled with envy to see how the Island Savages contrived these things now-a-days. The murderous-headed statues of the wicked Emperors of the Soldiery, whom sculptors had not been able to flatter out of their villainous hideousness, might have come off their pedestals to run away with the Bride. The choked old fountain, where erst the gladiators washed, might have leaped into life again to honour the ceremony. The Temple of Vesta might have sprung up anew from its ruins, expressly to lend its countenance to the occasion. Might have done; but did not. Like sentient things—even like the lords and ladies of creation sometimes—might have done much, but did nothing. The celebration went off with admirable pomp; monks in black robes, white robes, and russet robes stopped to look after the carriages; wandering peasants in fleeces of sheep, begged and piped under the house-windows; the English volunteers defiled; the day wore on to the hour of vespers; the festival wore away; the thousand churches rang their bells without any reference to it; and St Peter denied that he had anything to do with it.

Dopo essersi arresa, in questo modo, ai consigli di una sorella e alla forza delle circostanze, Fanny divenne davvero gentile: come chi aveva messo le proprie inclinazioni ai piedi della sua migliore amica e provava un senso di conscienza per aver fatto quel sacrificio. “Dopotutto, mia Amy,” disse alla sorella, “tu sei la migliore tra tutte le persone, piena di buon senso; non so proprio cosa farei senza di te!”

Con quelle parole lo strinse ancora più forte tra le braccia, con un abbraccio davvero affettuoso.

‘Non che io preveda di poter fare a meno di te, Amy, per niente al mondo; anzi, >spero che possiamo rimanere sempre inseparabili. Ora, mia cara, voglio darti un consiglio: quando resterai da sola qui con la signora generale, ’

“Devo essere lasciato qui da solo con la signora generale?” chiese Little Dorrit, in silenzio.

“Ma certo, mio caro, finché papà non tornerà! A meno che tu non consideri Edward come un compagno, il che di certo non è, nemmeno quando è qui; e tantomeno quando si trova a Napoli o in Sicilia. Stavo per dire, ma sei davvero un adorabile piccolo birichino. Quando resterai solo qui con la signora generale e Amy, non lasciare che lei tenti di creare qualche tipo di intesa tra voi, dicendo che si prende cura di papà o che papà si prende cura di lei. Lo farà, se ne avrà l’occasione. Conosco il suo modo astuto di approcciarsi alle persone. Ma per nessun motivo devi cedere alle sue insinuazioni. E se papà dovesse dirti, al suo ritorno, che sta pensando di far diventare la signora generale tua madre (il che non è affatto improbabile, visto che io me ne andrò, ), il mio consiglio è che tu risponda immediatamente: ‘Papà, ti prego di oppormi con forza. Fanny mi aveva avvertito contro questo, e anch’io mi oppongo.’ Non intendo dire che la tua opposizione possa avere qualche effetto, né che creda tu sia in grado di farla con decisione. Ma c’è una questione di principio, un dovere filiale. E ti supplico di non accettare che la signora generale diventi tua suocera, senza fare tutto il possibile per rendere questa situazione il più sgradevole possibile per tutti. Non mi aspetto che tu insista su questo punto, anzi, so che non lo farai, visto che papà è coinvolto. Ma vorrei che tu sentissi il dovere di opporrti. Per quanto riguarda il mio aiuto o la mia opposizione a questa unione, non resterai certo senza appoggio, mio amore. Qualunque influenza io possa esercitare, in qualità di ragazza sposata e non del tutto priva di attrattive, utilizzata, come sempre accade, per oppormi a quella donna, la userò, puoi starne certa, contro di lei, contro quella signora generale!”

Little Dorrit accettò questo consiglio senza osare opporvisi, ma senza dare a Fanny alcun motivo per credere che avesse intenzione di seguirlo. Ora che aveva, per così dire, formalmente concluso la sua vita da single e sistemato tutte le sue questioni terrene, Fanny procedette con l’entusiasmo tipico suo a prepararsi al grave cambiamento nella sua situazione.

La preparazione consistette nel far partire la sua cameriera per Parigi sotto la protezione del corriere, affinché acquistasse quell’abbigliamento da sposa. In questa narrazione sarebbe estremamente poco appropriato attribuire a tale abbigliamento un nome inglese; tuttavia, seguendo il principio di aderire alla lingua in cui si sostiene che il testo sia scritto, si rifiuta di darne uno francese. L’abbigliamento ricco e bellissimo acquistato da questi agenti, nel corso di alcune settimane, attraversò tutto il territorio intermedio, passando attraverso numerosi daziari e sorvegliato da un enorme esercito di mendicanti in uniforme che continuavano a ripetere incessantemente la loro “Petizione del Mendicante” su di esso, come se ogni singolo di loro fosse l’antico Belisario. E poiché tali mendicanti erano tantissimi, se il corriere non avesse speso esattamente un bushel e mezzo d’argento per alleviare le loro difficoltà, quell’abbigliamento sarebbe stato consumato completamente prima ancora di arrivare a Roma. Tuttavia, nonostante tutti questi pericoli, riuscì comunque ad arrivare alla fine del suo viaggio in ottime condizioni.

Fu esposto alle aziende selezionate di spettatrici, nelle cui gentili braccia suscitò sentimenti incrollabili. Allo stesso tempo, venivano fatte le preparazioni necessarie per il giorno in cui alcuni dei suoi “tesori” avrebbero dovuto essere esposti pubblicamente. Furono inviate cartoline di invito a colazione alla metà degli abitanti inglesi della città di Romulus; l’altra metà si organizzò per intervenire, come volontari critici, in vari punti esterni alla cerimonia solenne. Il più nobile e illustre signore inglese, Edgardo Dorrit, fece il viaggio attraverso fango e buche profonde (causate dalla formazione di strade sotto la nobiltà napoletana in ascesa) per onorare l’occasione. Il miglior hotel della città e tutti i suoi cuochi si misero all’opera per preparare il banchetto. Le spese sostenute dal signor Dorrit quasi raggiunsero le cifre registrate presso la banca Torlonia. Il console britannico non aveva mai assistito a un matrimonio del genere durante tutto il suo mandato.

Quel giorno arrivò, e la Lupa nel Campidoglio avrebbe forse ringhiato d’invidia vedendo come i “selvaggi dell’isola” riuscissero oggi a realizzare simili cose. Le statue dai volti assassini degli empieri malvagi, che gli scultori non erano riusciti a rendere meno orribili nella loro mostruosità, avrebbero forse lasciato i loro piedistalli per correre incontro alla Sposa. L’antico fontanile, dove un tempo si lavavano i gladiatori, avrebbe potuto risvegliarsi di nuovo per onorare la cerimonia. Il Tempio di Vesta avrebbe potuto rinascere dalle sue rovine appositamente per partecipare a questo evento. Avrebbero potuto farlo; ma non lo fecero. Come esseri senzienti – persino come alcuni dei signori e delle signore della creazione – avrebbero potuto fare molto, ma non fecero nulla. La celebrazione si svolse con grande pompa: monaci in abiti neri, bianchi e marroni si occuparono di guidare le carrozze; contadini vestiti di lana chiedevano l’elemosina sotto le finestre delle case; i volontari inglesi parteciparono attivamente. Il giorno trascorse fino all’ora del tramonto; la festa finì. Le migliaia di chiese suonarono le loro campane, senza alcun riferimento a quell’evento. E San Pietro negò di averci avuto qualcosa a che fare.

But by that time the Bride was near the end of the first day’s journey towards Florence. It was the peculiarity of the nuptials that they were all Bride. Nobody noticed the Bridegroom. Nobody noticed the first Bridesmaid. Few could have seen Little Dorrit (who held that post) for the glare, even supposing many to have sought her. So, the Bride had mounted into her handsome chariot, incidentally accompanied by the Bridegroom; and after rolling for a few minutes smoothly over a fair pavement, had begun to jolt through a Slough of Despond, and through a long, long avenue of wrack and ruin. Other nuptial carriages are said to have gone the same road, before and since.

If Little Dorrit found herself left a little lonely and a little low that night, nothing would have done so much against her feeling of depression as the being able to sit at work by her father, as in the old time, and help him to his supper and his rest. But that was not to be thought of now, when they sat in the state-equipage with Mrs General on the coach-box. And as to supper! If Mr Dorrit had wanted supper, there was an Italian cook and there was a Swiss confectioner, who must have put on caps as high as the Pope’s Mitre, and have performed the mysteries of Alchemists in a copper-saucepaned laboratory below, before he could have got it.

He was sententious and didactic that night. If he had been simply loving, he would have done Little Dorrit more good; but she accepted him as he was—when had she not accepted him as he was!—and made the most and best of him. Mrs General at length retired. Her retirement for the night was always her frostiest ceremony, as if she felt it necessary that the human imagination should be chilled into stone to prevent its following her. When she had gone through her rigid preliminaries, amounting to a sort of genteel platoon-exercise, she withdrew. Little Dorrit then put her arm round her father’s neck, to bid him good night.

‘Amy, my dear,’ said Mr Dorrit, taking her by the hand, ‘this is the close of a day, that has—ha—greatly impressed and gratified me.’

‘A little tired you, dear, too?’

‘No,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘no: I am not sensible of fatigue when it arises from an occasion so—hum—replete with gratification of the purest kind.’

Little Dorrit was glad to find him in such heart, and smiled from her own heart.

‘My dear,’ he continued, ‘this is an occasion—ha—teeming with a good example. With a good example, my favourite and attached child—hum—to you.’

Little Dorrit, fluttered by his words, did not know what to say, though he stopped as if he expected her to say something.

‘Amy,’ he resumed; ‘your dear sister, our Fanny, has contracted ha hum—a marriage, eminently calculated to extend the basis of our—ha—connection, and to—hum—consolidate our social relations. My love, I trust that the time is not far distant when some—ha—eligible partner may be found for you.’

‘Oh no! Let me stay with you. I beg and pray that I may stay with you! I want nothing but to stay and take care of you!’

She said it like one in sudden alarm.

‘Nay, Amy, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘This is weak and foolish, weak and foolish. You have a—ha—responsibility imposed upon you by your position. It is to develop that position, and be—hum—worthy of that position. As to taking care of me; I can—ha—take care of myself. Or,’ he added after a moment, ‘if I should need to be taken care of, I—hum—can, with the—ha—blessing of Providence, be taken care of, I—ha hum—I cannot, my dear child, think of engrossing, and—ha—as it were, sacrificing you.’

O what a time of day at which to begin that profession of self-denial; at which to make it, with an air of taking credit for it; at which to believe it, if such a thing could be!

‘Don’t speak, Amy. I positively say I cannot do it. I—ha—must not do it. My—hum—conscience would not allow it. I therefore, my love, take the opportunity afforded by this gratifying and impressive occasion of—ha—solemnly remarking, that it is now a cherished wish and purpose of mine to see you—ha—eligibly (I repeat eligibly) married.’

‘Oh no, dear! Pray!’

‘Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I am well persuaded that if the topic were referred to any person of superior social knowledge, of superior delicacy and sense—let us say, for instance, to—ha—Mrs General—that there would not be two opinions as to the—hum—affectionate character and propriety of my sentiments. But, as I know your loving and dutiful nature from—hum—from experience, I am quite satisfied that it is necessary to say no more. I have—hum—no husband to propose at present, my dear: I have not even one in view. I merely wish that we should—ha—understand each other. Hum. Good night, my dear and sole remaining daughter. Good night. God bless you!’

If the thought ever entered Little Dorrit’s head that night, that he could give her up lightly now in his prosperity, and when he had it in his mind to replace her with a second wife, she drove it away. Faithful to him still, as in the worst times through which she had borne him single-handed, she drove the thought away; and entertained no harder reflection, in her tearful unrest, than that he now saw everything through their wealth, and through the care he always had upon him that they should continue rich, and grow richer.

They sat in their equipage of state, with Mrs General on the box, for three weeks longer, and then he started for Florence to join Fanny. Little Dorrit would have been glad to bear him company so far, only for the sake of her own love, and then to have turned back alone, thinking of dear England. But, though the Courier had gone on with the Bride, the Valet was next in the line; and the succession would not have come to her, as long as any one could be got for money.

Mrs General took life easily—as easily, that is, as she could take anything—when the Roman establishment remained in their sole occupation; and Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old Marshalsea—ruins of her own old life—ruins of the faces and forms that of old peopled it—ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys. Two ruined spheres of action and suffering were before the solitary girl often sitting on some broken fragment; and in the lonely places, under the blue sky, she saw them both together.

Up, then, would come Mrs General; taking all the colour out of everything, as Nature and Art had taken it out of herself; writing Prunes and Prism, in Mr Eustace’s text, wherever she could lay a hand; looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else; scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them whole without any human visitings—like a Ghoule in gloves.

Ma a quell’ora la Sposa era ormai vicina alla fine della prima tappa del suo viaggio verso Firenze. La particolarità di quel matrimonio stava nel fatto che, erano tutte Spose. Nessuno notò lo Sposo; nessuno notò nemmeno la prima damigella d’onore. Pochi riuscirono a vedere Little Dorrit (che ricopriva quel ruolo), a causa del bagliore intenso; anche se molti probabilmente avrebbero cercato di trovarla. Così, la Sposa era salita sulla sua bella carrozza, accompagnata, per caso, dall’Sposo stesso; e dopo aver viaggiato per alcuni minuti senza problemi su un bel selciato, iniziò improvvisamente a sobbalzare attraverso una palude di disperazione, e lungo un interminabile viale di rovina e distruzione. Si dice che altre carrozze nuziali abbiano percorso lo stesso sentiero prima e dopo di allora.

Se Little Dorrit si fosse trovata un po’ sola e un po’ depressa quella notte, nulla avrebbe potuto alleviare il suo senso di tristezza quanto il fatto di poter sedersi accanto a suo padre, come ai vecchi tempi, e aiutarlo con la cena e il riposo. Ma ora questo non era possibile, mentre sedevano nell’equipaggio ufficiale del treno, con la signora General sul vagone di testa. E per quanto riguardava la cena. Se il signor Dorrit avesse voluto mangiare, c’era un cuoco italiano e un pasticcere svizzero: entrambi avrebbero dovuto mettersi cappelli alti quanto la mitra del Papa e compiere “misteri alchemici” in un laboratorio attrezzato con pentole di rame, prima che lui potesse anche solo avere la sua cena.

Era sempre pieno di sentenze e di insegnamenti, quella notte. Se solo fosse stato semplicemente amorevole, avrebbe fatto molto più bene a Little Dorrit; ma lei lo accettò così com’era. Quando mai non l’aveva accettato così com’era? E ne fece il meglio possibile. Alla fine, la signora General si ritirò. Quel suo ritiro, ogni notte, era sempre una sorta di cerimonia gelida e formale. Come se ritenesse necessario che l’immaginazione umana venisse “congelata” in pietra, per impedire che la seguisse. Dopo aver eseguito quelle sue rigide procedure, simili a un qualche tipo di esercizio militare elegante, si ritirava. Allora Little Dorrit metteva il braccio intorno al collo di suo padre per augurargli la buona notte.

“Amy, mia cara,” disse il signor Dorrit, prendendola per mano, “questo è la fine di una giornata che mi ha profondamente colpito e reso molto felice.”

“Un po’ stanca anche tu, cara?”

“No,” disse il signor Dorrit, “no: non provo affatto stanchezza quando questa deriva da un’occasione così, ehm, piena di soddisfazioni del tipo più puro.”

La piccola Dorrit fu felice di trovarlo con un cuore così gentile, e sorrise sinceramente dal profondo del suo cuore.

“Mia cara,” continuò, “questa è un’occasione piena di bei modelli da seguire. Un buon esempio, per il mio adorato e caro bambino–ehm–per te.”

La piccola Dorrit, turbata dalle sue parole, non sapeva cosa dire, anche se lui si fermò come se si aspettasse che lei dicesse qualcosa.

“Amy,” continuò; “tua cara sorella, la nostra Fanny, si è unita in matrimonio, un matrimonio che, ne sono certo, contribuirà ad ampliare le basi della nostra relazione e a rafforzare i nostri legami sociali. Mia amata, spero che non ci sia molto tempo da aspettare prima che tu possa trovare un partner idoneo.”

“Oh no! Lasciami stare con te. Ti prego, ti supplico, lasciami restare con te! Non voglio nient’altro se non restare e prendermi cura di te!”

Lo disse come se fosse improvvisamente allarmata.

“No, Amy, no,” disse il signor Dorrit. “È debole e sciocco. Hai una responsabilità che deriva dalla tua posizione: è quello di svilupparla e essere degna di essa. Per quanto riguarda prendersi cura di me. Posso farlo da solo. O,” aggiunse dopo un momento, “se dovesse esserci bisogno di cure, con la benedizione della Provvidenza, posso riceverle. Non posso, mia cara figlia, pensare di assumermi questa responsabilità a scapito tuo.”

Che ora del giorno per iniziare una tale pratica di auto-sacrificio; che momento per farlo con l’aria di attribuirsi il merito. E persino per crederci, se mai fosse possibile!

“Non parlare, Amy. Dico con certezza che non posso farlo. Non devo farlo. La mia coscienza me lo impedirebbe. Pertanto, mio amore, approfitto di questa occasione così piacevole e significativa per dichiarare solennemente che ora desidero ardentemente vederti sposata, in modo legittimo, ripeto: in modo legittimo.”

“Oh no, caro. Prega!”

“Amy,” disse il signor Dorrit, “sono assolutamente convinto che, se questo argomento venisse discusso con una persona dotata di maggiore cultura sociale, di maggior delicatezza e sensibilità, diciamo, ad esempio, la signora generale, non ci sarebbero dubbi riguardo al carattere affettuoso e alla correttezza dei miei sentimenti. Ma poiché conosco la tua natura amorevole e devota, sono assolutamente certo che non sia necessario dire altro. Al momento, cara mia, non ho un marito da proporti: non ne ho nemmeno uno in vista. Voglio soltanto che noi due ci capiamo a vicenda. Buona notte, cara e unica figlia mia. Che Dio ti benedica!”

Se mai nella mente di Little Dorrit fosse sorto il pensiero che, in quella notte, potesse abbandonarla facilmente ora che era ricco, e se avesse preso in considerazione l’idea di sostituirla con un’altra moglie, lei lo scacciava immediatamente. Ancora fedele a lui, proprio come nei momenti più difficili in cui lo aveva sostenuto da sola, scacciava quel pensiero; e nella sua angoscia e nelle sue lacrime, non considerava nulla di più grave del fatto che ora lui vedesse tutto attraverso la loro ricchezza, e grazie alla cura che sempre aveva avuto per assicurarsi che rimanessero ricchi e diventassero ancora più ricchi.

Rimasero seduti nelle loro carrozze d’onore, con la signora generale sul sedile anteriore, per altre tre settimane; poi lui partì per Firenze per raggiungere Fanny. La piccola Dorrit avrebbe volentieri fatto compagnia a lui per tutto il tragitto, solo per amore di sé stessa, e poi sarebbe tornata indietro da sola, pensando alla cara Inghilterra. Ma, anche se il “Courier” aveva già portato via la sposa, il “Valet” seguiva nella lista delle persone disponibili; e quella posizione non sarebbe mai passata a lei, finché ci fosse stato qualcun altro disposto ad accettare denaro in cambio.

La signora Generale affrontava la vita con facilità, cioè, con la stessa facilità con cui affrontava qualsiasi altra cosa. Mentre l’élite romana si dedicava esclusivamente alle proprie occupazioni, lei spesso viaggiava in una carrozza noleggiata e, scendendo da sola, vagabondava tra le rovine dell’antica Roma. Le rovine del vasto anfiteatro, dei templi antichi, degli archi commemorativi, delle antiche strade, delle tombe, per lei non erano soltanto rovine: rappresentavano anche le rovine della sua vecchia vita, i volti e le forme delle persone che un tempo vi abitavano, le sue stesse esperienze d’amore, di speranza, di preoccupazione e di gioia. Due mondi distrutti, due dimensioni di sofferenza, spesso si presentavano davanti a quella ragazza solitaria, seduta su qualche frammento in rovina; e in quei luoghi desolati, sotto il cielo blu, lei li vedeva entrambi insieme.

Poi arrivava la signora Generale; toglieva tutta la vivacità da ogni cosa, proprio come Natura e l’Arte ne avevano tolta da sé stesse; scriveva “Prugne e Prismi” nel testo del signor Eustace ovunque riuscisse a mettere le mani; cercava dappertutto il signor Eustace e i suoi compagni, ma non vedeva altro che vuoto; raccoglieva le ossa più secche e antiche, e le inseriva nel testo senza alcun contributo umano, come una Goule con i guanti.

CHAPTER 16. Getting on

The newly married pair, on their arrival in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, London, were received by the Chief Butler. That great man was not interested in them, but on the whole endured them. People must continue to be married and given in marriage, or Chief Butlers would not be wanted. As nations are made to be taxed, so families are made to be butlered. The Chief Butler, no doubt, reflected that the course of nature required the wealthy population to be kept up, on his account.

He therefore condescended to look at the carriage from the Hall-door without frowning at it, and said, in a very handsome way, to one of his men, ‘Thomas, help with the luggage.’ He even escorted the Bride up-stairs into Mr Merdle’s presence; but this must be considered as an act of homage to the sex (of which he was an admirer, being notoriously captivated by the charms of a certain Duchess), and not as a committal of himself with the family.

Mr Merdle was slinking about the hearthrug, waiting to welcome Mrs Sparkler. His hand seemed to retreat up his sleeve as he advanced to do so, and he gave her such a superfluity of coat-cuff that it was like being received by the popular conception of Guy Fawkes. When he put his lips to hers, besides, he took himself into custody by the wrists, and backed himself among the ottomans and chairs and tables as if he were his own Police officer, saying to himself, ‘Now, none of that! Come! I’ve got you, you know, and you go quietly along with me!’

Mrs Sparkler, installed in the rooms of state—the innermost sanctuary of down, silk, chintz, and fine linen—felt that so far her triumph was good, and her way made, step by step. On the day before her marriage, she had bestowed on Mrs Merdle’s maid with an air of gracious indifference, in Mrs Merdle’s presence, a trifling little keepsake (bracelet, bonnet, and two dresses, all new) about four times as valuable as the present formerly made by Mrs Merdle to her. She was now established in Mrs Merdle’s own rooms, to which some extra touches had been given to render them more worthy of her occupation. In her mind’s eye, as she lounged there, surrounded by every luxurious accessory that wealth could obtain or invention devise, she saw the fair bosom that beat in unison with the exultation of her thoughts, competing with the bosom that had been famous so long, outshining it, and deposing it. Happy? Fanny must have been happy. No more wishing one’s self dead now.

The Courier had not approved of Mr Dorrit’s staying in the house of a friend, and had preferred to take him to an hotel in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. Mr Merdle ordered his carriage to be ready early in the morning that he might wait upon Mr Dorrit immediately after breakfast.

Bright the carriage looked, sleek the horses looked, gleaming the harness looked, luscious and lasting the liveries looked. A rich, responsible turn-out. An equipage for a Merdle. Early people looked after it as it rattled along the streets, and said, with awe in their breath, ‘There he goes!’

There he went, until Brook Street stopped him. Then, forth from its magnificent case came the jewel; not lustrous in itself, but quite the contrary.

Commotion in the office of the hotel. Merdle! The landlord, though a gentleman of a haughty spirit who had just driven a pair of thorough-bred horses into town, turned out to show him up-stairs. The clerks and servants cut him off by back-passages, and were found accidentally hovering in doorways and angles, that they might look upon him. Merdle! O ye sun, moon, and stars, the great man! The rich man, who had in a manner revised the New Testament, and already entered into the kingdom of Heaven. The man who could have any one he chose to dine with him, and who had made the money! As he went up the stairs, people were already posted on the lower stairs, that his shadow might fall upon them when he came down. So were the sick brought out and laid in the track of the Apostle—who had not got into the good society, and had not made the money.

Mr Dorrit, dressing-gowned and newspapered, was at his breakfast. The Courier, with agitation in his voice, announced ‘Miss Mairdale!’ Mr Dorrit’s overwrought heart bounded as he leaped up.

‘Mr Merdle, this is—ha—indeed an honour. Permit me to express the—hum—sense, the high sense, I entertain of this—ha hum—highly gratifying act of attention. I am well aware, sir, of the many demands upon your time, and its—ha—enormous value,’ Mr Dorrit could not say enormous roundly enough for his own satisfaction. ‘That you should—ha—at this early hour, bestow any of your priceless time upon me, is—ha—a compliment that I acknowledge with the greatest esteem.’ Mr Dorrit positively trembled in addressing the great man.

Mr Merdle uttered, in his subdued, inward, hesitating voice, a few sounds that were to no purpose whatever; and finally said, ‘I am glad to see you, sir.’

‘You are very kind,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Truly kind.’ By this time the visitor was seated, and was passing his great hand over his exhausted forehead. ‘You are well, I hope, Mr Merdle?’

‘I am as well as I—yes, I am as well as I usually am,’ said Mr Merdle.

‘Your occupations must be immense.’

‘Tolerably so. But—Oh dear no, there’s not much the matter with me,’ said Mr Merdle, looking round the room.

‘A little dyspeptic?’ Mr Dorrit hinted.

‘Very likely. But I—Oh, I am well enough,’ said Mr Merdle.

There were black traces on his lips where they met, as if a little train of gunpowder had been fired there; and he looked like a man who, if his natural temperament had been quicker, would have been very feverish that morning. This, and his heavy way of passing his hand over his forehead, had prompted Mr Dorrit’s solicitous inquiries.

CAPITOLO 16. Salire a bordo

La coppia appena sposata, al loro arrivo in Harley Street, Cavendish Square, a Londra, fu accolta dal Capo Cameriere. Quell’uomo importante non era interessato a loro, ma li tollerava comunque. Le persone devono continuare a sposarsi e a formare famiglie, altrimenti i Capi Camerieri non avrebbero più bisogno di esistere. Proprio come le nazioni vengono fatte pagare tasse, anche le famiglie hanno bisogno dei servizi offerti dai Capi Cameriere. Il Capo Cameriere, senza alcun dubbio, rifletteva che il corso della natura richiedeva che la popolazione ricca venisse mantenuta a spese sue.

Pertanto, si degnò di guardare la carrozza dalla porta d’ingresso senza mostrare alcun disappunto, e disse in modo molto cortese a uno dei suoi uomini: “Thomas, aiuta con i bagagli.” Arrivò persino ad accompagnare la sposa al piano di sopra, davanti a Mr Merdle; ma questo deve essere considerato un atto di rispetto verso il sesso femminile (di cui era un ammiratore, essendo notoriamente affascinato dai fascini di una certa duchessa), e non come un impegno con quella famiglia.

Mr Merdle si muoveva furtivamente intorno al caminetto, in attesa di accogliere la signora Sparkler. Mentre le si avvicinava, sembrava che la sua mano si ritirasse dentro la manica; le fece anche un numero eccessivo di inchini, come se fosse stato ricevuto dall’immagine popolare di Guy Fawkes. Quando le posò le labbra sulle sue, si tenne anche per i polsi, poi si appoggiò alle poltrone, ai tavoli, come se fosse un proprio agente di polizia, dicendosi: “Ora basta! Vieni con me, in silenzio, ”

La signora Sparkler, sistemata nelle stanze di stato – l’ambiente più raffinato, fatto di velluto, seta, stoffe a fiori e lino pregiato – riteneva che il suo trionfo fosse già considerevole e che il cammino verso i suoi obiettivi procedesse passo dopo passo. Il giorno prima del suo matrimonio, aveva regalato alla cameriera della signora Merdle, in presenza di quest’ultima, un piccolo ricordo (braccialetto, cappello e due vestiti nuovi), il cui valore era circa quattro volte superiore a quello dei doni che la signora Merdle le aveva fatti in precedenza. Ora si trovava nelle stanze stesse della signora Merdle, alle quali erano stati apportati alcuni aggiustamenti per renderle più adatte alla sua posizione sociale. Con gli occhi della mente, mentre si rilassava lì, circondata da tutti i lussi che la ricchezza e l’invenzione potevano offrire, immaginava il proprio petto che batteva all’unisono con l’euforia dei suoi pensieri, un petto che avrebbe competito con quello che per tanto tempo era stato famoso, superandolo e sostituendolo. Felice? Sicuramente Fanny doveva essere felice. Ormai non desiderava più morire.

Il corriere non aveva approvato che il signor Dorrit soggiornasse nella casa di un amico, e preferiva portarlo in un hotel in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. Il signor Merdle ordinò che la sua carrozza fosse pronta presto al mattino, in modo da poter accompagnare immediatamente il signor Dorrit dopo colazione.

La carrozza era splendida; i cavalli, eleganti; il traino, lucente; le livree, raffinate e resistenti. Un equipaggiamento davvero lussuoso e curato con attenzione. Le persone del passato, osservandola mentre sfrecciava per le strade, esclamavano con ammirazione: “Eccolo là!”

Eccolo che andava, finché Brook Street non lo fermò. Allora, dalla sua magnifica custodia, uscì il jewello; non lucido di per sé, anzi proprio il contrario.

Trambusto nell’ufficio dell’hotel. Merdle! Il proprietario, sebbene fosse un gentiluomo dal carattere orgoglioso e avesse appena portato in città due cavalli di razza pura, si presentò al piano di sopra. I impiegati e i servitori lo bloccarono attraverso corridoi secondari, e si trovavano spesso ad aggirarsi intenzionalmente vicino alle porte o negli angoli, solo per poterlo osservare. Merdle! Oh sole, luna e stelle. Quell’uomo grande, quel ricco che aveva praticamente riscritto il Nuovo Testamento ed era già entrato nel regno dei cieli. L’uomo che poteva invitare a pranzo chiunque desiderasse, e che aveva accumulato una fortuna immensa! Mentre saliva le scale, la gente si era già radunata al piano di sotto, per poter vedere la sua ombra quando sarebbe sceso. Anche i malati venivano fatti uscire e messi lungo il percorso che avrebbe seguito l’Apostolo. Che però non era mai entrato nelle alte sfere della società, e non aveva mai accumulato denaro.

Il signor Dorrit, vestito in abiti da casa e con il giornale in mano, stava facendo colazione. Il “Courier”, con voce agitata, annunciò: “La signorina Mairdale!” Il cuore sopraffatto del signor Dorrit ebbe un sobbalzo quando si alzò di scatto.

‘Signor Merdle, questa è davvero un’onore. Permettetemi di esprimere il profondo apprezzamento che provo per questo gesto così lusinghiero e significativo. So bene, signore, delle molte responsabilità che richiedono il vostro tempo e del suo enorme valore,’ disse il signor Dorrit, sforzandosi di enfatizzare abbastanza l’importanza della cosa per soddisfare se stesso. ‘Il fatto che voi, a quest’ora così mattutina, vogliate dedicarmi parte del vostro inestimabile tempo, è un complimento che accolgo con la massima stima.’ Il signor Dorrit tremava letteralmente mentre si rivolgeva a quell’uomo importante.

Signor Merdle pronunciò, con la sua voce sommessa, interiore e esitante, alcune parole prive di qualsiasi significato reale; alla fine disse: “Sono felice di vedervi, signore.”

“Siete molto gentile,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Davvero molto gentile.” A quel momento, il visitatore era già seduto e si passava la sua grande mano sulla fronte stanca. “State bene, spero. Signor Merdle?”

“Sono altrettanto in buona salute come di solito,” disse il signor Merdle.

“Le tue occupazioni devono essere davvero numerose.”

“Piuttosto bene. Ma – oh no, non c’è nulla di grave che mi riguardi,” disse Il signor Merdle guardandosi intorno nella stanza.

“Un po’ di disturbi digestivi?” suggerì il signor Dorrit.

“Molto probabilmente. Ma io. Oh, sto abbastanza bene,” disse il signor Merdle.

C’erano tracce nere sulle sue labbra nel punto in cui si incontravano, come se lì fosse stata sparata una piccola quantità di polvere da sparo; sembrava un uomo che, se il suo temperamento naturale fosse stato più veloce, quella mattina sarebbe stato molto febbrile. Questo, insieme al modo in cui si passava ripetutamente la mano sulla fronte, aveva indotto il signor Dorrit a fare delle domande premurose.

‘Mrs Merdle,’ Mr Dorrit insinuatingly pursued, ‘I left, as you will be prepared to hear, the—ha—observed of all observers, the—hum—admired of all admirers, the leading fascination and charm of Society in Rome. She was looking wonderfully well when I quitted it.’

‘Mrs Merdle,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘is generally considered a very attractive woman. And she is, no doubt. I am sensible of her being so.’

‘Who can be otherwise?’ responded Mr Dorrit.

Mr Merdle turned his tongue in his closed mouth—it seemed rather a stiff and unmanageable tongue—moistened his lips, passed his hand over his forehead again, and looked all round the room again, principally under the chairs.

‘But,’ he said, looking Mr Dorrit in the face for the first time, and immediately afterwards dropping his eyes to the buttons of Mr Dorrit’s waistcoat; ‘if we speak of attractions, your daughter ought to be the subject of our conversation. She is extremely beautiful. Both in face and figure, she is quite uncommon. When the young people arrived last night, I was really surprised to see such charms.’

Mr Dorrit’s gratification was such that he said—ha—he could not refrain from telling Mr Merdle verbally, as he had already done by letter, what honour and happiness he felt in this union of their families. And he offered his hand. Mr Merdle looked at the hand for a little while, took it on his for a moment as if his were a yellow salver or fish-slice, and then returned it to Mr Dorrit.

‘I thought I would drive round the first thing,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘to offer my services, in case I can do anything for you; and to say that I hope you will at least do me the honour of dining with me to-day, and every day when you are not better engaged during your stay in town.’

Mr Dorrit was enraptured by these attentions.

‘Do you stay long, sir?’

‘I have not at present the intention,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘of—ha—exceeding a fortnight.’

‘That’s a very short stay, after so long a journey,’ returned Mr Merdle.

‘Hum. Yes,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘But the truth is—ha—my dear Mr Merdle, that I find a foreign life so well suited to my health and taste, that I—hum—have but two objects in my present visit to London. First, the—ha—the distinguished happiness and—ha—privilege which I now enjoy and appreciate; secondly, the arrangement—hum—the laying out, that is to say, in the best way, of—ha, hum—my money.’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, after turning his tongue again, ‘if I can be of any use to you in that respect, you may command me.’

Mr Dorrit’s speech had had more hesitation in it than usual, as he approached the ticklish topic, for he was not perfectly clear how so exalted a potentate might take it. He had doubts whether reference to any individual capital, or fortune, might not seem a wretchedly retail affair to so wholesale a dealer. Greatly relieved by Mr Merdle’s affable offer of assistance, he caught at it directly, and heaped acknowledgments upon him.

‘I scarcely—ha—dared,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘I assure you, to hope for so—hum—vast an advantage as your direct advice and assistance. Though of course I should, under any circumstances, like the—ha, hum—rest of the civilised world, have followed in Mr Merdle’s train.’

‘You know we may almost say we are related, sir,’ said Mr Merdle, curiously interested in the pattern of the carpet, ‘and, therefore, you may consider me at your service.’

‘Ha. Very handsome, indeed!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha. Most handsome!’

‘It would not,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘be at the present moment easy for what I may call a mere outsider to come into any of the good things—of course I speak of my own good things—’

‘Of course, of course!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in a tone implying that there were no other good things.

‘—Unless at a high price. At what we are accustomed to term a very long figure.’

Mr Dorrit laughed in the buoyancy of his spirit. Ha, ha, ha! Long figure. Good. Ha. Very expressive to be sure!

‘However,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I do generally retain in my own hands the power of exercising some preference—people in general would be pleased to call it favour—as a sort of compliment for my care and trouble.’

‘And public spirit and genius,’ Mr Dorrit suggested.

Mr Merdle, with a dry, swallowing action, seemed to dispose of those qualities like a bolus; then added, ‘As a sort of return for it. I will see, if you please, how I can exert this limited power (for people are jealous, and it is limited), to your advantage.’

‘You are very good,’ replied Mr Dorrit. ‘You are very good.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘there must be the strictest integrity and uprightness in these transactions; there must be the purest faith between man and man; there must be unimpeached and unimpeachable confidence; or business could not be carried on.’

Mr Dorrit hailed these generous sentiments with fervour.

‘Therefore,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I can only give you a preference to a certain extent.’

‘I perceive. To a defined extent,’ observed Mr Dorrit.

‘Defined extent. And perfectly above-board. As to my advice, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘that is another matter. That, such as it is—’

Oh! Such as it was! (Mr Dorrit could not bear the faintest appearance of its being depreciated, even by Mr Merdle himself.)

‘—That, there is nothing in the bonds of spotless honour between myself and my fellow-man to prevent my parting with, if I choose. And that,’ said Mr Merdle, now deeply intent upon a dust-cart that was passing the windows, ‘shall be at your command whenever you think proper.’

New acknowledgments from Mr Dorrit. New passages of Mr Merdle’s hand over his forehead. Calm and silence. Contemplation of Mr Dorrit’s waistcoat buttons by Mr Merdle.

‘My time being rather precious,’ said Mr Merdle, suddenly getting up, as if he had been waiting in the interval for his legs and they had just come, ‘I must be moving towards the City. Can I take you anywhere, sir? I shall be happy to set you down, or send you on. My carriage is at your disposal.’

“Signora Merdle,” proseguì Mr Dorrit con tono insinuante, “lasciai Roma, come sicuramente avrete sentito dire, considerata, ahem, l’oggetto dell’ammirazione di tutti gli osservatori e l’attrazione principale della società romana. Quando me ne andai, sembrava davvero in ottima forma.”

“La signora Merdle,” disse il signor Merdle, “è generalmente considerata una donna molto attraente. E lo è davvero, senza alcun dubbio.” Io stesso riconosco che lo sia.

“Chi altro potrebbe essere?”, rispose il signor Dorrit.

Signor Merdle girava la lingua nella bocca chiusa; sembrava una lingua rigida e difficile da controllare. Si umidificò le labbra, si passò di nuovo la mano sulla fronte e guardò intorno alla stanza, soprattutto sotto le sedie.

“Ma,” disse, guardando Mr Dorrit negli occhi per la prima volta e subito dopo abbassando lo sguardo sui bottoni del gilet di Mr Dorrit; “se parliamo di attrattive, vostra figlia dovrebbe essere l’argomento della nostra conversazione. È estremamente bella. Sia nel viso che nella figura, è davvero unica. Quando i giovani sono arrivati la scorsa notte, sono rimasto davvero sorpreso di vedere tali meraviglie.”

La soddisfazione di Mr Dorrit era tale che non poté trattenersi dal dire a Mr Merdle, a parole, esattamente ciò che aveva già scritto in una lettera: quanto onore e felicità provasse per questa unione delle loro famiglie. E gli tese la mano. Mr Merdle fissò quella mano per un po’, la prese per un attimo come se fosse un vassoio giallo o una fetta di pesce, e poi la restituì a Mr Dorrit.

“Pensavo di passare da voi per prima cosa,” disse Signor Merdle, “per offrire il mio aiuto, nel caso potessi esservi d’aiuto; e per chiedervi, se non vi dispiace, l’onore di pranzare con me oggi, e ogni giorno in cui non sarete troppo impegnati durante la vostra permanenza in città.”

Il signor Dorrit era incantato da queste attenzioni.

“Rimarrà a lungo, signore?”

“Al momento non ho l’intenzione di superare i quindici giorni”, disse il signor Dorrit.

“È un soggiorno molto breve, dopo un viaggio così lungo,” rispose Signor Merdle.

“Hmm. Sì,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Ma la verità è, ehm, caro signor Merdle, che ritengo che una vita diversa da quella che conduco attualmente sia molto più adatta alla mia salute e ai miei gusti; per questo motivo, nel mio attuale viaggio a )Londra, ho soltanto due obiettivi. Primo: la felicità e il privilegio che ora godo e apprezzo; secondo, l’organizzazione, cioè l’impiego ottimale dei miei soldi.”

“Beh, signore,” disse Il signor Merdle dopo essersi rigirato la lingua in bocca, “se posso essere di qualche utilità a voi in questo senso, comandatemi pure.”

Il discorso di Mr Dorrit era pieno di esitazioni più del solito, poiché stava affrontando un argomento delicato; non era del tutto sicuro di come un personaggio così influente potesse reagire. Aveva dei dubbi sul fatto che menzionare il capitale o la fortuna di un individuo potesse sembrare una questione di scarso rilievo per uno che operava su scala così vasta. Grato per l’offerta gentile e disponibile di Mr Merdle, affrontò direttamente l’argomento, esprimendogli la sua profonda gratitudine.

“Raramente – osavo sperare”, disse il signor Dorrit, “vi assicuro che non avrei mai osato sperare in un vantaggio così enorme come il vostro consiglio e il vostro aiuto diretti. Anche se, naturalmente, in qualsiasi circostanza, come tutti gli altri esseri civili del mondo, avrei preferito seguire le orme del signor Merdle.”

“Sa, potremmo quasi dire di essere parenti, signore,” disse Il signor Merdle, interessato in modo curioso al disegno del tappeto, “e quindi può considerarmi a sua disposizione.”

“Che bello davvero!”, esclamò il signor Dorrit. “Davvero molto bello!”

“Non sarebbe affatto facile,” disse Signor Merdle, “in questo momento, per qualcuno che potrei definire semplicemente un ‘esterno’, entrare in possesso di alcune delle cose buone. Ovviamente mi riferisco alle mie stesse cose buone, ”

“Certo, certo!” esclamò il signor Dorrit, con un tono che lasciava intendere che non esistessero altre cose buone al mondo.

“–A meno che non si paghi un prezzo molto alto. Un prezzo che, per noi, è considerato estremamente elevato.”

Il signor Dorrit rise, animato da un’allegria spontanea. “Ha, ha, ha! Che figura lunga. Ottimo. Davvero molto espressivo!”

“Tuttavia,” disse Signor Merdle, “di solito tengo io stesso il potere di concedere qualche preferenza. Le persone, in generale, sarebbero felici di definirla un favore. Come una sorta di ringraziamento per la mia attenzione e i miei sforzi.”

“E lo spirito pubblico e il genio,” suggerì il signor Dorrit.

Signor Merdle, con un gesto secco e accompagnato da un deglutito, sembrava eliminare quelle qualità come se fossero semplici “pilloline” inghiottite; poi aggiunse: “Come una sorta di ricompensa per questo. Vedrò, se le va bene, in che modo possa esercitare questo potere limitato (poiché la gente è gelosa, e comunque il potere è limitato) a vostro vantaggio.”

“Sei davvero molto bravo,” rispose il signor Dorrit. “Sei davvero molto bravo.”

“Certo,” disse Signor Merdle, “in queste transazioni deve esserci la massima integrità e rettitudine; deve esserci la più pura fede tra uomo e uomo; deve esserci una fiducia incondizionata, altrimenti gli affari non potrebbero andare avanti.”

Il signor Dorrit accolse con entusiasmo questi sentimenti generosi.

“Pertanto,” disse Signor Merdle, “posso offrirvi una preferenza soltanto entro certi limiti.”

“Percepo, fino a un certo punto”, osservò il signor Dorrit.

“Entità definita. E tutto perfettamente trasparente. Per quanto riguarda il mio consiglio, invece,” disse Signor Merdle, “quello è un altro discorso. Quello, così com’è, ”

Oh! Proprio così doveva essere! (Il signor Dorrit non poteva sopportare nemmeno la minima idea che venisse meno di valore, nemmeno se fosse stato il signor Merdle stesso a dirlo.)

“–Cioè, non esistono alcun vincolo legato all’innocente e immacolata ‘onore che mi impedisca di separarmi dal mio prossimo, se così decido. E questo,” disse Mr Merdle, ora completamente assorto in un carretto pieno di polvere che passava davanti alle finestre, “sarà a tua disposizione non appena lo riterrai opportuno.”

Nuove ringraziamenti da parte del signor Dorrit. Nuovi passaggi scritti a mano dal signor Merdle, posizionati sulla sua fronte. Calma e silenzio. Il signor Merdle contempla i bottoni della giacca del signor Dorrit.

“Poiché il mio tempo è piuttosto prezioso,” disse Signor Merdle, alzandosi all’improvviso, come se avesse aspettato tutto quel tempo che le sue gambe gli tornassero utili, “devo recarmi verso la Città. Posso accompagnarla da qualche parte, signore? Sarò felice di lasciarla dove desidera o di aiutarla ad andare avanti. La mia carrozza è a sua disposizione.”

Mr Dorrit bethought himself that he had business at his banker’s. His banker’s was in the City. That was fortunate; Mr Merdle would take him into the City. But, surely, he might not detain Mr Merdle while he assumed his coat? Yes, he might and must; Mr Merdle insisted on it. So Mr Dorrit, retiring into the next room, put himself under the hands of his valet, and in five minutes came back glorious.

Then said Mr Merdle, ‘Allow me, sir. Take my arm!’ Then leaning on Mr Merdle’s arm, did Mr Dorrit descend the staircase, seeing the worshippers on the steps, and feeling that the light of Mr Merdle shone by reflection in himself. Then the carriage, and the ride into the City; and the people who looked at them; and the hats that flew off grey heads; and the general bowing and crouching before this wonderful mortal the like of which prostration of spirit was not to be seen—no, by high Heaven, no! It may be worth thinking of by Fawners of all denominations—in Westminster Abbey and Saint Paul’s Cathedral put together, on any Sunday in the year. It was a rapturous dream to Mr Dorrit to find himself set aloft in this public car of triumph, making a magnificent progress to that befitting destination, the golden Street of the Lombards.

There Mr Merdle insisted on alighting and going his way a-foot, and leaving his poor equipage at Mr Dorrit’s disposition. So the dream increased in rapture when Mr Dorrit came out of the bank alone, and people looked at him in default of Mr Merdle, and when, with the ears of his mind, he heard the frequent exclamation as he rolled glibly along, ‘A wonderful man to be Mr Merdle’s friend!’

At dinner that day, although the occasion was not foreseen and provided for, a brilliant company of such as are not made of the dust of the earth, but of some superior article for the present unknown, shed their lustrous benediction upon Mr Dorrit’s daughter’s marriage. And Mr Dorrit’s daughter that day began, in earnest, her competition with that woman not present; and began it so well that Mr Dorrit could all but have taken his affidavit, if required, that Mrs Sparkler had all her life been lying at full length in the lap of luxury, and had never heard of such a rough word in the English tongue as Marshalsea.

Next day, and the day after, and every day, all graced by more dinner company, cards descended on Mr Dorrit like theatrical snow. As the friend and relative by marriage of the illustrious Merdle, Bar, Bishop, Treasury, Chorus, Everybody, wanted to make or improve Mr Dorrit’s acquaintance. In Mr Merdle’s heap of offices in the City, when Mr Dorrit appeared at any of them on his business taking him Eastward (which it frequently did, for it throve amazingly), the name of Dorrit was always a passport to the great presence of Merdle. So the dream increased in rapture every hour, as Mr Dorrit felt increasingly sensible that this connection had brought him forward indeed.

Only one thing sat otherwise than auriferously, and at the same time lightly, on Mr Dorrit’s mind. It was the Chief Butler. That stupendous character looked at him, in the course of his official looking at the dinners, in a manner that Mr Dorrit considered questionable. He looked at him, as he passed through the hall and up the staircase, going to dinner, with a glazed fixedness that Mr Dorrit did not like. Seated at table in the act of drinking, Mr Dorrit still saw him through his wine-glass, regarding him with a cold and ghostly eye. It misgave him that the Chief Butler must have known a Collegian, and must have seen him in the College—perhaps had been presented to him. He looked as closely at the Chief Butler as such a man could be looked at, and yet he did not recall that he had ever seen him elsewhere. Ultimately he was inclined to think that there was no reverence in the man, no sentiment in the great creature. But he was not relieved by that; for, let him think what he would, the Chief Butler had him in his supercilious eye, even when that eye was on the plate and other table-garniture; and he never let him out of it. To hint to him that this confinement in his eye was disagreeable, or to ask him what he meant, was an act too daring to venture upon; his severity with his employers and their visitors being terrific, and he never permitting himself to be approached with the slightest liberty.

Il signor Dorrit pensò che avesse degli affari da sbrigare presso il suo banchiere. La banca del suo banchiere si trovava nella >Città. Questo era un vantaggio; il signor Merdle lo avrebbe accompagnato nella >Città. Ma, sicuramente, non poteva trattenere il signor Merdle mentre si infilava il cappotto, vero? Sì, poteva e doveva farlo; il signor Merdle insisteva su questo. Così il signor Dorrit andò nella stanza accanto, si affidò alle cure del suo valletto e in cinque minuti tornò fuori, splendido nell’aspetto.

Allora disse Mr Merdle, “Permettetemi, signore. Prendete il mio braccio!” E così, appoggiandosi al braccio di Mr Merdle, Mr Dorrit scese le scale, vedendo i fedeli radunati sui gradini e sentendo che la luce di Mr Merdle si rifletteva su di lui. Poi arrivò la carrozza; il viaggio verso la Città; la gente che li guardava; i cappelli che cadevano dalle teste grigie; tutti quei inchini e riverenze resi a questo meraviglioso mortale, davanti al quale nessuno avrebbe mai osato prostrarsi così. No, per l’alto Cielo, mai! Forse vale la pena rifletterci su, anche per coloro che appartengono a qualsiasi denominazione religiosa. Un spettacolo paragonabile a quello offerto dalla Westminster Abbey e dalla Cattedrale di San Paolo riunite insieme, in qualsiasi domenica dell’anno. Per Mr Dorrit fu come un sogno incantevole trovarsi elevato su quella carrozza trionfale, avanzando con maestosità verso la sua destinazione finale: la gloriosa Via dei Lombardi.

Signor Merdle insistette per scendere e proseguire a piedi, lasciando il suo povero bagaglio a disposizione del signor Dorrit. Quel sogno divenne ancora più meraviglioso quando il signor Dorrit uscì dalla banca da solo, e la gente lo guardò al posto di Signor Merdle; inoltre, con l’immaginazione, sentiva ripetutamente le persone esclamare: “Che uomo straordinario, essere amico di Signor Merdle!”

A cena quel giorno, sebbene l’occasione non fosse stata prevista né preparata in anticipo, un gruppo di persone straordinarie – composte da individui che non erano fatti “della polvere della terra”, ma di una sostanza superiore, per il momento sconosciuta – riversò la propria benedizione sul matrimonio della figlia del signor Dorrit. E quella stessa sera, la figlia del signor Dorrit iniziò seriamente la sua “competizione” con quella donna assente; e lo fece così bene che il signor Dorrit avrebbe potuto quasi giurare, se necessario, che la signora Sparkler aveva trascorso tutta la sua vita tra i lussi più raffinati e non aveva mai sentito pronunciare una parola tanto volgare nella lingua inglese come “Marshalsea”.

Il giorno dopo, e quello successivo, e ogni giorno, grazie alla compagnia sempre più numerosa a cena, le cartoline continuavano ad arrivare per il signor Dorrit, come una nevicata teatrale. Essendo amico e parente per matrimonio dell’illustre Merdle – avvocato, vescovo, funzionario del Tesoro, insomma, di molte posizioni importanti nella società – tutti desideravano entrare in contatto con il signor Dorrit o migliorarne le relazioni. Nei numerosi uffici che il signor Merdle aveva nella città, ogni volta che il signor Dorrit vi si recava per affari (il che accadeva spesso, poiché la sua attività prosperava in modo incredibile), il nome Dorrit rappresentava sempre un passaporto per accedere alla presenza stessa del signor Merdle. Così, il sogno del signor Dorrit continuava a crescere di intensità; egli si rendeva sempre più conto che questa connessione lo aveva davvero portato avanti nella vita.

C’era solo una cosa che, a differenza di tutto il resto, non risuonava nella mente del signor Dorrit con un tono positivo o amichevole, ed era proprio il maggiordomo capo. Quel personaggio straordinario lo fissava, ogni volta che si occupava dei pasti ufficiali, in modo che al signor Dorrit sembrava piuttosto sospetto. Lo guardava mentre attraversava l’atrio e saliva le scale per andare a cena, con uno sguardo fisso e gelido che al signor Dorrit non piaceva affatto. Seduto a tavola, mentre beveva il vino, continuava a vederlo attraverso il bicchiere, osservato da quegli occhi freddi e inquietanti. Gli sembrava strano che il maggiordomo capo conoscesse un collega del college, forse lo aveva persino incontrato lì, o gli era stato presentato. Lo osservava attentamente, ma non riusciva a ricordare di averlo mai visto in altri luoghi. Alla fine, concluse che quell’uomo non provasse alcun rispetto, né alcun sentimento genuino. Ma questo non lo rassicurava affatto; anzi, il maggiordomo capo continuava a fissarlo con quel suo sguardo sprezzante, anche quando era concentrato sul cibo o sugli altri oggetti presenti sulla tavola. E mai gli permetteva di “uscire” da quello sguardo. Pensare di potergli fare notare quanto fosse fastidioso essere osservato in quel modo, o chiedergli cosa intendesse con quel comportamento, sarebbe stato un atto troppo audace per osarlo; il maggiordomo capo era infatti terribilmente severo sia con i suoi datori di lavoro che con gli ospiti, e non permetteva mai a nessuno di avvicinarsi a lui con la minima libertà.

CHAPTER 17. Missing

The term of Mr Dorrit’s visit was within two days of being out, and he was about to dress for another inspection by the Chief Butler (whose victims were always dressed expressly for him), when one of the servants of the hotel presented himself bearing a card. Mr Dorrit, taking it, read:

‘Mrs Finching.’

The servant waited in speechless deference.

‘Man, man,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning upon him with grievous indignation, ‘explain your motive in bringing me this ridiculous name. I am wholly unacquainted with it. Finching, sir?’ said Mr Dorrit, perhaps avenging himself on the Chief Butler by Substitute. ‘Ha! What do you mean by Finching?’

The man, man, seemed to mean Flinching as much as anything else, for he backed away from Mr Dorrit’s severe regard, as he replied, ‘A lady, sir.’

‘I know no such lady, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Take this card away. I know no Finching of either sex.’

‘Ask your pardon, sir. The lady said she was aware she might be unknown by name. But she begged me to say, sir, that she had formerly the honour of being acquainted with Miss Dorrit. The lady said, sir, the youngest Miss Dorrit.’

Mr Dorrit knitted his brows and rejoined, after a moment or two, ‘Inform Mrs Finching, sir,’ emphasising the name as if the innocent man were solely responsible for it, ‘that she can come up.’

He had reflected, in his momentary pause, that unless she were admitted she might leave some message, or might say something below, having a disgraceful reference to that former state of existence. Hence the concession, and hence the appearance of Flora, piloted in by the man, man.

‘I have not the pleasure,’ said Mr Dorrit, standing with the card in his hand, and with an air which imported that it would scarcely have been a first-class pleasure if he had had it, ‘of knowing either this name, or yourself, madam. Place a chair, sir.’

The responsible man, with a start, obeyed, and went out on tiptoe. Flora, putting aside her veil with a bashful tremor upon her, proceeded to introduce herself. At the same time a singular combination of perfumes was diffused through the room, as if some brandy had been put by mistake in a lavender-water bottle, or as if some lavender-water had been put by mistake in a brandy-bottle.

‘I beg Mr Dorrit to offer a thousand apologies and indeed they would be far too few for such an intrusion which I know must appear extremely bold in a lady and alone too, but I thought it best upon the whole however difficult and even apparently improper though Mr F.’s Aunt would have willingly accompanied me and as a character of great force and spirit would probably have struck one possessed of such a knowledge of life as no doubt with so many changes must have been acquired, for Mr F. himself said frequently that although well educated in the neighbourhood of Blackheath at as high as eighty guineas which is a good deal for parents and the plate kept back too on going away but that is more a meanness than its value that he had learnt more in his first years as a commercial traveller with a large commission on the sale of an article that nobody would hear of much less buy which preceded the wine trade a long time than in the whole six years in that academy conducted by a college Bachelor, though why a Bachelor more clever than a married man I do not see and never did but pray excuse me that is not the point.’

Mr Dorrit stood rooted to the carpet, a statue of mystification.

‘I must openly admit that I have no pretensions,’ said Flora, ‘but having known the dear little thing which under altered circumstances appears a liberty but is not so intended and Goodness knows there was no favour in half-a-crown a-day to such a needle as herself but quite the other way and as to anything lowering in it far from it the labourer is worthy of his hire and I am sure I only wish he got it oftener and more animal food and less rheumatism in the back and legs poor soul.’

‘Madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, recovering his breath by a great effort, as the relict of the late Mr Finching stopped to take hers; ‘madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, very red in the face, ‘if I understand you to refer to—ha—to anything in the antecedents of—hum—a daughter of mine, involving—ha hum—daily compensation, madam, I beg to observe that the—ha—fact, assuming it—ha—to be fact, never was within my knowledge. Hum. I should not have permitted it. Ha. Never! Never!’

‘Unnecessary to pursue the subject,’ returned Flora, ‘and would not have mentioned it on any account except as supposing it a favourable and only letter of introduction but as to being fact no doubt whatever and you may set your mind at rest for the very dress I have on now can prove it and sweetly made though there is no denying that it would tell better on a better figure for my own is much too fat though how to bring it down I know not, pray excuse me I am roving off again.’

Mr Dorrit backed to his chair in a stony way, and seated himself, as Flora gave him a softening look and played with her parasol.

‘The dear little thing,’ said Flora, ‘having gone off perfectly limp and white and cold in my own house or at least papa’s for though not a freehold still a long lease at a peppercorn on the morning when Arthur—foolish habit of our youthful days and Mr Clennam far more adapted to existing circumstances particularly addressing a stranger and that stranger a gentleman in an elevated station—communicated the glad tidings imparted by a person of name of Pancks emboldens me.’

At the mention of these two names, Mr Dorrit frowned, stared, frowned again, hesitated with his fingers at his lips, as he had hesitated long ago, and said, ‘Do me the favour to—ha—state your pleasure, madam.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Flora, ‘you are very kind in giving me permission and highly natural it seems to me that you should be kind for though more stately I perceive a likeness filled out of course but a likeness still, the object of my intruding is my own without the slightest consultation with any human being and most decidedly not with Arthur—pray excuse me Doyce and Clennam I don’t know what I am saying Mr Clennam solus—for to put that individual linked by a golden chain to a purple time when all was ethereal out of any anxiety would be worth to me the ransom of a monarch not that I have the least idea how much that would come to but using it as the total of all I have in the world and more.’

CAPITOLO 17. Scomparso

Il soggiorno del signor Dorrit sarebbe terminato in due giorni; stava per vestirsi per un’altra ispezione da parte del maggiordomo capo (le cui vittime venivano sempre vestite appositamente per lui), quando uno dei servitori dell’hotel gli portò una cartolina. Il signor Dorrit la prese e lesse:

“La signora Finching.”

Il servitore attendeva in silenzio, con profondo rispetto.

“Mio Dio, mio Dio,” disse il signor Dorrit, voltandosi verso di lui con profonda indignazione, “spiegatemi il motivo per cui mi avete dato questo nome ridicolo. Non ne ho la minima idea. Finching, signore?” disse il signor Dorrit, forse vendicandosi sul maggiordomo sostituendone il nome. “Ah! Cosa intendete dire con Finching?”

Quell’uomo, a quanto pare, intendeva soprattutto “Flinching” con le sue parole; infatti indietreggiò di fronte allo sguardo severo del signor Dorrit e rispose: “Una signora, signore.”

“Non conosco nessuna signora del genere, signore,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Portate via questa carta. Non conosco alcun membro della famiglia Finching, di sesso maschile o femminile.”

“Perdonatemi, signore. La signora ha detto di essere consapevole che il suo nome potrebbe non essere noto a nessuno. Ma mi ha supplicato di riferirvi che in passato ha avuto l’onore di conoscere la signorina Dorrit. La signora in questione è la più giovane delle sorelle Dorrit, signore.”

Il signor Dorrit aggrottò la fronte e dopo un momento riprese: “Informi la signora Finching, per favore”, sottolineando il nome come se quell’uomo innocente ne fosse l’unico responsabile.

Nel suo breve istante di riflessione, aveva pensato che, a meno che lei non venisse ammessa, avrebbe potuto lasciare un messaggio o dire qualcosa al di sotto, contenente allusioni vergognose riguardo a quel precedente stato di esistenza. Ed è per questo che fu fatta quella concessione, ed è per questo che Flora apparve, guidata da quell’uomo.

“Non ho il piacere di conoscere né questo nome né voi, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, tenendo in mano la carta e con un tono che lasciava intendere che anche se l’avesse conosciuto, non sarebbe stato certo un grande piacere. “Per favore, mettetevi a sedere.”

L’uomo responsabile, all’istante, obbedì e uscì in punta di piedi. Flora, mettendo da parte il suo velo con un tremore timido, iniziò a presentarsi. Nello stesso momento, una strana combinazione di profumi si diffuse nella stanza, come se qualcuno avesse messo per errore del brandy in una bottiglia contenente acqua di lavanda, o come se dell’acqua di lavanda fosse stata messa per errore in una bottiglia di brandy.

“Prego il signor Dorrit di presentare mille scuse; in realtà, esse sarebbero ben poche per un’intrusione del genere, che sicuramente appare estremamente audace da parte di una donna, e soprattutto se sola. Tuttavia, ho ritenuto fosse la cosa migliore da fare, nonostante le difficoltà e persino l’apparente inappropriatità della situazione. Anche se zia del signor F. sarebbe stata felice di accompagnarmi, e, essendo una persona dal carattere forte e deciso, probabilmente avrebbe impressionato profondamente qualcuno che, come nessun >dubbio, aveva acquisito tante conoscenze della vita attraverso tanti cambiamenti. Il signor F. stesso diceva spesso che, sebbene fosse stato ben educato nella zona di Blackheath, a un costo considerevole per i suoi genitori, e che avesse anche trattenuto alcuni oggetti dopo essersi trasferito, il vero insegnamento lo aveva ricevuto nei primi anni della sua carriera come viaggiatore commerciale, guadagnando una commissione elevata sulla vendita di prodotti di cui pochi si interessavano, anzi, che quasi nessuno li comprava. Questo periodo precedette di molto i sei anni trascorsi in quell’accademia gestita da un baccalaureato, anche se non capisco proprio perché un baccalaureato debba essere considerato più competente di un uomo sposato. Ma perdonatemi, questo non è il punto.”

Il signor Dorrit rimase immobile sul tappeto, come una statua di mistero.

“Devo ammettere apertamente che non ho alcuna pretesa,” disse Flora, “ma conoscendo quella cara piccola creatura, che, in circostanze diverse, ciò che sembra una libertà in realtà non lo è, e, per la misericordia di Dio, quei mezzo corone al giorno non rappresentavano affatto un favore per lei, ma piuttosto il contrario. Chiunque lavori sodo merita di essere pagato equamente; sono sicura che desidero solo che riceva di più e cibo più sostanzioso, e meno reumatismi alle spalle e alle gambe, povera ‘anima.”

“Signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, riprendendo fiato con grande sforzo, mentre la vedova del defunto signor Finching si fermava per salutarla; “signora,” continuò il signor Dorrit, con il viso molto rosso, “se ho capito bene che lei si riferisce a qualcosa riguardante, ehm, i precedenti di una mia figlia, che comporti, ehm, un compenso quotidiano, allora le chiedo di considerare che tale fatto, anche ammettendo che sia vero, non è mai stato di mia conoscenza. Ehm. Non avrei mai dovuto permetterlo. Mai! Assolutamente no!”

“Non è necessario approfondire l’argomento,” rispose Flora, “e non l’avrei menzionato affatto se non considerandolo una lettera di presentazione favorevole e sufficiente; in quanto fatto, però, non ho alcun >dubbio, quindi potete stare tranquilli. Anzi, proprio l’abito che indosso ora ne è la prova: è bello e ben confezionato, anche se bisogna ammettere che starebbe ancora meglio su una figura più snella. Peccato che io sia troppo grassa; non so proprio come possa dimagrire. Scusatemi, sto di nuovo divagando, ”

Il signor Dorrit si appoggiò alla sedia con un movimento rigido e si sedette; intanto Flora gli lanciò uno sguardo più gentile e iniziò a giocare con il suo ombrello.

“Quel caro piccolino,” disse Flora, “se n’è andato completamente privo di vita, pallido e freddo, nella mia stessa casa, o almeno in quella di papà. Anche se non si trattava di una proprietà definitiva, c’era comunque un contratto di affitto a lungo termine. Quella mattina, quando Arthur – una sciocca abitudine dei nostri giorni giovani, e il signor Clennam, molto più adattato alle circostanze attuali, soprattutto nel parlare con uno sconosciuto, e per di più un gentiluomo di rango elevato, comunicò la lieta notizia portata da una persona di nome Pancks, questo mi dà il coraggio.”

Alla menzione di questi due nomi, il signor Dorrit aggrottò la fronte, fissò qualcosa con lo sguardo, poi aggrottò di nuovo la fronte; esitò, posando le dita sulle labbra, proprio come aveva esitato molto tempo prima, e disse: “Mi faccia il favore, dica pure quale desiderio ha, signora.”

“Signor Dorrit,” disse Flora, “siete molto gentile ad avermi concesso il permesso; mi sembra del tutto naturale che siate così generoso. Anche se vi vedo più maestoso di prima, quella somiglianza c’è ancora. Il motivo della mia visita è esclusivamente mio, senza alcuna consultazione con nessuno. E certamente non con Arthur. Perdonatemi. Non so cosa sto dicendo. Signor Clennam, soltanto voi. Pensare di legare quell’uomo, con una catena d’oro, a un’epoca purpurea in cui tutto era etereo. Senza alcuna preoccupazione. Questo valerebbe per me il riscatto di un monarca. Anche se non ho la minima idea di quanto possa ammontare. Ma considerandolo come tutto ciò che ho al mondo, e anche di più, ”

Mr Dorrit, without greatly regarding the earnestness of these latter words, repeated, ‘State your pleasure, madam.’

‘It’s not likely I well know,’ said Flora, ‘but it’s possible and being possible when I had the gratification of reading in the papers that you had arrived from Italy and were going back I made up my mind to try it for you might come across him or hear something of him and if so what a blessing and relief to all!’

‘Allow me to ask, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with his ideas in wild confusion, ‘to whom—ha—TO WHOM,’ he repeated it with a raised voice in mere desperation, ‘you at present allude?’

‘To the foreigner from Italy who disappeared in the City as no doubt you have read in the papers equally with myself,’ said Flora, ‘not referring to private sources by the name of Pancks from which one gathers what dreadfully ill-natured things some people are wicked enough to whisper most likely judging others by themselves and what the uneasiness and indignation of Arthur—quite unable to overcome it Doyce and Clennam—cannot fail to be.’

It happened, fortunately for the elucidation of any intelligible result, that Mr Dorrit had heard or read nothing about the matter. This caused Mrs Finching, with many apologies for being in great practical difficulties as to finding the way to her pocket among the stripes of her dress at length to produce a police handbill, setting forth that a foreign gentleman of the name of Blandois, last from Venice, had unaccountably disappeared on such a night in such a part of the city of London; that he was known to have entered such a house, at such an hour; that he was stated by the inmates of that house to have left it, about so many minutes before midnight; and that he had never been beheld since. This, with exact particulars of time and locality, and with a good detailed description of the foreign gentleman who had so mysteriously vanished, Mr Dorrit read at large.

‘Blandois!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Venice! And this description! I know this gentleman. He has been in my house. He is intimately acquainted with a gentleman of good family (but in indifferent circumstances), of whom I am a—hum—patron.’

‘Then my humble and pressing entreaty is the more,’ said Flora, ‘that in travelling back you will have the kindness to look for this foreign gentleman along all the roads and up and down all the turnings and to make inquiries for him at all the hotels and orange-trees and vineyards and volcanoes and places for he must be somewhere and why doesn’t he come forward and say he’s there and clear all parties up?’

‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, referring to the handbill again, ‘who is Clennam and Co.? Ha. I see the name mentioned here, in connection with the occupation of the house which Monsieur Blandois was seen to enter: who is Clennam and Co.? Is it the individual of whom I had formerly—hum—some—ha—slight transitory knowledge, and to whom I believe you have referred? Is it—ha—that person?’

‘It’s a very different person indeed,’ replied Flora, ‘with no limbs and wheels instead and the grimmest of women though his mother.’

‘Clennam and Co. a—hum—a mother!’ exclaimed Mr Dorrit.

‘And an old man besides,’ said Flora.

Mr Dorrit looked as if he must immediately be driven out of his mind by this account. Neither was it rendered more favourable to sanity by Flora’s dashing into a rapid analysis of Mr Flintwinch’s cravat, and describing him, without the lightest boundary line of separation between his identity and Mrs Clennam’s, as a rusty screw in gaiters. Which compound of man and woman, no limbs, wheels, rusty screw, grimness, and gaiters, so completely stupefied Mr Dorrit, that he was a spectacle to be pitied.

‘But I would not detain you one moment longer,’ said Flora, upon whom his condition wrought its effect, though she was quite unconscious of having produced it, ‘if you would have the goodness to give your promise as a gentleman that both in going back to Italy and in Italy too you would look for this Mr Blandois high and low and if you found or heard of him make him come forward for the clearing of all parties.’

By that time Mr Dorrit had so far recovered from his bewilderment, as to be able to say, in a tolerably connected manner, that he should consider that his duty. Flora was delighted with her success, and rose to take her leave.

‘With a million thanks,’ said she, ‘and my address upon my card in case of anything to be communicated personally, I will not send my love to the dear little thing for it might not be acceptable, and indeed there is no dear little thing left in the transformation so why do it but both myself and Mr F.’s Aunt ever wish her well and lay no claim to any favour on our side you may be sure of that but quite the other way for what she undertook to do she did and that is more than a great many of us do, not to say anything of her doing it as well as it could be done and I myself am one of them for I have said ever since I began to recover the blow of Mr F’s death that I would learn the Organ of which I am extremely fond but of which I am ashamed to say I do not yet know a note, good evening!’

When Mr Dorrit, who attended her to the room-door, had had a little time to collect his senses, he found that the interview had summoned back discarded reminiscences which jarred with the Merdle dinner-table. He wrote and sent off a brief note excusing himself for that day, and ordered dinner presently in his own rooms at the hotel. He had another reason for this. His time in London was very nearly out, and was anticipated by engagements; his plans were made for returning; and he thought it behoved his importance to pursue some direct inquiry into the Blandois disappearance, and be in a condition to carry back to Mr Henry Gowan the result of his own personal investigation. He therefore resolved that he would take advantage of that evening’s freedom to go down to Clennam and Co.’s, easily to be found by the direction set forth in the handbill; and see the place, and ask a question or two there himself.

Il signor Dorrit, senza prestare molta attenzione alla serietà di queste ultime parole, ripeté: “Dica pure, signora, quale desiderio ha.”

“Non è molto probabile che io lo sappia bene,” disse Flora, “ma è possibile. E poiché era possibile, quando lessi sui giornali che eri arrivato dall’Italia e stavi per tornare indietro, decisi di provare: forse avresti potuto incontrarlo o sentire qualcosa su di lui. E in tal caso, che benedizione e sollievo sarebbe stato per tutti!”

“Permettetemi di chiedere, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, con i suoi pensieri completamente sconvolti, “a chi, a chi vi riferite attualmente?” ripeté alzando la voce, nella disperazione.

“A quel straniero proveniente dall’Italia che è scomparso nella città, come sicuramente avrete letto sui giornali, anch’io, ”, disse Flora, “non mi riferisco a fonti private chiamate Pancks, da cui si possono venire a conoscenza di cose terribilmente malvagie che alcune persone hanno la cattiveria di sussurrare; probabilmente giudicano gli altri in base a se stessi. E l’ansia e l’indignazione di Arthur – che non riesce affatto a superarle – sono certamente evidenti.”

Per fortuna, ciò che accadde fu utile per l’elucidazione di eventuali informazioni utili: il signor Dorrit non aveva sentito né letto nulla al riguardo. Questo permise alla signora Finching, dopo molte scuse per le difficoltà pratiche incontrate nel trovare il modo di estrarre il foglio della polizia dalla tasca del suo abito a strisce, di presentare un avviso ufficiale che riportava quanto segue: un gentiluomo straniero di nome Blandois, proveniente da Venezia, era scomparso misteriosamente in una certa notte in una determinata zona della città di Londra; si sapeva che fosse entrato in un certo edificio a quell’ora; gli abitanti di quell’edificio affermavano che se ne fosse andato pochi minuti prima di mezzanotte; da allora, non era più stato visto. Il signor Dorrit lesse attentamente tutto questo avviso, insieme alle informazioni precise sui tempi e sul luogo degli eventi, e a una dettagliata descrizione del gentiluomo straniero che aveva scomparso in modo così misterioso.

“Blandois!” disse il signor Dorrit. “Venezia! E questa descrizione. Conosco questo gentiluomo; è stato nella mia >casa. È molto intimo con un altro gentiluomo di buona famiglia (ma in condizioni finanziarie non molto agiate); io sono, ehm, il suo protettore.”

“Allora il mio umile e insistente supplico diventa ancora più importante,” disse Flora, “che durante il vostro ritorno abbiate la gentilezza di cercare questo signore straniero lungo tutte le strade, in ogni incrocio, e di chiedere informazioni su di lui in tutti gli hotel, nei frutteti di arance, nelle vigne, nei vulcani. Deve pur esserci da qualche parte. Perché non si fa avanti e dice che è lì, risolvendo così ogni problema?”

“Pregate, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, riferendosi di nuovo al volantino, “chi è Clennam e Co.? Ah, vedo il nome menzionato qui, in relazione all’attività svolta nell’casa nella quale Monsieur Blandois è stato visto entrare: chi è Clennam e Co.? Si tratta della stessa persona di cui avevo precedentemente – ehm, qualche vaga conoscenza, e per la quale credo che voi abbiate fatto riferimento? È davvero quella persona?”

“È davvero una persona molto diversa,” rispose Flora, “senza arti e con ruote al posto delle gambe. Eppure è la donna più spietata che esista, nonostante sia sua madre.”

“Clennam e Co.: una vera e propria ‘madre’!” esclamò il signor Dorrit.

“E inoltre un vecchio uomo,” disse Flora.

Il signor Dorrit sembrava sul punto di perdere completamente la ragione ascoltando quel racconto. Nemmeno l’analisi rapida e appassionata che Flora fece della cravatta del signor Flintwinch, descrivendolo come un “vite arrugginito” che si muoveva con passi strascicati, riuscì a rendere la situazione meno spiacevole per la sua sanità mentale. Quell’insieme di elementi – uomo e donna, membra, ruote, vite arrugginite, cupa determinazione, – lasciò il signor Dorrit completamente sconcertato, al punto da farne una vera e propria vittima di compassione.

“Ma non vorrei trattenervi un minuto di più,” disse Flora, la cui situazione lo influenzava profondamente, anche se lei non si rendeva affatto conto di averlo fatto, “se voleste avere la gentilezza di darmi la vostra promessa, da vero signore, che sia tornando in Italia che rimanendovi, cercherete ovunque questo signor Blandois e, se lo troverete o ne avrete notizie, lo farete venire avanti affinché possano essere chiariti tutti i dubbi.”

A quel momento, il signor Dorrit si era ormai ripreso dal suo sbalordimento, al punto di riuscire a dire, in modo abbastanza coerente, che considerava quella la sua duty. Flora era molto soddisfatta del proprio successo e si alzò per congedarsi.

“Con mille ringraziamenti,” disse lei, “e il mio indirizzo sulla mia carta nel caso ci fosse qualcosa da comunicare personalmente. Non invierò la mia amore a quella cara piccola persona, perché potrebbe non essere accettata. E in realtà, dopo quella trasformazione, non c’è più nessuna ‘cara piccola persona’. Quindi perché farlo? Sia io che zia del signor F desideriamo solo il suo bene e non pretendiamo alcun favore da parte nostra. Potete esserne certi. Anzi, al contrario: ha fatto esattamente ciò che aveva promesso di fare. E questo è più di quanto molte di noi siano disposte a fare. Per non parlare del fatto che l’ha fatto nel modo migliore possibile. E anch’io faccio parte di queste persone. Da quando ho iniziato a riprendermi dal colpo della morte del signor F, ho detto che avrei imparato a suonare quell’organo di cui sono estremamente innamorata. Ma devo ammettere con vergogna che ancora non conosco nemmeno una nota. Buonasera!”

Quando il signor Dorrit, che l’aveva accompagnata fino alla porta della stanza, ebbe un po’ di tempo per riprendersi, si rese conto che quell’incontro aveva risvegliato in lui ricordi dimenticati, i quali contrastavano con l’atmosfera serena del banchetto a casa dei Merdle. Scrisse quindi una breve nota per scusarsi di quella giornata e ordinò subito di portargli il cena nelle sue stanze d’albergo. Aveva un altro motivo per farlo: il suo soggiorno a Londra stava per concludersi, e gli impegni futuri lo attendevano; aveva già pianificato il proprio ritorno, e ritenne che fosse importante per la sua importanza indagare personalmente sul caso della scomparsa di Blandois, al fine di poter riportare a Mr Henry Gowan i risultati delle proprie ricerche. Decise quindi di approfittare della libertà di quella sera per recarsi presso l’ufficio di Clennam e Co., facilmente raggiungibile seguendo le indicazioni presenti nel volantino, per visitare il luogo e porre personalmente qualche domanda.

Having dined as plainly as the establishment and the Courier would let him, and having taken a short sleep by the fire for his better recovery from Mrs Finching, he set out in a hackney-cabriolet alone. The deep bell of St Paul’s was striking nine as he passed under the shadow of Temple Bar, headless and forlorn in these degenerate days.

As he approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side ways, that part of London seemed to him an uglier spot at such an hour than he had ever supposed it to be. Many long years had passed since he had seen it; he had never known much of it; and it wore a mysterious and dismal aspect in his eyes. So powerfully was his imagination impressed by it, that when his driver stopped, after having asked the way more than once, and said to the best of his belief this was the gateway they wanted, Mr Dorrit stood hesitating, with the coach-door in his hand, half afraid of the dark look of the place.

Truly, it looked as gloomy that night as even it had ever looked. Two of the handbills were posted on the entrance wall, one on either side, and as the lamp flickered in the night air, shadows passed over them, not unlike the shadows of fingers following the lines. A watch was evidently kept upon the place. As Mr Dorrit paused, a man passed in from over the way, and another man passed out from some dark corner within; and both looked at him in passing, and both remained standing about.

As there was only one house in the enclosure, there was no room for uncertainty, so he went up the steps of that house and knocked. There was a dim light in two windows on the first-floor. The door gave back a dreary, vacant sound, as though the house were empty; but it was not, for a light was visible, and a step was audible, almost directly. They both came to the door, and a chain grated, and a woman with her apron thrown over her face and head stood in the aperture.

‘Who is it?’ said the woman.

Mr Dorrit, much amazed by this appearance, replied that he was from Italy, and that he wished to ask a question relative to the missing person, whom he knew.

‘Hi!’ cried the woman, raising a cracked voice. ‘Jeremiah!’

Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and disclosed a pale affrighted face. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ said the old man; ‘and let the gentleman in.’

Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. ‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here, sir.’

Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman’s, called from above, ‘Who is it?’

‘Who is it?’ returned Jeremiah. ‘More inquiries. A gentleman from Italy.’

‘Bring him up here!’

Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning to Mr Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs Clennam. She will do as she likes. I’ll show you the way.’ He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase; that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former ghastly manner.

Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. ‘Oh!’ said she abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. ‘You are from Italy, sir, are you. Well?’

Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment than ‘Ha—well?’

‘Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where he is? I hope you have?’

‘So far from it, I—hum—have come to seek information.’

‘Unfortunately for us, there is none to be got here. Flintwinch, show the gentleman the handbill. Give him several to take away. Hold the light for him to read it.’

Mr Flintwinch did as he was directed, and Mr Dorrit read it through, as if he had not previously seen it; glad enough of the opportunity of collecting his presence of mind, which the air of the house and of the people in it had a little disturbed. While his eyes were on the paper, he felt that the eyes of Mr Flintwinch and of Mrs Clennam were on him. He found, when he looked up, that this sensation was not a fanciful one.

‘Now you know as much,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘as we know, sir. Is Mr Blandois a friend of yours?’

‘No—a—hum—an acquaintance,’ answered Mr Dorrit.

‘You have no commission from him, perhaps?’

‘I? Ha. Certainly not.’

The searching look turned gradually to the floor, after taking Mr Flintwinch’s face in its way. Mr Dorrit, discomfited by finding that he was the questioned instead of the questioner, applied himself to the reversal of that unexpected order of things.

‘I am—ha—a gentleman of property, at present residing in Italy with my family, my servants, and—hum—my rather large establishment. Being in London for a short time on affairs connected with—ha—my estate, and hearing of this strange disappearance, I wished to make myself acquainted with the circumstances at first-hand, because there is—ha hum—an English gentleman in Italy whom I shall no doubt see on my return, who has been in habits of close and daily intimacy with Monsieur Blandois. Mr Henry Gowan. You may know the name.’

‘Never heard of it.’

Mrs Clennam said it, and Mr Flintwinch echoed it.

‘Wishing to—ha—make the narrative coherent and consecutive to him,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘may I ask—say, three questions?’

‘Thirty, if you choose.’

‘Have you known Monsieur Blandois long?’

‘Not a twelvemonth. Mr Flintwinch here, will refer to the books and tell you when, and by whom at Paris he was introduced to us. If that,’ Mrs Clennam added, ‘should be any satisfaction to you. It is poor satisfaction to us.’

Dopo aver pranzato in modo semplice, nel limite consentito dall’ostello e dal “Courier”, e dopo essersi riposato brevemente vicino al focolare per recuperare meglio dalle conseguenze dell’incontro con la signora Finching, partì da solo in una carrozza a cabriolet. Mentre passava sotto l’ombra di Temple Bar, il profondo suono della campana di St Paul segnava le nove. In quei tempi decadenti, si sentiva perso e senza direzione.

Mentre si avvicinava al suo destinazione attraverso i vicoli e le strade lungo il lato acque di Londra, quella zona gli sembrava ancora più brutta a quell’ora di quanto avesse mai immaginato. Erano trascorsi molti anni da quando l’aveva vista; non ne conosceva quasi nulla, e ai suoi occhi presentava un aspetto misterioso e desolato. La sua immaginazione era stata così profondamente influenzata da quell’ambiente che, quando il cocchiere si fermò dopo aver chiesto indicazioni più volte e dichiarò con certezza che quella era l’entrata che cercavano, il signor Dorrit esitò, con la porta della carrozza in mano, quasi spaventato dall’aspetto cupo di quel luogo.

Davvero, quella notte sembrava ancora più cupa di qualsiasi altra volta. Due avvisi erano affissi sul muro d’ingresso, uno su ciascun lato; mentre la lampada tremolava nell’aria notturna, le ombre si muovevano sopra di essi, proprio come se delle dita seguissero le parole scritte. Era evidente che quel luogo venisse sorvegliato. Mentre il signor Dorrit si fermava, un uomo entrò da una certa direzione, mentre un altro uscì da qualche angolo buio all’interno; entrambi lo guardarono mentre passavano e poi rimasero lì in piedi.

Poiché nell’area c’era solo una casa, non c’era spazio per incertezze; quindi salì i gradini di quella casa e bussò. Due finestre al primo piano erano illuminate da una luce fioca. La porta emise un suono cupo e vuoto, come se la casa fosse deserta; ma non lo era, perché si vedeva della luce e si sentiva il rumore di passi, quasi direttamente dietro la porta. Entrambi si avvicinarono, e una catena stridette; poi apparve una donna con un grembiule che le copriva il viso e la testa.

“Chi è?” disse la donna.

Il signor Dorrit, molto sorpreso da questa apparizione, rispose di essere originario dell’Italia e che desiderava porre una domanda riguardante la persona scomparsa, che conosceva.

“Ehi!” gridò la donna, con una voce roca. “Geremia!”

In quel momento apparve un vecchio magro e secco; il signor Dorrit pensò di riconoscerlo dai suoi stivali di gomma, che sembravano rossi di ruggine. La donna provava timore per quell’uomo: non appena si avvicinò, lei scostò rapidamente il grembiule, mostrando un viso pallido e spaventato. “Apri la porta, tu idiota,” disse il vecchio; “e fai entrare il signore.”

Il signor Dorrit, lanciando un’occhiata alle sue spalle verso il suo autista e la cabriolet, entrò nel corridoio buio. “Ora, signore,” disse il signor Flintwinch, “può chiedere qualsiasi cosa ritenga opportuna; qui non ci sono alcun segreto, signore.”

Prima che si potesse rispondere, una voce forte e autoritaria, sebbene appartenesse a una donna, gridò dall’alto: “Chi è?”

“Chi è?” rispose Jeremiah. “Altre domande. Un signore dall’Italia.”

“Portatelo qui!”

Il signor Flintwinch mormorò, come se trovasse quella richiesta inutile; ma, rivolgendosi al signor Dorrit, disse: “La signora Clennam. Farà ciò che vuole. Vi mostrerò la strada.” Poi precedette il signor Dorrit su per le scale annerite; quel gentiluomo, guardandosi indietro sulla strada, vide la donna seguirli, con l’grembiule di nuovo gettato sul capo, nel suo solito aspetto orribile.

Signora Clennam aveva i suoi libri aperti sul suo piccolo tavolo. “Oh!”, disse all’improvviso, guardando il suo visitatore con uno sguardo fisso. “Voi venite dall’Italia, vero? Beh, ”

A quel momento, il signor Dorrit non riuscì a trovare nessuna risposta più appropriata se non “Ha davvero,?”

“Dove si trova quest’uomo scomparso? Siete venuti per darci informazioni su dove si trovi? Spero che le abbiate.”

“Niente affatto, anzi, sono venuto per cercare informazioni.”

“Purtroppo per noi, qui non c’è nulla da prendere. Flintwinch, mostri al signore il volantino. Dagliene alcuni da portare via. Tieni la luce accesa affinché possa leggerlo.”

Il signor Flintwinch fece ciò che gli era stato detto, e il signor Dorrit lo lesse attentamente, come se non l’avesse mai visto prima; era molto contento di questa opportunità per raccogliere le proprie idee, poiché l’atmosfera di quella casa e le persone che vi abitavano avevano un po’ turbato la sua concentrazione. Mentre fissava il foglio, sentiva che anche gli occhi del signor Flintwinch e della mrs Clennam erano puntati su di lui; quando alzò lo sguardo, si rese conto che questa sensazione non era affatto frutto della sua immaginazione.

“Ora sapete tutto ciò che sappiamo noi, signore,” disse Signora Clennam. “Il signor Blandois è un vostro amico?”

“N-no, un conoscente,” rispose il signor Dorrit.

“Non hai ricevuto alcuna commissione da lui, vero?”

“Mai e poi mai.”

Lo sguardo indagatore si posò gradualmente sul pavimento, dopo aver fissato il viso di Mr Flintwinch. Mr Dorrit, a disagio nel rendersi conto che era lui ad essere interrogato invece dell’interrogatore, si impegnò a invertire quell’ordine inaspettato delle cose.

“Sono, un gentiluomo benestante che attualmente risiede in Italia con la mia famiglia, i miei servitori e, beh, con il mio abbastanza numeroso personale domestico. Trovandomi a )Londra per un breve periodo a causa di questioni legate alla mia proprietà, ho sentito parlare di questa strana scomparsa e ho voluto informarmi personalmente sui dettagli della situazione. Inoltre, c’è un altro gentiluomo inglese in Italia che, senza dubbio, incontrerò al mio ritorno; quest’uomo ha avuto rapporti molto stretti e quotidiani con Monsieur Blandois. Si tratta di Mr Henry Gowan. Forse lo conoscete già.”

“Non ne ho mai sentito parlare.”

Lo disse Signora Clennam, e il signor Flintwinch lo ripeté.

“Desiderando rendere il racconto coerente e consequenziale per lui,” disse il signor Dorrit, “posso porre, tre domande?”

“Trenta, se lo desideri.”

Da quanto conosci il signor Blandois?

“Non dodici mesi. Il signor Flintwinch, qui presente, potrà consultare i documenti e dirvi quando e da chi è stato presentato a noi a Parigi. Se questo,” aggiunse la signora Clennam, “potesse esservi di qualche conforto. Per noi, invece, rappresenta soltanto un povero conforto.”

‘Have you seen him often?’

‘No. Twice. Once before, and—’

‘That once,’ suggested Mr Flintwinch.

‘And that once.’

‘Pray, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a growing fancy upon him as he recovered his importance, that he was in some superior way in the Commission of the Peace; ‘pray, madam, may I inquire, for the greater satisfaction of the gentleman whom I have the honour to—ha—retain, or protect or let me say to—hum—know—to know—Was Monsieur Blandois here on business on the night indicated in this present sheet?’

‘On what he called business,’ returned Mrs Clennam.

‘Is—ha—excuse me—is its nature to be communicated?’

‘No.’

It was evidently impracticable to pass the barrier of that reply.

‘The question has been asked before,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘and the answer has been, No. We don’t choose to publish our transactions, however unimportant, to all the town. We say, No.’

‘I mean, he took away no money with him, for example,’ said Mr Dorrit.

‘He took away none of ours, sir, and got none here.’

‘I suppose,’ observed Mr Dorrit, glancing from Mrs Clennam to Mr Flintwinch, and from Mr Flintwinch to Mrs Clennam, ‘you have no way of accounting to yourself for this mystery?’

‘Why do you suppose so?’ rejoined Mrs Clennam.

Disconcerted by the cold and hard inquiry, Mr Dorrit was unable to assign any reason for his supposing so.

‘I account for it, sir,’ she pursued after an awkward silence on Mr Dorrit’s part, ‘by having no doubt that he is travelling somewhere, or hiding somewhere.’

‘Do you know—ha—why he should hide anywhere?’

‘No.’

It was exactly the same No as before, and put another barrier up.

‘You asked me if I accounted for the disappearance to myself,’ Mrs Clennam sternly reminded him, ‘not if I accounted for it to you. I do not pretend to account for it to you, sir. I understand it to be no more my business to do that, than it is yours to require that.’

Mr Dorrit answered with an apologetic bend of his head. As he stepped back, preparatory to saying he had no more to ask, he could not but observe how gloomily and fixedly she sat with her eyes fastened on the ground, and a certain air upon her of resolute waiting; also, how exactly the self-same expression was reflected in Mr Flintwinch, standing at a little distance from her chair, with his eyes also on the ground, and his right hand softly rubbing his chin.

At that moment, Mistress Affery (of course, the woman with the apron) dropped the candlestick she held, and cried out, ‘There! O good Lord! there it is again. Hark, Jeremiah! Now!’

If there were any sound at all, it was so slight that she must have fallen into a confirmed habit of listening for sounds; but Mr Dorrit believed he did hear a something, like the falling of dry leaves. The woman’s terror, for a very short space, seemed to touch the three; and they all listened.

Mr Flintwinch was the first to stir. ‘Affery, my woman,’ said he, sidling at her with his fists clenched, and his elbows quivering with impatience to shake her, ‘you are at your old tricks. You’ll be walking in your sleep next, my woman, and playing the whole round of your distempered antics. You must have some physic. When I have shown this gentleman out, I’ll make you up such a comfortable dose, my woman; such a comfortable dose!’

It did not appear altogether comfortable in expectation to Mistress Affery; but Jeremiah, without further reference to his healing medicine, took another candle from Mrs Clennam’s table, and said, ‘Now, sir; shall I light you down?’

Mr Dorrit professed himself obliged, and went down. Mr Flintwinch shut him out, and chained him out, without a moment’s loss of time. He was again passed by the two men, one going out and the other coming in; got into the vehicle he had left waiting, and was driven away.

Before he had gone far, the driver stopped to let him know that he had given his name, number, and address to the two men, on their joint requisition; and also the address at which he had taken Mr Dorrit up, the hour at which he had been called from his stand and the way by which he had come. This did not make the night’s adventure run any less hotly in Mr Dorrit’s mind, either when he sat down by his fire again, or when he went to bed. All night he haunted the dismal house, saw the two people resolutely waiting, heard the woman with her apron over her face cry out about the noise, and found the body of the missing Blandois, now buried in the cellar, and now bricked up in a wall.

“Lo hai visto spesso?”

“Non. Due volte. Una volta prima, e, ”

“Quella volta,” suggerì il signor Flintwinch.

“E una volta sola.”

“Prego, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, sempre più convinto, man mano che riacquistava la sua importanza, di avere un ruolo di qualche rilievo nella Commissione della Pace; “per favore, signora, potrei chiedere, al fine di dare maggiore soddisfazione al gentiluomo che ho l’onore di, ehm, proteggere, o, per meglio dire, far conoscere. Monsieur Blandois è stato qui per affari, la notte indicata in questo foglio?”

“Per quello che lui chiamava ‘affari’”, rispose Signora Clennam.

“Mi scusi. È davvero nella sua natura comunicare?”

‘No.’

Era evidentemente impossibile superare l’ostacolo rappresentato da quella risposta.

“Questa domanda è già stata posta in precedenza,” disse Signora Clennam, “e la risposta è stata: No. Non scegliamo di rendere pubbliche le nostre transazioni, per quanto insignificanti possano essere, per l’intera città. Diciamo semplicemente: No.”

“Voglio dire, per esempio, non ha portato via nessun denaro con sé,” disse il signor Dorrit.

“Non ha preso nulla di nostro, signore, e non ha ottenuto nulla qui.”

“Suppongo,” osservò il signor Dorrit, guardando alternativamente la signora Clennam e il signor Flintwinch, “che non abbiate alcun modo per spiegare questo mistero, ”

“Perché pensi così?” ribatté Signora Clennam.

Disorientato dall’interrogatorio freddo e incisivo, il signor Dorrit non riuscì a fornire alcuna spiegazione per la sua supposizione.

“Lo spiego così, signore,” continuò lei dopo un imbarazzante silenzio da parte del signor Dorrit, “perché non ho alcun >dubbio che stia viaggiando da qualche parte o si stia nascondendo in qualche luogo.”

“Lo sai, perché dovrebbe nascondersi da qualche parte?”

‘No.’

Era esattamente lo stesso “No” di prima, e fu eretta un’altra barriera.

“Mi avete chiesto se avessi dato una spiegazione alla scomparsa,” gli ricordò severamente la signora Clennam, “non se l’avessi data a voi. Non pretendo di darvene una spiegazione, signore. Capisco che non sia affar mio farlo, così come non è affar vostro richiederla.”

Il signor Dorrit rispose inclinando la testa in segno di scusa. Mentre si allontanava, pronto a dire che non aveva altre domande da porre, non poté fare a meno di notare come lei sedesse con aria cupa e immobile, lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento, con un’espressione decisa che sembrava indicare l’attesa paziente di qualcosa; inoltre, osservò come esattamente la stessa espressione si riflettesse anche sul volto del signor Flintwinch, fermo a una certa distanza dalla sua sedia, con lo sguardo rivolto al suolo e la mano destra che gli accarezzava dolcemente il mento.

In quel momento, la signora Affery (ovviamente, quella donna con l grembiule) lasciò cadere il candelabro che teneva in mano e gridò: “Lì! Oh mio Dio, è successo di nuovo. Ascolta, Jeremiah! Ora!”

Se c’era davvero qualche suono, era così debole che lei doveva essersi abituata completamente ad ascoltare con attenzione; ma il signor Dorrit credeva di aver sentito qualcosa, simile al rumore delle foglie secche che cadevano. Per un brevissimo istante, il terrore della donna sembrò coinvolgere tutti e tre; e loro ascoltarono attentamente.

Il signor Flintwinch fu il primo ad alzarsi. “Affery, mia donna,” disse, avvicinandosi a lei con i pugni stretti e gli gomiti che tremavano per l’impazienza di scuoterla, “sei sempre alle tue vecchie abitudini. Presto inizierai anche a camminare nel sonno, mia donna, e a ripetere tutte le tue stranezze. Devi assolutamente prendere qualche medicina. Quando avrò accompagnato questo signore fuori, ti preparerò una dose davvero efficace, mia donna. Una dose davvero efficace!”

Non sembrava affatto confortevole per la signora Affery aspettare in quella situazione; ma Jeremiah, senza fare ulteriori riferimenti alla sua medicina curativa, prese un’altra candela dal tavolo della signora Clennam e disse: “Ora, signore, devo accenderla per voi?”

Il signor Dorrit si dichiarò grato e scese. Il signor Flintwinch lo chiuse fuori e lo incatenò, senza perdere un istante di tempo. Fu nuovamente superato dai due uomini: uno usciva e l’altro entrava; salì sul veicolo che lo aspettava e venne portato via.

Prima ancora di allontanarsi molto, il conducente si fermò per informarlo che aveva fornito il proprio nome, numero di telefono e indirizzo ai due uomini, su loro richiesta congiunta; gli aveva anche detto l’indirizzo dove aveva accompagnato il signor Dorrit, l’ora in cui era stato chiamato dal suo posto di lavoro e il percorso che aveva seguito. Tutto ciò non rendeva meno avventurosa la notte appena trascorsa nella mente del signor Dorrit, né quando si risedette accanto al fuoco, né quando andò a letto. Per tutta la notte, gli tornavano alla mente scene macabre: quella casa desolata, le due persone che aspettavano con determinazione, la donna con il grembiule sul viso che gridava per il rumore. E poi il corpo del scomparso Blandois, ora sepolto nel seminterrato, ora murato dentro un muro.

CHAPTER 18. A Castle in the Air

Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit’s satisfaction in remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce himself to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped over-night, while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him whether or no he should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look at the old gate. He had decided not to do so; and had astonished the coachman by being very fierce with him for proposing to go over London Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo Bridge—a course which would have taken him almost within sight of his old quarters. Still, for all that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast; and, for some odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the Merdle dinner-table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he continued at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully inconsistent with the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to think what the Chief Butler’s opinion of him would have been, if that illustrious personage could have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the stream of his meditations.

The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished—but without abatement of patronage, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues of his favourite child—that he had such another daughter.

‘My dear,’ he told her at parting, ‘our family looks to you to—ha—assert its dignity and—hum—maintain its importance. I know you will never disappoint it.’

‘No, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘you may rely upon that, I think. My best love to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.’

‘Shall I convey any message to—ha—anybody else?’ asked Mr Dorrit, in an insinuating manner.

‘Papa,’ said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, ‘no, I thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at all agreeable to you to take.’

They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited on his lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit’s protestations being in vain, he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during this memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage with a swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of beholding the grandeur of his departure.

The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence, when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his ivory-handled cane genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!

‘Now, young man,’ said the porter. ‘This is the gentleman. This young man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.’

Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of tones, ‘Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Young John.

‘I—ha—thought it was Young John!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘The young man may come up,’ turning to the attendants, as he passed on: ‘oh yes, he may come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.’

Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit’s rooms were reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.

‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the collar when they were safely alone. ‘What do you mean by this?’

The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate John’s face—for he had rather expected to be embraced next—were of that powerfully expressive nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at him.

‘How dare you do this?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘How do you presume to come here? How dare you insult me?’

‘I insult you, sir?’ cried Young John. ‘Oh!’

‘Yes, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit. ‘Insult me. Your coming here is an affront, an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here. Who sent you here? What—ha—the Devil do you do here?’

‘I thought, sir,’ said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit’s in his life—even in his College life: ‘I thought, sir, you mightn’t object to have the goodness to accept a bundle—’

‘Damn your bundle, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage. ‘I—hum—don’t smoke.’

‘I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.’

‘Tell me that again,’ cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, ‘and I’ll take the poker to you!’

John Chivery backed to the door.

‘Stop, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!’

John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once, he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:

‘What else did you come for, Sir?’

‘Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?’

CAPITOLO 18. Un castello sospeso nel cielo

Le preoccupazioni legate alla ricchezza e al potere sono molteplici. La soddisfazione di Mr Dorrit nel rendersi conto che non era stato necessario annunciare la propria presenza a Clennam e Co., né fare allusione al fatto di conoscere quella persona invadente, era stata offuscata la sera stessa, mentre ancora fresca nella sua mente, da un dibattito interiore riguardante se dovesse o meno passare per Marshalsea sulla strada del ritorno per dare un’occhiata a quel vecchio cancello. Aveva deciso di non farlo; e aveva sorpreso il cocchiere rimproverandolo aspramente per aver proposto di attraversare il London Bridge e poi nuovamente il fiume tramite il Waterloo Bridge, una strada che lo avrebbe portato quasi nei pressi delle sue vecchie abitazioni. Eppure, nonostante tutto ciò, la questione aveva suscitato in lui un conflitto interiore; e, per qualche motivo strano o senza motivo, si sentiva vagamente insoddisfatto. Anche il giorno dopo, a tavola da Merdle, era così turbato al riguardo che continuava a ripensarci di tanto in tanto, in modo assai incoerente con l’ambiente raffinato che lo circondava. Gli veniva la febbre al solo pensiero di quale sarebbe stata l’opinione del Capo Cameriere su di lui, se quella illustre persona avesse potuto scrutare con quel suo sguardo penetrante il corso dei suoi pensieri.

Il banchetto d’addio aveva una bellezza davvero incantevole e concluse il suo soggiorno in modo assolutamente straordinario. Fanny, con l’attrattiva della sua giovinezza e della sua bellezza, possedeva anche una certa maturità interiore, come se fosse stata sposata da vent’anni. Lui si sentì in grado di lasciarla con la tranquillità necessaria per intraprendere strade di distinzione, e desiderò – senza però ridurre il proprio sostegno né lesinare le virtù riservate della sua preferita – di avere un’altra figlia come lei.

“Mia cara,” le disse al momento dell’addio, “la nostra famiglia conta su di te per – ehm – rafforzare la sua dignità e mantenere la sua importanza. So che non la deluderai mai.”

“No, papà,” disse Fanny, “puoi esserne certo. Il mio più grande affetto va alla mia adorata Amy, e le scriverò molto presto.”

“Devo portare qualche messaggio a qualcun altro?” chiese il signor Dorrit in tono allusivo.

“Papà,” disse Fanny; davanti a lei la signora generale apparve all’improvviso, “no, grazie. Sei molto gentile, papà, ma devo chiederti scusa. Non c’è alcun altro messaggio da inviare. Grazie, caro papà, sarebbe davvero piacevole per te accettarlo.”

Si separarono in un salotto esterno, dove soltanto il signor Sparkler aspettava la sua signora, attendendo con diligenza il momento di stringerle la mano. Quando il signor Sparkler fu ammesso in quella stanza, il signor Merdle entrò furtivamente, con le maniche quasi vuote, come se fosse il fratello gemello della signorina Biffin, e insistette per scortare il signor Dorrit giù per le scale. Nonostante tutte le proteste del signor Dorrit, ebbe l’onore di essere accompagnato fino alla porta d’ingresso da quest’uomo distinto, che (come gli disse il signor Dorrit stringendogli la mano sul gradino) gli aveva davvero dimostrato grande attenzione e aiuto durante questa memorabile visita. Così si separarono; il signor Dorrit salì nella sua carrozza con il petto gonfio d’orgoglio, senza alcun rimpianto che il suo “corriere”, venuto a salutarlo al piano di sotto, potesse assistere alla maestosità della sua partenza.

La suddetta maestosità era ancora evidente in Mr Dorrit quando scese al suo hotel. Aiutato dal portiere e da una mezza dozzina di camerieri dell’hotel, stava attraversando l’atrio con un’aria di serena dignità, quando improvvisamente gli si presentò una scena che lo lasciò senza parole e immobile: John Chivery, in abiti eleganti, con il cappello alto sotto il braccio, il bastone dal manico d’avorio che quasi comprometteva la sua compostezza, e in mano, un mazzo di sigari!

“Ora, giovane uomo,” disse il portiere. “Questo è il signore. Questo giovane si è ostinato ad aspettare, dicendo che lei sarebbe stato felice di vederlo.”

Il signor Dorrit fissò il giovane con uno sguardo minaccioso, si strozzò e disse, con il tono più gentile possibile: “Ah! Giovane John. Dev’essere il giovane John, vero?”

“Sì, signore,” rispose il giovane John.

“Ho pensato che fosse il giovane John!”, disse il signor Dorrit. “Quel giovane può salire”, aggiunse rivolgendosi agli attendenti mentre proseguiva: “Oh sì, può salire. Lasciate che il giovane John venga con me; parlerò con lui di sopra.”

Il giovane John lo seguì, sorridendo e molto soddisfatto. Arrivarono nelle stanze del signor Dorrit; le candele furono accese e i servitori si ritirarono.

“Ora, signore,” disse il signor Dorrit, girandosi verso di lui e afferrandolo per il colletto quando finalmente furono soli. “Cosa intendete dire con questo?”

Lo stupore e l’orrore dipinti sul volto sfortunato di John – poiché si aspettava quasi di essere abbracciato subito dopo – erano così intensamente espressivi che il signor Dorrit ritirò la sua mano e si limitò a fissarlo con uno sguardo minaccioso.

“Come osi fare una cosa del genere?” disse il signor Dorrit. “Come ti permetti di venire qui? Come osi insultarmi?”

“Vi sto insultando, signore?”, gridò il giovane John. “Oh!”

“Sì, signore,” rispose il signor Dorrit. “Insulti pure me. Il vostro arrivo qui è un affronto, una mancanza di rispetto, un’audacia. Non siete desiderati qui. Chi vi ha mandato? Che, che diavolo fate voi qui?”

“Pensavo, signore,” disse Young John, con un viso pallido e sconvolto come mai ne aveva avuto uno di fronte al signor Dorrit in tutta la sua vita, nemmeno durante gli anni all’università: “Pensavo che forse non vi sarebbe dispiaciuto accettare questo pacco, ”

“Maledizione, signore!” gridò il signor Dorrit, in un furore incontrollabile.
“Ehm, io non fumo.”

“Mi scusi umilmente, signore. Lei faceva sempre così.”

“Ripetimelo ancora,” gridò il signor Dorrit, completamente fuori di sé, “e vi userò il ferro da stiro!”

John Chivery si avvicinò alla porta.

“Fermatevi, signore!” gridò il signor Dorrit. “Fermatevi! Sedetevi. Per l’amor del cielo, sedetevi!”

John Chivery si lasciò cadere sulla sedia più vicina alla porta, mentre il signor Dorrit camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza; all’inizio velocemente, poi sempre più lentamente. Una volta andò alla finestra e vi rimase in piedi, con la fronte appoggiata al vetro. All’improvviso si girò e disse:

“Cosa altro vuole da me, signore?”

“Nient’altro al mondo, signore. Oh mio Dio! Volevo solo assicurarmi che lei stesse bene, e chiedere se anche la signorina Amy stesse bene, ”

‘What’s that to you, sir?’ retorted Mr Dorrit.

‘It’s nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it’s a liberty, sir, but I never thought you’d have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,’ said Young John, with emotion, ‘in my poor way, I am too proud to have come, I assure you, if I had thought so.’

Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and he looked tired and ill.

‘Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but—ha—some remembrances are not happy remembrances, and—hum—you shouldn’t have come.’

‘I feel that now, sir,’ returned John Chivery; ‘but I didn’t before, and Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.’

‘No. No,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I am—hum—sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand, Young John, give me your hand.’

Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.

‘There!’ said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. ‘Sit down again, Young John.’

‘Thank you, sir—but I’d rather stand.’

Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:

‘And how is your father, Young John? How—ha—how are they all, Young John?’

‘Thank you, sir, They’re all pretty well, sir. They’re not any ways complaining.’

‘Hum. You are in your—ha—old business I see, John?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.

‘Partly, sir. I am in my’—John hesitated a little—‘father’s business likewise.’

‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Do you—ha hum—go upon the ha—’

‘Lock, sir? Yes, sir.’

‘Much to do, John?’

‘Yes, sir; we’re pretty heavy at present. I don’t know how it is, but we generally are pretty heavy.’

‘At this time of the year, Young John?’

‘Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don’t know the time that makes much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.’

‘Stay a moment, John—ha—stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John, I—ha—beg.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.

‘Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a—ha—a gratification to me to send a little—hum—Testimonial, by such a trusty messenger, to be divided among—ha hum—them—them—according to their wants. Would you object to take it, John?’

‘Not in any ways, sir. There’s many of them, I’m sure, that would be the better for it.’

‘Thank you, John. I—ha—I’ll write it, John.’

His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in a tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He folded it up, put it in Young John’s hand, and pressed the hand in his.

‘I hope you’ll—ha—overlook—hum—what has passed, John.’

‘Don’t speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don’t in any ways bear malice, I’m sure.’

But nothing while John was there could change John’s face to its natural colour and expression, or restore John’s natural manner.

‘And, John,’ said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and releasing it, ‘I hope we—ha—agree that we have spoken together in confidence; and that you will abstain, in going out, from saying anything to any one that might—hum—suggest that—ha—once I—’

‘Oh! I assure you, sir,’ returned John Chivery, ‘in my poor humble way, sir, I’m too proud and honourable to do it, sir.’

Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that he might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step. After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier, who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back towards him and his face to the fire. ‘You can take that bundle of cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Ha—brought by—hum—little offering from—ha—son of old tenant of mine.’

Next morning’s sun saw Mr Dorrit’s equipage upon the Dover road, where every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established for the unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was waylaid at Dartford, pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the Courier’s business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next chalky rise in the dusty highway.

Another day’s sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find that the foreign air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.

On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered his equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls, strengthening the defences, giving ornamental touches to the interior, making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied face so clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered tin-box in at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a special physiognomical treatise.

“Che cosa c’entra questo con voi, signore?” ribatté il signor Dorrit.

“Non è nulla per me, signore. Onestamente, non ho mai pensato di ridurre la distanza che ci separa. So che si tratta di una libertà un po’ eccessiva, ma non avrei mai immaginato che vi sareste offeso. Vi giuro sulla mia parola e sul mio onore, signore,” disse Young John con emozione, “con i miei modi semplici, sono troppo orgoglioso per averlo fatto. Ve lo assicuro.”

Il signor Dorrit si vergognava. Tornò alla finestra e appoggiò la fronte al vetro per un po’. Quando si girò, aveva il fazzoletto in mano; se l’era usato per asciugarsi gli occhi e sembrava stanco e malato.

“Giovane John, mi dispiace molto di essere stato troppo affrettato con te, ma, beh, alcune memorie non sono piacevoli da ricordare, e, umm, non avresti dovuto venire.”

“Ora sì, signore,” rispose John Chivery; “ma prima di allora no. E Dio sa che non avevo cattive intenzioni, signore.”

“No. No,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Sono, ehm, sicuro di questo. Dammi la tua mano, giovane John, dammi la tua mano.”

Il giovane John glielo diede; ma il signor Dorrit aveva “strappato via” tutto il sentimento dal suo cuore, e ormai nulla poteva cambiare l’espressione del suo viso, rimasto pallido e sconvolto.

“Ecco!” disse il signor Dorrit, stringendogli la mano lentamente. “Siediti di nuovo, giovane John.”

“Grazie, signore, ma preferisco restare in piedi.”

Invece, il signor Dorrit si sedette. Dopo aver tenuto dolorosamente la testa in quella posizione per un po’, la girò verso il suo visitatore e disse, con sforzo di apparire gentile:

“E come sta tuo padre, giovane John? E, come stanno tutti, giovane John?”

“Grazie, signore; sono tutti piuttosto buoni, signore. Non si lamentano affatto.”

“Hmm. Vedo che ti occupi ancora della tua vecchia attività, John, ” disse il signor Dorrit, lanciando un’occhiata al pacchetto che aveva appena maledetto.

“In parte sì, signore. Anch’io mi occupo degli affari di mio padre.” John esitò per un momento prima di continuare.

“Ah davvero!”, disse il signor Dorrit. “Voi, ehm, frequentate quel posto, eh?”

“Chiave, signore? Sì, signore.”

“Molto da fare, John?”

“Sì, signore; al momento siamo abbastanza pesanti. Non so perché, ma di solito lo siamo.”

“In questo periodo dell’anno. Giovane John?”

“Per lo più in tutte le stagioni dell’anno, signore. Non so quale ora sia particolarmente importante per noi. Le auguro una buona notte, signore.”

“Aspetta un attimo, John. Lasciami i sigari, per favore.”

“Certamente, signore.” John posò i documenti sul tavolo, con mano tremante.

“Resta un attimo, giovane John; resta ancora un momento. Sarebbe per me una grande soddisfazione inviare, attraverso un messaggero così affidabile, un piccolo dono da distribuire tra di loro, secondo i loro bisogni. Ti dispiacerebbe prenderlo, John?”

“Assolutamente no, signore. Sono sicuro che ci siano molte persone che sarebbero più adatte per questo compito.”

“Grazie, John. Io, beh, lo scriverò, John.”

La sua mano tremava così tanto che impiegò molto tempo per scrivere; alla fine riuscì a comporre il messaggio con caratteri tremolanti. Era un assegno da cento sterline. Lo piegò e lo diede nelle mani di Young John, stringendogliela forte.

“Spero che tu possa, beh, perdonare ciò che è accaduto, John.”

“Non ne parliamo nemmeno, signore. Assolutamente no. Sono sicuro di non provare alcun rancore.”

Ma nulla, finché John era lì, poteva far tornare il suo viso al suo colore e alla sua espressione naturale, né restituire a John il suo comportamento abituale.

“E poi, John,” disse il signor Dorrit, stringendogli la mano un’ultima volta prima di lasciarla, “spero che noi, abbiamo concordato sul fatto di aver parlato tra noi in confidenza; e che tu, uscendo, eviterai di dire a chiunque qualcosa che possa far pensare che, una volta io, ”

“Oh! Vi assicuro, signore,” rispose John Chivery, “con il mio modo umile e povero, sono troppo orgoglioso e onesto per farlo, signore.”

Il signor Dorrit non era troppo orgoglioso o onesto per non andare ad ascoltare alla porta, così da poter verificare con i propri occhi se John fosse davvero uscito subito, oppure si fosse trattenuto per parlare con qualcuno. Non c’era alcun dubbio che fosse uscito direttamente dalla porta e si fosse allontanato lungo la strada a passi veloci. Dopo essere rimasto da solo per un’ora, il signor Dorrit chiamò il corriere, che lo trovò con la sedia posizionata sul tappeto del camino, seduto con le spalle rivolte verso di lui e il viso rivolto verso il fuoco. “Puoi prendere quel mazzo di sigari per fumarli durante il viaggio, se vuoi,” disse il signor Dorrit, facendo un gesto noncurante con la mano. “È, una piccola offerta del, figlio dell’ex inquilino mio.”

Il sole del mattino seguente vide la comitiva di Mr Dorrit sulla strada per Dover: ogni postiglione con giubba rossa era un segno di una casa crudele, fondata allo scopo di derubare senza pietà i viaggiatori. L’intera attività umana, tra Londra e Dover, consisteva in rapine; quindi Mr Dorrit fu assaltato a Dartford, derubato a Gravesend, saccheggiato a Rochester, spolpato a Sittingbourne e devastato a Canterbury. Tuttavia, poiché il compito del “Courier” era quello di farlo uscire dalle mani dei banditi, lo accompagnò in ogni tappa del viaggio; così i postiglioni con giubbe rosse proseguirono felicemente lungo il paesaggio primaverile, salendo e scendendo regolarmente lungo la strada polverosa, tra Mr Dorrit nel suo comodo angolo e la successiva altura ricoperta di ghiaia.

Un altro giorno lo vide a Calais. Ora che il Canale della Manica si frapponeva tra lui e John Chivery, iniziò a sentirsi al sicuro e scoprì che l’aria straniera era più fresca e più facile da respirare rispetto all’aria d’Inghilterra.

Di nuovo lungo le pesanti strade francesi, diretto verso Parigi. Ora che aveva completamente ripreso la sua calma, il signor Dorrit, nel suo comodo angolo, iniziò a costruire castelli mentre viaggiava. Era evidente che avesse in mente un castello davvero enorme: per tutto il giorno costruiva torri, le demoliva, aggiungeva ali, installava merlature, controllava le mura, rafforzava le difese e dava al castello dettagli decorativi, trasformandolo in un vero e proprio capolavoro. Il suo viso assorto rivelava chiaramente a quale attività fosse impegnato; ogni mendicante alle stazioni di posta, anche se non cieco, che avvicinava la sua vecchia scatola di latta alla finestra delle carrozze chiedendo carità in nome del Cielo, della Nostra Signora o di tutti i Santi, sapeva perfettamente a cosa stesse lavorando, proprio come avrebbe potuto saperlo lo stesso Le Brun, sebbene quest’ultimo avesse dedicato un intero trattato fisiognomico a quel viaggiatore inglese.

Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and particularly the jewellers’ windows. Ultimately, he went into the most famous jeweller’s, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.

It was a charming little woman to whom he said it—a sprightly little woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which looked in itself like a sweetmeat.

For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did Monsieur desire? A love-gift?

Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?

Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts. For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial, were what one called, with the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.

Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with the nuptial offering?

Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with gifts would find them irresistible.

Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame.

Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles. Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling in the air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What time the Courier in the rumble, smoking Young John’s best cigars, left a little thread of thin light smoke behind—perhaps as he built a castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit’s money.

Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit’s castle. Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless building; nor was the Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons of Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they could, through the filth that festered on the way.

Arrivato a Parigi e vi trascorso tre giorni di riposo, il signor Dorrit passeggiò molto per le strade, da solo, guardando attraverso i vetrini dei negozi, in particolare quelli degli orafi. Alla fine entrò nel più famoso negozio di gioielli e chiese di acquistare un piccolo regalo per una signora.

Era una donna piccola e deliziosa a cui lo disse. Una donna vivace, vestita con grande gusto, che usciva da un grazioso padiglione di velluto verde per prendersi cura di lui; sistemava dei delicati libretti contabili, dai quali si sarebbe quasi potuto pensare che non venissero registrate informazioni di natura commerciale, se non, baci. Tutto ciò avveniva davanti a un grazioso tavolino luminoso che, di per sé, sembrava una delizia da assaporare.

Ad esempio, allora, disse la piccola donna, di quale tipo di regalo desiderava il signor ? Un regalo d’amore?

Il signor Dorrit sorrise e disse: “Eh, forse. Cosa ne sapeva lui? Era sempre possibile; quel sesso era davvero affascinante. Gliene avrebbe mostrate alcune?”

Con grande piacere, disse la piccola donna. Era lusingata e felice di potergli mostrare tante cose. Ma scusi! Prima di tutto, avrebbe avuto la grande gentilezza di notare che c’erano doni d’amore e doni nuziali. Ad esempio, questi orecchini incantevoli e questo collare così splendido erano ciò che si definiva un dono d’amore; questi broccchi e questi anelli, di una bellezza così elegante e celestiale, erano invece ciò che, con il permesso del signore, si chiamava doni nuziali.

“Forse sarebbe un’ottima soluzione,” suggerì il signor Dorrit sorridendo, “acquistare entrambi i regali e presentare prima quello d’amore, per poi concludere con l’offerta nuziale, ”

“Ah, cielo!” disse la piccola donna, mettendo le punte delle dita delle sue due manine una contro l’altra. “Sarebbe davvero generoso. Una vera e propria dimostrazione di cavalleria! E senza alcun dubbio, la signora, sommersa da tanti regali, li troverebbe irresistibili.”

Il signor Dorrit non ne era sicuro. Ma, ad esempio, quella vivace e piccola donna ne era assolutamente certa, diceva lei. Così il signor Dorrit comprò un regalo di ogni tipo e pagò molto caro per essi. Mentre tornava al suo hotel in seguito, camminava a testa alta: aveva chiaramente costruito la sua torre su un livello molto più alto rispetto alle due torri quadrate di Notre Dame.

Costruendo con tutte le sue forze, ma riservando i progetti del suo castello esclusivamente per i propri occhi, il signor Dorrit continuò a lavorare verso Marsiglia. Costruiva senza sosta, dalla mattina alla notte; si addormentava lasciando grandi blocchi di materiali da costruzione sospesi in aria; si svegliava di nuovo per riprendere il lavoro e sistemarli al loro posto. Chissà a che ora il corriere, fumando i migliori sigari di Young John, lasciò alle sue spalle un filo sottile di fumo. Forse mentre costruiva uno o due castelli utilizzando i soldi avanzati del signor Dorrit.

Nessuna città fortificata che attraversarono durante tutto il loro viaggio era così forte, nessun picco di una Cattedrale era così alto quanto il castello del signor Dorrit. Né il Saone né il Rodano scorrevano con la velocità di quell’edificio senza pari; né il Mediterraneo era più profondo delle sue fondamenta; né i paesaggi lontani lungo la strada della Cornice, né le colline e la baia di Genova erano più belli. Il signor Dorrit e il suo incomparabile castello sbarcarono tra le case bianche e sporche e i criminali ancora più disonesti di Civita Vecchia, e da lì proseguirono verso Roma, faticosamente, attraverso la sporcizia che si accumulava lungo il cammino.

CHAPTER 19. The Storming of the Castle in the Air

The sun had gone down full four hours, and it was later than most travellers would like it to be for finding themselves outside the walls of Rome, when Mr Dorrit’s carriage, still on its last wearisome stage, rattled over the solitary Campagna. The savage herdsmen and the fierce-looking peasants who had chequered the way while the light lasted, had all gone down with the sun, and left the wilderness blank. At some turns of the road, a pale flare on the horizon, like an exhalation from the ruin-sown land, showed that the city was yet far off; but this poor relief was rare and short-lived. The carriage dipped down again into a hollow of the black dry sea, and for a long time there was nothing visible save its petrified swell and the gloomy sky.

Mr Dorrit, though he had his castle-building to engage his mind, could not be quite easy in that desolate place. He was far more curious, in every swerve of the carriage, and every cry of the postilions, than he had been since he quitted London. The valet on the box evidently quaked. The Courier in the rumble was not altogether comfortable in his mind. As often as Mr Dorrit let down the glass and looked back at him (which was very often), he saw him smoking John Chivery out, it is true, but still generally standing up the while and looking about him, like a man who had his suspicions, and kept upon his guard. Then would Mr Dorrit, pulling up the glass again, reflect that those postilions were cut-throat looking fellows, and that he would have done better to have slept at Civita Vecchia, and have started betimes in the morning. But, for all this, he worked at his castle in the intervals.

And now, fragments of ruinous enclosure, yawning window-gap and crazy wall, deserted houses, leaking wells, broken water-tanks, spectral cypress-trees, patches of tangled vine, and the changing of the track to a long, irregular, disordered lane where everything was crumbling away, from the unsightly buildings to the jolting road—now, these objects showed that they were nearing Rome. And now, a sudden twist and stoppage of the carriage inspired Mr Dorrit with the mistrust that the brigand moment was come for twisting him into a ditch and robbing him; until, letting down the glass again and looking out, he perceived himself assailed by nothing worse than a funeral procession, which came mechanically chaunting by, with an indistinct show of dirty vestments, lurid torches, swinging censers, and a great cross borne before a priest. He was an ugly priest by torchlight; of a lowering aspect, with an overhanging brow; and as his eyes met those of Mr Dorrit, looking bareheaded out of the carriage, his lips, moving as they chaunted, seemed to threaten that important traveller; likewise the action of his hand, which was in fact his manner of returning the traveller’s salutation, seemed to come in aid of that menace. So thought Mr Dorrit, made fanciful by the weariness of building and travelling, as the priest drifted past him, and the procession straggled away, taking its dead along with it. Upon their so-different way went Mr Dorrit’s company too; and soon, with their coach load of luxuries from the two great capitals of Europe, they were (like the Goths reversed) beating at the gates of Rome.

Mr Dorrit was not expected by his own people that night. He had been; but they had given him up until to-morrow, not doubting that it was later than he would care, in those parts, to be out. Thus, when his equipage stopped at his own gate, no one but the porter appeared to receive him. Was Miss Dorrit from home? he asked. No. She was within. Good, said Mr Dorrit to the assembling servants; let them keep where they were; let them help to unload the carriage; he would find Miss Dorrit for himself.

So he went up his grand staircase, slowly, and tired, and looked into various chambers which were empty, until he saw a light in a small ante-room. It was a curtained nook, like a tent, within two other rooms; and it looked warm and bright in colour, as he approached it through the dark avenue they made.

There was a draped doorway, but no door; and as he stopped here, looking in unseen, he felt a pang. Surely not like jealousy? For why like jealousy? There was only his daughter and his brother there: he, with his chair drawn to the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the evening wood fire; she seated at a little table, busied with some embroidery work. Allowing for the great difference in the still-life of the picture, the figures were much the same as of old; his brother being sufficiently like himself to represent himself, for a moment, in the composition. So had he sat many a night, over a coal fire far away; so had she sat, devoted to him. Yet surely there was nothing to be jealous of in the old miserable poverty. Whence, then, the pang in his heart?

‘Do you know, uncle, I think you are growing young again?’

Her uncle shook his head and said, ‘Since when, my dear; since when?’

‘I think,’ returned Little Dorrit, plying her needle, ‘that you have been growing younger for weeks past. So cheerful, uncle, and so ready, and so interested.’

‘My dear child—all you.’

‘All me, uncle!’

‘Yes, yes. You have done me a world of good. You have been so considerate of me, and so tender with me, and so delicate in trying to hide your attentions from me, that I—well, well, well! It’s treasured up, my darling, treasured up.’

‘There is nothing in it but your own fresh fancy, uncle,’ said Little Dorrit, cheerfully.

‘Well, well, well!’ murmured the old man. ‘Thank God!’

She paused for an instant in her work to look at him, and her look revived that former pain in her father’s breast; in his poor weak breast, so full of contradictions, vacillations, inconsistencies, the little peevish perplexities of this ignorant life, mists which the morning without a night only can clear away.

CAPITOLO 19. L’assalto al castello sospeso nel cielo

Il sole era già tramontato da ben quattro ore; era quindi molto tardi per la maggior parte dei viaggiatori che si trovassero al di fuori delle mura di Roma. In quel momento, la carrozza del signor Dorrit, ancora impegnata nell’ultima e faticosa tappa del suo viaggio, sobbalzava attraverso la desolata campagna. Gli aggressivi pastori e i contadini dall’aspetto minaccioso che avevano incontrato lungo il cammino durante il giorno erano ormai tutti scomparsi con il calare del sole, lasciando il paesaggio completamente deserto. In alcune curve della strada, un debole bagliore all’orizzonte sembrava indicare la vicinanza della città; ma questa debole luce era rara e di breve durata. La carrozza sprofondava nuovamente in valli buie e desolate, e per molto tempo non si vedeva nulla se non il terreno arido e desolato intorno a lei e il cielo cupo sopra la sua testa.

Il signor Dorrit, sebbene avesse la costruzione del suo _castello a occupargli la mente, non riusciva comunque a trovare pace in quel luogo desolato. Era molto più curioso di quanto lo fosse stato da quando aveva lasciato _Londra; ad ogni sobbalzo della carrozza, ad ogni grido dei postiglioni, la sua attenzione era completamente assorbita da ciò che gli accadeva intorno. Il valletto seduto sul tetto della carrozza, evidentemente, tremava di paura; anche il corriere non sembrava affatto a suo agio in quella situazione. Ogni volta che il signor Dorrit abbassava il finestrino per guardarlo (il che accadeva molto spesso), lo vedeva fumare la sua pipa, ma allo stesso tempo alzarsi di tanto in tanto e guardarsi intorno, come un uomo che nutriva dei sospetti e stesse all’erta. Allora il signor Dorrit riprendeva a lavorare al suo _castello, riflettendo su quanto fossero pericolosi quei postiglioni. Avrebbe fatto meglio a dormire a Civita Vecchia e partire la mattina seguente, invece. Ma nonostante tutto ciò, continuava imperterrito nel suo lavoro.

E ora, frammenti di recinzioni in rovina, voragini nelle finestre e muri distrutti, case abbandonate, pozzi che perdevano acqua, serbatoi rotti, cipressi spettrali, ciuffi di viti intrecciate. E il sentiero, lungo e irregolare, disordinato, dove tutto andava in rovina: dagli edifici sgradevoli alla strada accidentata. Tutto questo indicava che stavano avvicinandosi a Roma. Poi, una brusca svolta della carrozza fece nascere in Mr Dorrit il sospetto che i banditi stessero per gettarlo in un fossato e derubarlo; ma abbassando di nuovo il finestrino, vide soltanto una processione funebre che passava davanti a lui: abiti sporchi, torce luminose, incensieri oscillanti. E una grande croce portata da un prete. Il prete, illuminato dalle torce, aveva un aspetto cupo e minaccioso; i suoi occhi incontrarono quelli di Mr Dorrit, che guardava fuori dalla carrozza a testa scoperta. Le sue labbra si muovevano mentre cantava, come se stesse minacciando quel viaggiatore. Anche il movimento della sua mano sembrava rafforzare quella minaccia. Così pensò Mr Dorrit, stanco per i lunghi viaggi e le fatiche. Mentre il prete proseguiva lungo la sua strada, e la processione si allontanava, portando con sé i suoi morti. Anche la compagnia di Mr Dorrit seguiva una strada diversa. E presto, con il loro carico di lussi provenienti dalle due grandi capitali d’Europa, arrivarono alle porte di Roma.

Quella notte, la gente di casa del signor Dorrit non si aspettava il suo ritorno. Lui stesso aveva detto che sarebbe tornato entro l’indomani, e loro non dubitavano che fosse troppo tardi per lui, in quelle zone, uscire ancora. Così, quando la sua carrozza si fermò davanti al cancello di casa, nessuno oltre al portiere apparve ad accoglierlo. “La signorina Dorrit è in casa?”, chiese. No, era dentro. “Bene”, disse il signor Dorrit ai servitori radunati; “lasciate che rimangano dove sono e aiutino a scaricare la carrozza; io troverò da solo la signorina Dorrit”.

Salì lentamente le sue grandi scale, stanco com’era, e guardò dentro varie stanze che erano vuote, fino a quando non vide una luce in una piccola anticamera. Era un angolo coperto da tende, simile a una tenda, situato tra altre due stanze; sembrava caldo e aveva colori vivaci, mentre ci si avvicinava attraverso il corridoio buio che lo separava dalle altre stanze.

C’era un architrave drappeggiato, ma nessuna porta; e mentre si fermava lì, guardando all’interno di qualcosa di invisibile, provò un dolore acuto. Di certo non era simile alla invidia. Perché mai dovrebbe essere invidia? Lì c’erano solo sua figlia e suo fratello: lui, con la sedia accostata al camino, godendosi il calore del fuoco; lei, seduta a un piccolo tavolo, impegnata in qualche lavoro di ricamo. Nonostante le grandi differenze nella rappresentazione visiva di quella scena, le figure erano più o meno le stesse di una volta: suo fratello era abbastanza simile a lui da poter, per un momento, rappresentare se stesso all’interno di quel quadro. Così avevano passato molte notti, davanti a un fuoco di carbone lontano. Così lei aveva trascorso il suo tempo, dedicata a lui. Eppure, nella vecchia e misera >poverza di allora, non c’era certo nulla di cui invidiare. Allora, da dove proveniva quel dolore nel suo cuore?

“Lo sai, zio? Penso che tu stia invecchiando di nuovo, ”

“Da quando, mia cara, da quando?” disse suo zio scuotendo la testa.

“Penso,” rispose Little Dorrit, continuando a lavorare a maglia, “che nelle ultime settimane tu sia diventato sempre più giovane. Sembri così felice, zio, così pronto ad aiutare e così interessato a tutto.”

“Mio caro >bambino, tutto ciò che hai.”

“Tutto per me, zio!”

‘Sì, sì. Mi hai fatto un immenso favore. Sei stato così premuroso nei miei confronti, così gentile e attento nel cercare di nascondere i tuoi sentimenti per me. Che cosa meravigliosa! Lo terrò sempre a cuore, mio caro.’

“Non c’è nient’altro dentro se non la tua stessa fantasia, zio,” disse allegramente Little Dorrit.

“Beh, beh, beh, ”, mormorò l’uomo anziano. “Grazie a Dio!”

Si fermò un attimo nel suo lavoro per guardarlo, e il suo sguardo rievocò quella vecchia dolore nel petto di suo padre; in quel povero e debole petto, pieno di contraddizioni, incertezze, incoerenze, quelle piccole difficoltà e confusione tipiche di una vita ignorante, quelle nebbie che solo l’alba, senza la notte, può dissipare.

‘I have been freer with you, you see, my dove,’ said the old man, ‘since we have been alone. I say, alone, for I don’t count Mrs General; I don’t care for her; she has nothing to do with me. But I know Fanny was impatient of me. And I don’t wonder at it, or complain of it, for I am sensible that I must be in the way, though I try to keep out of it as well as I can. I know I am not fit company for our company. My brother William,’ said the old man admiringly, ‘is fit company for monarchs; but not so your uncle, my dear. Frederick Dorrit is no credit to William Dorrit, and he knows it quite well. Ah! Why, here’s your father, Amy! My dear William, welcome back! My beloved brother, I am rejoiced to see you!’

(Turning his head in speaking, he had caught sight of him as he stood in the doorway.)

Little Dorrit with a cry of pleasure put her arms about her father’s neck, and kissed him again and again. Her father was a little impatient, and a little querulous. ‘I am glad to find you at last, Amy,’ he said. ‘Ha. Really I am glad to find—hum—any one to receive me at last. I appear to have been—ha—so little expected, that upon my word I began—ha hum—to think it might be right to offer an apology for—ha—taking the liberty of coming back at all.’

‘It was so late, my dear William,’ said his brother, ‘that we had given you up for to-night.’

‘I am stronger than you, dear Frederick,’ returned his brother with an elaboration of fraternity in which there was severity; ‘and I hope I can travel without detriment at—ha—any hour I choose.’

‘Surely, surely,’ returned the other, with a misgiving that he had given offence. ‘Surely, William.’

‘Thank you, Amy,’ pursued Mr Dorrit, as she helped him to put off his wrappers. ‘I can do it without assistance. I—ha—need not trouble you, Amy. Could I have a morsel of bread and a glass of wine, or—hum—would it cause too much inconvenience?’

‘Dear father, you shall have supper in a very few minutes.’

‘Thank you, my love,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a reproachful frost upon him; ‘I—ha—am afraid I am causing inconvenience. Hum. Mrs General pretty well?’

‘Mrs General complained of a headache, and of being fatigued; and so, when we gave you up, she went to bed, dear.’

Perhaps Mr Dorrit thought that Mrs General had done well in being overcome by the disappointment of his not arriving. At any rate, his face relaxed, and he said with obvious satisfaction, ‘Extremely sorry to hear that Mrs General is not well.’

During this short dialogue, his daughter had been observant of him, with something more than her usual interest. It would seem as though he had a changed or worn appearance in her eyes, and he perceived and resented it; for he said with renewed peevishness, when he had divested himself of his travelling-cloak, and had come to the fire:

‘Amy, what are you looking at? What do you see in me that causes you to—ha—concentrate your solicitude on me in that—hum—very particular manner?’

‘I did not know it, father; I beg your pardon. It gladdens my eyes to see you again; that’s all.’

‘Don’t say that’s all, because—ha—that’s not all. You—hum—you think,’ said Mr Dorrit, with an accusatory emphasis, ‘that I am not looking well.’

‘I thought you looked a little tired, love.’

‘Then you are mistaken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Ha, I am not tired. Ha, hum. I am very much fresher than I was when I went away.’

He was so inclined to be angry that she said nothing more in her justification, but remained quietly beside him embracing his arm. As he stood thus, with his brother on the other side, he fell into a heavy doze, of not a minute’s duration, and awoke with a start.

‘Frederick,’ he said, turning to his brother: ‘I recommend you to go to bed immediately.’

‘No, William. I’ll wait and see you sup.’

‘Frederick,’ he retorted, ‘I beg you to go to bed. I—ha—make it a personal request that you go to bed. You ought to have been in bed long ago. You are very feeble.’

‘Hah!’ said the old man, who had no wish but to please him. ‘Well, well, well! I dare say I am.’

‘My dear Frederick,’ returned Mr Dorrit, with an astonishing superiority to his brother’s failing powers, ‘there can be no doubt of it. It is painful to me to see you so weak. Ha. It distresses me. Hum. I don’t find you looking at all well. You are not fit for this sort of thing. You should be more careful, you should be very careful.’

‘Shall I go to bed?’ asked Frederick.

‘Dear Frederick,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘do, I adjure you! Good night, brother. I hope you will be stronger to-morrow. I am not at all pleased with your looks. Good night, dear fellow.’ After dismissing his brother in this gracious way, he fell into a doze again before the old man was well out of the room: and he would have stumbled forward upon the logs, but for his daughter’s restraining hold.

‘Your uncle wanders very much, Amy,’ he said, when he was thus roused. ‘He is less—ha—coherent, and his conversation is more—hum—broken, than I have—ha, hum—ever known. Has he had any illness since I have been gone?’

‘No, father.’

‘You—ha—see a great change in him, Amy?’

‘I have not observed it, dear.’

‘Greatly broken,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Greatly broken. My poor, affectionate, failing Frederick! Ha. Even taking into account what he was before, he is—hum—sadly broken!’

His supper, which was brought to him there, and spread upon the little table where he had seen her working, diverted his attention. She sat at his side as in the days that were gone, for the first time since those days ended. They were alone, and she helped him to his meat and poured out his drink for him, as she had been used to do in the prison. All this happened now, for the first time since their accession to wealth. She was afraid to look at him much, after the offence he had taken; but she noticed two occasions in the course of his meal, when he all of a sudden looked at her, and looked about him, as if the association were so strong that he needed assurance from his sense of sight that they were not in the old prison-room. Both times, he put his hand to his head as if he missed his old black cap—though it had been ignominiously given away in the Marshalsea, and had never got free to that hour, but still hovered about the yards on the head of his successor.

“Con te sono stato più libero, vedi, mia colomba,” disse l’uomo anziano, “da quando siamo stati soli. Dico ‘soli’, perché non includo la signora Generale; non mi interessa lei; non ha nulla a che fare con me. So però che Fanny era impaziente di me. E non me ne meraviglio, né me ne lamento, perché so bene di essere d’intralcio, anche se cerco di tenermi fuori il più possibile. So di non essere adatto alla nostra compagnia. Mio fratello William,” disse l’uomo anziano con ammirazione, “è un compagno adatto persino per i monarchi; ma tuo zio, no, mio caro. Frederick Dorrit non è certo un onore per William Dorrit, e lui lo sa benissimo. Ah! Ecco tuo padre, Amy. Mio caro William, ben tornato! Mio amato fratello, sono felice di rivederti!”

(Girando la testa mentre parlava, lo aveva visto mentre stava fermo sulla soglia.)

Little Dorrit, con un grido di gioia, abbracciò il padre e lo baciò più volte. Suo padre era un po’ impaziente e un po’ lamentoso. “Sono contento di trovarti finalmente, Amy,” disse. “Ah. Davvero sono felice di trovare, beh, qualcuno che mi accolga finalmente. Sembra che nessuno si aspettasse il mio ritorno; tanto che, a dire il vero, ho iniziato a pensare che potesse essere giusto scusarmi per aver preso l’ardire di tornare, ”

“Era così tardi, caro William,” disse suo fratello, “che pensavamo che fossi già passato a notte.”

“Sono più forte di te, caro Frederick,” rispose suo fratello, esprimendo un sentimento di fraternità che nascondeva però una certa durezza; “e spero di poter viaggiare senza problemi, in qualsiasi momento io scelga.”

“Certo, certo,” rispose l’altro, con il timore di aver offeso qualcuno. “Certo, William.”

“Grazie, Amy,” continuò il signor Dorrit mentre lei lo aiutava a togliersi i pacchetti. “Posso farlo da solo. Non c’è bisogno che ti disturbi, Amy. Potrei avere un pezzetto di pane e un bicchiere di vino. O forse causerebbe troppi problemi?”

“Caro padre, tra pochi minuti avrai la cena pronta.”

“Grazie, mio amore”, disse il signor Dorrit, con un tono di rimprovero; “Temo di causare qualche disturbo. Ehm. La signora Generale sta bene?”

“La signora generale si lamentava di mal di testa e di stanchezza; quindi, dopo che vi abbiamo lasciati, è andata a letto, caro.”

Forse il signor Dorrit pensava che la signora Generale avesse reagito bene di fronte alla delusione causata dal suo mancato arrivo. Comunque sia, il suo viso si rilassò e disse con evidente soddisfazione: “Mi dispiace molto sentire che la signora Generale non stia bene”.

Durante questo breve dialogo, sua figlia lo osservava con un interesse che andava oltre la norma. Sembrava che il suo aspetto fosse cambiato o invecchiato ai suoi occhi, e lui se ne accorse e ne fu infastidito; infatti, quando si tolse il mantello da viaggio e si avvicinò al focolare, disse con rinnovata irritazione:

“Amy, cosa stai guardando? Cosa vedi in me che ti spinge a concentrare tutta la tua attenzione su di me in quel modo così, particolare?”

“Non lo sapevo, padre; vi chiedo scusa. Mi riempie di gioia rivedervi; nient’altro.”

“Non dite che è tutto qui, perché, beh, non è tutto qui. Voi, ehm, pensate,” disse il signor Dorrit con un tono accusatorio, “che io non stia bene.”

“Pensavo che sembrassi un po’ stanco, amore.”

“Allora vi sbagliate,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Ah, non sono affatto stanco. Anzi, sono molto più riposato di quando sono partito.”

Era così propenso ad arrabbiarsi che lei non aggiunse più nulla nelle sue scuse, ma rimase in silenzio al suo fianco, tenendogli il braccio. Mentre stava lì, con suo fratello dall’altra parte, cadde in un sonno profondo, durato meno di un minuto, e si svegliò di soprassalto.

“Frederick,” disse, rivolgendosi al fratello, “ti consiglio di andare a letto immediatamente.”

“No, William. Aspetterò e ti vedrò a cena.”

“Frederick,” ribatté lui, “ti prego di andare a letto. È una richiesta personale: dovresti essere a letto da molto tempo ormai. Sei molto debole.”

“Ah!” disse l’uomo anziano, il quale non desiderava altro che compiacerlo. “Beh, beh, beh! Oserei dire di sì.”

“Mio caro Frederick,” rispose il signor Dorrit, con una sorprendente superiorità rispetto alle deboli capacità di suo fratello, “non può esserci alcun dubbio al riguardo. Mi addolora vederti così debole. Ah, mi rattrista davvero. Non credo che tu stia affatto bene. Non sei adatto a queste cose; dovresti essere più cauto, molto più cauto.”

“Devo andare a letto?” chiese Frederick.

“Caro Frederick,” disse il signor Dorrit, “per favore, te lo supplico! Buona notte, fratello. Spero che domani ti senta meglio. Non mi piace affatto il tuo aspetto. Buona notte, caro amico.” Dopo aver congedato suo fratello in questo modo gentile, si addormentò di nuovo prima ancora che l’anziano uscisse dalla stanza; per poco non inciampava nei tronchi, se non fosse stato per la presa della figlia.

“Tuo zio vaga molto in giro, Amy,” disse lui quando fu così svegliato.
“È meno, coeso nel suo discorso, e le sue parole sono più, frammentate di quanto io abbia mai, beh, mai notato prima. Ha avuto qualche malattia da quando me ne sono andato?”

“No, padre.”

“Vedi un grande cambiamento in lui, Amy?”

“Non l’ho notato, caro.”

“Molto distrutto,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Molto distrutto. Mio povero, affettuoso e malato Frederick. Anche tenendo conto di ciò che era prima, è davvero, molto distrutto.”

La sua cena, che gli fu portata lì e disposta sul piccolo tavolo dove l’aveva vista lavorare, distolse la sua attenzione. Lei sedette al suo fianco, come nei giorni passati, per la prima volta da quando quei giorni erano finiti. Erano soli, e lei gli aiutò a mangiare e gli versò da bere, proprio come faceva un tempo nella prigione. Tutto ciò accadde ora, per la prima volta da quando erano diventati ricchi. Aveva paura di guardarlo troppo a lungo, dopo l’offesa che gli aveva fatto; ma durante il pasto notò due occasioni in cui lui, all’improvviso, la guardò e si guardò intorno, come se quel ricordo fosse così forte da aver bisogno della conferma dei suoi occhi per essere sicuro che non si trovassero più nella vecchia stanza della prigione. Entrambe le volte, si prese la testa con la mano, come se gli mancasse il suo vecchio cappello nero, anche se era stato vergognosamente dato via a Marshalsea e da allora non era mai più tornato in suo possesso; continuava comunque a “vagare” nei dintorni della prigione, sulla testa del suo successore.

He took very little supper, but was a long time over it, and often reverted to his brother’s declining state. Though he expressed the greatest pity for him, he was almost bitter upon him. He said that poor Frederick—ha hum—drivelled. There was no other word to express it; drivelled. Poor fellow! It was melancholy to reflect what Amy must have undergone from the excessive tediousness of his Society—wandering and babbling on, poor dear estimable creature, wandering and babbling on—if it had not been for the relief she had had in Mrs General. Extremely sorry, he then repeated with his former satisfaction, that that—ha—superior woman was poorly.

Little Dorrit, in her watchful love, would have remembered the lightest thing he said or did that night, though she had had no subsequent reason to recall that night. She always remembered that, when he looked about him under the strong influence of the old association, he tried to keep it out of her mind, and perhaps out of his own too, by immediately expatiating on the great riches and great company that had encompassed him in his absence, and on the lofty position he and his family had to sustain. Nor did she fail to recall that there were two under-currents, side by side, pervading all his discourse and all his manner; one showing her how well he had got on without her, and how independent he was of her; the other, in a fitful and unintelligible way almost complaining of her, as if it had been possible that she had neglected him while he was away.

His telling her of the glorious state that Mr Merdle kept, and of the court that bowed before him, naturally brought him to Mrs Merdle. So naturally indeed, that although there was an unusual want of sequence in the greater part of his remarks, he passed to her at once, and asked how she was.

‘She is very well. She is going away next week.’

‘Home?’ asked Mr Dorrit.

‘After a few weeks’ stay upon the road.’

‘She will be a vast loss here,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘A vast—ha—acquisition at home. To Fanny, and to—hum—the rest of the—ha—great world.’

Little Dorrit thought of the competition that was to be entered upon, and assented very softly.

‘Mrs Merdle is going to have a great farewell Assembly, dear, and a dinner before it. She has been expressing her anxiety that you should return in time. She has invited both you and me to her dinner.’

‘She is—ha—very kind. When is the day?’

‘The day after to-morrow.’

‘Write round in the morning, and say that I have returned, and shall—hum—be delighted.’

‘May I walk with you up the stairs to your room, dear?’

‘No!’ he answered, looking angrily round; for he was moving away, as if forgetful of leave-taking. ‘You may not, Amy. I want no help. I am your father, not your infirm uncle!’ He checked himself, as abruptly as he had broken into this reply, and said, ‘You have not kissed me, Amy. Good night, my dear! We must marry—ha—we must marry you, now.’ With that he went, more slowly and more tired, up the staircase to his rooms, and, almost as soon as he got there, dismissed his valet. His next care was to look about him for his Paris purchases, and, after opening their cases and carefully surveying them, to put them away under lock and key. After that, what with dozing and what with castle-building, he lost himself for a long time, so that there was a touch of morning on the eastward rim of the desolate Campagna when he crept to bed.

Mrs General sent up her compliments in good time next day, and hoped he had rested well after this fatiguing journey. He sent down his compliments, and begged to inform Mrs General that he had rested very well indeed, and was in high condition. Nevertheless, he did not come forth from his own rooms until late in the afternoon; and, although he then caused himself to be magnificently arrayed for a drive with Mrs General and his daughter, his appearance was scarcely up to his description of himself.

As the family had no visitors that day, its four members dined alone together. He conducted Mrs General to the seat at his right hand with immense ceremony; and Little Dorrit could not but notice as she followed with her uncle, both that he was again elaborately dressed, and that his manner towards Mrs General was very particular. The perfect formation of that accomplished lady’s surface rendered it difficult to displace an atom of its genteel glaze, but Little Dorrit thought she descried a slight thaw of triumph in a corner of her frosty eye.

Notwithstanding what may be called in these pages the Pruney and Prismatic nature of the family banquet, Mr Dorrit several times fell asleep while it was in progress. His fits of dozing were as sudden as they had been overnight, and were as short and profound. When the first of these slumberings seized him, Mrs General looked almost amazed: but, on each recurrence of the symptoms, she told her polite beads, Papa, Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes, and Prism; and, by dint of going through that infallible performance very slowly, appeared to finish her rosary at about the same time as Mr Dorrit started from his sleep.

He was again painfully aware of a somnolent tendency in Frederick (which had no existence out of his own imagination), and after dinner, when Frederick had withdrawn, privately apologised to Mrs General for the poor man. ‘The most estimable and affectionate of brothers,’ he said, ‘but—ha, hum—broken up altogether. Unhappily, declining fast.’

‘Mr Frederick, sir,’ quoth Mrs General, ‘is habitually absent and drooping, but let us hope it is not so bad as that.’

Mr Dorrit, however, was determined not to let him off. ‘Fast declining, madam. A wreck. A ruin. Mouldering away before our eyes. Hum. Good Frederick!’

‘You left Mrs Sparkler quite well and happy, I trust?’ said Mrs General, after heaving a cool sigh for Frederick.

Prese molto poco cibo per cena, ma ci impiegò un sacco di tempo; spesso ripensava allo stato sempre più declinante di suo fratello. Sebbene provasse la massima compassione per lui, in realtà era quasi pieno di amarezza nei suoi confronti. Diceva che povero Frederick, beh, semplicemente “perdeva la testa”. Non esisteva altra parola per descriverlo: perdeva la testa. Povero ragazzo! Era davvero triste pensare a quanto Amy dovesse aver sofferto a causa della noia estrema delle sue conversazioni, vagabondava e borbottava senza sosta, povera creatura cara e stimabile, se non fosse stato per il conforto che trovava nella signora Generale. Alla fine, ripeté con la solita soddisfazione che quella donna eccezionale stava davvero male.

La piccola Dorrit, con il suo amore attento e premuroso, avrebbe ricordato ogni minimo dettaglio di ciò che lui aveva detto o fatto quella notte, anche se in seguito non aveva più avuto motivo di ripensarci. Ricordava sempre che, mentre si guardava intorno sotto l’ forte influenza di quei vecchi ricordi, lui cercava di tenere tutto ciò nascosto sia a lei che forse a se stesso, parlando immediatamente delle grandi ricchezze e della prestigiosa compagnia che lo circondavano durante la sua assenza, nonché della nobile posizione che lui e la sua famiglia occupavano. Non dimenticava nemmeno che nel suo discorso e nel suo comportamento c’erano due tendenze contrastanti: da un lato, mostrava quanto bene se la cavasse senza di lei e quanto fosse indipendente da lei; dall’altro, in modo intermittente e poco comprensibile, sembrava quasi lamentarsi della sua assenza, come se lei potesse essersi dimenticata di lui durante la sua lontananza.

Raccontarle dello splendido stato in cui si trovava Mr Merdle e di come tutta la >corte gli rendesse omaggio lo portò naturalmente a parlare di Mrs Merdle. Fu così naturale, infatti, che, nonostante nella maggior parte dei suoi discorsi mancasse una certa coerenza logica, passò subito a parlarle e le chiese come stesse.

“Sta molto bene. Partirà la prossima settimana.”

“‘Casa?’” chiese il signor Dorrit.

‘Dopo alcune settimane trascorse sulla strada.’

“Sarà una grande perdita per noi,” disse il signor Dorrit. “Una vera e propria perdita. Per la famiglia. E anche per il resto del mondo.”

La piccola Dorrit pensò alla competizione a cui avrebbe dovuto partecipare, e acconsentì molto dolcemente.

“La signora Merdle organizzerà una bellissima assemblea di addio, caro, e prima ci sarà anche un banchetto. Ha espresso molta preoccupazione per il fatto che tu possa tornare in tempo. Ci ha invitati entrambi al suo banchetto.”

“È davvero molto gentile. Quando sarà quel giorno?”

“Il giorno dopo domani.”

“Scrivi questa mattina e digli che sono tornato, e che sarò, ehm, molto felice.”

“Posso accompagnarti su per le scale fino alla tua stanza, caro?”

“No!”, rispose, guardandosi intorno con rabbia; perché stava già allontanandosi, come se avesse dimenticato di salutare. “Non puoi farlo, Amy. Non ho bisogno di aiuto. Sono tuo padre, non il tuo debole zio!” Si fermò improvvisamente, proprio come aveva iniziato a parlare con tanta veemenza, e aggiunse: “Non mi hai baciato, Amy. Buona notte, mia cara. Dobbiamo sposarci. Dobbiamo sposarti adesso.” Detto questo, salì lentamente le scale, sempre più stanco, fino alle sue stanze; appena arrivato, licenziò il suo valletto. La sua prima cura fu cercare i regali acquistati a Parigi; dopo averli aperti e controllati attentamente, li mise sotto chiave. Poi, tra sonnellini e pensieri confusi, perse la nozione del tempo. Fu solo quando spuntò l’alba sulla desolata campagna che andò a letto.

La signora generale inviò i suoi complimenti nel giusto tempo il giorno seguente, sperando che si fosse riposato bene dopo questo estenuante viaggio. Lui rispose ringraziandola e le assicurò di essersi davvero riposato molto bene e di essere in ottima forma. Tuttavia, non uscì dalle sue stanze fino a tarda sera; e, sebbene si vestisse con grande cura per una gita con la signora generale e sua figlia, il suo aspetto non corrispondeva affatto alle descrizioni che aveva fatto di sé.

Poiché quella giornata non c’erano visitatori in famiglia, i suoi quattro membri cenarono da soli insieme. Lui accompagnò la signora Generale con grande cerimonia al posto a destra di sé; e Little Dorrit, seguendo suo zio, notò sia che lui era di nuovo vestito in modo elegante, sia che il suo comportamento verso la signora Generale fosse molto particolare. La perfetta compostezza esteriore di quella signora rendeva difficile alterare anche solo un filo della sua grazia raffinata; tuttavia, Little Dorrit pensò di aver notato, in un angolo del suo sguardo gelido, un lieve segno di trionfo.

Nonostante ciò che in queste pagine potrebbe essere definito il carattere “prugnoso” e “prismatico” del banchetto di famiglia, il signor Dorrit si addormentò più volte durante la sua durata. I suoi sonnellini erano altrettanto improvvisi quanto quelli avvenuti durante la notte, e altrettanto brevi e profondi. La prima volta che gli capitò questo, la signora Generale sembrò quasi sorpresa; ma ogni volta che i sintomi si ripetevano, lei recitava meccanicamente le sue “perle di preghiera”: “Papa, Patate, Pollame, Prugne, Prisma”; e, ripetendo questa sequenza con estrema lentezza, sembrava completare il suo rosario più o meno nello stesso momento in cui il signor Dorrit si risvegliava dal sonno.

Fu di nuovo dolorosamente consapevole della tendenza sonnolenta di Frederick (che non esisteva se non nella sua immaginazione), e dopo cena, quando Frederick si era ritirato, si scusò in privato con la signora generale per quel poveruomo. “Il fratello più stimabile e affettuoso, ”, disse, “ma, ahimè, completamente distrutto. Purtroppo, sta peggiorando rapidamente.”

“Signor Frederick, signore,” disse la moglie del generale, “di solito è assente e di cattivo umore, ma speriamo che non sia così grave.”

Tuttavia, il signor Dorrit era deciso a non lasciarlo andare. “In rapida declinazione, signora. Un rovina. Una distruzione. Sta marcendo davanti ai nostri occhi. Hmm. Buon Frederick!”

“Spero che abbiate lasciato la signora Sparkler in buone condizioni e felice, vero?” disse la signora Generale, dopo aver emesso un sospiro freddo per Frederick.

‘Surrounded,’ replied Mr Dorrit, ‘by—ha—all that can charm the taste, and—hum—elevate the mind. Happy, my dear madam, in a—hum—husband.’

Mrs General was a little fluttered; seeming delicately to put the word away with her gloves, as if there were no knowing what it might lead to.

‘Fanny,’ Mr Dorrit continued. ‘Fanny, Mrs General, has high qualities. Ha. Ambition—hum—purpose, consciousness of—ha—position, determination to support that position—ha, hum—grace, beauty, and native nobility.’

‘No doubt,’ said Mrs General (with a little extra stiffness).

‘Combined with these qualities, madam,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘Fanny has—ha—manifested one blemish which has made me—hum—made me uneasy, and—ha—I must add, angry; but which I trust may now be considered at an end, even as to herself, and which is undoubtedly at an end as to—ha—others.’

‘To what, Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, with her gloves again somewhat excited, ‘can you allude? I am at a loss to—’

‘Do not say that, my dear madam,’ interrupted Mr Dorrit.

Mrs General’s voice, as it died away, pronounced the words, ‘at a loss to imagine.’

After which Mr Dorrit was seized with a doze for about a minute, out of which he sprang with spasmodic nimbleness.

‘I refer, Mrs General, to that—ha—strong spirit of opposition, or—hum—I might say—ha—jealousy in Fanny, which has occasionally risen against the—ha—sense I entertain of—hum—the claims of—ha—the lady with whom I have now the honour of communing.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ returned Mrs General, ‘is ever but too obliging, ever but too appreciative. If there have been moments when I have imagined that Miss Dorrit has indeed resented the favourable opinion Mr Dorrit has formed of my services, I have found, in that only too high opinion, my consolation and recompense.’

‘Opinion of your services, madam?’ said Mr Dorrit.

‘Of,’ Mrs General repeated, in an elegantly impressive manner, ‘my services.’

‘Of your services alone, dear madam?’ said Mr Dorrit.

‘I presume,’ retorted Mrs General, in her former impressive manner, ‘of my services alone. For, to what else,’ said Mrs General, with a slightly interrogative action of her gloves, ‘could I impute—’

‘To—ha—yourself, Mrs General. Ha, hum. To yourself and your merits,’ was Mr Dorrit’s rejoinder.

‘Mr Dorrit will pardon me,’ said Mrs General, ‘if I remark that this is not a time or place for the pursuit of the present conversation. Mr Dorrit will excuse me if I remind him that Miss Dorrit is in the adjoining room, and is visible to myself while I utter her name. Mr Dorrit will forgive me if I observe that I am agitated, and that I find there are moments when weaknesses I supposed myself to have subdued, return with redoubled power. Mr Dorrit will allow me to withdraw.’

‘Hum. Perhaps we may resume this—ha—interesting conversation,’ said Mr Dorrit, ‘at another time; unless it should be, what I hope it is not—hum—in any way disagreeable to—ah—Mrs General.’

‘Mr Dorrit,’ said Mrs General, casting down her eyes as she rose with a bend, ‘must ever claim my homage and obedience.’

Mrs General then took herself off in a stately way, and not with that amount of trepidation upon her which might have been expected in a less remarkable woman. Mr Dorrit, who had conducted his part of the dialogue with a certain majestic and admiring condescension—much as some people may be seen to conduct themselves in Church, and to perform their part in the service—appeared, on the whole, very well satisfied with himself and with Mrs General too. On the return of that lady to tea, she had touched herself up with a little powder and pomatum, and was not without moral enchantment likewise: the latter showing itself in much sweet patronage of manner towards Miss Dorrit, and in an air of as tender interest in Mr Dorrit as was consistent with rigid propriety. At the close of the evening, when she rose to retire, Mr Dorrit took her by the hand as if he were going to lead her out into the Piazza of the people to walk a minuet by moonlight, and with great solemnity conducted her to the room door, where he raised her knuckles to his lips. Having parted from her with what may be conjectured to have been a rather bony kiss of a cosmetic flavour, he gave his daughter his blessing, graciously. And having thus hinted that there was something remarkable in the wind, he again went to bed.

He remained in the seclusion of his own chamber next morning; but, early in the afternoon, sent down his best compliments to Mrs General, by Mr Tinkler, and begged she would accompany Miss Dorrit on an airing without him. His daughter was dressed for Mrs Merdle’s dinner before he appeared. He then presented himself in a refulgent condition as to his attire, but looking indefinably shrunken and old. However, as he was plainly determined to be angry with her if she so much as asked him how he was, she only ventured to kiss his cheek, before accompanying him to Mrs Merdle’s with an anxious heart.

The distance that they had to go was very short, but he was at his building work again before the carriage had half traversed it. Mrs Merdle received him with great distinction; the bosom was in admirable preservation, and on the best terms with itself; the dinner was very choice; and the company was very select.

It was principally English; saving that it comprised the usual French Count and the usual Italian Marchese—decorative social milestones, always to be found in certain places, and varying very little in appearance. The table was long, and the dinner was long; and Little Dorrit, overshadowed by a large pair of black whiskers and a large white cravat, lost sight of her father altogether, until a servant put a scrap of paper in her hand, with a whispered request from Mrs Merdle that she would read it directly. Mrs Merdle had written on it in pencil, ‘Pray come and speak to Mr Dorrit, I doubt if he is well.’

“Ricoperta d’intorno,” rispose la signora Dorrit, “da tutto ciò che può deliziar il gusto e elevare l’animo. Felice, mia cara signora, con un marito così, ”

La signora generale era un po’ agitata; sembrava cercare di allontanare quel termine con delicatezza, usando i suoi guanti, come se temesse che potesse portare a qualcosa di inaspettato.

“Fanny,” continuò il signor Dorrit. “Fanny, la signora Generale possiede qualità elevate. Ha, ambizione, determinazione, consapevolezza della propria posizione, e la volontà di mantenerla. Ha anche grazia, bellezza e una nobiltà innata.”

“Nessun >dubbio,” disse la signora generale (con un po’ più di rigidezza).

“Considerando tutte queste qualità, signora,” disse il signor Dorrit, “Fanny ha mostrato un difetto che mi ha reso, ehm, inquieto, e devo aggiungere anche arrabbiato; ma spero che ora questo problema possa essere considerato risolto, almeno per lei stessa, e senza dubbio anche per gli altri.”

“A cosa vi riferite, signor Dorrit?” rispose la signora Generale, con i guanti di nuovo un po’ agitati. “Non riesco proprio a capire, ”

“Non dite così, mia cara signora,” intervenne il signor Dorrit.

“La voce della signora generale, mentre si affievoliva, pronunciò le parole: ‘Impossibile da immaginare’.”

Dopo di ciò, il signor Dorrit cadde in un sonnellino durato circa un minuto; poi si riscosse con una rapidità spasmodica.

“Mi riferisco, signora generale, a quel forte spirito di opposizione, o, forse, potrei dire, a quella gelosia che caratterizza Fanny; talvolta questa gelosia si è manifestata contro le opinioni che io ho riguardo alle pretese della donna con la quale ora ho l’onore di convivere.”

“Signor Dorrit,” rispose la signora Generale, “è sempre estremamente gentile, sempre molto riconoscente. Se ci sono stati momenti in cui ho pensato che la signorina Dorrit potesse realmente risentirsi dell’ottima opinione che il signor Dorrit ha delle mie capacità, è proprio in quell’alta stima che ho trovato consolazione e ricompensa.”

“Che ne pensate dei suoi servizi, signora?” chiese il signor Dorrit.

“Dei miei servizi, ”, ripeté la signora generale con un tono elegante e imponente.

“Solo dei vostri servizi, cara signora?” disse il signor Dorrit.

“Presumo,” ribatté la signora generale con il suo solito tono imponente, “che siano stati i miei servizi soltanto a portare a questo risultato. Perché, a cosa altro,” proseguì la signora generale, muovendo leggermente le mani guantate in un gesto interrogativo, “potrei attribuirlo?”

“Per voi stessa, signora generale. Sì, umm. Per voi e per i vostri meriti,” fu la risposta del signor Dorrit.

“Mr Dorrit mi perdonerà,” disse la signora General, “se osservo che questo non è il momento né il luogo adatti per proseguire questa conversazione. Mr Dorrit mi scuserà se gli ricordo che Miss Dorrit si trova nella stanza accanto e che io riesco a vederla mentre ne pronuncio il nome. Mr Dorrit mi perdonerà anche se noto di essere agitata, e che ci sono momenti in cui debolezze che credevo di aver superato ritornano con ancora maggiore forza. Mr Dorrit mi permetterà di andarmene.”

“Hmm. Forse possiamo riprendere questa, ah, interessante conversazione in un altro momento,” disse il signor Dorrit, “a meno che non sia, cosa spero vivamente che non sia, in alcun modo sgradevole per la signora generale.”

“Signor Dorrit,” disse la signora Generale, abbassando lo sguardo mentre si alzava in piedi, “deve sempre ricevere il mio rispetto e la mia obbedienza.”

La signora Generale se ne andò con grande dignità, senza quella sorta di trepidazione che ci si sarebbe potuti aspettare da una donna meno distinta. Il signor Dorrit, che aveva condotto la sua parte del dialogo con un certo atteggiamento maestoso e compiaciuto – proprio come alcune persone si comportano in chiesa o durante i riti religiosi – sembrava, nel complesso, molto soddisfatto di sé stesso e anche della signora Generale. Al ritorno di questa ultima per il tè, si era truccata leggermente con un po’ di polvere e balsamo; inoltre, mostrava nei confronti della signorina Dorrit un atteggiamento particolarmente gentile e premuroso, nonché un interesse affettuoso verso il signor Dorrit, nel rispetto delle regole della decenza. Alla fine della serata, quando si alzò per andarsene, il signor Dorrit le prese la mano come se volesse accompagnarla nella piazza a fare una passeggiata al chiaro di luna, con grande solennità la condusse fino alla porta della stanza, dove le baciò le nocche. Dopo essersi separati con un bacio piuttosto formale e “profumato”, le diede la sua benedizione con gentilezza. E così, dando a intendere che ci fosse qualcosa di davvero speciale nell’atmosfera di quella serata, andò a letto.

La mattina seguente rimase chiuso nella sua stanza; ma presto nel pomeriggio fece inviare tramite il signor Tinkler i suoi più cordiali saluti alla signora generale, pregandola di accompagnare la signorina Dorrit a fare una passeggiata senza di lui. Sua figlia era già vestita per la cena da Mrs Merdle quando lui comparve. Si presentò in abiti eleganti e splendidi, ma sembrava decisamente invecchiato e più magro del solito. Tuttavia, poiché era chiaramente deciso ad arrabbiarsi con lei se solo avesse osato chiedergli come stesse, lei si limitò a baciargli la guancia prima di accompagnarlo da Mrs Merdle, con il cuore pieno di ansia.

La distanza che dovevano percorrere era molto breve, ma lui era già tornato al suo lavoro di costruzione prima ancora che la carrozza avesse percorso metà del tragitto. La signora Merdle lo accolse con grande ospitalità; il suo seno era in condizioni eccellenti e tutto sembrava funzionare perfettamente; la cena fu molto raffinata e la compagnia molto selezionata.

Era principalmente inglese; ad eccezione dei soliti titoli francesi di “Conte” e dei soliti titoli italiani di “Marchese”: simboli decorativi della società, sempre presenti in certi ambienti e poco diversi nell’aspetto. La tavola era lunga, e la cena durò a lungo; Little Dorrit, oscurata da un paio di grandi mustache nere e da una grande cravatta bianca, perse completamente di vista suo padre, fino a quando un servitore le mise in mano un pezzo di carta su cui la signora Merdle aveva scritto sottovoce: “Per favore, venga a parlare con il signor Dorrit. Dubito che stia bene.”

She was hurrying to him, unobserved, when he got up out of his chair, and leaning over the table called to her, supposing her to be still in her place:

‘Amy, Amy, my child!’

The action was so unusual, to say nothing of his strange eager appearance and strange eager voice, that it instantaneously caused a profound silence.

‘Amy, my dear,’ he repeated. ‘Will you go and see if Bob is on the lock?’

She was at his side, and touching him, but he still perversely supposed her to be in her seat, and called out, still leaning over the table, ‘Amy, Amy. I don’t feel quite myself. Ha. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I particularly wish to see Bob. Ha. Of all the turnkeys, he’s as much my friend as yours. See if Bob is in the lodge, and beg him to come to me.’

All the guests were now in consternation, and everybody rose.

‘Dear father, I am not there; I am here, by you.’

‘Oh! You are here, Amy! Good. Hum. Good. Ha. Call Bob. If he has been relieved, and is not on the lock, tell Mrs Bangham to go and fetch him.’

She was gently trying to get him away; but he resisted, and would not go.

‘I tell you, child,’ he said petulantly, ‘I can’t be got up the narrow stairs without Bob. Ha. Send for Bob. Hum. Send for Bob—best of all the turnkeys—send for Bob!’

He looked confusedly about him, and, becoming conscious of the number of faces by which he was surrounded, addressed them:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the duty—ha—devolves upon me of—hum—welcoming you to the Marshalsea! Welcome to the Marshalsea! The space is—ha—limited—limited—the parade might be wider; but you will find it apparently grow larger after a time—a time, ladies and gentlemen—and the air is, all things considered, very good. It blows over the—ha—Surrey hills. Blows over the Surrey hills. This is the Snuggery. Hum. Supported by a small subscription of the—ha—Collegiate body. In return for which—hot water—general kitchen—and little domestic advantages. Those who are habituated to the—ha—Marshalsea, are pleased to call me its father. I am accustomed to be complimented by strangers as the—ha—Father of the Marshalsea. Certainly, if years of residence may establish a claim to so—ha—honourable a title, I may accept the—hum—conferred distinction. My child, ladies and gentlemen. My daughter. Born here!’

She was not ashamed of it, or ashamed of him. She was pale and frightened; but she had no other care than to soothe him and get him away, for his own dear sake. She was between him and the wondering faces, turned round upon his breast with her own face raised to his. He held her clasped in his left arm, and between whiles her low voice was heard tenderly imploring him to go away with her.

‘Born here,’ he repeated, shedding tears. ‘Bred here. Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter. Child of an unfortunate father, but—ha—always a gentleman. Poor, no doubt, but—hum—proud. Always proud. It has become a—hum—not infrequent custom for my—ha—personal admirers—personal admirers solely—to be pleased to express their desire to acknowledge my semi-official position here, by offering—ha—little tributes, which usually take the form of—ha—voluntary recognitions of my humble endeavours to—hum—to uphold a Tone here—a Tone—I beg it to be understood that I do not consider myself compromised. Ha. Not compromised. Ha. Not a beggar. No; I repudiate the title! At the same time far be it from me to—hum—to put upon the fine feelings by which my partial friends are actuated, the slight of scrupling to admit that those offerings are—hum—highly acceptable. On the contrary, they are most acceptable. In my child’s name, if not in my own, I make the admission in the fullest manner, at the same time reserving—ha—shall I say my personal dignity? Ladies and gentlemen, God bless you all!’

By this time, the exceeding mortification undergone by the Bosom had occasioned the withdrawal of the greater part of the company into other rooms. The few who had lingered thus long followed the rest, and Little Dorrit and her father were left to the servants and themselves. Dearest and most precious to her, he would come with her now, would he not? He replied to her fervid entreaties, that he would never be able to get up the narrow stairs without Bob; where was Bob, would nobody fetch Bob? Under pretence of looking for Bob, she got him out against the stream of gay company now pouring in for the evening assembly, and got him into a coach that had just set down its load, and got him home.

The broad stairs of his Roman palace were contracted in his failing sight to the narrow stairs of his London prison; and he would suffer no one but her to touch him, his brother excepted. They got him up to his room without help, and laid him down on his bed. And from that hour his poor maimed spirit, only remembering the place where it had broken its wings, cancelled the dream through which it had since groped, and knew of nothing beyond the Marshalsea. When he heard footsteps in the street, he took them for the old weary tread in the yards. When the hour came for locking up, he supposed all strangers to be excluded for the night. When the time for opening came again, he was so anxious to see Bob, that they were fain to patch up a narrative how that Bob—many a year dead then, gentle turnkey—had taken cold, but hoped to be out to-morrow, or the next day, or the next at furthest.

He fell away into a weakness so extreme that he could not raise his hand. But he still protected his brother according to his long usage; and would say with some complacency, fifty times a day, when he saw him standing by his bed, ‘My good Frederick, sit down. You are very feeble indeed.’

They tried him with Mrs General, but he had not the faintest knowledge of her. Some injurious suspicion lodged itself in his brain, that she wanted to supplant Mrs Bangham, and that she was given to drinking. He charged her with it in no measured terms; and was so urgent with his daughter to go round to the Marshal and entreat him to turn her out, that she was never reproduced after the first failure.

Stava correndo verso di lui, inosservata, quando lui si alzò dalla sedia e, chinandosi sopra il tavolo, le chiamò, pensando che fosse ancora al suo posto.

“Amy, Amy, mia >bambina!”

L’azione era così insolita, per non parlare del suo aspetto strano e ansioso e della sua voce altrettanto strana e ansiosa, che immediatamente provocò un profondo silenzio.

“Amy, mia cara,” ripeté. “Vai a vedere se Bob è al cancello?”

Era al suo fianco e lo toccava, ma lui, in modo perverso, continuava a pensare che fosse ancora seduta al suo posto, e gridò, ancora chinato sopra il tavolo: “Amy, Amy. Non mi sento del tutto bene. Non so cosa mi stia succedendo. Vorrei tanto vedere Bob. Di tutti i secondini, lui è mio amico quanto tuo. Vedi se c’è nel padiglione e pregalo di venire da me.”

Tutti gli ospiti erano ora nel panico, e tutti si alzarono in piedi.

“Caro padre, non sono lì. Sono qui, accanto a te.”

“Oh! Sei qui, Amy! Bene. Chiamami Bob. Se è stato rilasciato e non si trova più sotto custodia, digli alla signora Bangham di andarlo a prendere.”

Cercava con dolcezza di allontanarlo, ma lui resisteva e non voleva andarsene.

“Te lo dico io, bambino,” disse in tono capriccioso, “non riesco a salire quelle strette scale senza Bob. Ah. Chiamate Bob. Sì, chiamate Bob. Il migliore di tutti i custodi. Chiamate Bob!”

Si guardò intorno confuso, e, rendendosi conto del numero di persone che lo circondavano, le rivolse la parola.

‘Signore e signori, spetta a me il compito di darvi il benvenuto al Marshalsea! Benvenuti al Marshalsea! Lo spazio disponibile è limitato; la parata potrebbe svolgersi in un ambiente più ampio, ma dopo un po’ vi sembrerà sicuramente più vasto. L’aria, in ogni caso, è molto buona: soffia sulle colline del Surrey. Questo luogo è sostenuto da una piccola donazione da parte del corpo accademico locale; in cambio, offriamo acqua calda, servizi di cucina e altre comodità domestiche. Coloro che sono abituati al Marshalsea mi chiamano volentieri “il suo padre”. E anch’io ricevo spesso questo complimento da estranei. Certamente, se anni di residenza possono conferirmi tale onorevole titolo, sarò lieto di accettarlo. Mia figlia, signore e signori. È nata qui.’

Non si vergognava di ciò, né di lui. Era pallida e spaventata; ma non aveva altro pensiero se non quello di consolarlo e allontanarlo, per il suo stesso bene. Si trovava tra lui e quei volti meravigliati; girata verso di lui, alzava il proprio viso verso il suo. Lui la teneva stretta nel braccio sinistro, e di tanto in tanto si udiva la sua voce sommessa che lo pregava dolcemente di andarsene con lei.

“Nato qui,” ripeté, versando lacrime. “Cresciuto qui. Signore e signori, mia figlia. Figlia di un padre sfortunato, ma, sempre un gentiluomo. Povera, senza dubbio, ma, orgogliosa. Sempre orgogliosa. È diventata una consuetudine, per i miei ammiratori personali – e soltanto loro – esprimere il loro desiderio di riconoscere la mia posizione semi-ufficiale qui, offrendomi piccoli doni. Doni che di solito assumono la forma di riconoscimenti volontari dei miei umili sforzi per mantenere un certo tono in questo ambiente. Vi prego di capire che non ritengo di essere compromesso in alcun modo. No. Non sono un mendicante. Rifiuto quel titolo! Allo stesso tempo, non vorrei mai offendere i sentimenti delicati dei miei amici, né rifiutare quei doni, che anzi sono molto graditi. Per il nome di mio figlio, se non per il mio, lo ammetto apertamente. Ma riservandomi, diciamo, la mia dignità personale. Signore e signori, che Dio vi benedica tutti!”

A quell’ora, l’estrema umiliazione subita da Little Dorrit aveva indotto la maggior parte delle persone presenti a ritirarsi in altre stanze. Gli ultimi rimasti seguirono il resto, e così Little Dorrit e suo padre furono lasciati soli con i servitori. Lui, che per lei era il più caro e prezioso di tutti, ora sarebbe venuto con lei, vero? Rispose alle sue fervide suppliche dicendo che non avrebbe mai potuto salire quelle strette scale senza Bob; dove si trovava Bob? Nessuno poteva andarlo a prendere? Sotto pretesto di cercare Bob, lo portò fuori, in mezzo alla folla che stava arrivando per la riunione serale, e lo fece salire su una carrozza che aveva appena scaricato i suoi passeggeri, e così lo riportò a casa.

I larghi gradini del suo palazzo romano, nella sua vista sempre più debole, sembravano trasformarsi nei stretti gradini della sua prigione di Londra; e nessuno, tranne lei, poteva toccarlo, fatta eccezione per suo fratello. Lo aiutarono a salire nella sua stanza e lo adagiarono sul letto. Da quel momento, la sua povera anima, ormai segnata dalla sofferenza, dimenticò completamente il sogno che aveva cercato di realizzare fino ad allora, e non conosceva più nulla al di fuori della prigione. Quando sentiva dei passi per strada, li scambiava per quelli familiari del cortile. Quando arrivava l’ora di chiudere a chiave, pensava che tutti gli estranei fossero stati allontanati per la notte. E quando finalmente arrivava l’ora di aprire le porte, era così ansioso di rivedere Bob, che gli altri erano costretti a inventare storie su come quel Bob – ormai morto da molti anni – si fosse preso un raffreddore, ma sperasse di uscire il giorno dopo, o al massimo il giorno successivo.

Soffriva di una debolezza così estrema che non riusciva nemmeno a sollevare la mano. Tuttavia continuava a proteggere suo fratello, come aveva sempre fatto; e con un certo compiacimento, cinquanta volte al giorno, quando lo vedeva in piedi accanto al suo letto, gli diceva: “Mio caro Frederick, siediti. Sei davvero molto debole.”

Lo sperimentarono con la signora generale, ma lui non ne sapeva assolutamente nulla. Gli si insinuò nella mente un sospetto offensivo: che lei volesse sostituire la signora Bangham e che avesse l’abitudine di bere alcolici. La accusò in modo estremo; e insistette così tanto con sua figlia perché andasse dal maresciallo a supplicarlo di cacciarla via, che lei non fu mai più invitata dopo quel primo fallimento.

Saving that he once asked ‘if Tip had gone outside?’ the remembrance of his two children not present seemed to have departed from him. But the child who had done so much for him and had been so poorly repaid, was never out of his mind. Not that he spared her, or was fearful of her being spent by watching and fatigue; he was not more troubled on that score than he had usually been. No; he loved her in his old way. They were in the jail again, and she tended him, and he had constant need of her, and could not turn without her; and he even told her, sometimes, that he was content to have undergone a great deal for her sake. As to her, she bent over his bed with her quiet face against his, and would have laid down her own life to restore him.

When he had been sinking in this painless way for two or three days, she observed him to be troubled by the ticking of his watch—a pompous gold watch that made as great a to-do about its going as if nothing else went but itself and Time. She suffered it to run down; but he was still uneasy, and showed that was not what he wanted. At length he roused himself to explain that he wanted money to be raised on this watch. He was quite pleased when she pretended to take it away for the purpose, and afterwards had a relish for his little tastes of wine and jelly, that he had not had before.

He soon made it plain that this was so; for, in another day or two he sent off his sleeve-buttons and finger-rings. He had an amazing satisfaction in entrusting her with these errands, and appeared to consider it equivalent to making the most methodical and provident arrangements. After his trinkets, or such of them as he had been able to see about him, were gone, his clothes engaged his attention; and it is as likely as not that he was kept alive for some days by the satisfaction of sending them, piece by piece, to an imaginary pawnbroker’s.

Thus for ten days Little Dorrit bent over his pillow, laying her cheek against his. Sometimes she was so worn out that for a few minutes they would slumber together. Then she would awake; to recollect with fast-flowing silent tears what it was that touched her face, and to see, stealing over the cherished face upon the pillow, a deeper shadow than the shadow of the Marshalsea Wall.

Quietly, quietly, all the lines of the plan of the great Castle melted one after another. Quietly, quietly, the ruled and cross-ruled countenance on which they were traced, became fair and blank. Quietly, quietly, the reflected marks of the prison bars and of the zig-zag iron on the wall-top, faded away. Quietly, quietly, the face subsided into a far younger likeness of her own than she had ever seen under the grey hair, and sank to rest.

At first her uncle was stark distracted. ‘O my brother! O William, William! You to go before me; you to go alone; you to go, and I to remain! You, so far superior, so distinguished, so noble; I, a poor useless creature fit for nothing, and whom no one would have missed!’

It did her, for the time, the good of having him to think of and to succour.

‘Uncle, dear uncle, spare yourself, spare me!’

The old man was not deaf to the last words. When he did begin to restrain himself, it was that he might spare her. He had no care for himself; but, with all the remaining power of the honest heart, stunned so long and now awaking to be broken, he honoured and blessed her.

‘O God,’ he cried, before they left the room, with his wrinkled hands clasped over her. ‘Thou seest this daughter of my dear dead brother! All that I have looked upon, with my half-blind and sinful eyes, Thou hast discerned clearly, brightly. Not a hair of her head shall be harmed before Thee. Thou wilt uphold her here to her last hour. And I know Thou wilt reward her hereafter!’

They remained in a dim room near, until it was almost midnight, quiet and sad together. At times his grief would seek relief in a burst like that in which it had found its earliest expression; but, besides that his little strength would soon have been unequal to such strains, he never failed to recall her words, and to reproach himself and calm himself. The only utterance with which he indulged his sorrow, was the frequent exclamation that his brother was gone, alone; that they had been together in the outset of their lives, that they had fallen into misfortune together, that they had kept together through their many years of poverty, that they had remained together to that day; and that his brother was gone alone, alone!

They parted, heavy and sorrowful. She would not consent to leave him anywhere but in his own room, and she saw him lie down in his clothes upon his bed, and covered him with her own hands. Then she sank upon her own bed, and fell into a deep sleep: the sleep of exhaustion and rest, though not of complete release from a pervading consciousness of affliction. Sleep, good Little Dorrit. Sleep through the night!

It was a moonlight night; but the moon rose late, being long past the full. When it was high in the peaceful firmament, it shone through half-closed lattice blinds into the solemn room where the stumblings and wanderings of a life had so lately ended. Two quiet figures were within the room; two figures, equally still and impassive, equally removed by an untraversable distance from the teeming earth and all that it contains, though soon to lie in it.

One figure reposed upon the bed. The other, kneeling on the floor, drooped over it; the arms easily and peacefully resting on the coverlet; the face bowed down, so that the lips touched the hand over which with its last breath it had bent. The two brothers were before their Father; far beyond the twilight judgment of this world; high above its mists and obscurities.

A parte il fatto che una volta aveva chiesto “se Tip fosse uscita fuori?”, sembrava che il ricordo dei suoi due figli assenti fosse completamente svanito dalla sua mente. Ma la bambina che aveva fatto tanto per lui e a cui non era stato reso alcun ringraziamento continuava ad essere presente nei suoi pensieri. Non perché la risparmiasse o temesse che il suo costante servizio lo stancasse; in quel senso, non provava alcun disagio. No: la amava ancora nel modo di sempre. Erano di nuovo in prigione, e lei si prendeva cura di lui; aveva bisogno costantemente di lei e non poteva fare a meno della sua presenza. A volte le diceva persino che era disposto a sopportare qualsiasi cosa per il suo bene. Per quanto riguardava lei, si chinava accanto al suo letto, con il viso tranquillo vicino al suo, e avrebbe dato la vita per ristabilire la sua salute.

Dopo che era rimasto immerso in questo stato di dolore quasi insopportabile per due o tre giorni, lei notò che il ticchettio del suo orologio d’oro lo turbava profondamente: quell’orologio ostentoso sembrava dare molta più importanza al proprio funzionamento di qualsiasi altra cosa al mondo, tranne forse il Tempo stesso. Lei lasciò che l’orologio continuasse a ticchettare; ma lui rimaneva comunque irrequieto, e si capiva chiaramente che non era quello che desiderava. Alla fine, riuscì a spiegargli che voleva che venisse venduto quell’orologio per raccogliere del denaro. Fu molto soddisfatto quando lei fingette di prenderlo per portarlo via allo scopo prefissato; in seguito, godette anche maggiormente dei suoi piccoli piaceri, come il vino e la gelatina, che prima non aveva mai apprezzato.

Ben presto fece capire chiaramente che era proprio così; infatti, nel giro di uno o due giorni, inviò via tutti i suoi bottoni delle maniche e gli anelli. Provava un piacere incredibile nell’incaricarla di queste commissioni, e sembrava considerarlo equivalente a prendere le misure più meticolose e previdenti possibili. Dopo che i suoi oggetti personali, o almeno quelli che era riuscito a trovare intorno a sé, furono spariti, la sua attenzione si rivolse ai vestiti; è molto probabile che sia rimasto in vita per alcuni giorni proprio grazie alla soddisfazione di poterli inviare, uno dopo l’altro, a un immaginario pegniere.

Per dieci giorni, Little Dorrit rimase distesa accanto al suo cuscino, con la guancia appoggiata alla sua. A volte era così stanca che per qualche minuto dormivano insieme. Poi si svegliava; ricordando con lacrime silenziose e rapide ciò che aveva toccato il suo viso, vedeva una ombra più profonda di quella del muro di Marshalsea posarsi sul volto amato disteso sul cuscino.

Silenziosamente, silenziosamente, tutte le linee del piano del grande Castello si dissolsero una dopo l’altra. Silenziosamente, silenziosamente, il volto su cui quelle linee erano tracciate divenne liscio e vuoto. Silenziosamente, silenziosamente, le impronte lasciate dalle sbarre della prigione e dai ferri a zig-zag presenti sul muro svanirono. Silenziosamente, il volto ritornò a somigliare molto di più alla sua vera giovinezza, rispetto a come appariva sotto quei capelli grigi, e finalmente riposò in pace.

All’inizio suo zio era completamente distratto. “Oh mio fratello. Oh William, William! Tu che te ne vai prima di me, tu che parti da solo, tu che te ne vai, mentre io resto qui! Tu, così superiore, così distinto, così nobile. Io, una povera creatura inutile, senza valore, di cui nessuno si sarebbe accorto se non fossi stato qui, ”

Per la prima volta, le fu d’aiuto il fatto di poter pensare a lui e chiedergli aiuto.

“Zio, caro zio, per favore risparmiati, risparmiami!”

L’uomo anziano non era sordo alle ultime parole di lei. Quando finalmente iniziò a trattenersi, fu per risparmiarla. Non gli importava nulla di sé stesso; ma, con tutte le forze rimaste nel suo cuore onesto, che per tanto tempo era stato stordito e ora si risvegliava distrutto, la rispettò e la benedisse.

“O Dio,” gridò prima che lasciassero la stanza, con le sue mani rugose strette intorno a lei. “Tu vedi questa figlia di mio caro fratello defunto! Tutto ciò che ho visto, con i miei occhi semiaccecati e peccaminosi, Tu l’hai visto chiaramente, luminosamente. Nemmeno un capello della sua testa subirà danno davanti a Te. La proteggerai fino all’ultimo momento. E so che la ricompenserai in futuro!”

Rimasero in una stanza buia e silenziosa, fino a quasi mezzanotte, insieme, in un’atmosfera di tristezza. A volte il suo dolore cercava sollievo in scoppi simili a quelli con cui si era espresso per la prima volta; ma, oltre a questi momenti, la sua debole forza non avrebbe potuto resistere a lungo a tali pressioni. Non smetteva mai di ricordare le parole di lei, di rimproverarsi e di calmarsi. L’unica espressione con cui concedeva sfogo al proprio dolore era l’affermazione ripetuta: “Mio fratello se n’è andato, da solo”; che erano stati insieme fin dall’inizio della loro vita, che avevano condiviso la stessa sfortuna, che avevano sopportato insieme tanti anni di povertà, e che erano rimasti insieme fino a quel giorno. Ma ora suo fratello se n’era andato, da solo.

Si separarono, pesanti e tristi. Lei non voleva lasciarlo da nessun’altra parte se non nella sua stanza; lo vide sdraiarsi nei suoi vestiti sul letto e lo coprì con le sue stesse mani. Poi si coricò anche lei e cadde in un profondo sonno: il sonno della stanchezza e del riposo, sebbene non quello di una completa liberazione da quella costante consapevolezza del dolore. Sonno, buona piccola Dorrit. Dormi tutta la notte!

Era una notte di luna piena; ma la luna illuminava tardi, essendo ormai ben oltre lo stadio della piena. Quando fu alta nel cielo sereno, il suo chiaro filtrò attraverso le tende semi-chiuse nella stanza solenne dove, poco prima, si era conclusa una vita piena di incertezze e errori. All’interno della stanza c’erano due figure silenziose; due figure ugualmente immobili e indifferenti, ugualmente lontane da questa terra piena di vita e da tutto ciò che contiene, anche se presto avrebbero riposato tra quelle stesse cose.

Una figura giaceva sul letto. L’altra, in ginocchio per terra, si chinava su di essa; le braccia riposavano tranquillamente e senza sforzo sopra la coperta; il viso era abbassato a tal punto che le labbra toccavano la mano sulla quale, con il suo ultimo respiro, aveva appoggiato il proprio volto. I due fratelli si trovavano davanti al loro Padre. Lontano, ben oltre i limiti di questo mondo; in alto, al di sopra delle sue nebbie e delle sue oscurità.

CHAPTER 20. Introduces the next

The passengers were landing from the packet on the pier at Calais. A low-lying place and a low-spirited place Calais was, with the tide ebbing out towards low water-mark. There had been no more water on the bar than had sufficed to float the packet in; and now the bar itself, with a shallow break of sea over it, looked like a lazy marine monster just risen to the surface, whose form was indistinctly shown as it lay asleep. The meagre lighthouse all in white, haunting the seaboard as if it were the ghost of an edifice that had once had colour and rotundity, dropped melancholy tears after its late buffeting by the waves. The long rows of gaunt black piles, slimy and wet and weather-worn, with funeral garlands of seaweed twisted about them by the late tide, might have represented an unsightly marine cemetery. Every wave-dashed, storm-beaten object, was so low and so little, under the broad grey sky, in the noise of the wind and sea, and before the curling lines of surf, making at it ferociously, that the wonder was there was any Calais left, and that its low gates and low wall and low roofs and low ditches and low sand-hills and low ramparts and flat streets, had not yielded long ago to the undermining and besieging sea, like the fortifications children make on the sea-shore.

After slipping among oozy piles and planks, stumbling up wet steps and encountering many salt difficulties, the passengers entered on their comfortless peregrination along the pier; where all the French vagabonds and English outlaws in the town (half the population) attended to prevent their recovery from bewilderment. After being minutely inspected by all the English, and claimed and reclaimed and counter-claimed as prizes by all the French in a hand-to-hand scuffle three quarters of a mile long, they were at last free to enter the streets, and to make off in their various directions, hotly pursued.

Clennam, harassed by more anxieties than one, was among this devoted band. Having rescued the most defenceless of his compatriots from situations of great extremity, he now went his way alone, or as nearly alone as he could be, with a native gentleman in a suit of grease and a cap of the same material, giving chase at a distance of some fifty yards, and continually calling after him, ‘Hi! Ice-say! You! Seer! Ice-say! Nice Oatel!’

Even this hospitable person, however, was left behind at last, and Clennam pursued his way, unmolested. There was a tranquil air in the town after the turbulence of the Channel and the beach, and its dulness in that comparison was agreeable. He met new groups of his countrymen, who had all a straggling air of having at one time overblown themselves, like certain uncomfortable kinds of flowers, and of being now mere weeds. They had all an air, too, of lounging out a limited round, day after day, which strongly reminded him of the Marshalsea. But, taking no further note of them than was sufficient to give birth to the reflection, he sought out a certain street and number which he kept in his mind.

‘So Pancks said,’ he murmured to himself, as he stopped before a dull house answering to the address. ‘I suppose his information to be correct and his discovery, among Mr Casby’s loose papers, indisputable; but, without it, I should hardly have supposed this to be a likely place.’

A dead sort of house, with a dead wall over the way and a dead gateway at the side, where a pendant bell-handle produced two dead tinkles, and a knocker produced a dead, flat, surface-tapping, that seemed not to have depth enough in it to penetrate even the cracked door. However, the door jarred open on a dead sort of spring; and he closed it behind him as he entered a dull yard, soon brought to a close by another dead wall, where an attempt had been made to train some creeping shrubs, which were dead; and to make a little fountain in a grotto, which was dry; and to decorate that with a little statue, which was gone.

The entry to the house was on the left, and it was garnished as the outer gateway was, with two printed bills in French and English, announcing Furnished Apartments to let, with immediate possession. A strong cheerful peasant woman, all stocking, petticoat, white cap, and ear-ring, stood here in a dark doorway, and said with a pleasant show of teeth, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’

Clennam, replying in French, said the English lady; he wished to see the English lady. ‘Enter then and ascend, if you please,’ returned the peasant woman, in French likewise. He did both, and followed her up a dark bare staircase to a back room on the first-floor. Hence, there was a gloomy view of the yard that was dull, and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the pedestal of the statue that was gone.

‘Monsieur Blandois,’ said Clennam.

‘With pleasure, Monsieur.’

Thereupon the woman withdrew and left him to look at the room. It was the pattern of room always to be found in such a house. Cool, dull, and dark. Waxed floor very slippery. A room not large enough to skate in; nor adapted to the easy pursuit of any other occupation. Red and white curtained windows, little straw mat, little round table with a tumultuous assemblage of legs underneath, clumsy rush-bottomed chairs, two great red velvet arm-chairs affording plenty of space to be uncomfortable in, bureau, chimney-glass in several pieces pretending to be in one piece, pair of gaudy vases of very artificial flowers; between them a Greek warrior with his helmet off, sacrificing a clock to the Genius of France.

After some pause, a door of communication with another room was opened, and a lady entered. She manifested great surprise on seeing Clennam, and her glance went round the room in search of some one else.

‘Pardon me, Miss Wade. I am alone.’

CAPITOLO 20. Presenta il prossimo personaggio

I passeggeri stavano sbarcando dal battello al molo di Calais. Calais era una località bassa e cupa; la marea si stava ritirando, lasciando scoperti i bassi livelli dell’acqua. Non c’era più abbastanza acqua sul banco di sabbia per far galleggiare il battello; ora stesso, quel banco, con una leggera onda che lo copriva, sembrava un lento e pigro “mostro marino” appena emerso in superficie, la cui forma era appena distinguibile mentre giaceva immobile. Il misero faro, tutto bianco, sembrava l’“fantasma” di un edificio un tempo colorato e robusto; versava lacrime di tristezza dopo essere stato a lungo battuto dalle onde. Le lunghe file di pali neri, umidi, appesantiti dalle alghe lasciate dalla marea, sembravano rappresentare un brutto cimitero marino. Ogni oggetto battuto dalle onde, sotto il cielo grigio, nel fragore del vento e del mare, davanti alle onde impetuose che lo assalivano con ferocia, faceva pensare che Calais non esistesse più. Che i suoi bassi cancelli, muri, tetti, dossi di sabbia e strade piatte non fossero da tempo stati sommersi dal mare, proprio come le fortificazioni che i bambini costruiscono sulla riva.

Dopo essere passati in mezzo a mucchi di fango e assi umidi, aver inciampato su gradini bagnati e incontrato molte difficoltà, i passeggeri iniziarono il loro viaggio scomodo lungo il molo; lì tutti i vagabondi francesi e gli outlaw inglesi della città (metà della popolazione) si impegnarono per impedire che riuscissero a uscire da quella situazione confusa. Dopo essere stati esaminati minuziosamente da tutti gli inglesi, e dopo che tutti i francesi li avevano rivendicati come “premi” in una lotta corpo a corpo che si estese per quasi un miglio, finalmente furono liberi di entrare nelle strade e dirigersi verso le loro varie destinazioni, mentre venivano inseguiti con insistenza.

Clennam, tormentato da molteplici preoccupazioni, faceva parte di questo gruppo devoto. Dopo aver salvato i più indifesi dei suoi connazionali da situazioni estremamente pericolose, ora procedeva da solo, o quanto meno il più possibile da solo, insieme a un gentiluomo del posto vestito con abiti untuosi e un cappello dello stesso materiale. Quest’ultimo lo inseguiva a una distanza di circa cinquanta metri, chiamandolo continuamente: “Ehi! Tu! Veggente! Ehi! Caro Oatel!”

Anche questa persona ospitale, tuttavia, alla fine rimase indietro, e Clennam proseguì il suo cammino senza essere disturbato. Nella città regnava un’atmosfera tranquilla, dopo le turbolenze del Canale della Manica e della spiaggia; la sua monotonia, in confronto, risultava piacevole. Incontrò nuovi gruppi di suoi connazionali, che avevano tutti l’aspetto di persone che un tempo si erano esagerate nelle loro azioni, come certi tipi di >fiori scomodi da coltivare, e ora non erano altro che “erbacce”. Avevano anche tutti quell’aria di chi trascorre le giornate in modo pigro e senza scopo, il che gli ricordava molto il Marshalsea. Ma senza preoccuparsi ulteriormente di loro, si diresse verso una certa strada e un certo numero che aveva memorizzato.

“So che Pancks l’ha detto,” mormorò tra sé mentre si fermava davanti a una casa anonima corrispondente all’indirizzo indicato. “Suppongo che le informazioni di Pancks siano corrette e che la scoperta fatta tra i documenti sparsi del signor Casby sia indiscutibile; ma senza di esse, difficilmente avrei pensato che questo fosse il posto giusto.”

Una sorta di casa desolata, con un muro in rovina sul lato e un portone anch’esso distrutto; una maniglia a campanella produceva solo due suoni deboli e senza vita, mentre il bussolo emetteva un rumore piatto e monotono, come se non avesse abbastanza profondità per penetrare nemmeno attraverso la porta crepata. Tuttavia, la porta si aprì con uno scatto improvviso; lui la chiuse alle proprie spalle ed entrò in un cortile desolato, che terminava di fronte a un altro muro in rovina. Lì qualcuno aveva provato ad allevare alcuni cespugli, ma questi erano morti; aveva anche cercato di creare una piccola fontana in una grotta, ma questa era asciutta; e aveva decorato il tutto con una piccola statua, che però era scomparsa.

L’ingresso della casa si trovava a sinistra ed era decorato allo stesso modo del portone esterno: vi erano due avvisi stampati in francese e inglese che annunciavano l’affitto di appartamenti arredati, con possibilità di occupazione immediata. Una donna contadina robusta e sorridente, vestita interamente di calze, sottogonne, cappello bianco e orecchini, stava lì nell’oscurità dell’ingresso e disse, mostrando i denti in un sorriso piacevole: “Ehi! Chi è là?”

Clennam, rispondendo in francese, disse di voler vedere la signora inglese; “Allora entri e salga, se vuoi”, replicò la donna contadina anch’essa in francese. Lui fece entrambe le cose e la seguì su una stretta e buia scala fino a una stanza sul primo piano. Da lì si poteva vedere il cortile, desolato e senza vita; i cespugli erano secchi, la fontana asciutta, e il piedistallo della statua era scomparso.

“Monsieur Blandois,” disse Clennam.

“Con piacere, signore.”

Allora la donna si ritirò, lasciandolo da solo ad esaminare la stanza. Era il tipico ambiente che si trovava in una casa del genere: fresco, scuro e privo di vita. Il pavimento lucido era molto scivoloso; la stanza non era abbastanza grande per poterci pattinare sopra, né adatta a qualsiasi altra attività. Le finestre erano coperte da tende rosse e bianche; c’era un piccolo tappeto di paglia, un tavolino rotondo con gambe disordinate, sedie goffe con fondo di paglia. Due grandi poltrone di velluto rosso, che offrivano abbondante spazio per sentirsi a disagio. Un comò. Una campana del camino fatta di pezzi diversi, che fingevano di essere un tutt’uno. Una coppia di vasi sgargianti pieni di fiori artificiali. Tra di essi, raffigurato in una posizione strana, c’era un guerriero greco senza elmo, che sacrificava un orologio al Genio della Francia.

Dopo una breve pausa, si aprì una porta che conduceva a un’altra stanza, e entrò una signora. Manifestò grande sorpresa nel vedere Clennam, e il suo sguardo perlustrò la stanza alla ricerca di qualcun altro.

“Perdonatemi, signorina Wade. Sono solo.”

‘It was not your name that was brought to me.’

‘No; I know that. Excuse me. I have already had experience that my name does not predispose you to an interview; and I ventured to mention the name of one I am in search of.’

‘Pray,’ she returned, motioning him to a chair so coldly that he remained standing, ‘what name was it that you gave?’

‘I mentioned the name of Blandois.’

‘Blandois?’

‘A name you are acquainted with.’

‘It is strange,’ she said, frowning, ‘that you should still press an undesired interest in me and my acquaintances, in me and my affairs, Mr Clennam. I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Pardon me. You know the name?’

‘What can you have to do with the name? What can I have to do with the name? What can you have to do with my knowing or not knowing any name? I know many names and I have forgotten many more. This may be in the one class, or it may be in the other, or I may never have heard it. I am acquainted with no reason for examining myself, or for being examined, about it.’

‘If you will allow me,’ said Clennam, ‘I will tell you my reason for pressing the subject. I admit that I do press it, and I must beg you to forgive me if I do so, very earnestly. The reason is all mine, I do not insinuate that it is in any way yours.’

‘Well, sir,’ she returned, repeating a little less haughtily than before her former invitation to him to be seated: to which he now deferred, as she seated herself. ‘I am at least glad to know that this is not another bondswoman of some friend of yours, who is bereft of free choice, and whom I have spirited away. I will hear your reason, if you please.’

‘First, to identify the person of whom we speak,’ said Clennam, ‘let me observe that it is the person you met in London some time back. You will remember meeting him near the river—in the Adelphi!’

‘You mix yourself most unaccountably with my business,’ she replied, looking full at him with stern displeasure. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I entreat you not to take it ill. By mere accident.’

‘What accident?’

‘Solely the accident of coming upon you in the street and seeing the meeting.’

‘Do you speak of yourself, or of some one else?’

‘Of myself. I saw it.’

‘To be sure it was in the open street,’ she observed, after a few moments of less and less angry reflection. ‘Fifty people might have seen it. It would have signified nothing if they had.’

‘Nor do I make my having seen it of any moment, nor (otherwise than as an explanation of my coming here) do I connect my visit with it or the favour that I have to ask.’

‘Oh! You have to ask a favour! It occurred to me,’ and the handsome face looked bitterly at him, ‘that your manner was softened, Mr Clennam.’

He was content to protest against this by a slight action without contesting it in words. He then referred to Blandois’ disappearance, of which it was probable she had heard? However probable it was to him, she had heard of no such thing. Let him look round him (she said) and judge for himself what general intelligence was likely to reach the ears of a woman who had been shut up there while it was rife, devouring her own heart. When she had uttered this denial, which he believed to be true, she asked him what he meant by disappearance? That led to his narrating the circumstances in detail, and expressing something of his anxiety to discover what had really become of the man, and to repel the dark suspicions that clouded about his mother’s house. She heard him with evident surprise, and with more marks of suppressed interest than he had seen in her; still they did not overcome her distant, proud, and self-secluded manner. When he had finished, she said nothing but these words:

‘You have not yet told me, sir, what I have to do with it, or what the favour is? Will you be so good as come to that?’

‘I assume,’ said Arthur, persevering, in his endeavour to soften her scornful demeanour, ‘that being in communication—may I say, confidential communication?—with this person—’

‘You may say, of course, whatever you like,’ she remarked; ‘but I do not subscribe to your assumptions, Mr Clennam, or to any one’s.’

‘—that being, at least in personal communication with him,’ said Clennam, changing the form of his position in the hope of making it unobjectionable, ‘you can tell me something of his antecedents, pursuits, habits, usual place of residence. Can give me some little clue by which to seek him out in the likeliest manner, and either produce him, or establish what has become of him. This is the favour I ask, and I ask it in a distress of mind for which I hope you will feel some consideration. If you should have any reason for imposing conditions upon me, I will respect it without asking what it is.’

‘You chanced to see me in the street with the man,’ she observed, after being, to his mortification, evidently more occupied with her own reflections on the matter than with his appeal. ‘Then you knew the man before?’

‘Not before; afterwards. I never saw him before, but I saw him again on this very night of his disappearance. In my mother’s room, in fact. I left him there. You will read in this paper all that is known of him.’

He handed her one of the printed bills, which she read with a steady and attentive face.

‘This is more than I knew of him,’ she said, giving it back. Clennam’s looks expressed his heavy disappointment, perhaps his incredulity; for she added in the same unsympathetic tone: ‘You don’t believe it. Still, it is so. As to personal communication: it seems that there was personal communication between him and your mother. And yet you say you believe her declaration that she knows no more of him!’

A sufficiently expressive hint of suspicion was conveyed in these words, and in the smile by which they were accompanied, to bring the blood into Clennam’s cheeks.

‘Come, sir,’ she said, with a cruel pleasure in repeating the stab, ‘I will be as open with you as you can desire. I will confess that if I cared for my credit (which I do not), or had a good name to preserve (which I have not, for I am utterly indifferent to its being considered good or bad), I should regard myself as heavily compromised by having had anything to do with this fellow. Yet he never passed in at my door—never sat in colloquy with me until midnight.’

She took her revenge for her old grudge in thus turning his subject against him. Hers was not the nature to spare him, and she had no compunction.

‘That he is a low, mercenary wretch; that I first saw him prowling about Italy (where I was, not long ago), and that I hired him there, as the suitable instrument of a purpose I happened to have; I have no objection to tell you. In short, it was worth my while, for my own pleasure—the gratification of a strong feeling—to pay a spy who would fetch and carry for money. I paid this creature. And I dare say that if I had wanted to make such a bargain, and if I could have paid him enough, and if he could have done it in the dark, free from all risk, he would have taken any life with as little scruple as he took my money. That, at least, is my opinion of him; and I see it is not very far removed from yours. Your mother’s opinion of him, I am to assume (following your example of assuming this and that), was vastly different.’

‘My mother, let me remind you,’ said Clennam, ‘was first brought into communication with him in the unlucky course of business.’

‘It appears to have been an unlucky course of business that last brought her into communication with him,’ returned Miss Wade; ‘and business hours on that occasion were late.’

‘You imply,’ said Arthur, smarting under these cool-handed thrusts, of which he had deeply felt the force already, ‘that there was something—’

‘Mr Clennam,’ she composedly interrupted, ‘recollect that I do not speak by implication about the man. He is, I say again without disguise, a low mercenary wretch. I suppose such a creature goes where there is occasion for him. If I had not had occasion for him, you would not have seen him and me together.’

Wrung by her persistence in keeping that dark side of the case before him, of which there was a half-hidden shadow in his own breast, Clennam was silent.

‘I have spoken of him as still living,’ she added, ‘but he may have been put out of the way for anything I know. For anything I care, also. I have no further occasion for him.’

With a heavy sigh and a despondent air, Arthur Clennam slowly rose. She did not rise also, but said, having looked at him in the meanwhile with a fixed look of suspicion, and lips angrily compressed:

‘He was the chosen associate of your dear friend, Mr Gowan, was he not? Why don’t you ask your dear friend to help you?’

The denial that he was a dear friend rose to Arthur’s lips; but he repressed it, remembering his old struggles and resolutions, and said:

‘Further than that he has never seen Blandois since Blandois set out for England, Mr Gowan knows nothing additional about him. He was a chance acquaintance, made abroad.’

‘A chance acquaintance made abroad!’ she repeated. ‘Yes. Your dear friend has need to divert himself with all the acquaintances he can make, seeing what a wife he has. I hate his wife, sir.’

The anger with which she said it, the more remarkable for being so much under her restraint, fixed Clennam’s attention, and kept him on the spot. It flashed out of her dark eyes as they regarded him, quivered in her nostrils, and fired the very breath she exhaled; but her face was otherwise composed into a disdainful serenity; and her attitude was as calmly and haughtily graceful as if she had been in a mood of complete indifference.

‘All I will say is, Miss Wade,’ he remarked, ‘that you can have received no provocation to a feeling in which I believe you have no sharer.’

‘You may ask your dear friend, if you choose,’ she returned, ‘for his opinion upon that subject.’

‘I am scarcely on those intimate terms with my dear friend,’ said Arthur, in spite of his resolutions, ‘that would render my approaching the subject very probable, Miss Wade.’

‘I hate him,’ she returned. ‘Worse than his wife, because I was once dupe enough, and false enough to myself, almost to love him. You have seen me, sir, only on common-place occasions, when I dare say you have thought me a common-place woman, a little more self-willed than the generality. You don’t know what I mean by hating, if you know me no better than that; you can’t know, without knowing with what care I have studied myself and people about me. For this reason I have for some time inclined to tell you what my life has been—not to propitiate your opinion, for I set no value on it; but that you may comprehend, when you think of your dear friend and his dear wife, what I mean by hating. Shall I give you something I have written and put by for your perusal, or shall I hold my hand?’

Arthur begged her to give it to him. She went to the bureau, unlocked it, and took from an inner drawer a few folded sheets of paper. Without any conciliation of him, scarcely addressing him, rather speaking as if she were speaking to her own looking-glass for the justification of her own stubbornness, she said, as she gave them to him:

‘Now you may know what I mean by hating! No more of that. Sir, whether you find me temporarily and cheaply lodging in an empty London house, or in a Calais apartment, you find Harriet with me. You may like to see her before you leave. Harriet, come in!’ She called Harriet again. The second call produced Harriet, once Tattycoram.

‘Here is Mr Clennam,’ said Miss Wade; ‘not come for you; he has given you up,—I suppose you have, by this time?’

‘Having no authority, or influence—yes,’ assented Clennam.

‘Not come in search of you, you see; but still seeking some one. He wants that Blandois man.’

‘With whom I saw you in the Strand in London,’ hinted Arthur.

‘If you know anything of him, Harriet, except that he came from Venice—which we all know—tell it to Mr Clennam freely.’

‘I know nothing more about him,’ said the girl.

‘Are you satisfied?’ Miss Wade inquired of Arthur.

He had no reason to disbelieve them; the girl’s manner being so natural as to be almost convincing, if he had had any previous doubts. He replied, ‘I must seek for intelligence elsewhere.’

Si vendicò del vecchio rancore che aveva contro di lui, facendo sì che i suoi sottoposti si rivoltassero contro di lui. Non era il tipo da perdonarlo, e non provava alcun rimorso.

‘Che sia un essere meschino e mercenario; che l’abbia visto per la prima volta girovagare per l’Italia (dove mi trovavo, non molto tempo fa) e che l’abbia assunto proprio lì, come strumento adatto per realizzare un piano che avevo in mente; non ho alcuna obiezione a raccontarvelo. In breve, ne è valsa la pena, per il mio stesso piacere, per soddisfare un sentimento forte, pagare uno spia disposto a fare qualsiasi cosa in cambio di denaro. Ho pagato questa creatura. E oserei dire che, se avessi voluto concludere un simile accordo, se fossi stato disposto a pagarlo abbastanza, e se lui fosse stato in grado di agire nell’oscurità, senza alcun rischio, avrebbe ucciso chiunque con la stessa indifferenza con cui ha preso i miei soldi. Almeno, questa è la mia opinione su di lui. E vedo che non è molto diversa dalla vostra. L’opinione di vostra madre su di lui, presumo (seguendo il vostro esempio di fare supposizioni), era molto diversa.’

“Mia madre,” disse Clennam, “entrò in contatto con lui durante quel sfortunato episodio d’affari.”

“Sembra che sia stato un incontro sfortunato quello che l’ha portata a contattarlo l’ultima volta,” rispose la signorina Wade; “e in quell’occasione, gli orari di lavoro erano già avanzati.”

“Stai insinuando,” disse Arthur, offeso da queste fredde e dirette critiche di cui aveva già profondamente percepito l’effetto, “che ci sia qualcosa, ”

“Signor Clennam,” interruppe lei con calma, “ricordi che non sto parlando in senso velato di quell’uomo. Dico ancora una volta, senza alcun velo, che è un miserabile mercenario di bassa lega. Immagino che persone del genere vadano dove c’è bisogno di loro. Se non ci fosse stata questa necessità, tu non ci avresti visti insieme.”

Sopraffatto dalla sua insistenza nel rivelargli quella parte oscura della vicenda, una sorta di ombra nascosta anche nel suo stesso cuore, Clennam rimase in silenzio.

“Ho parlato di lui come se fosse ancora vivo,” aggiunse, “ma potrebbe essere stato eliminato per qualsiasi motivo io conosca. O anche solo perché non mi interessa più. Non ho più alcun bisogno di lui.”

Con un profondo sospiro e un’espressione scoraggiata, Arthur Clennam si alzò lentamente. Anche lei non si alzò, ma disse, dopo averlo fissato per un momento con uno sguardo pieno di sospetto e le labbra strette in segno di rabbia:

“Era il collaboratore scelto dal vostro caro amico, il signor Gowan, vero? Perché non chiedete aiuto al vostro caro amico?”

La negazione che fosse un caro amico risuonò sulle labbra di Arthur; ma la reprimette, ricordando le sue vecchie lotte e risoluzioni, e disse:

“Oltre a questo, non ha mai più visto Blandois da quando quest’ultimo è partito per l’Inghilterra; il signor Gowan non sa nulla di aggiuntivo su di lui. Era una conoscenza occasionale, fatta all’estero.”

“Un conoscente occasionale fatto all’estero!”, ripeté lei. “Sì. Il vostro caro amico ha bisogno di distrarsi con tutti i conoscenti che riesce ad incontrare, visto che moglie ha. Odio sua moglie, signore.”

L’ira con cui lo disse – tanto più notevole per essere così ben trattenuta – attirò l’attenzione di Clennam e la tenne fissa su di lei. Quell’ira balenò nei suoi occhi scuri mentre lo fissava, tremolò nelle sue narici e si rifletté persino nel respiro che esalava; ma il suo viso, per il resto, manteneva un’espressione di disprezzante serenità, e la sua postura era calma e altezzosamente elegante, come se fosse completamente indifferente.

“Tutto ciò che voglio dire è, signorina Wade,” osservò, “che non può esserci stata alcuna provocazione da parte sua che possa aver suscitato in lei quel sentimento di cui credo che nessun altro condivida.”

“Puoi chiedere il parere del tuo caro amico, se lo desideri,” rispose lei. “Per quanto riguarda quell’argomento, ovviamente.”

“Non sono certo a quel punto di intimità con il mio caro amico,” disse Arthur, nonostante le sue risoluzioni, “da rendere probabile che affronti l’argomento in prossimo futuro, signorina Wade.”

“Lo odio,” rispose lei. “Più di sua moglie. Perché un tempo sono stata abbastanza ingenua e sufficientemente falsa con me stessa da quasi, ” “amarlo”. Mi avete vista soltanto in occasioni ordinarie; probabilmente mi considerate una donna comune, un po’ più testarda del resto delle persone. Non capite cosa significhi odiare, se non mi conoscete meglio di così. Non potete comprenderlo senza sapere con quanta attenzione abbia studiato me stessa e le persone intorno a me. Per questo motivo, da un po’ di tempo ho pensato di raccontarvi com’è stata la mia vita. Non per cercare il vostro consenso, poiché non ne do alcuna importanza; ma affinché, quando pensate al vostro caro amico e a sua moglie, possiate capire davvero cosa significa odiare. Devo darvi qualcosa che ho scritto per voi, oppure devo tenere la mano?”

Arthur le pregò di darglieli. Lei andò all’armadio, lo aprì e prese da un cassetto interno alcuni fogli di carta piegati. Senza alcun tentativo di conciliazione da parte sua, quasi senza rivolgergli la parola, piuttosto come se stesse parlando al proprio specchio per giustificare la propria testardaggine, gli disse mentre glieli dava:

“Ora potete capire cosa intendo per ‘odio’. Basta più di tutto questo. Signore, che mi troviate temporaneamente e a buon mercato in una casa vuota di Londra o in un appartamento a Calais, Harriet sarà con me. Potreste volerla vedere prima di andarvene. Harriet, vieni dentro!” Chiamò di nuovo Harriet; questa volta la ragazza apparve. Un tempo si chiamava Tattycoram.

“Ecco il signor Clennam,” disse la signorina Wade; “non è venuto per te, ti ha abbandonato. Immagino che ormai tu lo sappia, a questo punto, ”

“Non avendo alcuna autorità né influenza, sì,” concordò Clennam.

“Non per cercarti, capisci, ma comunque alla ricerca di qualcuno. Vuole quell’uomo di nome Blandois.”

“Con quella persona che ho visto con te in Strand, a Londra”, insinuò Arthur.

“Se sai qualcosa su di lui, Harriet, a parte il fatto che proviene da Venezia – che tutti sappiamo – raccontalo liberamente al signor Clennam.”

“Non so nulla di più su di lui,” disse la ragazza.

“Sei soddisfatto?” chiese la signorina Wade ad Arthur.

Non aveva motivo di dubitarne; il comportamento della ragazza era così naturale da risultare quasi convincente, se avesse avuto qualche dubbio in precedenza. Rispose: “Devo cercare informazioni altrove.”

He was not going in the same breath; but he had risen before the girl entered, and she evidently thought he was. She looked quickly at him, and said:

‘Are they well, sir?’

‘Who?’

She stopped herself in saying what would have been ‘all of them;’ glanced at Miss Wade; and said ‘Mr and Mrs Meagles.’

‘They were, when I last heard of them. They are not at home. By the way, let me ask you. Is it true that you were seen there?’

‘Where? Where does any one say I was seen?’ returned the girl, sullenly casting down her eyes.

‘Looking in at the garden gate of the cottage.’

‘No,’ said Miss Wade. ‘She has never been near it.’

‘You are wrong, then,’ said the girl. ‘I went down there the last time we were in London. I went one afternoon when you left me alone. And I did look in.’

‘You poor-spirited girl,’ returned Miss Wade with infinite contempt; ‘does all our companionship, do all our conversations, do all your old complainings, tell for so little as that?’

‘There was no harm in looking in at the gate for an instant,’ said the girl. ‘I saw by the windows that the family were not there.’

‘Why should you go near the place?’

‘Because I wanted to see it. Because I felt that I should like to look at it again.’

As each of the two handsome faces looked at the other, Clennam felt how each of the two natures must be constantly tearing the other to pieces.

‘Oh!’ said Miss Wade, coldly subduing and removing her glance; ‘if you had any desire to see the place where you led the life from which I rescued you because you had found out what it was, that is another thing. But is that your truth to me? Is that your fidelity to me? Is that the common cause I make with you? You are not worth the confidence I have placed in you. You are not worth the favour I have shown you. You are no higher than a spaniel, and had better go back to the people who did worse than whip you.’

‘If you speak so of them with any one else by to hear, you’ll provoke me to take their part,’ said the girl.

‘Go back to them,’ Miss Wade retorted. ‘Go back to them.’

‘You know very well,’ retorted Harriet in her turn, ‘that I won’t go back to them. You know very well that I have thrown them off, and never can, never shall, never will, go back to them. Let them alone, then, Miss Wade.’

‘You prefer their plenty to your less fat living here,’ she rejoined. ‘You exalt them, and slight me. What else should I have expected? I ought to have known it.’

‘It’s not so,’ said the girl, flushing high, ‘and you don’t say what you mean. I know what you mean. You are reproaching me, underhanded, with having nobody but you to look to. And because I have nobody but you to look to, you think you are to make me do, or not do, everything you please, and are to put any affront upon me. You are as bad as they were, every bit. But I will not be quite tamed, and made submissive. I will say again that I went to look at the house, because I had often thought that I should like to see it once more. I will ask again how they are, because I once liked them and at times thought they were kind to me.’

Hereupon Clennam said that he was sure they would still receive her kindly, if she should ever desire to return.

‘Never!’ said the girl passionately. ‘I shall never do that. Nobody knows that better than Miss Wade, though she taunts me because she has made me her dependent. And I know I am so; and I know she is overjoyed when she can bring it to my mind.’

‘A good pretence!’ said Miss Wade, with no less anger, haughtiness, and bitterness; ‘but too threadbare to cover what I plainly see in this. My poverty will not bear competition with their money. Better go back at once, better go back at once, and have done with it!’

Arthur Clennam looked at them, standing a little distance asunder in the dull confined room, each proudly cherishing her own anger; each, with a fixed determination, torturing her own breast, and torturing the other’s. He said a word or two of leave-taking; but Miss Wade barely inclined her head, and Harriet, with the assumed humiliation of an abject dependent and serf (but not without defiance for all that), made as if she were too low to notice or to be noticed.

He came down the dark winding stairs into the yard with an increased sense upon him of the gloom of the wall that was dead, and of the shrubs that were dead, and of the fountain that was dry, and of the statue that was gone. Pondering much on what he had seen and heard in that house, as well as on the failure of all his efforts to trace the suspicious character who was lost, he returned to London and to England by the packet that had taken him over. On the way he unfolded the sheets of paper, and read in them what is reproduced in the next chapter.

Non stava parlando contemporaneamente; ma si era alzato prima che la ragazza entrasse, e lei evidentemente pensò che lo fosse ancora. Lo guardò in fretta e disse:

“Stanno bene, signore?”

“Chi?”

Si trattenne dal dire “tutti quanti”; gettò un’occhiata a Miss Wade e disse: “Il signor e la signora Meagles”.

“Quando li ho sentiti l’ultima volta, erano ancora lì. Ora non sono più a casa.” A proposito, posso chiederti una cosa: è vero che ti hanno visto lì?

“Dove? Dove dicono che sia stata vista?” rispose la ragazza, con aria cupa, abbassando lo sguardo.

“Guardando attraverso la porta del giardino della capanna.”

“No,” disse la signorina Wade. “Non è mai stata nemmeno vicina a esso.”

“Allora ti sbagli,” disse la ragazza. “L’ultima volta che siamo stati a Londra, sono andata laggiù un pomeriggio, quando tu mi hai lasciato da sola. E ho davvero dato un’occhiata.”

“Povera ragazza senza speranza,” rispose la signorina Wade con infinito disprezzo; “tutta la nostra compagnia, tutte le nostre conversazioni, tutti i tuoi vecchi lamenti, valgono davvero così poco?”

“Non c’era nulla di male nel dare un’occhiata alla porta per un attimo,” disse la ragazza. “Vidi dalle finestre che la famiglia non era lì.”

“Perché dovresti avvicinarti a quel posto?”

“Perché volevo vederlo. Perché sentivo che avrei voluto rivederlo ancora.”

Mentre i due bei volti si guardavano a vicenda, Clennam si rese conto di come ciascuna di quelle due nature dovesse inevitabilmente distruggere l’altra.

“Oh!”, disse la signorina Wade, reprimendo freddamente il proprio sguardo; “se avessi qualche desiderio di vedere quel luogo dove hai condotto quella vita da cui ti ho salvato, perché avevi scoperto di cosa si trattasse, be’, questo sarebbe un altro discorso. Ma è davvero questa la tua verità verso di me? È davvero questa la tua fedeltà nei miei confronti? È davvero questa la causa comune che condividiamo? Non meriti affatto la fiducia che ho riposto in te. Non meriti nemmeno la gentilezza che ti ho dimostrato. Non sei migliore di un cagnolino; faresti meglio a tornare da quelle persone che hanno fatto cose peggiori di picchiarti.”

“Se parli di loro in questo modo davanti ad altre persone che possano sentire, mi farai prendere le loro parti,” disse la ragazza.

“Torna da loro,” ribatté la signorina Wade. “Torna da loro.”

“Lo sai molto bene,” ribatté Harriet a sua volta, “che non tornerò da loro. Lo sai molto bene che li ho lasciati e che non potrò mai, mai più tornare da loro. Lasciali stare, allora, signorina Wade.”

“Preferisci la loro abbondanza alla vita più semplice che potresti condurre qui,” ribatté lei.
“Li esalti tu, e mi disprezi. Cosa avrei dovuto aspettarmi? Avrei dovuto saperlo.”

“Non è così,” disse la ragazza, arrossendo profondamente, “e tu non dici davvero ciò che intendi. So cosa vuoi dire. Mi stai rimproverando, in modo subdolo, per il fatto che non ho nessun altro su cui contare se non su di te. E perché non ho nessuno se non te, pensi di potermi costringere a fare o a non fare tutto ciò che desideri, e di potermi trattare in modo offensivo. Sei proprio come loro. Ma non mi lascerò completamente domare né sottomettere. Ripeto ancora: sono andata a vedere quella casa perché spesso avevo pensato di volerla rivedere una volta. Chiederò ancora com’è la situazione lì, perché un tempo mi piacevano quelle persone e a volte pensavo che fossero gentili con me.”

A questo punto, Clennam disse di essere certo che l’accoglierebbero ancora con gentilezza, se lei mai desiderasse tornare.

“Mai!” disse la ragazza con passione. “Non lo farò mai. Nessuno lo sa meglio di Miss Wade, anche se lei mi prende in giro perché mi ha resa sua dipendente. So di esserlo davvero; so anche che lei è felicissima quando riesce a farmelo ricordare.”

“Una buona scusa!” disse la signorina Wade, con lo stesso livello di rabbia, arroganza e amarezza; “ma troppo banale per nascondere ciò che vedo chiaramente in questa situazione. La mia povertà non può competere con i loro soldi. È meglio tornare subito indietro, è meglio farla finita una volta per tutte!”

Arthur Clennam li osservava, stando a una certa distanza in quella stanza buia e angusta; ognuna di loro custodiva con orgoglio la propria rabbia; ognuna, con determinazione ferma, tormentava sia se stessa che l’altra. Lui disse una parola o due per congedarsi; ma Miss Wade quasi non inclinò la testa, mentre Harriet, con l’atteggiamento di umiliazione tipico di una dipendente sottomessa e schiava (ma senza rinunciare al proprio orgoglio), fece finta di essere troppo umile per notarlo o essere notata.

Discese le oscure e tortuose scale fino al cortile, avvertendo ancora di più l’oscurità di quel muro ormai morto, degli arbusti senza vita, della fontana prosciugata e della statua scomparsa. Rifletté a lungo su ciò che aveva visto e sentito in quella casa, così come sul fallimento di tutti i suoi tentativi di rintracciare quel personaggio sospetto che era svanito senza lasciare traccia. Alla fine tornò a Londra e in Inghilterra con il stesso treno che lo aveva portato via. Lungo la strada aprì i fogli di carta e vi lesse ciò che viene riportato nel prossimo capitolo.

CHAPTER 21. The History of a Self-Tormentor

I have the misfortune of not being a fool. From a very early age I have detected what those about me thought they hid from me. If I could have been habitually imposed upon, instead of habitually discerning the truth, I might have lived as smoothly as most fools do.

My childhood was passed with a grandmother; that is to say, with a lady who represented that relative to me, and who took that title on herself. She had no claim to it, but I—being to that extent a little fool—had no suspicion of her. She had some children of her own family in her house, and some children of other people. All girls; ten in number, including me. We all lived together and were educated together.

I must have been about twelve years old when I began to see how determinedly those girls patronised me. I was told I was an orphan. There was no other orphan among us; and I perceived (here was the first disadvantage of not being a fool) that they conciliated me in an insolent pity, and in a sense of superiority. I did not set this down as a discovery, rashly. I tried them often. I could hardly make them quarrel with me. When I succeeded with any of them, they were sure to come after an hour or two, and begin a reconciliation. I tried them over and over again, and I never knew them wait for me to begin. They were always forgiving me, in their vanity and condescension. Little images of grown people!

One of them was my chosen friend. I loved that stupid mite in a passionate way that she could no more deserve than I can remember without feeling ashamed of, though I was but a child. She had what they called an amiable temper, an affectionate temper. She could distribute, and did distribute pretty looks and smiles to every one among them. I believe there was not a soul in the place, except myself, who knew that she did it purposely to wound and gall me!

Nevertheless, I so loved that unworthy girl that my life was made stormy by my fondness for her. I was constantly lectured and disgraced for what was called ‘trying her;’ in other words charging her with her little perfidy and throwing her into tears by showing her that I read her heart. However, I loved her faithfully; and one time I went home with her for the holidays.

She was worse at home than she had been at school. She had a crowd of cousins and acquaintances, and we had dances at her house, and went out to dances at other houses, and, both at home and out, she tormented my love beyond endurance. Her plan was, to make them all fond of her—and so drive me wild with jealousy. To be familiar and endearing with them all—and so make me mad with envying them. When we were left alone in our bedroom at night, I would reproach her with my perfect knowledge of her baseness; and then she would cry and cry and say I was cruel, and then I would hold her in my arms till morning: loving her as much as ever, and often feeling as if, rather than suffer so, I could so hold her in my arms and plunge to the bottom of a river—where I would still hold her after we were both dead.

It came to an end, and I was relieved. In the family there was an aunt who was not fond of me. I doubt if any of the family liked me much; but I never wanted them to like me, being altogether bound up in the one girl. The aunt was a young woman, and she had a serious way with her eyes of watching me. She was an audacious woman, and openly looked compassionately at me. After one of the nights that I have spoken of, I came down into a greenhouse before breakfast. Charlotte (the name of my false young friend) had gone down before me, and I heard this aunt speaking to her about me as I entered. I stopped where I was, among the leaves, and listened.

The aunt said, ‘Charlotte, Miss Wade is wearing you to death, and this must not continue.’ I repeat the very words I heard.

Now, what did she answer? Did she say, ‘It is I who am wearing her to death, I who am keeping her on a rack and am the executioner, yet she tells me every night that she loves me devotedly, though she knows what I make her undergo?’ No; my first memorable experience was true to what I knew her to be, and to all my experience. She began sobbing and weeping (to secure the aunt’s sympathy to herself), and said, ‘Dear aunt, she has an unhappy temper; other girls at school, besides I, try hard to make it better; we all try hard.’

Upon that the aunt fondled her, as if she had said something noble instead of despicable and false, and kept up the infamous pretence by replying, ‘But there are reasonable limits, my dear love, to everything, and I see that this poor miserable girl causes you more constant and useless distress than even so good an effort justifies.’

The poor miserable girl came out of her concealment, as you may be prepared to hear, and said, ‘Send me home.’ I never said another word to either of them, or to any of them, but ‘Send me home, or I will walk home alone, night and day!’ When I got home, I told my supposed grandmother that, unless I was sent away to finish my education somewhere else before that girl came back, or before any one of them came back, I would burn my sight away by throwing myself into the fire, rather than I would endure to look at their plotting faces.

I went among young women next, and I found them no better. Fair words and fair pretences; but I penetrated below those assertions of themselves and depreciations of me, and they were no better. Before I left them, I learned that I had no grandmother and no recognised relation. I carried the light of that information both into my past and into my future. It showed me many new occasions on which people triumphed over me, when they made a pretence of treating me with consideration, or doing me a service.

CAPITOLO 21. La storia di un auto-torturatore

Ho la sfortuna di non essere un idiota. Fin da molto giovane ho capito ciò che le persone intorno a me pensavano di nascondermi. Se fossi stato abituato ad essere manipolato, invece di riconoscere sempre la verità, forse avrei vissuto più serenamente come fanno la maggior parte degli idioti.

La mia infanzia trascorse con una nonna; voglio dire, con una donna che per me rappresentava quel ruolo e che si autodefiniva tale. Non aveva alcun diritto a farlo, ma io – essendo in un certo senso un po’ stupido – non sospettavo nulla di lei. Nella sua casa c’erano alcuni figli suoi e altri di altre persone; tutte ragazze, dieci in totale, compresa me. Vivevamo tutte insieme e ricevevamo l’istruzione insieme.

Devo aver avuto circa dodici anni quando iniziai a notare quanto quelle ragazze mi trattassero con una certa condiscendenza. Mi dicevano che ero un orfano; non c’era nessun altro orfano tra di noi, e capii (questo fu il primo svantaggio di non essere un idiota) che mi trattavano con una sorta di compassione insolente, accompagnata da un senso di superiorità. Non considerai questa constatazione come una scoperta affrettata. Le provai spesso: raramente riuscivo a farle litigare con me. Quando ci riuscivo, dopo un’ora o due venivano sempre a fare la pace con me. Le provai ancora e ancora. E mai le vidi aspettare che fossi io ad iniziare. Erano sempre pronte a perdonarmi, nella loro vanità e condiscendenza. Piccole immagini di adulti, insomma!

Uno di loro era la mia amica preferita. Amavo quella ragazza in modo così appassionato che lei non meritava affatto tutto ciò. Eppure non ne provo vergogna, anche se all’epoca ero solo un bambino. Aveva quel carattere gentile, affettuoso. Distribuiva sguardi e sorrisi a tutti quanti, senza eccezione. Credo che in quel posto, tranne me, nessuno sapesse che lo faceva apposta per ferirmi e tormentarmi!

Tuttavia, amavo così tanto quella ragazza indegna che la mia vita divenne piena di difficoltà a causa del mio affetto per lei. Venivo costantemente rimproverato e umiliato per ciò che veniva definito “provocarla”; in altre parole, mi si accusava della sua piccola perfidia e la si faceva piangere dimostrandole che leggevo nel suo cuore. Eppure, l’amavo fedelmente; e una volta tornai a >casa con lei per le vacanze.

A casa era ancora peggio di quando stava a scuola. Aveva un sacco di cugini e conoscenti; a casa sua si tenevano balli, e andavamo anche a ballare in altre case. Sia a casa che fuori, tormentava il mio amore oltre ogni limite. Il suo piano era far sì che tutti le fossero affezionati, e così farmi impazzire di gelosia. Voleva essere amichevole e carina con tutti loro, per farmi infuriare d’invidia. Quando rimanevamo soli in camera da letto, la rimproveravo per la sua bassezza; lei allora piangeva disperatamente, dicendo che ero crudele. E io la tenevo tra le braccia fino al mattino: l’amavo ancora tanto, e spesso pensavo che, piuttosto che soffrire così, avrei preferito gettarmi nel fondo di un fiume con lei, e continuare a tenerla tra le braccia anche dopo la morte.

Tutto finì, e io mi sentii sollevato. Nella famiglia c’era un’zia che non mi voleva bene. Dubito che qualcuno nella mia famiglia mi apprezzasse davvero; ma in realtà non volevo nemmeno che lo facessero, perché il mio cuore apparteneva interamente a quella ragazza. L’zia era una donna giovane, e i suoi sguardi su di me erano sempre molto attenti. Era una donna audace, e spesso mi guardava con compassione. Dopo una di quelle notti di cui ho parlato, scesi in serra prima di colazione. Charlotte (il nome della mia falsa amica) era già lì; sentii l’zia parlare di me mentre entravo. Mi fermai tra le foglie e ascoltai.

La zia disse: “Charlotte, la signorina Wade sta portandoti verso la morte, e questo non può continuare.” Ripeto esattamente le parole che ho sentito.

Allora, cosa rispose? Disse forse: “Sono io che la porto verso la morte, sono io che la tormento e sono l’attuatore della punizione. Eppure ogni notte mi dice di amarmi con tutto il cuore, anche se sa cosa le faccio subire”? No; la mia prima esperienza memorabile corrispondeva esattamente a ciò che conoscevo di lei e a tutto ciò che avevo sperimentato con lei. Cominciò a singhiozzare e piangere (per guadagnarsi la simpatia della zia) e disse: “Carissima zia, lei ha un carattere molto difficile. Altre ragazze a scuola, oltre a me, fanno del loro meglio per migliorarla; tutte ci sforziamo”.

Allora la zia la coccolò, come se avesse detto qualcosa di nobile invece di qualcosa di spregevole e falso, e continuò in quella vergognosa finzione rispondendo: “Ma ci sono limiti ragionevoli, mio caro amore, per tutto; vedo che questa povera ragazza ti causa un dolore costante e inutile, più di quanto possa giustificare anche il più nobile sforzo.”

La povera ragazza, dopo essere uscita dal suo nascondiglio, disse: “Mandatemi a casa”. Non dissi mai più una parola né a lei né agli altri, se non: “Mandatemi a casa, altrimenti camminerò da sola, di notte e di giorno!”. Quando arrivai a casa, dissi alla mia presunta nonna che, a meno che non venissi mandata via per completare la mia istruzione in un altro posto prima del ritorno di quella ragazza, o di chiunque di loro, avrei preferito bruciarmi gli occhi gettandomi nel fuoco piuttosto che sopportare di vedere i loro volti malvagi.

Andai poi tra le giovani donne e non trovai che fossero migliori. Parole gentili e comportamenti affabili; ma guardando oltre quelle affermazioni su di loro stesse e quelle critiche nei miei confronti, vidi che non erano affatto diverse dalle altre. Prima di lasciarle, scoprii di non avere nessuna nonna né alcun legame riconosciuto. Portai questa informazione con me nel mio passato e nel mio futuro; mi fece comprendere molte situazioni in cui le persone approfittavano di me, fingendo di trattarmi con considerazione o di fare qualcosa per me.

A man of business had a small property in trust for me. I was to be a governess; I became a governess; and went into the family of a poor nobleman, where there were two daughters—little children, but the parents wished them to grow up, if possible, under one instructress. The mother was young and pretty. From the first, she made a show of behaving to me with great delicacy. I kept my resentment to myself; but I knew very well that it was her way of petting the knowledge that she was my Mistress, and might have behaved differently to her servant if it had been her fancy.

I say I did not resent it, nor did I; but I showed her, by not gratifying her, that I understood her. When she pressed me to take wine, I took water. If there happened to be anything choice at table, she always sent it to me: but I always declined it, and ate of the rejected dishes. These disappointments of her patronage were a sharp retort, and made me feel independent.

I liked the children. They were timid, but on the whole disposed to attach themselves to me. There was a nurse, however, in the house, a rosy-faced woman always making an obtrusive pretence of being gay and good-humoured, who had nursed them both, and who had secured their affections before I saw them. I could almost have settled down to my fate but for this woman. Her artful devices for keeping herself before the children in constant competition with me, might have blinded many in my place; but I saw through them from the first. On the pretext of arranging my rooms and waiting on me and taking care of my wardrobe (all of which she did busily), she was never absent. The most crafty of her many subtleties was her feint of seeking to make the children fonder of me. She would lead them to me and coax them to me. ‘Come to good Miss Wade, come to dear Miss Wade, come to pretty Miss Wade. She loves you very much. Miss Wade is a clever lady, who has read heaps of books, and can tell you far better and more interesting stories than I know. Come and hear Miss Wade!’ How could I engage their attentions, when my heart was burning against these ignorant designs? How could I wonder, when I saw their innocent faces shrinking away, and their arms twining round her neck, instead of mine? Then she would look up at me, shaking their curls from her face, and say, ‘They’ll come round soon, Miss Wade; they’re very simple and loving, ma’am; don’t be at all cast down about it, ma’am’—exulting over me!

There was another thing the woman did. At times, when she saw that she had safely plunged me into a black despondent brooding by these means, she would call the attention of the children to it, and would show them the difference between herself and me. ‘Hush! Poor Miss Wade is not well. Don’t make a noise, my dears, her head aches. Come and comfort her. Come and ask her if she is better; come and ask her to lie down. I hope you have nothing on your mind, ma’am. Don’t take on, ma’am, and be sorry!’

It became intolerable. Her ladyship, my Mistress, coming in one day when I was alone, and at the height of feeling that I could support it no longer, I told her I must go. I could not bear the presence of that woman Dawes.

‘Miss Wade! Poor Dawes is devoted to you; would do anything for you!’

I knew beforehand she would say so; I was quite prepared for it; I only answered, it was not for me to contradict my Mistress; I must go.

‘I hope, Miss Wade,’ she returned, instantly assuming the tone of superiority she had always so thinly concealed, ‘that nothing I have ever said or done since we have been together, has justified your use of that disagreeable word, “Mistress.” It must have been wholly inadvertent on my part. Pray tell me what it is.’

I replied that I had no complaint to make, either of my Mistress or to my Mistress; but I must go.

She hesitated a moment, and then sat down beside me, and laid her hand on mine. As if that honour would obliterate any remembrance!

‘Miss Wade, I fear you are unhappy, through causes over which I have no influence.’

I smiled, thinking of the experience the word awakened, and said, ‘I have an unhappy temper, I suppose.’

‘I did not say that.’

‘It is an easy way of accounting for anything,’ said I.

‘It may be; but I did not say so. What I wish to approach is something very different. My husband and I have exchanged some remarks upon the subject, when we have observed with pain that you have not been easy with us.’

‘Easy? Oh! You are such great people, my lady,’ said I.

‘I am unfortunate in using a word which may convey a meaning—and evidently does—quite opposite to my intention.’ (She had not expected my reply, and it shamed her.) ‘I only mean, not happy with us. It is a difficult topic to enter on; but, from one young woman to another, perhaps—in short, we have been apprehensive that you may allow some family circumstances of which no one can be more innocent than yourself, to prey upon your spirits. If so, let us entreat you not to make them a cause of grief. My husband himself, as is well known, formerly had a very dear sister who was not in law his sister, but who was universally beloved and respected—’

I saw directly that they had taken me in for the sake of the dead woman, whoever she was, and to have that boast of me and advantage of me; I saw, in the nurse’s knowledge of it, an encouragement to goad me as she had done; and I saw, in the children’s shrinking away, a vague impression, that I was not like other people. I left that house that night.

After one or two short and very similar experiences, which are not to the present purpose, I entered another family where I had but one pupil: a girl of fifteen, who was the only daughter. The parents here were elderly people: people of station, and rich. A nephew whom they had brought up was a frequent visitor at the house, among many other visitors; and he began to pay me attention. I was resolute in repulsing him; for I had determined when I went there, that no one should pity me or condescend to me. But he wrote me a letter. It led to our being engaged to be married.

Un uomo d’affari aveva affidato a me una piccola proprietà in custodia. Dovevo fare da governante; così diventai la governante di due figlie di un povero nobile. Le bambine erano ancora piccole, ma i genitori desideravano che crescessero, se possibile, sotto la guida della stessa insegnante. La madre era giovane e bella; fin dall’inizio mostrò di trattarmi con grande delicatezza. Tenni il mio risentimento per me stessa, ma sapevo molto bene che quel comportamento faceva parte del suo modo di sottolineare il fatto che fosse lei la mia padrona. Avrebbe potuto trattarmi in modo diverso se avesse voluto.

Dico che non ne ero risentito, e infatti non lo ero; ma facendole capire che non le acconsentivo, le dimostravo di aver compreso i suoi desideri. Quando insisteva perché bevessi vino, prendevo acqua. Se a tavola c’era qualcosa di particolarmente prelibato, me lo mandava sempre; ma io rifiutavo sempre e mangiavo solo gli alimenti che lei stessa aveva scartato. Questi rifiuti da parte mia rappresentavano in realtà una risposta tagliente alle sue attenzioni, e mi fecero sentire più indipendente.

Mi piacevano i bambini. Erano timidi, ma nel complesso disposti ad affezionarsi a me. C’era però una infermiera in quella casa, una donna dal viso rossastro che ostentava sempre un atteggiamento frivolo e allegra; aveva curato entrambi i bambini e si era guadagnata il loro affetto prima ancora che io li incontrassi. Avrei potuto accettare facilmente la mia sorte, se non fosse stata per lei. I suoi stratagemmi astuti per farsi notare dai bambini, in costante competizione con me, avrebbero potuto ingannare molte persone al mio posto; ma io li vidi chiaramente fin dall’inizio. Con il pretesto di sistemare le mie stanze, di prendersi cura di me e della mia roba (che faceva sempre con grande impegno), non era mai assente. La sua astuzia più subdola consisteva nel fingere di voler farli affezionare a me: li portava da me e li incoraggiava ad avvicinarsi. “Venite dalla brava signorina Wade, venite dalla cara signorina Wade. Lei vi vuole molto bene! La signorina Wade è una donna intelligente che ha letto molti libri e può raccontarvi storie molto più interessanti delle mie. Venite ad ascoltare la signorina Wade!” Come avrei potuto attirare la loro attenzione, quando il mio cuore bruciava di rabbia per questi piani ignobili? Come avrei potuto non essere indignata, vedendo i loro volti innocenti allontanarsi da me e le loro braccia avvolgersi intorno al suo collo invece che al mio? Allora lei alzava lo sguardo su di me, scostando i loro capelli dal viso, e diceva: “Si abitueranno presto, signorina Wade. Sono bambini semplici e affettuosi. Non si disperi per questo, ” E intanto esultava per la sua vittoria su di me.

C’era un’altra cosa che quella donna faceva: a volte, quando vedeva di avermi efficacemente gettato in uno stato di cupa malinconia, attirava l’attenzione dei bambini su questo fatto e gli mostrava la differenza tra lei e me. “Zitti! Povera signorina Wade, non sta bene. Non fate rumore, cari; le fa male la testa. Venite a consolarla. Chiedetele se si sente meglio, chiedetele di sdraiarsi. Spero che non abbiate nulla in mente, signora. Non vi affatichiate troppo, per favore.”

Divenne insopportabile. Un giorno, quando ero da solo, la sua signoria, la mia padrona, entrò e, nel momento in cui sentii di non poter reggere più quella situazione, le dissi che dovevo andarmene. Non riuscivo a sopportare la presenza di quella donna, Dawes.

“Signorina Wade! Povero Dawes è devoto a lei, farebbe qualsiasi cosa per lei!”

Sapevo già in anticipo che avrebbe detto così; ero completamente preparato a questa risposta; ho semplicemente risposto che non spettava a me contraddire la mia padrona. Devo andare.

“Spero, signorina Wade,” rispose lei, assumendo immediatamente quel tono di superiorità che aveva sempre cercato di nascondere, “che nulla di ciò che ho detto o fatto da quando siamo insieme possa giustificare l’uso di quella parola sgradevole, ‘Signora’. Deve essere stato completamente involontario da parte mia. Per favore, ditemi di cosa si tratta.”

Risposi che non avevo alcuna lamentela da fare, né riguardo alla mia padrona né, beh, comunque dovevo andare.

Esitò per un momento, poi si sedette accanto a me e posò la sua mano sulla mia. Come se quel onore potesse cancellare ogni ricordo.

“Signorina Wade, temo che siate scontenta per motivi su cui io non ho alcun controllo.”

Risi, pensando all’esperienza che quella parola aveva risvegliato in me, e dissi: “Suppongo di avere un carattere scontroso, ”

“Non ho detto quello.”

“È un modo semplice per spiegare qualsiasi cosa,” dissi io.

“Forse è così; ma non l’ho detto io. Quello che voglio affrontare è qualcosa di molto diverso. Mio marito ed io abbiamo discusso dell’argomento, e abbiamo osservato con dolore che voi non siete stati particolarmente gentili con noi.”

“Facile? Oh! Siete davvero persone meravigliose, mia signora,” dissi.

“Sono sfortunata ad aver usato una parola che potrebbe trasmettere un significato – e chiaramente lo fa – del tutto opposto a quello che intendevo.” (Non si aspettava la mia risposta, e questo la imbarazzò.) “Voglio solo dire, che non sei felice con noi. È un argomento difficile da affrontare; ma, tra due giovani donne, forse possiamo dire che temevamo che alcune circostanze familiari, di cui nessuno potrebbe essere più innocente di te, potessero influenzare negativamente il tuo umore. Se è così, ti preghiamo di non lasciare che queste cose diventino motivo di tristezza. Mio marito stesso, come è ben noto, aveva un’affettuosa sorella, che non era sua cognata, ma che era amata e rispettata da tutti, ”

Vidi chiaramente che mi avevano accolto per via di quella donna morta, chiunque lei fosse, e per poter vantarsi di me e trarne vantaggio; vidi, nella conoscenza che la infermiera ne aveva, un incoraggiamento a tormentarmi come aveva già fatto; e vidi, nel modo in cui i bambini si allontanavano da me, una vaga sensazione che io non fossi come le altre persone. Lasciai quella >casa quella notte.

Dopo una o due esperienze brevi e molto simili, che non rientrano nell’ambito di questo discorso, entrai in un’altra famiglia dove avevo soltanto un’allieva: una ragazza di quindici anni, l’unica figlia della famiglia. I genitori erano persone anziane, di status sociale elevato e ricche. Un nipote che loro avevano cresciuto era un visitatore frequente in quella casa, insieme a molti altri; egli iniziò ad interessarsi a me. Ero decisa a respingerlo: quando ero andata lì, mi ero ripromessa che nessuno dovesse provare pietà per me o trattarmi con condiscendenza. Ma lui mi scrisse una lettera. E questo portò al nostro fidanzamento.

He was a year younger than I, and young-looking even when that allowance was made. He was on absence from India, where he had a post that was soon to grow into a very good one. In six months we were to be married, and were to go to India. I was to stay in the house, and was to be married from the house. Nobody objected to any part of the plan.

I cannot avoid saying he admired me; but, if I could, I would. Vanity has nothing to do with the declaration, for his admiration worried me. He took no pains to hide it; and caused me to feel among the rich people as if he had bought me for my looks, and made a show of his purchase to justify himself. They appraised me in their own minds, I saw, and were curious to ascertain what my full value was. I resolved that they should not know. I was immovable and silent before them; and would have suffered any one of them to kill me sooner than I would have laid myself out to bespeak their approval.

He told me I did not do myself justice. I told him I did, and it was because I did and meant to do so to the last, that I would not stoop to propitiate any of them. He was concerned and even shocked, when I added that I wished he would not parade his attachment before them; but he said he would sacrifice even the honest impulses of his affection to my peace.

Under that pretence he began to retort upon me. By the hour together, he would keep at a distance from me, talking to any one rather than to me. I have sat alone and unnoticed, half an evening, while he conversed with his young cousin, my pupil. I have seen all the while, in people’s eyes, that they thought the two looked nearer on an equality than he and I. I have sat, divining their thoughts, until I have felt that his young appearance made me ridiculous, and have raged against myself for ever loving him.

For I did love him once. Undeserving as he was, and little as he thought of all these agonies that it cost me—agonies which should have made him wholly and gratefully mine to his life’s end—I loved him. I bore with his cousin’s praising him to my face, and with her pretending to think that it pleased me, but full well knowing that it rankled in my breast; for his sake. While I have sat in his presence recalling all my slights and wrongs, and deliberating whether I should not fly from the house at once and never see him again—I have loved him.

His aunt (my Mistress you will please to remember) deliberately, wilfully, added to my trials and vexations. It was her delight to expatiate on the style in which we were to live in India, and on the establishment we should keep, and the company we should entertain when he got his advancement. My pride rose against this barefaced way of pointing out the contrast my married life was to present to my then dependent and inferior position. I suppressed my indignation; but I showed her that her intention was not lost upon me, and I repaid her annoyance by affecting humility. What she described would surely be a great deal too much honour for me, I would tell her. I was afraid I might not be able to support so great a change. Think of a mere governess, her daughter’s governess, coming to that high distinction! It made her uneasy, and made them all uneasy, when I answered in this way. They knew that I fully understood her.

It was at the time when my troubles were at their highest, and when I was most incensed against my lover for his ingratitude in caring as little as he did for the innumerable distresses and mortifications I underwent on his account, that your dear friend, Mr Gowan, appeared at the house. He had been intimate there for a long time, but had been abroad. He understood the state of things at a glance, and he understood me.

He was the first person I had ever seen in my life who had understood me. He was not in the house three times before I knew that he accompanied every movement of my mind. In his coldly easy way with all of them, and with me, and with the whole subject, I saw it clearly. In his light protestations of admiration of my future husband, in his enthusiasm regarding our engagement and our prospects, in his hopeful congratulations on our future wealth and his despondent references to his own poverty—all equally hollow, and jesting, and full of mockery—I saw it clearly. He made me feel more and more resentful, and more and more contemptible, by always presenting to me everything that surrounded me with some new hateful light upon it, while he pretended to exhibit it in its best aspect for my admiration and his own. He was like the dressed-up Death in the Dutch series; whatever figure he took upon his arm, whether it was youth or age, beauty or ugliness, whether he danced with it, sang with it, played with it, or prayed with it, he made it ghastly.

You will understand, then, that when your dear friend complimented me, he really condoled with me; that when he soothed me under my vexations, he laid bare every smarting wound I had; that when he declared my ‘faithful swain’ to be ‘the most loving young fellow in the world, with the tenderest heart that ever beat,’ he touched my old misgiving that I was made ridiculous. These were not great services, you may say. They were acceptable to me, because they echoed my own mind, and confirmed my own knowledge. I soon began to like the society of your dear friend better than any other.

When I perceived (which I did, almost as soon) that jealousy was growing out of this, I liked this society still better. Had I not been subject to jealousy, and were the endurances to be all mine? No. Let him know what it was! I was delighted that he should know it; I was delighted that he should feel keenly, and I hoped he did. More than that. He was tame in comparison with Mr Gowan, who knew how to address me on equal terms, and how to anatomise the wretched people around us.

Era un anno più giovane di me, e sembrava ancora più giovane anche tenendo conto di quella differenza d’età. Era in congedo dall’India, dove ricopriva una posizione che presto avrebbe potuto diventare molto importante. In sei mesi ci saremmo sposati e saremmo andati in India. Io avrei rimasto nella >casa dei miei genitori, e ci saremmo sposati lì. Nessuno aveva obiezioni a nessuna parte di questo piano.

Non posso fare a meno di dire che mi ammirava; ma, se potessi, lo eviterei. La vanità non ha nulla a che fare con questo sentimento, perché la sua ammirazione mi preoccupava. Non si dava alcuna pena per nasconderla; e questo faceva sì che, tra le persone ricche, mi sentissi come se fossi stata comprata soltanto per il mio aspetto, e che lui facesse mostra di questa “acquisto” per giustificarsi. Li vedevo valutarmi secondo i loro standard, e provavo curiosità nel sapere quale fosse il mio vero valore. Decisi che non avrebbero mai scoperto nulla. Rimanevo immobile e silenziosa davanti a loro; avrei preferito essere uccisa da uno di loro piuttosto che chiedere il loro consenso.

Mi disse che non mi ero resa giustizia. Gli risposi di sì, e proprio perché l’avevo fatto con sincerità fino all’ultimo momento, non avrei mai abbassato me stessa a compiacere nessuno di loro. Fu preoccupato, persino scioccato, quando aggiunsi che avrei preferito non vedesse ostentare il suo affetto davanti a loro; ma lui disse che avrebbe sacrificato anche i più sinceri impulsi del proprio sentimento per garantirmi la pace.

Sotto quella scusa, iniziò a rispondermi in modo aggressivo. Per ore intere, si teneva a distanza da me, preferendo parlare con chiunque piuttosto che con me. Sono rimasta seduta da sola e ignorata per metà serata, mentre lui conversava con sua cugina più giovane, la mia allieva. Ho visto negli occhi delle persone che loro ritenevano i due molto più simili tra loro di quanto lo fossimo io e lui. Sono rimasta lì, cercando di interpretare i loro pensieri, fino a quando non ho sentito che il suo aspetto giovane mi rendeva ridicola. E allora mi sono maledetta per averlo amato così tanto.

Perché un tempo l’ho amato davvero. Nonostante non meritasse affatto quel mio amore, e nonostante lui stesso considerasse trascurabili tutte le sofferenze che mi ha causato – sofferenze che avrebbero dovuto renderlo completamente e riconoscentemente mio per tutta la vita – l’ho amato lo stesso. Ho sopportato i complimenti della sua cugina davanti a me, e il fatto che lei fingesse di essere contenta, pur sapendo benissimo che tutto ciò mi feriva nel profondo del cuore. Per amor suo. Anche quando sono stata seduta al suo fianco, ricordando tutte le offese e gli ingiustizie subite, e pensando se non dovesse andarmene immediatamente da quella casa per non vederlo mai più, l’ho amato lo stesso.

Sua zia (che, per favore, ricordate come fosse la mia padrona) aggiungeva deliberatamente, con cattiva intenzione, alle mie difficoltà e ai miei problemi. Le piaceva molto descrivere in dettaglio il modo in cui avremmo dovuto vivere in India, l’organizzazione che avremmo dovuto mantenere e le persone che avremmo dovuto ricevere quando lui avesse ottenuto promozioni. La mia orgoglio si ribellava contro questo modo così esplicito di evidenziare il contrasto tra la mia vita coniugale e la mia posizione allora dipendente e inferiore. Repressi la mia indignazione, ma le feci capire chiaramente che non mi era sfuggita la sua intenzione, e ricambiai la sua irritazione mostrando umiltà. Le avrei detto che ciò che descriveva sarebbe sicuramente stato un onore troppo grande per me; temevo di non essere in grado di sopportare un cambiamento così radicale. Pensate solo a una semplice istituttrice, la governante della figlia sua, arrivare a una tale posizione elevata! Quando risposi in questo modo, lei e tutti gli altri si sentirono a disagio; sapevano che avevo perfettamente compreso le sue intenzioni.

Fu in quel momento in cui i miei problemi raggiunsero il loro apice, e in cui ero particolarmente arrabbiata con il mio amante per la sua ingratitudine, visto che si curava così poco delle innumerevoli difficoltà e umiliazioni che dovevo sopportare a causa sua, che il tuo caro amico, il signor Gowan, apparve nella nostra casa. Era già un ospite frequente da molto tempo, ma si trovava all’estero in quel periodo. Capì immediatamente la situazione e comprese perfettamente come mi sentivo.

Era la prima persona che avessi mai incontrato nella mia vita che mi capisse veramente. Non era nemmeno stato in quella >casa tre volte, quando già capii che seguiva ogni mio pensiero e ogni mia azione. Nel modo freddo e distaccato con cui si comportava con tutti loro, con me e con l’intera situazione, vedevo chiaramente la verità: le sue superficiali espressioni di ammirazione per il mio futuro marito, il suo entusiasmo riguardo al nostro fidanzamento e alle nostre prospettive, le sue congratulazioni speranzose per la nostra futura ricchezza, e i suoi riferimenti disperati alla propria >poverità – tutto era vuoto, ironico, pieno di sarcasmo. Mi faceva sentire sempre più risentita e sprezzante: presentava sempre tutto ciò che mi circondava sotto una luce nuova e odiosa, mentre fingeva di mostrarlo nel suo aspetto migliore, per il mio piacere e per il proprio vantaggio. Era come la >Morte travestita nella serie olandese: qualunque forma assumesse – giovinezza o vecchiaia, >bellezza o bruttezza – non importava se danzasse, cantasse, giocasse o pregasse con essa, tutto risultava orribile.

Allora capirai che, quando il tuo caro amico mi fece i complimenti, in realtà si impietosì sinceramente su di me; che, quando cercò di consolarmi nei miei momenti di difficoltà, rivelò tutte le ferite emotive che avevo; che, quando definì il mio “fedele innamorato” “il ragazzo più amorevole del mondo, con il cuore più tenero che esista”, toccò proprio i miei vecchi timori di essere considerata ridicola. Forse non si trattava di gesti eccezionali. Ma per me erano molto significativi, perché riflettevano ciò che pensavo io stessa e confermavano le mie convinzioni. Presto iniziai ad apprezzare la compagnia del tuo caro amico più di qualsiasi altra.

Quando mi resi conto (e ci riuscii quasi immediatamente) che da tutto questo stava nascendo la invidia, apprezzai ancora di più questa compagnia. Se non fossi stato soggetto all’invidia e se tutte quelle sofferenze fossero state solo mie. No. Lasciate che sappia cosa significa! Ero felice che lo scoprisse; ero felice che ne provasse profondamente la sensazione, e speravo proprio che fosse così. Anzi di più: lui era ancora troppo “docile” rispetto al signor Gowan, che sapeva come trattarmi con uguali diritti e come analizzare quelle persone misere intorno a noi.

This went on, until the aunt, my Mistress, took it upon herself to speak to me. It was scarcely worth alluding to; she knew I meant nothing; but she suggested from herself, knowing it was only necessary to suggest, that it might be better if I were a little less companionable with Mr Gowan.

I asked her how she could answer for what I meant? She could always answer, she replied, for my meaning nothing wrong. I thanked her, but said I would prefer to answer for myself and to myself. Her other servants would probably be grateful for good characters, but I wanted none.

Other conversation followed, and induced me to ask her how she knew that it was only necessary for her to make a suggestion to me, to have it obeyed? Did she presume on my birth, or on my hire? I was not bought, body and soul. She seemed to think that her distinguished nephew had gone into a slave-market and purchased a wife.

It would probably have come, sooner or later, to the end to which it did come, but she brought it to its issue at once. She told me, with assumed commiseration, that I had an unhappy temper. On this repetition of the old wicked injury, I withheld no longer, but exposed to her all I had known of her and seen in her, and all I had undergone within myself since I had occupied the despicable position of being engaged to her nephew. I told her that Mr Gowan was the only relief I had had in my degradation; that I had borne it too long, and that I shook it off too late; but that I would see none of them more. And I never did.

Your dear friend followed me to my retreat, and was very droll on the severance of the connection; though he was sorry, too, for the excellent people (in their way the best he had ever met), and deplored the necessity of breaking mere house-flies on the wheel. He protested before long, and far more truly than I then supposed, that he was not worth acceptance by a woman of such endowments, and such power of character; but—well, well—!

Your dear friend amused me and amused himself as long as it suited his inclinations; and then reminded me that we were both people of the world, that we both understood mankind, that we both knew there was no such thing as romance, that we were both prepared for going different ways to seek our fortunes like people of sense, and that we both foresaw that whenever we encountered one another again we should meet as the best friends on earth. So he said, and I did not contradict him.

It was not very long before I found that he was courting his present wife, and that she had been taken away to be out of his reach. I hated her then, quite as much as I hate her now; and naturally, therefore, could desire nothing better than that she should marry him. But I was restlessly curious to look at her—so curious that I felt it to be one of the few sources of entertainment left to me. I travelled a little: travelled until I found myself in her society, and in yours. Your dear friend, I think, was not known to you then, and had not given you any of those signal marks of his friendship which he has bestowed upon you.

In that company I found a girl, in various circumstances of whose position there was a singular likeness to my own, and in whose character I was interested and pleased to see much of the rising against swollen patronage and selfishness, calling themselves kindness, protection, benevolence, and other fine names, which I have described as inherent in my nature. I often heard it said, too, that she had ‘an unhappy temper.’ Well understanding what was meant by the convenient phrase, and wanting a companion with a knowledge of what I knew, I thought I would try to release the girl from her bondage and sense of injustice. I have no occasion to relate that I succeeded.

We have been together ever since, sharing my small means.

Questo andò avanti, fino a quando mia zia, la mia padrona, decise di parlarmi. Non valeva quasi la pena menzionarlo; sapeva che non intendevo nulla di male; ma suggerì lei stessa, sapendo che era sufficiente solo farlo, che forse sarebbe stato meglio se fossi stato un po’ meno cordiale con il signor Gowan.

Le chiesi come potesse essere ritenuta responsabile di ciò che intendevo io; lei rispose che poteva sempre rispondere, poiché nel mio intendimento non c’era nulla di sbagliato. Le ringraziai, ma dissi che preferivo assumermi la responsabilità delle mie azioni da solo. Gli altri suoi servitori probabilmente sarebbero stati grati per le sue buone qualità, ma io non ne volevo nessuna.

Seguirono altre conversazioni, e questo mi spinse a chiederle come facesse a sapere che era sufficiente che le facesse una semplice proposta perché venisse accettata. Si basava forse sulla mia nascita o sul mio rapporto con lei? Non ero stato comprato, né nel corpo né nell’anima. Sembrava pensare che suo nipote distinto fosse andato al mercato degli schiavi e avesse acquistato una moglie.

Probabilmente sarebbe arrivato, prima o poi, allo stesso risultato a cui è giunto, ma lei lo ha portato a termine immediatamente. Mi disse, con un’aria di falsa compassione, che avevo un carattere sfortunato. Di fronte a questa ripetizione di quell’antico e malvagio insulto, non esitai più e le rivelai tutto ciò che sapevo e avevo visto in lei, così come tutto ciò che avevo sofferto dentro di me da quando avevo assunto la spregevole posizione di essere fidanzato con suo nipote. Le dissi che il signor Gowan era l’unica consolazione che avessi trovato nella mia degradazione; che l’avevo sopportata per troppo tempo e che l’avevo abbandonata troppo tardi. Ma che non avrei più visto nessuno di loro. E infatti, non li vidi mai più.

Il tuo caro amico mi ha seguito nel mio ritiro e si è comportato in modo molto divertente riguardo alla necessità di interrompere quella relazione; anche se, allo stesso tempo, provava dispiacere per quelle persone eccellenti (che, a loro modo, erano le migliori che avesse mai incontrato) e deplorava la necessità di eliminare semplici “mosche di casa” dal “carro”. Presto iniziò a protestare, e in modo molto più sincero di quanto io pensassi all’epoca, sostenendo di non essere degno dell’attenzione di una donna con tali doti e un carattere così forte. Ma beh, che si faccia come vuole!

Il tuo caro amico mi ha divertito e si è divertito lui stesso finché ciò corrispondeva alle sue inclinazioni; poi mi ha ricordato che entrambi eravamo persone del mondo, che entrambi comprendevamo la natura umana, che sapevamo bene che non esisteva nulla di simile all’romanzo, che eravamo entrambi pronti a seguire strade diverse per cercare la nostra fortuna, come persone sensate, e che prevedevamo entrambi che, ogni volta che ci saremmo incontrati di nuovo, lo avremmo fatto come i migliori amici al mondo. Così ha detto, e io non l’ho contraddetto.

Non trascorse molto tempo prima che scoprissi che lui corteggiava la sua attuale moglie e che lei fosse stata portata via per metterla fuori dalla sua portata. Allora la odiavo, proprio come la odio adesso; quindi, naturalmente, non desideravo nulla di meglio se non che lei lo sposasse. Ma ero curioso da morire di vederla, così curioso che quella vista rappresentava una delle poche fonti di divertimento che mi rimanevano. Viaggiai un po’, fino a quando non finii nella sua compagnia, e quindi anche nella vostra. Credo che il vostro caro amico all’epoca non vi fosse conosciuto, e non vi avesse ancora mostrato quei segni evidenti di amicizia che poi vi ha dato.

In quella compagnia incontrai una ragazza la cui situazione, sotto molti aspetti, assomigliava in modo singolare alla mia; nel suo carattere notai molte qualità che si opponevano a quel tipo di protezione e egoismo mascherati da nomi gentili come “bontà”, “protezione” o “benevolenza”. Spesso si diceva anche che avesse “un temperamento infelice”. Comprendendo bene il significato di questa espressione e desiderando avere una compagna che condividesse le mie idee, decisi di cercare di liberarla da quella condizione ingiusta. Purtroppo non ho l’occasione di raccontare se ci siano riuscito o meno.

Siamo stati insieme da allora, condividendo le mie modeste risorse.

CHAPTER 22. Who passes by this Road so late?

Arthur Clennam had made his unavailing expedition to Calais in the midst of a great pressure of business. A certain barbaric Power with valuable possessions on the map of the world, had occasion for the services of one or two engineers, quick in invention and determined in execution: practical men, who could make the men and means their ingenuity perceived to be wanted out of the best materials they could find at hand; and who were as bold and fertile in the adaptation of such materials to their purpose, as in the conception of their purpose itself. This Power, being a barbaric one, had no idea of stowing away a great national object in a Circumlocution Office, as strong wine is hidden from the light in a cellar until its fire and youth are gone, and the labourers who worked in the vineyard and pressed the grapes are dust. With characteristic ignorance, it acted on the most decided and energetic notions of How to do it; and never showed the least respect for, or gave any quarter to, the great political science, How not to do it. Indeed it had a barbarous way of striking the latter art and mystery dead, in the person of any enlightened subject who practised it.

Accordingly, the men who were wanted were sought out and found; which was in itself a most uncivilised and irregular way of proceeding. Being found, they were treated with great confidence and honour (which again showed dense political ignorance), and were invited to come at once and do what they had to do. In short, they were regarded as men who meant to do it, engaging with other men who meant it to be done.

Daniel Doyce was one of the chosen. There was no foreseeing at that time whether he would be absent months or years. The preparations for his departure, and the conscientious arrangement for him of all the details and results of their joint business, had necessitated labour within a short compass of time, which had occupied Clennam day and night. He had slipped across the water in his first leisure, and had slipped as quickly back again for his farewell interview with Doyce.

Him Arthur now showed, with pains and care, the state of their gains and losses, responsibilities and prospects. Daniel went through it all in his patient manner, and admired it all exceedingly. He audited the accounts, as if they were a far more ingenious piece of mechanism than he had ever constructed, and afterwards stood looking at them, weighing his hat over his head by the brims, as if he were absorbed in the contemplation of some wonderful engine.

‘It’s all beautiful, Clennam, in its regularity and order. Nothing can be plainer. Nothing can be better.’

‘I am glad you approve, Doyce. Now, as to the management of your capital while you are away, and as to the conversion of so much of it as the business may need from time to time—’ His partner stopped him.

‘As to that, and as to everything else of that kind, all rests with you. You will continue in all such matters to act for both of us, as you have done hitherto, and to lighten my mind of a load it is much relieved from.’

‘Though, as I often tell you,’ returned Clennam, ‘you unreasonably depreciate your business qualities.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Doyce, smiling. ‘And perhaps not. Anyhow, I have a calling that I have studied more than such matters, and that I am better fitted for. I have perfect confidence in my partner, and I am satisfied that he will do what is best. If I have a prejudice connected with money and money figures,’ continued Doyce, laying that plastic workman’s thumb of his on the lapel of his partner’s coat, ‘it is against speculating. I don’t think I have any other. I dare say I entertain that prejudice, only because I have never given my mind fully to the subject.’

‘But you shouldn’t call it a prejudice,’ said Clennam. ‘My dear Doyce, it is the soundest sense.’

‘I am glad you think so,’ returned Doyce, with his grey eye looking kind and bright.

‘It so happens,’ said Clennam, ‘that just now, not half an hour before you came down, I was saying the same thing to Pancks, who looked in here. We both agreed that to travel out of safe investments is one of the most dangerous, as it is one of the most common, of those follies which often deserve the name of vices.’

‘Pancks?’ said Doyce, tilting up his hat at the back, and nodding with an air of confidence. ‘Aye, aye, aye! That’s a cautious fellow.’

‘He is a very cautious fellow indeed,’ returned Arthur. ‘Quite a specimen of caution.’

They both appeared to derive a larger amount of satisfaction from the cautious character of Mr Pancks, than was quite intelligible, judged by the surface of their conversation.

‘And now,’ said Daniel, looking at his watch, ‘as time and tide wait for no man, my trusty partner, and as I am ready for starting, bag and baggage, at the gate below, let me say a last word. I want you to grant a request of mine.’

‘Any request you can make—Except,’ Clennam was quick with his exception, for his partner’s face was quick in suggesting it, ‘except that I will abandon your invention.’

‘That’s the request, and you know it is,’ said Doyce.

‘I say, No, then. I say positively, No. Now that I have begun, I will have some definite reason, some responsible statement, something in the nature of a real answer, from those people.’

‘You will not,’ returned Doyce, shaking his head. ‘Take my word for it, you never will.’

‘At least, I’ll try,’ said Clennam. ‘It will do me no harm to try.’

‘I am not certain of that,’ rejoined Doyce, laying his hand persuasively on his shoulder. ‘It has done me harm, my friend. It has aged me, tired me, vexed me, disappointed me. It does no man any good to have his patience worn out, and to think himself ill-used. I fancy, even already, that unavailing attendance on delays and evasions has made you something less elastic than you used to be.’

CAPITOLO 22. Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?

Arthur Clennam aveva intrapreso la sua inutile spedizione a Calais nel mezzo di un enorme carico di lavoro. Una certa potenza “barbara”, dotata di preziose risorse sul “mappamondo”, aveva bisogno dei servizi di uno o due ingegneri: persone capaci di inventare rapidamente e di attuare con determinazione i propri progetti; individui pratici, in grado di utilizzare i materiali più idonei disponibili per realizzare ciò che era necessario. Questa potenza, essendo “barbara”, non aveva alcuna idea di come nascondere i propri obiettivi politici dietro formalità burocratiche, proprio come il vino pregiato viene tenuto nascosto in una cantina fino a quando non scompaiono la gioventù e le forze creative che lo hanno prodotto; i lavoratori che un tempo si dedicavano alla coltivazione delle viti e alla raccolta dell’uva, ormai, erano diventati “polvere”. Con una tipica ignoranza, questa potenza agiva seguendo le idee più decise ed energiche su come realizzare i propri scopi; non mostrava alcun rispetto per la grande scienza politica che consiste nel “non fare” certe cose. Anzi, eliminava con decisione qualsiasi tentativo di applicare tali principi da parte dei suoi sottoposti illuminati.

Di conseguenza, gli uomini che erano ricercati furono trovati; il fatto stesso rappresentava un metodo di procedimento estremamente barbaro e irregolare. Una volta individuati, vennero trattati con grande fiducia e onore (il che dimostrava ancora una volta una profonda ignoranza politica), e furono invitati ad andare subito a compiere ciò che era necessario fare. In breve, venivano considerati persone decise a portare a termine il loro compito, impegnandosi insieme ad altri individui con lo stesso obiettivo.

Daniel Doyce era uno dei prescelti. In quel momento non si poteva prevedere se sarebbe stato assente per mesi o anni. I preparativi per la sua partenza, nonché l’organizzazione meticolosa di tutti i dettagli relativi agli affari che condividevano, avevano richiesto un impegno prolungato in un breve lasso di tempo, il che aveva costretto Clennam a lavorare giorno e notte. Aveva attraversato il fiume durante la sua prima pausa, per poi tornare immediatamente indietro per l’ultima conversazione con Doyce.

Arthur gli mostrò con cura e attenzione lo stato dei loro guadagni e perdite, delle loro responsabilità e prospettive future. Daniel esaminò tutto con pazienza e ne rimase estremamente colpito. Controllò i conti come se si trattasse di un meccanismo molto più ingegnoso di qualsiasi altro avesse mai costruito, e poi rimase a fissarli, tenendosi il cappello sulla testa con entrambe le mani, come se fosse immerso nella contemplazione di qualche meravigliosa macchina.

“È tutto bellissimo, Clennam: nella sua regolarità e nel suo ordine. Niente può essere più semplice. Niente può essere migliore.”

“Sono felice che tu approvi, Doyce. Ora, per quanto riguarda la gestione del tuo capitale mentre sei assente, e la conversione di una parte di esso secondo le esigenze dell’affare da un periodo all’altro, ” Il suo socio lo interruppe.

“Per quanto riguarda questo, e tutto ciò che è dello stesso genere, dipende interamente da te. Continuerai a gestire tutte queste questioni per entrambi, come hai fatto finora, e così mi solleverai da un peso dal quale sono davvero molto sollevato.”

“Tuttavia,” rispose Clennam, “come vi dico spesso, sottovalutate in modo irragionevole le vostre qualità professionali.”

“Forse sì,” disse Doyce sorridendo. “E forse no. Comunque, ho una vocazione che mi ha portato a studiare queste questioni più a fondo di quanto abbiano fatto altri, e sono più adatto per occuparmene. Ho piena fiducia nel mio partner e sono sicuro che farà ciò che è meglio. Se ho qualche pregiudizio riguardo al denaro e alle cifre finanziarie,” continuò Doyce, posando il pollice sul bavero del cappotto del suo compagno, “è proprio contro la speculazione. Non credo di avere altri pregiudizi. Forse li ho soltanto perché non mi sono mai dedicato completamente a questo argomento.”

“Ma non dovresti chiamarlo pregiudizio,” disse Clennam. “Mia cara Doyce, è il ragionamento più logico.”

“Sono felice che tu la pensi così,” rispose Doyce, il suo occhio grigio sembrava gentile e luminoso.

“Per coincidenza,” disse Clennam, “poco fa, meno di mezz’ora prima che tu scendessi, stavo dicendo la stessa cosa a Pancks, che è passato da qui. Siamo entrambi concordi sul fatto che allontanarsi dagli investimenti sicuri sia una delle follie più pericolose e, allo stesso tempo, le più comuni; follie che spesso meritano davvero il nome di vizi.”

“Pancks?” disse Doyce, sollevando il cappello all’indietro e annuendo con aria di fiducia. “Sì, sì, proprio lui. Un tipo molto cauto.”

“È davvero un uomo molto cauto,” rispose Arthur. “Un vero esempio di prudenza.”

Sembra che entrambi traggessero una maggiore soddisfazione dal carattere cauto di Signor Pancks, di quanto fosse del tutto comprensibile a giudicare dalle loro conversazioni superficiali.

“E ora,” disse Daniel, guardando l’orologio, “poiché né il tempo né la marea attendono nessuno, mio fedele compagno, e poiché sono pronto a partire con tutto ciò che ho, all’ingresso qui sotto, lasciami dire un’ultima parola. Voglio che tu acconsenta a una mia richiesta.”

“Qualsiasi richiesta tu possa fare. Tranne,” disse subito Clennam, perché l’espressione sul viso del suo socio lo suggeriva chiaramente, “tranne che io abbandoni la tua invenzione.”

“Ecco la richiesta, e tu lo sai,” disse Doyce.

“Dico di no, assolutamente no. Ora che ho iniziato, voglio che quelle persone mi forniscano una ragione concreta, una dichiarazione responsabile, qualcosa che abbia il carattere di una vera risposta.”

“Non lo farai mai,” rispose Doyce scuotendo la testa. “Fidati di me: non lo farai mai.”

“Almeno ci proverò,” disse Clennam. “Non mi farà male provare.”

“Non ne sono certo,” ribatté Doyce, posando con persuasione la mano sulla sua spalla. “Mi ha fatto del male, amico mio. Mi ha invecchiato, stancato, infastidito, deluso. Non fa alcun bene a nessuno esaurire la propria pazienza e ritenersi trattati ingiustamente. Credo che, già ora, questa continua attenzione verso ritardi ed evasioni ti abbia reso meno flessibile di quanto fossi un tempo.”

‘Private anxieties may have done that for the moment,’ said Clennam, ‘but not official harrying. Not yet. I am not hurt yet.’

‘Then you won’t grant my request?’

‘Decidedly, No,’ said Clennam. ‘I should be ashamed if I submitted to be so soon driven out of the field, where a much older and a much more sensitively interested man contended with fortitude so long.’

As there was no moving him, Daniel Doyce returned the grasp of his hand, and, casting a farewell look round the counting-house, went down-stairs with him. Doyce was to go to Southampton to join the small staff of his fellow-travellers; and a coach was at the gate, well furnished and packed, and ready to take him there. The workmen were at the gate to see him off, and were mightily proud of him. ‘Good luck to you, Mr Doyce!’ said one of the number. ‘Wherever you go, they’ll find as they’ve got a man among ‘em, a man as knows his tools and as his tools knows, a man as is willing and a man as is able, and if that’s not a man, where is a man!’ This oration from a gruff volunteer in the back-ground, not previously suspected of any powers in that way, was received with three loud cheers; and the speaker became a distinguished character for ever afterwards. In the midst of the three loud cheers, Daniel gave them all a hearty ‘Good Bye, Men!’ and the coach disappeared from sight, as if the concussion of the air had blown it out of Bleeding Heart Yard.

Mr Baptist, as a grateful little fellow in a position of trust, was among the workmen, and had done as much towards the cheering as a mere foreigner could. In truth, no men on earth can cheer like Englishmen, who do so rally one another’s blood and spirit when they cheer in earnest, that the stir is like the rush of their whole history, with all its standards waving at once, from Saxon Alfred’s downwards. Mr Baptist had been in a manner whirled away before the onset, and was taking his breath in quite a scared condition when Clennam beckoned him to follow up-stairs, and return the books and papers to their places.

In the lull consequent on the departure—in that first vacuity which ensues on every separation, foreshadowing the great separation that is always overhanging all mankind—Arthur stood at his desk, looking dreamily out at a gleam of sun. But his liberated attention soon reverted to the theme that was foremost in his thoughts, and began, for the hundredth time, to dwell upon every circumstance that had impressed itself upon his mind on the mysterious night when he had seen the man at his mother’s. Again the man jostled him in the crooked street, again he followed the man and lost him, again he came upon the man in the court-yard looking at the house, again he followed the man and stood beside him on the door-steps.

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine; Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!’

It was not the first time, by many, that he had recalled the song of the child’s game, of which the fellow had hummed this verse while they stood side by side; but he was so unconscious of having repeated it audibly, that he started to hear the next verse.

‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Compagnon de la Majolaine; Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Always gay!’

Cavalletto had deferentially suggested the words and tune, supposing him to have stopped short for want of more.

‘Ah! You know the song, Cavalletto?’

‘By Bacchus, yes, sir! They all know it in France. I have heard it many times, sung by the little children. The last time when it I have heard,’ said Mr Baptist, formerly Cavalletto, who usually went back to his native construction of sentences when his memory went near home, ‘is from a sweet little voice. A little voice, very pretty, very innocent. Altro!’

‘The last time I heard it,’ returned Arthur, ‘was in a voice quite the reverse of pretty, and quite the reverse of innocent.’ He said it more to himself than to his companion, and added to himself, repeating the man’s next words. ‘Death of my life, sir, it’s my character to be impatient!’

‘EH!’ cried Cavalletto, astounded, and with all his colour gone in a moment.

‘What is the matter?’

‘Sir! You know where I have heard that song the last time?’

With his rapid native action, his hands made the outline of a high hook nose, pushed his eyes near together, dishevelled his hair, puffed out his upper lip to represent a thick moustache, and threw the heavy end of an ideal cloak over his shoulder. While doing this, with a swiftness incredible to one who has not watched an Italian peasant, he indicated a very remarkable and sinister smile. The whole change passed over him like a flash of light, and he stood in the same instant, pale and astonished, before his patron.

‘In the name of Fate and wonder,’ said Clennam, ‘what do you mean? Do you know a man of the name of Blandois?’

‘No!’ said Mr Baptist, shaking his head.

‘You have just now described a man who was by when you heard that song; have you not?’

‘Yes!’ said Mr Baptist, nodding fifty times.

‘And was he not called Blandois?’

‘No!’ said Mr Baptist. ‘Altro, Altro, Altro, Altro!’ He could not reject the name sufficiently, with his head and his right forefinger going at once.

‘Stay!’ cried Clennam, spreading out the handbill on his desk. ‘Was this the man? You can understand what I read aloud?’

‘Altogether. Perfectly.’

‘But look at it, too. Come here and look over me, while I read.’

Mr Baptist approached, followed every word with his quick eyes, saw and heard it all out with the greatest impatience, then clapped his two hands flat upon the bill as if he had fiercely caught some noxious creature, and cried, looking eagerly at Clennam, ‘It is the man! Behold him!’

‘Ansie private possono aver fatto questo per il momento,’ disse Clennam, ‘ma non le vessazioni ufficiali. Non ancora. Non sono ancora ferito.’

‘Allora non volete accogliere la mia richiesta?’

‘Decisamente no,’ disse Clennam. ‘Mi vergognerei se accettassi di essere cacciato così presto dal campo, dove un uomo molto più vecchio e molto più intimamente interessato ha lottato con tanta fermezza per tanto tempo.’

Poiché non c’era modo di smuoverlo, Daniel Doyce ricambiò la stretta della sua mano, e, lanciando uno sguardo d’addio intorno alla casa di commercio, scese le scale con lui. Doyce doveva andare a Southampton per unirsi al piccolo gruppo dei suoi compagni di viaggio; e una carrozza era al cancello, ben fornita e caricata, e pronta a portarlo là. Gli operai erano al cancello per vederlo partire, ed erano immensamente fieri di lui. ‘Buona fortuna a voi, signor Doyce!’ disse uno di loro. ‘Ovunque andiate, si accorgeranno di avere tra loro un uomo, un uomo che conosce i suoi arnesi e che i suoi arnesi conoscono, un uomo che ha volontà e un uomo che ha capacità, e se quello non è un uomo, dov’è un uomo!’ Questa orazione, uscita da un burbero volontario in fondo, che nessuno prima sospettava di simili doti, fu accolta con tre sonori evviva; e l’oratore divenne per sempre da allora un personaggio insigne. In mezzo ai tre sonori evviva, Daniel rivolse a tutti un cordiale ‘Addio, uomini!’ e la carrozza sparì dalla vista, come se lo spostamento d’aria l’avesse soffiata via da Bleeding Heart Yard.

Il signor Baptist, come piccolo uomo riconoscente in una posizione di fiducia, era tra gli operai, e aveva fatto la sua parte negli evviva quanto un semplice straniero poteva. In verità, nessun uomo al mondo sa acclamare come gli inglesi, che si accendono l’un l’altro il sangue e lo spirito quando acclamano sul serio, tanto che il fremito è come l’impeto di tutta la loro storia, con tutti i suoi stendardi che sventolano insieme, da quelli di Alfredo il Sassone in poi. Il signor Baptist era stato in certo modo travolto da quell’assalto, e stava riprendendo fiato in uno stato assai spaventato quando Clennam gli fece cenno di seguirlo di sopra, e di rimettere a posto libri e carte.

Nella calma seguita alla partenza — in quel primo vuoto che subentra a ogni separazione, presagio della grande separazione che sovrasta sempre tutti gli uomini — Arthur stava alla sua scrivania, guardando sognante un raggio di sole. Ma la sua attenzione liberata tornò presto al tema che dominava i suoi pensieri, e cominciò, per la centesima volta, a soffermarsi su ogni circostanza che si era impressa nella sua mente in quella misteriosa notte in cui aveva visto l’uomo in casa di sua madre. Di nuovo l’uomo lo urtava nella via tortuosa, di nuovo lo seguiva e lo perdeva, di nuovo si imbatteva nell’uomo nel cortile che guardava la casa, di nuovo lo seguiva e gli stava accanto sui gradini della porta.

‘Chi passa per questa strada così tardi? Compagnon de la Majolaine; Chi passa per questa strada così tardi? Sempre allegro!’

Non era la prima volta, e di gran lunga, che gli tornava in mente la canzone del gioco del bambino, di cui quel tale aveva canticchiato questa strofa mentre stavano fianco a fianco; ma era così inconsapevole di averla ripetuta ad alta voce, che sussultò nel sentire la strofa seguente.

‘Di tutti i cavalieri del re è il fiore, Compagnon de la Majolaine; Di tutti i cavalieri del re è il fiore, Sempre allegro!’

Cavalletto aveva rispettosamente suggerito le parole e l’aria, supponendo che si fosse fermato perché non ne ricordava altre.

‘Ah! Conosci la canzone, Cavalletto?’

‘Per Bacco, sì, signore! In Francia la conoscono tutti. L’ho sentita molte volte, cantata dai bambini piccoli. L’ultima volta che l’ho sentita,’ disse il signor Baptist, già Cavalletto, che di solito tornava alla costruzione delle frasi del suo paese quando la sua memoria andava vicino a casa, ‘è da una dolce vocina. Una vocina, molto graziosa, molto innocente. Altro!’

‘L’ultima volta che l’ho sentita io,’ replicò Arthur, ‘fu da una voce tutt’altro che graziosa, e tutt’altro che innocente.’ Lo disse più a sé stesso che al suo compagno, e aggiunse tra sé, ripetendo le parole successive dell’uomo. ‘Morte della mia vita, signore, è nel mio carattere essere impaziente!’

‘EH!’ gridò Cavalletto, sbalordito, e con tutto il colore svanito in un istante.

‘Qual è il problema?’

‘Signore! Sapete dove ho sentito quella canzone l’ultima volta?’

Con la rapida gestualità del suo paese, le sue mani tracciarono il profilo di un alto naso adunco, gli avvicinarono gli occhi tra loro, gli scompigliarono i capelli, gonfiò il labbro superiore per raffigurare un folto paio di baffi, e gettò il lembo pesante di un mantello immaginario sopra la spalla. Mentre faceva questo, con una rapidità incredibile per chi non abbia mai osservato un contadino italiano, accennò a un sorriso assai singolare e sinistro. L’intero mutamento gli passò addosso come un lampo di luce, ed egli stette nello stesso istante, pallido e stupito, davanti al suo protettore.

‘In nome del Destino e della meraviglia,’ disse Clennam, ‘che cosa vuoi dire? Conosci un uomo di nome Blandois?’

‘No!’ disse il signor Baptist, scuotendo la testa.

‘Hai appena descritto un uomo che era presente quando hai sentito quella canzone; non è vero?’

‘Sì!’ disse il signor Baptist, annuendo cinquanta volte.

‘E non si chiamava Blandois?’

‘No!’ disse il signor Baptist. ‘Altro, Altro, Altro, Altro!’ Non riusciva a respingere abbastanza quel nome, con la testa e l’indice destro in movimento insieme.

‘Aspetta!’ gridò Clennam, spiegando il manifesto sulla scrivania. ‘Era questo l’uomo? Puoi capire quello che leggo ad alta voce?’

‘Del tutto. Perfettamente.’

‘Ma guardalo anche tu. Vieni qui e guarda sopra la mia spalla, mentre leggo.’

Il signor Baptist si avvicinò, seguì ogni parola con i suoi occhi rapidi, vide e ascoltò tutto fino in fondo con la più grande impazienza, poi batté le sue due mani aperte sul manifesto come se avesse afferrato con furia qualche bestia velenosa, e gridò, guardando ansiosamente Clennam: ‘È l’uomo! Eccolo!’

‘This is of far greater moment to me’ said Clennam, in great agitation, ‘than you can imagine. Tell me where you knew the man.’

Mr Baptist, releasing the paper very slowly and with much discomfiture, and drawing himself back two or three paces, and making as though he dusted his hands, returned, very much against his will:

‘At Marsiglia—Marseilles.’

‘What was he?’

‘A prisoner, and—Altro! I believe yes!—an,’ Mr Baptist crept closer again to whisper it, ‘Assassin!’

Clennam fell back as if the word had struck him a blow: so terrible did it make his mother’s communication with the man appear. Cavalletto dropped on one knee, and implored him, with a redundancy of gesticulation, to hear what had brought himself into such foul company.

He told with perfect truth how it had come of a little contraband trading, and how he had in time been released from prison, and how he had gone away from those antecedents. How, at the house of entertainment called the Break of Day at Chalons on the Saone, he had been awakened in his bed at night by the same assassin, then assuming the name of Lagnier, though his name had formerly been Rigaud; how the assassin had proposed that they should join their fortunes together; how he held the assassin in such dread and aversion that he had fled from him at daylight, and how he had ever since been haunted by the fear of seeing the assassin again and being claimed by him as an acquaintance. When he had related this, with an emphasis and poise on the word, ‘assassin,’ peculiarly belonging to his own language, and which did not serve to render it less terrible to Clennam, he suddenly sprang to his feet, pounced upon the bill again, and with a vehemence that would have been absolute madness in any man of Northern origin, cried ‘Behold the same assassin! Here he is!’

In his passionate raptures, he at first forgot the fact that he had lately seen the assassin in London. On his remembering it, it suggested hope to Clennam that the recognition might be of later date than the night of the visit at his mother’s; but Cavalletto was too exact and clear about time and place, to leave any opening for doubt that it had preceded that occasion.

‘Listen,’ said Arthur, very seriously. ‘This man, as we have read here, has wholly disappeared.’

‘Of it I am well content!’ said Cavalletto, raising his eyes piously. ‘A thousand thanks to Heaven! Accursed assassin!’

‘Not so,’ returned Clennam; ‘for until something more is heard of him, I can never know an hour’s peace.’

‘Enough, Benefactor; that is quite another thing. A million of excuses!’

‘Now, Cavalletto,’ said Clennam, gently turning him by the arm, so that they looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I am certain that for the little I have been able to do for you, you are the most sincerely grateful of men.’

‘I swear it!’ cried the other.

‘I know it. If you could find this man, or discover what has become of him, or gain any later intelligence whatever of him, you would render me a service above any other service I could receive in the world, and would make me (with far greater reason) as grateful to you as you are to me.’

‘I know not where to look,’ cried the little man, kissing Arthur’s hand in a transport. ‘I know not where to begin. I know not where to go. But, courage! Enough! It matters not! I go, in this instant of time!’

‘Not a word to any one but me, Cavalletto.’

‘Al-tro!’ cried Cavalletto. And was gone with great speed.

“Per me è di gran lunga più importante di quanto possiate immaginare,” disse Clennam con grande agitazione, “ditemi dove avete conosciuto quell’uomo.”

Il signor Baptist, con grande imbarazzo e lentamente, allontanò di due o tre passi il foglio e fece finta di pulirsi le mani, poi tornò indietro, molto a malincuore.

“Ad Marsiglia – Marsiglia.”

“Chi era veramente?”

“Un prigioniero, e – un altro! Credo di sì – anche un, ” Il signor Baptist si avvicinò di nuovo per sussurrarlo: “Un assassino!”

Clennam indietreggiò come se quella parola lo avesse colpito duramente: sembrava così terribile il modo in cui descriveva le comunicazioni di sua madre con quell’uomo. Cavalletto si inginocchiò e, con gesti esagerati, lo supplicò di ascoltare ciò che lo aveva portato a frequentare una compagnia così disonesta.

Raccontò con perfetta verità come tutto fosse nato da piccoli traffici di contrabbando, come in passato fosse stato rilasciato dalla prigione e come avesse cercato di allontanarsi da quegli ambienti. Disse anche che, nella casa di divertimenti chiamata “Break of Day” a Chalons-sur-Saône, una notte era stato svegliato nel proprio letto dallo stesso assassino, che all’epoca si faceva chiamare Lagnier, sebbene il suo vero nome fosse Rigaud; raccontò inoltre come l’assassino gli avesse proposto di unire i loro destini; quanto lo temesse e lo odiasse a tal punto da fuggirne alla luce del giorno, e come da allora fosse perseguitato dal terrore di rivederlo e di essere nuovamente incastrato con lui. Quando ebbe terminato il racconto, enfatizzando la parola “assassino” con un tono particolare tipico della sua lingua madre, che non fece altro che rendere quella storia ancora più spaventosa per Clennam, improvvisamente balzò in piedi, afferrò di nuovo il giornale e, con una furia che avrebbe potuto essere considerata vera e propria pazzia da parte di chiunque provenisse dal Nord, gridò: “Ecco lo stesso assassino! È qui!”

Nei suoi appassionati entusiasmi, all’inizio dimenticò il fatto che aveva visto di recente l’assassino a Londra. Quando se ne ricordò, questo gli diede la >speranza che quel riconoscimento potesse essere avvenuto in un momento successivo alla notte della visita a casa di sua madre; ma Cavalletto era stato troppo preciso e chiaro riguardo al tempo e al luogo, per lasciare spazio ad alcun >dubbio che ciò fosse accaduto prima di quell’occasione.

“Ascolta,” disse Arthur con grande serietà. “Quest’uomo, come abbiamo letto qui, è completamente scomparso.”

“Di questo sono davvero molto soddisfatto!” disse Cavalletto, alzando gli occhi con devozione. “Mille grazie al Cielo. Maledetto assassino!”

“Non è così,” rispose Clennam; “perché finché non si saprà qualcosa di più su di lui, non potrò mai trovare un attimo di pace.”

“Basta, benefattore. Questo è un altro discorso! Un milione di scuse!”

“Ora, Cavalletto,” disse Clennam, girandolo dolcemente per il braccio in modo che si guardassero negli occhi. “Sono certo che, per tutto ciò che sono riuscito a fare per te, tu sia la persona più sinceramente grata tra tutte.”

“Lo giuro!” gridò l’altro.

“Lo so. Se riusciste a trovare quest’uomo, o a scoprire cosa ne è stato, o ad ottenere qualsiasi informazione su di lui in seguito, mi fareste un favore più grande di qualsiasi altro possa ricevere al mondo, e vi sarei (con molta maggiore ragione) grato quanto lo siete voi a me.”

“Non so dove cercare,” gridò il piccolo uomo, baciando la mano di Arthur con emozione. “Non so da dove cominciare. Non so dove andare. Ma. [coraggio]! Basta! Non importa più. Vado, in questo istante, ”

“Nessuna parola con nessuno tranne che con me, Cavalletto.”

“Altro!” gridò Cavalletto. E se ne andò a grande velocità.

CHAPTER 23. Mistress Affery makes a Conditional Promise, respecting her Dreams

Left alone, with the expressive looks and gestures of Mr Baptist, otherwise Giovanni Baptista Cavalletto, vividly before him, Clennam entered on a weary day. It was in vain that he tried to control his attention by directing it to any business occupation or train of thought; it rode at anchor by the haunting topic, and would hold to no other idea. As though a criminal should be chained in a stationary boat on a deep clear river, condemned, whatever countless leagues of water flowed past him, always to see the body of the fellow-creature he had drowned lying at the bottom, immovable, and unchangeable, except as the eddies made it broad or long, now expanding, now contracting its terrible lineaments; so Arthur, below the shifting current of transparent thoughts and fancies which were gone and succeeded by others as soon as come, saw, steady and dark, and not to be stirred from its place, the one subject that he endeavoured with all his might to rid himself of, and that he could not fly from.

The assurance he now had, that Blandois, whatever his right name, was one of the worst of characters, greatly augmented the burden of his anxieties. Though the disappearance should be accounted for to-morrow, the fact that his mother had been in communication with such a man, would remain unalterable. That the communication had been of a secret kind, and that she had been submissive to him and afraid of him, he hoped might be known to no one beyond himself; yet, knowing it, how could he separate it from his old vague fears, and how believe that there was nothing evil in such relations?

Her resolution not to enter on the question with him, and his knowledge of her indomitable character, enhanced his sense of helplessness. It was like the oppression of a dream to believe that shame and exposure were impending over her and his father’s memory, and to be shut out, as by a brazen wall, from the possibility of coming to their aid. The purpose he had brought home to his native country, and had ever since kept in view, was, with her greatest determination, defeated by his mother herself, at the time of all others when he feared that it pressed most. His advice, energy, activity, money, credit, all his resources whatsoever, were all made useless. If she had been possessed of the old fabled influence, and had turned those who looked upon her into stone, she could not have rendered him more completely powerless (so it seemed to him in his distress of mind) than she did, when she turned her unyielding face to his in her gloomy room.

But the light of that day’s discovery, shining on these considerations, roused him to take a more decided course of action. Confident in the rectitude of his purpose, and impelled by a sense of overhanging danger closing in around, he resolved, if his mother would still admit of no approach, to make a desperate appeal to Affery. If she could be brought to become communicative, and to do what lay in her to break the spell of secrecy that enshrouded the house, he might shake off the paralysis of which every hour that passed over his head made him more acutely sensible. This was the result of his day’s anxiety, and this was the decision he put in practice when the day closed in.

His first disappointment, on arriving at the house, was to find the door open, and Mr Flintwinch smoking a pipe on the steps. If circumstances had been commonly favourable, Mistress Affery would have opened the door to his knock. Circumstances being uncommonly unfavourable, the door stood open, and Mr Flintwinch was smoking his pipe on the steps.

‘Good evening,’ said Arthur.

‘Good evening,’ said Mr Flintwinch.

The smoke came crookedly out of Mr Flintwinch’s mouth, as if it circulated through the whole of his wry figure and came back by his wry throat, before coming forth to mingle with the smoke from the crooked chimneys and the mists from the crooked river.

‘Have you any news?’ said Arthur.

‘We have no news,’ said Jeremiah.

‘I mean of the foreign man,’ Arthur explained.

‘I mean of the foreign man,’ said Jeremiah.

He looked so grim, as he stood askew, with the knot of his cravat under his ear, that the thought passed into Clennam’s mind, and not for the first time by many, could Flintwinch for a purpose of his own have got rid of Blandois? Could it have been his secret, and his safety, that were at issue? He was small and bent, and perhaps not actively strong; yet he was as tough as an old yew-tree, and as crusty as an old jackdaw. Such a man, coming behind a much younger and more vigorous man, and having the will to put an end to him and no relenting, might do it pretty surely in that solitary place at a late hour.

While, in the morbid condition of his thoughts, these thoughts drifted over the main one that was always in Clennam’s mind, Mr Flintwinch, regarding the opposite house over the gateway with his neck twisted and one eye shut up, stood smoking with a vicious expression upon him; more as if he were trying to bite off the stem of his pipe, than as if he were enjoying it. Yet he was enjoying it in his own way.

‘You’ll be able to take my likeness, the next time you call, Arthur, I should think,’ said Mr Flintwinch, drily, as he stooped to knock the ashes out.

Rather conscious and confused, Arthur asked his pardon, if he had stared at him unpolitely. ‘But my mind runs so much upon this matter,’ he said, ‘that I lose myself.’

‘Hah! Yet I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, quite at his leisure, ‘why it should trouble you, Arthur.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ said Mr Flintwinch, very shortly and decidedly: much as if he were of the canine race, and snapped at Arthur’s hand.

‘Is it nothing to see those placards about? Is it nothing to me to see my mother’s name and residence hawked up and down in such an association?’

CAPITOLO 23. La signora Affery fa una promessa condizionale, riguardo ai suoi >sogni

Lasciato solo, con gli sguardi e i gesti espressivi del signor Baptisto – ovvero Giovanni Battista Cavalletto – vividamente davanti a sé, Clennam iniziò una giornata estenuante. Fu inutile che cercasse di distrarre la propria attenzione occupandosi di qualche lavoro o seguendo un filo di pensieri: essa rimaneva fissata su quell’argomento ossessivo, rifiutando di considerare qualsiasi altra cosa. Come se un criminale fosse incatenato in una barca ferma su un profondo e limpido >fiume, condannato a rimanere lì, indipendentemente dal numero di migliaia di chilometri che scorressero accanto a lui, vedendo sempre il proprio “corpo” immobile e inalterabile sul fondo. Così anche Arthur, sommerso da un flusso continuo di pensieri e immagini mutevoli che apparivano e scomparivano nel giro di un istante, vedeva sempre davanti a sé quell’unico argomento: fisso, oscuro, irremovibile, qualcosa da cui cercava disperatamente di liberarsi, ma dal quale non riusciva a fuggire.

La certezza che ora possedeva, ovvero che Blandois – qualunque fosse il suo vero nome – appartenesse ai peggiori individui, aumentava notevolmente il peso delle sue angosie. Anche se la scomparsa di sua madre potesse essere spiegata il giorno dopo, il fatto stesso che lei avesse avuto contatti con un uomo del genere rimaneva inalterabile. Sperava che nessuno, oltre a lui, venisse a conoscenza del carattere segreto di quei rapporti, e che sua madre fosse stata sottomessa e spaventata da quell’uomo; tuttavia, conoscendo la verità, come poteva separarla dalle sue vecchie paure vaghe, e come poteva credere che in tali relazioni non ci fosse nulla di male?

La sua decisione di non affrontare l’argomento con lui, e la sua conoscenza del suo carattere indomabile, aumentavano solo il suo senso di impotenza. Era come se si stesse soffocando un >sogno nel credere che vergogna e disonore fossero imminenti per lei e per la memoria di suo padre, e essere esclusi, come da un muro di ferro, dalla possibilità di aiutarli. Lo scopo che aveva portato con sé nel suo paese natale, e che aveva sempre tenuto a mente, veniva distrutto proprio da sua madre, nel momento in cui temeva più di ogni altro che fosse necessario agire. I suoi consigli, il suo impegno, la sua attività, i suoi soldi, il suo credito, tutte le sue risorse erano diventate inutili. Se solo avesse posseduto quella leggendaria influenza e avesse trasformato in pietra coloro che la guardavano, non avrebbe potuto renderlo più completamente impotente di quanto non lo fosse già, così gli sembrava nel suo profondo sconforto.

Ma la luce di quella scoperta, riflettendosi su queste considerazioni, lo spinse a intraprendere un percorso d’azione più deciso. Con fiducia nella rettitudine dei suoi intenti, e spinto da una sensazione di pericolo imminente che lo circondava, decise che, se sua madre continuasse a rifiutare qualsiasi approccio, avrebbe fatto un appello disperato ad Affery. Se fosse stato possibile convincerla a parlare e a fare tutto il possibile per spezzare l’incantesimo del segreto che avvolgeva quella casa, forse sarebbe riuscito a liberarsi da quella paralisi dalla quale ogni ora che passava lo rendeva sempre più consapevole della gravità della situazione. Questo fu il risultato delle sue preoccupazioni di quel giorno, e questa fu la decisione che mise in atto al termine della giornata.

La sua prima delusione, arrivando alla casa, fu scoprire che la porta era aperta e che il signor Flintwinch stava fumando la pipa sulle scale. Se le circostanze fossero state normalmente favorevoli, la signora Affery avrebbe aperto la porta al suo bussare. Ma poiché le circostanze erano insolitamente sfavorevoli, la porta rimase aperta e il signor Flintwinch continuò a fumare la sua pipa sulle scale.

“Buonasera,” disse Arthur.

“Buonasera,” disse il signor Flintwinch.

Il fumo usciva in modo tortuoso dalla bocca del signor Flintwinch, come se si muovesse attraverso tutto il suo corpo contorto per poi risalire lungo la sua gola storta, prima di mescolarsi con il fumo che proveniva dalle ciminiere tortuose e con la nebbia che si alzava dal tortuoso fiume.

“Hai qualche novità?” chiese Arthur.

“Non abbiamo alcuna notizia,” disse Jeremiah.

“Intendo quell’uomo straniero,” spiegò Arthur.

“Intendo, l’uomo straniero,” disse Jeremiah.

Sembrava così cupo, mentre stava lì in piedi in modo strano, con il nodo della cravatta sotto l’orecchio. A Clennam venne in mente, e non per la prima volta, se Flintwinch potesse aver eliminato Blandois per motivi personali. Forse era in gioco la sua sicurezza o qualche suo segreto? Era piccolo e curvo; forse non particolarmente forte. Eppure era tenace come un vecchio tasso e testardo come una vecchia gazza. Un uomo del genere, che si avvicinasse a uno molto più giovane e vigoroso, con la determinazione di porre fine alla sua vita senza esitazioni, potrebbe riuscirci facilmente in quel luogo solitario, a un’ora tarda della notte.

Mentre, nella condizione morbida dei suoi pensieri, questi vagavano sopra quello principale che era sempre presente nella mente di Clennam – ovvero il signor Flintwinch e la casa opposta situata oltre il cancello – lui stava fumando con un’espressione crudele sul volto; sembrava più che cercasse di mordere il cannello della pipa piuttosto che godersela davvero. Eppure, a suo modo, la stava godendo.

“La prossima volta che chiamerai, Arthur, potrai fare il mio ritratto,” disse il signor Flintwinch in tono secco, mentre si chinava per spazzare via le ceneri.

Abbastanza cosciente ma confuso, Arthur chiese scusa nel caso avesse fissato qualcuno in modo poco educato. “Ma i miei pensieri sono completamente assorbiti da questa questione,” disse, “che finisco per perdere me stesso.”

“Ahah! Ma non capisco davvero,” rispose il signor Flintwinch con tutta calma,
“perché questo dovrebbe disturbare te, Arthur.”

‘No?’

“No,” disse il signor Flintwinch in modo molto breve e deciso; quasi fosse appartenente alla razza canina, addirittura morse la mano di Arthur.

“Vedere quei cartelli non significa nulla per te? Non significa nulla nemmeno per me vedere il nome e l’indirizzo di mia madre esposti in modo così evidente in un contesto del genere?”

‘I don’t see,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, scraping his horny cheek, ‘that it need signify much to you. But I’ll tell you what I do see, Arthur,’ glancing up at the windows; ‘I see the light of fire and candle in your mother’s room!’

‘And what has that to do with it?’

‘Why, sir, I read by it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, screwing himself at him, ‘that if it’s advisable (as the proverb says it is) to let sleeping dogs lie, it’s just as advisable, perhaps, to let missing dogs lie. Let ‘em be. They generally turn up soon enough.’

Mr Flintwinch turned short round when he had made this remark, and went into the dark hall. Clennam stood there, following him with his eyes, as he dipped for a light in the phosphorus-box in the little room at the side, got one after three or four dips, and lighted the dim lamp against the wall. All the while, Clennam was pursuing the probabilities—rather as if they were being shown to him by an invisible hand than as if he himself were conjuring them up—of Mr Flintwinch’s ways and means of doing that darker deed, and removing its traces by any of the black avenues of shadow that lay around them.

‘Now, sir,’ said the testy Jeremiah; ‘will it be agreeable to walk up-stairs?’

‘My mother is alone, I suppose?’

‘Not alone,’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Mr Casby and his daughter are with her. They came in while I was smoking, and I stayed behind to have my smoke out.’

This was the second disappointment. Arthur made no remark upon it, and repaired to his mother’s room, where Mr Casby and Flora had been taking tea, anchovy paste, and hot buttered toast. The relics of those delicacies were not yet removed, either from the table or from the scorched countenance of Affery, who, with the kitchen toasting-fork still in her hand, looked like a sort of allegorical personage; except that she had a considerable advantage over the general run of such personages in point of significant emblematical purpose.

Flora had spread her bonnet and shawl upon the bed, with a care indicative of an intention to stay some time. Mr Casby, too, was beaming near the hob, with his benevolent knobs shining as if the warm butter of the toast were exuding through the patriarchal skull, and with his face as ruddy as if the colouring matter of the anchovy paste were mantling in the patriarchal visage. Seeing this, as he exchanged the usual salutations, Clennam decided to speak to his mother without postponement.

It had long been customary, as she never changed her room, for those who had anything to say to her apart, to wheel her to her desk; where she sat, usually with the back of her chair turned towards the rest of the room, and the person who talked with her seated in a corner, on a stool which was always set in that place for that purpose. Except that it was long since the mother and son had spoken together without the intervention of a third person, it was an ordinary matter of course within the experience of visitors for Mrs Clennam to be asked, with a word of apology for the interruption, if she could be spoken with on a matter of business, and, on her replying in the affirmative, to be wheeled into the position described.

Therefore, when Arthur now made such an apology, and such a request, and moved her to her desk and seated himself on the stool, Mrs Finching merely began to talk louder and faster, as a delicate hint that she could overhear nothing, and Mr Casby stroked his long white locks with sleepy calmness.

‘Mother, I have heard something to-day which I feel persuaded you don’t know, and which I think you should know, of the antecedents of that man I saw here.’

‘I know nothing of the antecedents of the man you saw here, Arthur.’

She spoke aloud. He had lowered his own voice; but she rejected that advance towards confidence as she rejected every other, and spoke in her usual key and in her usual stern voice.

‘I have received it on no circuitous information; it has come to me direct.’

She asked him, exactly as before, if he were there to tell her what it was?

‘I thought it right that you should know it.’

‘And what is it?’

‘He has been a prisoner in a French gaol.’

She answered with composure, ‘I should think that very likely.’

‘But in a gaol for criminals, mother. On an accusation of murder.’

She started at the word, and her looks expressed her natural horror. Yet she still spoke aloud, when she demanded:—

‘Who told you so?’

‘A man who was his fellow-prisoner.’

‘That man’s antecedents, I suppose, were not known to you, before he told you?’

‘No.’

‘Though the man himself was?’

‘Yes.’

‘My case and Flintwinch’s, in respect of this other man! I dare say the resemblance is not so exact, though, as that your informant became known to you through a letter from a correspondent with whom he had deposited money? How does that part of the parallel stand?’

Arthur had no choice but to say that his informant had not become known to him through the agency of any such credentials, or indeed of any credentials at all. Mrs Clennam’s attentive frown expanded by degrees into a severe look of triumph, and she retorted with emphasis, ‘Take care how you judge others, then. I say to you, Arthur, for your good, take care how you judge!’

Her emphasis had been derived from her eyes quite as much as from the stress she laid upon her words. She continued to look at him; and if, when he entered the house, he had had any latent hope of prevailing in the least with her, she now looked it out of his heart.

‘Mother, shall I do nothing to assist you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Will you entrust me with no confidence, no charge, no explanation? Will you take no counsel with me? Will you not let me come near you?’

‘How can you ask me? You separated yourself from my affairs. It was not my act; it was yours. How can you consistently ask me such a question? You know that you left me to Flintwinch, and that he occupies your place.’

“Non capisco,” rispose il signor Flintwinch, grattandosi la guancia ruvida, “che questo debba significare molto per te. Ma ti dirò cosa vedo io, Arthur,” aggiunse guardando verso le finestre; “vedo la luce del fuoco e delle candele nella stanza di tua madre!”

“E cosa c’entra questo con la questione?”

“Perché, signore,” disse il signor Flintwinch avvicinandosi a lui, “leggo qui che, se è saggio (come dice il proverbio) lasciare che i cani che dormono rimangano tranquilli, forse è altrettanto saggio lasciare che anche i cani scomparsi restino dove sono. Lasciateli stare. Di solito ricompaiono abbastanza presto.”

Mr Flintwinch si girò di scatto non appena ebbe fatto questa osservazione e entrò nel corridoio buio. Clennam rimase lì a seguirlo con lo sguardo mentre lui cercava una lampada nella scatola contenente il fosforo, nella piccola stanza accanto; dopo averla trovata dopo tre o quattro tentativi, accese la debole lampada appoggiata al muro. Nel frattempo, Clennam continuava a riflettere sulle probabilità – piuttosto come se queste gli venissero mostrate da una mano invisibile, che non come se le stesse lui stesso immaginando – riguardo ai modi e ai mezzi con cui Mr Flintwinch aveva compiuto quell’atto oscuro e aveva cercato di cancellarne le tracce attraverso i sentieri oscuri dell’ombra che li circondavano.

“Ora, signore,” disse il irritabile Jeremiah, “le andrebbe bene salire le scale?”

“Mia madre è sola, suppongo, ”

“Non è da solo”, disse il signor Flintwinch. “Il signor Casby e sua figlia sono con lui. Sono entrati mentre fumavo, e io sono rimasto indietro per finire di fumare.”

Questa fu la seconda delusione. Arthur non fece alcun commento al riguardo e tornò nella stanza di sua madre, dove il signor Casby e Flora stavano gustando tè, pasta di acciughe e pane tostato con burro caldo. I resti di quei deliziosi cibi non erano ancora stati rimossi, né dal tavolo né dal viso arrossato di Affery, la quale, con il forchettone da tostare ancora in mano, sembrava una sorta di personaggio allegorico. Solo che, a differenza della maggior parte di tali personaggi, lei aveva un significato simbolico molto più chiaro.

Flora aveva disteso il suo cappello e lo scialle sul letto, con una cura che indicava l’intenzione di trattenersi per un po’. Anche il signor Casby sorrideva vicino al camino; i suoi occhi benevoli brillavano come se il burro caldo del pane tostato stesse filtrando attraverso il suo cranio. Il suo viso era così arrossito che sembrava essere stato ricoperto dal colore della pasta di acciughe. Vedendo tutto ciò, mentre si scambiavano i soliti saluti, Clennam decise di parlare con sua madre senza indugiare.

Da tempo era diventata consuetudine, poiché lei non cambiava mai stanza, che coloro che avevano qualcosa da dirle in privato la portassero davanti alla sua scrivania; lì si sedeva, di solito con lo schienale della sedia rivolto verso il resto della stanza, e la persona che parlava con lei prendeva posto in un angolo, su uno sgabello sempre posizionato lì a tale scopo. A parte il fatto che da molto tempo madre e figlio non si parlavano più senza l’intervento di una terza persona, per gli ospiti era del tutto normale chiedere a Mrs Clennam, scusandosi per l’intruzione, se fosse possibile parlare con lei di affari; e, in caso di risposta affermativa, portarla nella posizione descritta.

Pertanto, quando Arthur le fece una tale scusa e le presentò quella richiesta, portandola poi alla sua scrivania per sedersi sullo sgabello, la signora Finching iniziò semplicemente a parlare più ad alta voce e più velocemente, come un delicato modo per far capire che non riusciva a sentire nulla; intanto il signor Casby accarezzava i suoi lunghi capelli bianchi con tranquillità, quasi assonnato.

“Mamma, oggi ho sentito qualcosa di cui sono convinto che tu non sappia, e che penso dovresti sapere riguardo ai precedenti di quell’uomo che ho visto qui.”

“Non so nulla riguardo ai precedenti di quell’uomo che avete visto qui, Arthur.”

Parlò ad alta voce. Lui aveva abbassato la propria voce; ma lei rifiutò quel tentativo di avvicinarsi a lui con fiducia, proprio come aveva rifiutato tutti gli altri tentativi del genere, e continuò a parlare con il suo tono abituale e con la sua solita voce severa.

“L’ho ricevuto senza alcun percorso indiretto; mi è arrivato direttamente.”

Gli chiese, esattamente come prima, se fosse lì per dirle di cosa si trattasse.

“Ho ritenuto giusto che tu lo sapessi.”

“E di cosa si tratta?”

“È stato prigioniero in una prigione francese.”

Rispose con calma: “Credo che sia molto probabile.”

“Ma in una prigione per criminali, mamma. Con l’accusa di omicidio.”

Iniziò a leggere da quella parola; il suo sguardo esprimeva un orrore naturale. Eppure continuò a parlare ad alta voce, quando chiese:–

“Chi te l’ha detto?”

“Un uomo che era suo compagno di prigione.”

“Quei precedenti di quell’uomo, immagino, non fossero noti a te prima che te li raccontasse, vero?”

‘No.’

“Anche se l’uomo stesso era, ”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Il mio caso e quello di Flintwinch, riguardo a quest’altro uomo. Oso dire che la somiglianza non sia così precisa, anche se il vostro informatore vi è stato presentato attraverso una lettera da parte di un corrispondente con cui aveva depositato del denaro. Come si colloca questa parte della coincidenza?”

Arthur non ebbe altra scelta se non ammettere che il suo informatore non gli era stato presentato attraverso alcuna sorta di credenziali, o addirittura attraverso alcun tipo di credenziale in assoluto. L’espressione preoccupata di Mrs Clennam si trasformò gradualmente in un’aria trionfale; lei ribatté con enfasi: “Allora stai attento a come giudichi gli altri, Arthur. Per il tuo bene, fai attenzione!”

La sua enfasi derivava tanto dai suoi occhi quanto dall’accento che metteva sulle parole. Continuò a guardarlo; e se, quando era entrato nella casa, avesse avuto anche solo un vago speranza di riuscire in qualche modo a convincerla, ora lei leggeva quella speranza nel suo cuore.

“Mamma, non dovrei fare nulla per aiutarti?”

“Niente.”

“Mi affiderai tutto senza fiducia, senza spiegazioni, senza alcuna responsabilità? Non mi consulterai nemmeno? Non mi permetterai nemmeno di avvicinarmi a te?”

“Come puoi chiedermi questo? Sei stato tu ad allontanarti dalle mie faccende. Non è stata mia la decisione, ma tua. Come puoi continuare a farmi una domanda del genere? Sai bene che mi hai lasciato con Flintwinch, e che lui ora occupa il tuo posto.”

Glancing at Jeremiah, Clennam saw in his very gaiters that his attention was closely directed to them, though he stood leaning against the wall scraping his jaw, and pretended to listen to Flora as she held forth in a most distracting manner on a chaos of subjects, in which mackerel, and Mr F.’s Aunt in a swing, had become entangled with cockchafers and the wine trade.

‘A prisoner, in a French gaol, on an accusation of murder,’ repeated Mrs Clennam, steadily going over what her son had said. ‘That is all you know of him from the fellow-prisoner?’

‘In substance, all.’

‘And was the fellow-prisoner his accomplice and a murderer, too? But, of course, he gives a better account of himself than of his friend; it is needless to ask. This will supply the rest of them here with something new to talk about. Casby, Arthur tells me—’

‘Stay, mother! Stay, stay!’ He interrupted her hastily, for it had not entered his imagination that she would openly proclaim what he had told her.

‘What now?’ she said with displeasure. ‘What more?’

‘I beg you to excuse me, Mr Casby—and you, too, Mrs Finching—for one other moment with my mother—’

He had laid his hand upon her chair, or she would otherwise have wheeled it round with the touch of her foot upon the ground. They were still face to face. She looked at him, as he ran over the possibilities of some result he had not intended, and could not foresee, being influenced by Cavalletto’s disclosure becoming a matter of notoriety, and hurriedly arrived at the conclusion that it had best not be talked about; though perhaps he was guided by no more distinct reason than that he had taken it for granted that his mother would reserve it to herself and her partner.

‘What now?’ she said again, impatiently. ‘What is it?’

‘I did not mean, mother, that you should repeat what I have communicated. I think you had better not repeat it.’

‘Do you make that a condition with me?’

‘Well! Yes.’

‘Observe, then! It is you who make this a secret,’ said she, holding up her hand, ‘and not I. It is you, Arthur, who bring here doubts and suspicions and entreaties for explanations, and it is you, Arthur, who bring secrets here. What is it to me, do you think, where the man has been, or what he has been? What can it be to me? The whole world may know it, if they care to know it; it is nothing to me. Now, let me go.’

He yielded to her imperious but elated look, and turned her chair back to the place from which he had wheeled it. In doing so he saw elation in the face of Mr Flintwinch, which most assuredly was not inspired by Flora. This turning of his intelligence and of his whole attempt and design against himself, did even more than his mother’s fixedness and firmness to convince him that his efforts with her were idle. Nothing remained but the appeal to his old friend Affery.

But even to get the very doubtful and preliminary stage of making the appeal, seemed one of the least promising of human undertakings. She was so completely under the thrall of the two clever ones, was so systematically kept in sight by one or other of them, and was so afraid to go about the house besides, that every opportunity of speaking to her alone appeared to be forestalled. Over and above that, Mistress Affery, by some means (it was not very difficult to guess, through the sharp arguments of her liege lord), had acquired such a lively conviction of the hazard of saying anything under any circumstances, that she had remained all this time in a corner guarding herself from approach with that symbolical instrument of hers; so that, when a word or two had been addressed to her by Flora, or even by the bottle-green patriarch himself, she had warded off conversation with the toasting-fork like a dumb woman.

After several abortive attempts to get Affery to look at him while she cleared the table and washed the tea-service, Arthur thought of an expedient which Flora might originate. To whom he therefore whispered, ‘Could you say you would like to go through the house?’

Now, poor Flora, being always in fluctuating expectation of the time when Clennam would renew his boyhood and be madly in love with her again, received the whisper with the utmost delight; not only as rendered precious by its mysterious character, but as preparing the way for a tender interview in which he would declare the state of his affections. She immediately began to work out the hint.

‘Ah dear me the poor old room,’ said Flora, glancing round, ‘looks just as ever Mrs Clennam I am touched to see except for being smokier which was to be expected with time and which we must all expect and reconcile ourselves to being whether we like it or not as I am sure I have had to do myself if not exactly smokier dreadfully stouter which is the same or worse, to think of the days when papa used to bring me here the least of girls a perfect mass of chilblains to be stuck upon a chair with my feet on the rails and stare at Arthur—pray excuse me—Mr Clennam—the least of boys in the frightfullest of frills and jackets ere yet Mr F. appeared a misty shadow on the horizon paying attentions like the well-known spectre of some place in Germany beginning with a B is a moral lesson inculcating that all the paths in life are similar to the paths down in the North of England where they get the coals and make the iron and things gravelled with ashes!’

Having paid the tribute of a sigh to the instability of human existence, Flora hurried on with her purpose.

‘Not that at any time,’ she proceeded, ‘its worst enemy could have said it was a cheerful house for that it was never made to be but always highly impressive, fond memory recalls an occasion in youth ere yet the judgment was mature when Arthur—confirmed habit—Mr Clennam—took me down into an unused kitchen eminent for mouldiness and proposed to secrete me there for life and feed me on what he could hide from his meals when he was not at home for the holidays and on dry bread in disgrace which at that halcyon period too frequently occurred, would it be inconvenient or asking too much to beg to be permitted to revive those scenes and walk through the house?’

Gettando uno sguardo a Jeremiah, Clennam notò che, nonostante stesse appoggiato al muro e si grattasse la mascella, la sua attenzione era completamente rivolta verso di loro; inoltre fingeva di ascoltare Flora mentre lei parlava in modo assai distratto, mescolando argomenti disparati come i merluzzi, zia del signor F. che faceva il giro su una sedia a dondolo, le cavallette e il commercio del vino.

“Un prigioniero, in una prigione francese, accusato di omicidio,” ripeté Signora Clennam, riepilogando con calma ciò che suo figlio aveva detto. “È tutto quello che sai su di lui da quel compagno di prigionia?”

“In sostanza, tutto.”

‘E quel compagno di prigione era anche lui suo complice e assassino? Ma, naturalmente, lui si giustifica meglio di quanto faccia il suo amico; non c’è bisogno di chiederlo. Questo fornirà agli altri qui qualcosa di nuovo di cui parlare. Casby, Arthur mi ha detto, ’

“Resta, mamma! Resta!” la interruppe in fretta, perché non gli era mai passato per l’mente che lei potesse annunciare apertamente ciò che le aveva detto.

“E ora cosa?” disse lei con disappunto. “Cosa c’è ancora?”

“La prego di scusarmi, signor Casby, e anche lei, signora Finching. Vorrei trascorrere un altro momento con mia madre, ”

Aveva posato la mano sulla sua sedia; altrimenti lei l’avrebbe girata con un semplice tocco del piede sul pavimento. Erano ancora faccia a faccia. Lei lo guardava mentre lui valutava le possibili conseguenze di un evento che non aveva previsto e che non riusciva a immaginare, influenzato dalla rivelazione di Cavalletto che era diventata di dominio pubblico. Rapidamente concluse che fosse meglio non parlarne più; anche se forse non esisteva una ragione precisa per farlo, semplicemente perché dava per scontato che sua madre avrebbe tenuto quel segreto per sé e per il suo compagno.

“E ora?” disse di nuovo, impaziente. “Di cosa si tratta?”

“Non intendevo, madre, che tu ripetessi ciò che ho detto. Penso sia meglio che non lo faccia.”

“Me lo stai imponendo come condizione?”

‘Beh! Sì.’

“Allora osserva bene! Sei tu a rendere tutto questo un segreto,” disse lei, alzando la mano, “non io. Sei tu, Arthur, ad portare qui dubbi e sospetti, ad implorare spiegazioni. E sei sempre tu, Arthur, a portare qui i segreti. Cosa significa tutto questo per me? Dove quell’uomo è stato, o cosa ha fatto. Che importanza ha per me? Anche tutto il mondo può saperlo, se ne ha voglia; ma per me non significa nulla. Ora, lasciami andare.”

Cedette al suo sguardo imperioso ma felice, e riportò la sedia verso il punto da cui l’aveva spostata. In quel momento notò un’espressione di gioia sul volto del signor Flintwinch, una gioia che certamente non era dovuta a Flora. Questo cambiamento nel suo atteggiamento, insieme all’intera sua strategia e ai suoi piani contro se stesso, lo convinsero ancora di più che i suoi sforzi con lei erano inutili. Non gli restava altro che rivolgersi al suo vecchio amico Affery.

Ma anche raggiungere quella fase molto dubbia e preliminare di presentare un appello sembrava uno degli sforzi umani meno promettenti. Era completamente soggetta ai due individui astuti; uno di loro la teneva costantemente sotto controllo, e lei aveva così paura di muoversi all’interno della casa che ogni opportunità di parlare con lei in privato sembrava essere prevenuta. Inoltre, Mistress Affery, per qualche motivo (non era difficile indovinarlo, a giudicare dagli argomenti ferventi del suo padrone), aveva sviluppato una convinzione profonda riguardo ai rischi legati al fatto di dire qualsiasi cosa in qualsiasi circostanza; per questo motivo, per tutto quel tempo, si teneva sempre in un angolo, proteggendosi da qualsiasi avvicinamento con quel suo strumento simbolico. Così che, quando Flora o persino il patriarca stesso le rivolgevano una parola o due, lei respingeva ogni tentativo di conversazione come se fosse una donna muta.

Dopo diversi tentativi falliti per far sì che Affery lo guardasse mentre lei sparecchiava la tavola e lavava le stoviglie, Arthur pensò a un espediente che Flora avrebbe potuto attuare. Così le sussurrò: “Potresti dire di voler dare un’occhiata in giro per la >casa?”

Ora, povera Flora, che viveva sempre nell’attesa incerta di conoscere quando Clennam avrebbe ripreso il comportamento tipico dell’adolescenza e si sarebbe nuovamente innamorato follemente di lei, ricevette quell’allusione con grande gioia; non solo perché aveva un carattere misterioso che la rendeva ancora più preziosa, ma anche perché le apriva la strada per un tenero incontro in cui lui avrebbe confessato i propri sentimenti. Subito iniziò a riflettere su quel messaggio.

“Ah, povera vecchia stanza, ”, disse Flora guardandosi intorno, “sembra esattamente come sempre. Sono commossa nel vederla, tranne che sia un po’ più fumosa. Il che era prevedibile con il passare del tempo, e a cui dobbiamo tutti abituarci, piaccia o no. Anche io, ne sono certa, ho dovuto farlo. Se non proprio più fumosa, almeno molto più robusta. Il che è lo stesso, o forse peggio. Ricordo i tempi in cui mio padre mi portava qui. Io ero la più piccola delle ragazze; avevo un sacco di geloni, stavo seduta su una sedia con i piedi sulle ringhiere, e fissavo Arthur. Scusatemi, il signor Clennam. Il più giovane dei ragazzi, vestito con quegli orribili fronzoli e giacchetti. Prima ancora che apparisse il signor F., lui era già una sorta di “ombra nebbiosa” all’orizzonte. Un fantasma ben noto, proveniente da qualche posto in Germania. Una lezione morale che insegna come tutti i sentieri della vita siano simili a quelli del Nord dell’Inghilterra, dove si estrae il carbone e si produce il ferro. E tutto è ricoperto di cenere, ”

Dopo aver espresso un sospiro di rassegnazione di fronte all’instabilità dell’esistenza umana, Flora proseguì nel suo intento.

“Non che, in nessun momento,” proseguì, “il suo peggiore nemico avrebbe potuto dire che fosse una casa allegra. Poiché non era mai stata costruita con quell’intento, ma sempre per essere estremamente imponente. Dolci ricordi rievocano un episodio della mia giovinezza. Quando ancora non ero in grado di giudicare con saggezza. Quando Arthur – ormai abituato a farlo – e il signor Clennam mi portarono in una cucina dismessa, piena di muffa, e proposero di nascondermi lì per tutta la vita, nutrendomi di ciò che riuscivano a nascondere dai loro pasti quando non erano a casa per le vacanze. E di pane secco. Un’abbondanza di privazioni che, in quel periodo idilliaco, accadeva purtroppo troppo spesso. Sarebbe forse sconveniente, o chiedere troppo, se chiedessi il permesso di rivivere quei momenti e passeggiare ancora una volta per quella casa?”

Mrs Clennam, who responded with a constrained grace to Mrs Finching’s good nature in being there at all, though her visit (before Arthur’s unexpected arrival) was undoubtedly an act of pure good nature and no self-gratification, intimated that all the house was open to her. Flora rose and looked to Arthur for his escort. ‘Certainly,’ said he, aloud; ‘and Affery will light us, I dare say.’

Affery was excusing herself with ‘Don’t ask nothing of me, Arthur!’ when Mr Flintwinch stopped her with ‘Why not? Affery, what’s the matter with you, woman? Why not, jade!’ Thus expostulated with, she came unwillingly out of her corner, resigned the toasting-fork into one of her husband’s hands, and took the candlestick he offered from the other.

‘Go before, you fool!’ said Jeremiah. ‘Are you going up, or down, Mrs Finching?’

Flora answered, ‘Down.’

‘Then go before, and down, you Affery,’ said Jeremiah. ‘And do it properly, or I’ll come rolling down the banisters, and tumbling over you!’

Affery headed the exploring party; Jeremiah closed it. He had no intention of leaving them. Clennam looking back, and seeing him following three stairs behind, in the coolest and most methodical manner exclaimed in a low voice, ‘Is there no getting rid of him!’ Flora reassured his mind by replying promptly, ‘Why though not exactly proper Arthur and a thing I couldn’t think of before a younger man or a stranger still I don’t mind him if you so particularly wish it and provided you’ll have the goodness not to take me too tight.’

Wanting the heart to explain that this was not at all what he meant, Arthur extended his supporting arm round Flora’s figure. ‘Oh my goodness me,’ said she. ‘You are very obedient indeed really and it’s extremely honourable and gentlemanly in you I am sure but still at the same time if you would like to be a little tighter than that I shouldn’t consider it intruding.’

In this preposterous attitude, unspeakably at variance with his anxious mind, Clennam descended to the basement of the house; finding that wherever it became darker than elsewhere, Flora became heavier, and that when the house was lightest she was too. Returning from the dismal kitchen regions, which were as dreary as they could be, Mistress Affery passed with the light into his father’s old room, and then into the old dining-room; always passing on before like a phantom that was not to be overtaken, and neither turning nor answering when he whispered, ‘Affery! I want to speak to you!’

In the dining-room, a sentimental desire came over Flora to look into the dragon closet which had so often swallowed Arthur in the days of his boyhood—not improbably because, as a very dark closet, it was a likely place to be heavy in. Arthur, fast subsiding into despair, had opened it, when a knock was heard at the outer door.

Mistress Affery, with a suppressed cry, threw her apron over her head.

‘What? You want another dose!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘You shall have it, my woman, you shall have a good one! Oh! You shall have a sneezer, you shall have a teaser!’

‘In the meantime is anybody going to the door?’ said Arthur.

‘In the meantime, I am going to the door, sir,’ returned the old man so savagely, as to render it clear that in a choice of difficulties he felt he must go, though he would have preferred not to go. ‘Stay here the while, all! Affery, my woman, move an inch, or speak a word in your foolishness, and I’ll treble your dose!’

The moment he was gone, Arthur released Mrs Finching: with some difficulty, by reason of that lady misunderstanding his intentions, and making arrangements with a view to tightening instead of slackening.

‘Affery, speak to me now!’

‘Don’t touch me, Arthur!’ she cried, shrinking from him. ‘Don’t come near me. He’ll see you. Jeremiah will. Don’t.’

‘He can’t see me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the word, ‘if I blow the candle out.’

‘He’ll hear you,’ cried Affery.

‘He can’t hear me,’ returned Arthur, suiting the action to the words again, ‘if I draw you into this black closet, and speak here. Why do you hide your face?’

‘Because I am afraid of seeing something.’

‘You can’t be afraid of seeing anything in this darkness, Affery.’

‘Yes I am. Much more than if it was light.’

‘Why are you afraid?’

‘Because the house is full of mysteries and secrets; because it’s full of whisperings and counsellings; because it’s full of noises. There never was such a house for noises. I shall die of ‘em, if Jeremiah don’t strangle me first. As I expect he will.’

‘I have never heard any noises here, worth speaking of.’

‘Ah! But you would, though, if you lived in the house, and was obliged to go about it as I am,’ said Affery; ‘and you’d feel that they was so well worth speaking of, that you’d feel you was nigh bursting through not being allowed to speak of ‘em. Here’s Jeremiah! You’ll get me killed.’

‘My good Affery, I solemnly declare to you that I can see the light of the open door on the pavement of the hall, and so could you if you would uncover your face and look.’

‘I durstn’t do it,’ said Affery, ‘I durstn’t never, Arthur. I’m always blind-folded when Jeremiah an’t a looking, and sometimes even when he is.’

‘He cannot shut the door without my seeing him,’ said Arthur. ‘You are as safe with me as if he was fifty miles away.’

[‘I wish he was!’ cried Affery.)

‘Affery, I want to know what is amiss here; I want some light thrown on the secrets of this house.’

‘I tell you, Arthur,’ she interrupted, ‘noises is the secrets, rustlings and stealings about, tremblings, treads overhead and treads underneath.’

‘But those are not all the secrets.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Affery. ‘Don’t ask me no more. Your old sweetheart an’t far off, and she’s a blabber.’

Signora Clennam, che rispose con una grazia contenuta alla gentilezza della signora Finching per essere venuta lì, sebbene la sua visita (prima dell’arrivo inaspettato di Arthur) fosse senza dubbio un atto di pura bontà e non di autoindulgenza, fece intendere che tutta la casa le era aperta. Flora si alzò e chiese ad Arthur di scortarla. “Certamente,” disse lui ad alta voce; “e Affery ci accenderà la luce, suppongo.”

Affery si scusava dicendo: “Non chiedermi nulla, Arthur!”, quando il signor Flintwinch la interruppe: “Perché no? Affery, che c’è che non va in te, donna? Perché no?” Così costretta, uscì controvolentemente dal suo angolo nascosto, consegnò la forchetta da tostare a uno dei suoi mariti e prese il candelabro che le offriva l’altro.

“Vai avanti tu, stupido!” disse Jeremiah. “Stai andando su, o giù, signora Finching?”

“Giù,” rispose Flora.

“Allora vai avanti tu, e giù, tu Affery,” disse Jeremiah. “E fallo bene, altrimenti verrò io a rotolare giù per le scale, cadendo sopra di te!”

Affery guidava il gruppo di esplorazione; Jeremiah ne faceva parte alla fine. Non aveva alcuna intenzione di lasciarli. Clennam, guardandosi indietro e vedendolo seguire il gruppo per tre gradini, in modo molto metodico e ordinato, esclamò a bassa voce: “Non si può proprio sbarazzarsi di lui!” Flora lo rassicurò prontamente, rispondendo: “Perché no, se proprio vuoi. Anzi, non mi dispiacerebbe affatto se fosse un uomo più giovane o uno sconosciuto. Ma devi promettermi che non sarai troppo severo con me.”

Voleva che il suo cuore spiegasse chiaramente che non era affatto quello che intendeva dire; quindi Arthur allungò il braccio per sostenerla intorno alla figura di Flora. “Oh mio Dio,” disse lei, “sei davvero molto obbediente. È estremamente nobile e gentile da parte tua, ne sono sicura. Ma comunque, se volessi stringermi un po’ di più, non lo considererei affatto invasivo.”

Con questa atteggiatura assurda, in totale contrasto con il suo stato d’animo ansioso, Clennam scese nel seminterrato della casa; notò che ovunque fosse più buio, Flora diventava più pesante, e che quando la casa era meno buia, anche lei lo era. Tornando dalle tetre zone della cucina, le quali erano il massimo dell’oscurità, la signorina Affery passò davanti alla stanza vecchia di suo padre, poi nella vecchia sala da pranzo; continuava sempre ad andare avanti come un fantasma che non poteva essere raggiunto, e né si girava né rispondeva quando lui sussurrava: “Affery! Voglio parlarti!”

Nella sala da pranzo, Flora provò un sentimento sentimentale e decise di dare un’occhiata nell’armadio segreto che, nei giorni dell’infanzia di Arthur, aveva spesso “inghiottito” i suoi vestiti. Non era improbabile che fosse proprio lì che si trovavano; essendo un armadio molto buio, sembrava il luogo ideale per nascondere qualcosa di pesante. Arthur, ormai prossimo al dispero, aveva appena aperto l’armadio quando si sentì bussare alla porta esterna.

Signora Affery, con un grido soffocato, si gettò il grembiule addosso.

“Cosa? Vuoi un’altra dose!” disse il signor Flintwinch. “La avrai, mia cara, ne avrai una bella dose! Oh. Sicuramente sternuterai, ne avrai abbastanza!”

“Nel frattempo, qualcuno andrà alla porta?” chiese Arthur.

“Nel frattempo, io andrò alla porta, signore,” rispose l’uomo anziano con tale fermezza da far capire chiaramente che, di fronte a una scelta difficile, sentiva di doverlo fare, anche se avrebbe preferito non farlo. “Restate qui tutti! Affery, mia donna, muoviti anche solo di un centimetro o parla ancora una volta con quella tua stupidità, e ti raddoppierò la dose!”

Non appena se ne fu andato, Arthur liberò la signora Finching: con qualche difficoltà, poiché quella signora aveva frainteso le sue intenzioni e aveva preso delle misure al fine di rafforzare i legami, invece di allentarli.

“Affery, parla con me ora!”

“Non toccarmi, Arthur!” gridò lei, allontanandosi da lui. “Non avvicinarti a me. Lui ti vedrà. Jeremiah ti vedrà. Per favore, no.”

“Non può vedermi,” rispose Arthur, facendo corrispondere le parole alle azioni: “se spengo la candela.”

“Ti sentirà,” gridò Affery.

“Non mi sente,” rispose Arthur, accompagnando le parole con i fatti: “Se ti porto in questo armadio buio e parlo qui dentro. Perché nascondi il viso?”

“Perché ho paura di vedere qualcosa.”

“Non devi avere paura di vedere nulla in questa oscurità, Affery.”

“Sì, lo sono. Molto di più di quanto potrebbe essere se fosse solo luce.”

“Perché hai paura?”

‘Perché la casa è piena di misteri e segreti; perché è piena di sussurri e consigli; perché è piena di rumori. Non c’è mai stata una casa del genere. Morirò per tutti questi rumori, se Jeremiah non mi strangola prima. E credo che lo farà.’

“Non ho mai sentito rumori degni di nota in questo posto.”

“Ah! Ma tu lo faresti, se vivessi in quella casa e fossi costretto a comportarti come faccio io,” disse Affery; “e sentiresti che sono davvero così meritevoli di essere menzionati, che ti sembrerebbe quasi impossibile trattenerti dal parlarne. Ecco Jeremiah! Mi farai ammazzare, ”

“Mio caro Affery, dichiaro solennemente che riesco a vedere la luce della porta aperta sul pavimento del corridoio; anche tu potresti vederla se solo ti togliessi il velo dal viso e guardassi.”

“Non avrei mai osato farlo,” disse Affery, “mai e poi mai, Arthur. Sempre mi vengono legati gli occhi quando Jeremiah non è presente, e a volte anche quando c’è.”

“Non può chiudere la porta senza che io lo veda,” disse Arthur. “Con me sei altrettanto al sicuro come se fosse a cinquanta miglia di distanza.”

“Vorrei che fosse qui!” gridò Affery.

“Affery, voglio sapere cosa non va qui; voglio che vengano svelati i segreti di questa casa.”

“Te lo dico io, Arthur”, la interruppe lei, “i rumori sono i segreti: fruscii e movimenti furtivi intorno a noi, tremori, passi sopra di noi e sotto di noi.”

“Ma non tutti questi sono i segreti.”

“Non lo so,” disse Affery. “Non chiedermi nient’altro. La tua vecchia fidanzata non è lontana, e lei parla troppo.”

His old sweetheart, being in fact so near at hand that she was then reclining against him in a flutter, a very substantial angle of forty-five degrees, here interposed to assure Mistress Affery with greater earnestness than directness of asseveration, that what she heard should go no further, but should be kept inviolate, ‘if on no other account on Arthur’s—sensible of intruding in being too familiar Doyce and Clennam’s.’

‘I make an imploring appeal to you, Affery, to you, one of the few agreeable early remembrances I have, for my mother’s sake, for your husband’s sake, for my own, for all our sakes. I am sure you can tell me something connected with the coming here of this man, if you will.’

‘Why, then I’ll tell you, Arthur,’ returned Affery—‘Jeremiah’s coming!’

‘No, indeed he is not. The door is open, and he is standing outside, talking.’

‘I’ll tell you then,’ said Affery, after listening, ‘that the first time he ever come he heard the noises his own self. “What’s that?” he said to me. “I don’t know what it is,” I says to him, catching hold of him, “but I have heard it over and over again.” While I says it, he stands a looking at me, all of a shake, he do.’

‘Has he been here often?’

‘Only that night, and the last night.’

‘What did you see of him on the last night, after I was gone?’

‘Them two clever ones had him all alone to themselves. Jeremiah come a dancing at me sideways, after I had let you out (he always comes a dancing at me sideways when he’s going to hurt me), and he said to me, “Now, Affery,” he said, “I am a coming behind you, my woman, and a going to run you up.” So he took and squeezed the back of my neck in his hand, till it made me open my mouth, and then he pushed me before him to bed, squeezing all the way. That’s what he calls running me up, he do. Oh, he’s a wicked one!’

‘And did you hear or see no more, Affery?’

‘Don’t I tell you I was sent to bed, Arthur! Here he is!’

‘I assure you he is still at the door. Those whisperings and counsellings, Affery, that you have spoken of. What are they?’

‘How should I know? Don’t ask me nothing about ‘em, Arthur. Get away!’

‘But my dear Affery; unless I can gain some insight into these hidden things, in spite of your husband and in spite of my mother, ruin will come of it.’

‘Don’t ask me nothing,’ repeated Affery. ‘I have been in a dream for ever so long. Go away, go away!’

‘You said that before,’ returned Arthur. ‘You used the same expression that night, at the door, when I asked you what was going on here. What do you mean by being in a dream?’

‘I an’t a going to tell you. Get away! I shouldn’t tell you, if you was by yourself; much less with your old sweetheart here.’

It was equally vain for Arthur to entreat, and for Flora to protest. Affery, who had been trembling and struggling the whole time, turned a deaf ear to all adjuration, and was bent on forcing herself out of the closet.

‘I’d sooner scream to Jeremiah than say another word! I’ll call out to him, Arthur, if you don’t give over speaking to me. Now here’s the very last word I’ll say afore I call to him—If ever you begin to get the better of them two clever ones your own self (you ought to it, as I told you when you first come home, for you haven’t been a living here long years, to be made afeared of your life as I have), then do you get the better of ‘em afore my face; and then do you say to me, Affery tell your dreams! Maybe, then I’ll tell ‘em!’

The shutting of the door stopped Arthur from replying. They glided into the places where Jeremiah had left them; and Clennam, stepping forward as that old gentleman returned, informed him that he had accidentally extinguished the candle. Mr Flintwinch looked on as he re-lighted it at the lamp in the hall, and preserved a profound taciturnity respecting the person who had been holding him in conversation. Perhaps his irascibility demanded compensation for some tediousness that the visitor had expended on him; however that was, he took such umbrage at seeing his wife with her apron over her head, that he charged at her, and taking her veiled nose between his thumb and finger, appeared to throw the whole screw-power of his person into the wring he gave it.

Flora, now permanently heavy, did not release Arthur from the survey of the house, until it had extended even to his old garret bedchamber. His thoughts were otherwise occupied than with the tour of inspection; yet he took particular notice at the time, as he afterwards had occasion to remember, of the airlessness and closeness of the house; that they left the track of their footsteps in the dust on the upper floors; and that there was a resistance to the opening of one room door, which occasioned Affery to cry out that somebody was hiding inside, and to continue to believe so, though somebody was sought and not discovered. When they at last returned to his mother’s room, they found her shading her face with her muffled hand, and talking in a low voice to the Patriarch as he stood before the fire, whose blue eyes, polished head, and silken locks, turning towards them as they came in, imparted an inestimable value and inexhaustible love of his species to his remark:

‘So you have been seeing the premises, seeing the premises—premises— seeing the premises!’

It was not in itself a jewel of benevolence or wisdom, yet he made it an exemplar of both that one would have liked to have a copy of.

La sua vecchia amata, essendo in realtà così vicina da essere allora appoggiata a lui con un angolo di quarantacinque gradi, intervenne per assicurare con maggiore sincerità che ciò che aveva sentito non dovesse diffondersi e dovesse rimanere segreto, “Se non per il bene stesso di Arthur”, aggiunse, consapevole di stare invadendo un ambito troppo intimo tra Doyce e Clennam.

“Vi faccio un appello supplicante, Affery: vi prego, in nome di mia madre, in nome di vostro marito, in nome mio, per il nostro bene comune. Sono sicura che potete dirmi qualcosa riguardo all’arrivo di quest’uomo, se lo desiderate.”

“Allora ti dirò, Arthur”, rispose Affery, “Jeremiah sta arrivando!”

“No, davvero non è dentro. La porta è aperta e lui sta fuori, parlando.”

“Allora vi dirò,” disse Affery dopo aver ascoltato, “che la prima volta che è venuto qui ha sentito quei rumori, erano i suoi stessi suoni. ‘Cos’è?’ mi chiese. ‘Non so cosa sia,’ gli risposi, afferrandolo per un braccio, ‘ma li ho sentiti più volte.’ Mentre parlavo, lui rimase lì in piedi a guardarmi, tremando tutto.”

“È venuto qui spesso?”

“Solo quella notte, e l’ultima notte.”

“Cosa hai visto di lui l’ultima notte, dopo che me ne sono andato?”

‘Quei due furbi lo avevano lasciato completamente solo con loro. Dopo che ti avevo fatto uscire, Jeremiah si avvicinò a me di lato, come faceva sempre quando voleva farmi del male. Mi disse: “Ora, Affery, verrò dietro di te e ti costringerò ad andare a letto con me”. Poi prese il mio collo tra le mani e lo strinse forte, fino a farmi aprire la bocca; poi mi spinse verso il letto, continuando a stringermi. Ecco come lui definisce questo comportamento. Oh, è davvero un uomo malvagio!’

“E non hai sentito o visto nulla di altro, Affery?”

“Non ve lo dicevo che mi hanno mandato a letto, Arthur? Ecco lui!”

“Vi assicuro che è ancora alla porta. Quei sussurri e quei consigli di cui avete parlato, Affery. Di cosa si tratta?”

“Come dovrei saperlo? Non chiedermi nulla su di loro, Arthur. Vattene!”

“Ma mia cara Affery, a meno che non riesca a comprendere meglio queste cose nascoste, nonostante tuo marito e nonostante mia madre, ne seguirà la rovina.”

“Non chiedermi nulla,” ripeté Affery. “Sono stato in un sogno da molto tempo. Vai via, vai via!”

“Lo hai già detto prima,” rispose Arthur. “Hai usato esattamente la stessa espressione quella notte, alla porta, quando ti ho chiesto cosa stesse succedendo qui. Cosa intendi dire con ‘essere in un sogno’?”

“Non intendo dirtelo. Vattene via! Non dovrei dirlo, se fossi da solo, figuriamoci con la tua vecchia fiamma qui.”

Era altrettanto inutile che Arthur supplicasse e che Flora protestasse. Affery, che aveva tremato e lottato per tutto il tempo, ignorò completamente tutte le suppliche e era decisa a uscire a tutti i costi dal nascondiglio.

“Preferirei urlare a Jeremiah piuttosto che dire una parola in più! Lo chiamerò io, Arthur, se non smetti di parlarmi. Ecco l’ultima cosa che dirò prima di chiamarlo: se mai riuscirai ad avere la meglio su quei due astuti, beh, allora fallo davanti ai miei occhi; e poi dimmi: “Affery, racconta i tuoi sogni!” Forse, in quel caso, li racconterò anch’io io!”

La chiusura della porta impedì a Arthur di rispondere. Entrarono nei luoghi in cui Jeremiah li aveva lasciati; e quando quel vecchio signore tornò, Clennam gli spiegò che aveva accidentalmente spento la candela. Flintwinch lo osservò mentre la riaccese alla luce della lampada nell’ingresso, mantenendo un profondo silenzio riguardo alla persona con cui aveva conversato poco prima. Forse la sua irascibilità richiedeva una sorta di compensazione per le noie che quel visitatore gli aveva causato; comunque fosse, si arrabbiò terribilmente quando vide sua moglie con il grembiule in testa, e, afferrandole il naso coperto dal velo tra pollice e indice, sembrò esercitare tutta la propria forza per stringerlo con violenza.

Flora, ormai gravemente indebolita, non liberò mai Arthur dall’ispezione della casa, finché questa non si estese anche alla sua vecchia camera da letto al piano di sopra. I suoi pensieri erano occupati in altro; tuttavia, in quel momento – come ricordò in seguito – notò particolarmente l’assenza d’aria e la strettezza delle stanze; i loro passi lasciavano tracce di polvere sui piani superiori; inoltre, una porta risultava difficile da aprire, tanto che Affery gridò che qualcuno si nascondesse all’interno, continuando a crederci anche dopo che fu cercato invano. Quando finalmente tornarono nella stanza di sua madre, la trovarono con la mano premuta sul viso, mentre parlava a bassa voce con il Patriarca, che stava davanti al focolare. I suoi occhi blu, la testa ben curata e i capelli setosi, voltati verso di loro non appena entrarono, conferivano alle sue parole un valore inestimabile e un amore infinito per la sua specie.

“So che hai visitato gli locali, che hai visto quegli ambienti, quegli stessi ambienti!”

Non era di per sé un jewello di benevolenza o saggezza, eppure lui lo trasformò in un esempio di entrambe le qualità, un esempio che si sarebbe voluto avere.

CHAPTER 24. The Evening of a Long Day

That illustrious man and great national ornament, Mr Merdle, continued his shining course. It began to be widely understood that one who had done society the admirable service of making so much money out of it, could not be suffered to remain a commoner. A baronetcy was spoken of with confidence; a peerage was frequently mentioned. Rumour had it that Mr Merdle had set his golden face against a baronetcy; that he had plainly intimated to Lord Decimus that a baronetcy was not enough for him; that he had said, ‘No—a Peerage, or plain Merdle.’ This was reported to have plunged Lord Decimus as nigh to his noble chin in a slough of doubts as so lofty a person could be sunk. For the Barnacles, as a group of themselves in creation, had an idea that such distinctions belonged to them; and that when a soldier, sailor, or lawyer became ennobled, they let him in, as it were, by an act of condescension, at the family door, and immediately shut it again. Not only (said Rumour) had the troubled Decimus his own hereditary part in this impression, but he also knew of several Barnacle claims already on the file, which came into collision with that of the master spirit. Right or wrong, Rumour was very busy; and Lord Decimus, while he was, or was supposed to be, in stately excogitation of the difficulty, lent her some countenance by taking, on several public occasions, one of those elephantine trots of his through a jungle of overgrown sentences, waving Mr Merdle about on his trunk as Gigantic Enterprise, The Wealth of England, Elasticity, Credit, Capital, Prosperity, and all manner of blessings.

So quietly did the mowing of the old scythe go on, that fully three months had passed unnoticed since the two English brothers had been laid in one tomb in the strangers’ cemetery at Rome. Mr and Mrs Sparkler were established in their own house: a little mansion, rather of the Tite Barnacle class, quite a triumph of inconvenience, with a perpetual smell in it of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses, but extremely dear, as being exactly in the centre of the habitable globe. In this enviable abode (and envied it really was by many people), Mrs Sparkler had intended to proceed at once to the demolition of the Bosom, when active hostilities had been suspended by the arrival of the Courier with his tidings of death. Mrs Sparkler, who was not unfeeling, had received them with a violent burst of grief, which had lasted twelve hours; after which, she had arisen to see about her mourning, and to take every precaution that could ensure its being as becoming as Mrs Merdle’s. A gloom was then cast over more than one distinguished family (according to the politest sources of intelligence), and the Courier went back again.

Mr and Mrs Sparkler had been dining alone, with their gloom cast over them, and Mrs Sparkler reclined on a drawing-room sofa. It was a hot summer Sunday evening. The residence in the centre of the habitable globe, at all times stuffed and close as if it had an incurable cold in its head, was that evening particularly stifling. The bells of the churches had done their worst in the way of clanging among the unmelodious echoes of the streets, and the lighted windows of the churches had ceased to be yellow in the grey dusk, and had died out opaque black. Mrs Sparkler, lying on her sofa, looking through an open window at the opposite side of a narrow street over boxes of mignonette and flowers, was tired of the view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at another window where her husband stood in the balcony, was tired of that view. Mrs Sparkler, looking at herself in her mourning, was even tired of that view: though, naturally, not so tired of that as of the other two.

‘It’s like lying in a well,’ said Mrs Sparkler, changing her position fretfully. ‘Dear me, Edmund, if you have anything to say, why don’t you say it?’

Mr Sparkler might have replied with ingenuousness, ‘My life, I have nothing to say.’ But, as the repartee did not occur to him, he contented himself with coming in from the balcony and standing at the side of his wife’s couch.

‘Good gracious, Edmund!’ said Mrs Sparkler more fretfully still, ‘you are absolutely putting mignonette up your nose! Pray don’t!’

Mr Sparkler, in absence of mind—perhaps in a more literal absence of mind than is usually understood by the phrase—had smelt so hard at a sprig in his hand as to be on the verge of the offence in question. He smiled, said, ‘I ask your pardon, my dear,’ and threw it out of window.

‘You make my head ache by remaining in that position, Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, raising her eyes to him after another minute; ‘you look so aggravatingly large by this light. Do sit down.’

‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, and took a chair on the same spot.

‘If I didn’t know that the longest day was past,’ said Fanny, yawning in a dreary manner, ‘I should have felt certain this was the longest day. I never did experience such a day.’

‘Is that your fan, my love?’ asked Mr Sparkler, picking up one and presenting it.

‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, more wearily yet, ‘don’t ask weak questions, I entreat you not. Whose can it be but mine?’

‘Yes, I thought it was yours,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘Then you shouldn’t ask,’ retorted Fanny. After a little while she turned on her sofa and exclaimed, ‘Dear me, dear me, there never was such a long day as this!’ After another little while, she got up slowly, walked about, and came back again.

‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler, flashing with an original conception, ‘I think you must have got the fidgets.’

‘Oh, Fidgets!’ repeated Mrs Sparkler. ‘Don’t.’

‘My adorable girl,’ urged Mr Sparkler, ‘try your aromatic vinegar. I have often seen my mother try it, and it seemingly refreshed her.

And she is, as I believe you are aware, a remarkably fine woman, with no non—’

Capitolo 24: La sera di una lunga giornata

Quell’uomo illustre e grande ornamento della nazione, Signor Merdle, continuò il suo percorso luminoso. Iniziò a essere ampiamente riconosciuto che chi aveva reso un servizio così encomiabile alla società, guadagnandoci così tanto denaro, non poteva essere lasciato essere semplicemente un cittadino comune. Si parlava con fiducia di una nomina a baronetto; spesso veniva menzionata anche la possibilità di ottenere un titolo nobiliare. Si diceva che Signor Merdle fosse assolutamente contrario alla nomina a baronetto; avesse chiaramente fatto capire a Lord Decimus che una tale onorificenza non gli sarebbe stata sufficiente; avesse detto: “No, un titolo nobiliare, o semplicemente il nome Merdle.” Si raccontava che questo avesse gettato Lord Decimus in un abisso di dubbi, poiché non riusciva a comprendere come una persona così importante potesse essere considerata inferiore ad altri. Perché i membri del gruppo dei “Barnacles”, nel loro modo particolare di vedere le cose, ritenevano che tali onorificenze spettassero soltanto a loro; e quando un soldato, un marinaio o un avvocato venivano nobilitati, li accoglievano quasi con disprezzo, come se fosse una concessione fatta per loro, per poi chiudere immediatamente la porta dietro di loro. Non solo (si diceva) Lord Decimus fosse coinvolto personalmente in queste questioni, ma sapeva anche che esistevano diverse richieste da parte dei membri del gruppo dei “Barnacles”, che entravano in conflitto con quelle del loro leader. Giusto o sbagliato che fosse, il pettegolezzo era molto attivo; e Lord Decimus, mentre fingeva di riflettere seriamente su questa situazione difficile, dava al pettegolezzo un po’ di credibilità, pronunciando in pubblico frasi lunghe e complesse, menzionando spesso Signor Merdle come simbolo di “Impresa Gigantesca”, “Ricchezza dell’Inghilterra”, “Elasticità”, “Crediti”, “Capitale”, “Prosperità”, e di ogni sorta di benedizioni.

Il taglio dell’erba proseguiva silenziosamente; erano trascorsi ben tre mesi senza che nessuno se ne accorgesse, da quando i due fratelli inglesi erano stati sepolti nella stessa tomba nel cimitero straniero di Roma. Il signor e la signora Sparkler si erano sistemati nella loro piccola casa: una dimora piuttosto modesta, ma un vero trionfo di scomodità, con un odore persistente di zuppa del giorno prima e cavalli da carro. Tuttavia, era estremamente preziosa, poiché si trovava esattamente al centro del globo abitabile. In questa dimora invidiata (e davvero molto invidiata da molte persone), la signora Sparkler aveva intenzione di procedere immediatamente con i preparativi per il lutto, quando le ostilità furono temporaneamente sospese con l’arrivo del messaggero che portava la notizia della morte. La signora Sparkler, non priva di sensibilità, aveva reagito con un violento attacco di dolore che era durato dodici ore; dopo di ciò, si era alzata per occuparsi dei preparativi del lutto, prendendo tutte le precauzioni possibili affinché essi fossero altrettanto appropriati quanto quelli della signora Merdle. In quel momento, un’ombra di tristezza calò su molte famiglie illustri. E il messaggero tornò indietro.

Il signor e la signora Sparkler stavano cenando da soli, avvolti nella loro tristezza; la signora Sparkler era sdraiata su un divano del salotto. Era una calda serata di domenica estiva. La residenza, situata nel centro del globo abitabile e sempre sovraffollata come se avesse un raffreddore incurabile, quella sera era particolarmente soffocante. Le campane delle chiese risuonavano in modo assordante tra gli echi dissonanti delle strade; le finestre illuminate avevano perso il loro colore giallo nel crepuscolo grigio, diventando opache e nere. La signora Sparkler, sdraiata sul divano e guardando fuori da una finestra, osservava casse di mignonette e fiori all’altro lato di una strada stretta. Ma le era venuta a noia quella vista. Guardando un’altra finestra, dove suo marito stava sul balcone, le era ancora più fastidiosa. E guardandosi allo specchio nel suo abito da lutto, beh, anche quella vista le risultava insopportabile. Anche se, naturalmente, non quanto le altre due.

“È come essere sdraiati in una fontana,” disse la signora Sparkler, cambiando posizione con ansia. “Dio mio, Edmund, se hai qualcosa da dire, perché non lo dici?”

Il signor Sparkler avrebbe potuto rispondere con sincerità: “Mia vita, non ho nulla da dire.” Ma poiché quella battuta non gli venne in mente, si accontentò di rientrare dal balcone e di fermarsi accanto al divano di sua moglie.

“Mio Dio, Edmund!” disse la signora Sparkler ancora più ansiosa, “sta davvero esagerando con quella mignonette. Per favore, smetta!”

Signor Sparkler, per distrazione – forse in un senso letterale di distrazione diverso da quello comunemente inteso da questa espressione – aveva annusato con troppa insistenza un rametto che teneva in mano, al punto di rischiare di commettere l’offesa in questione. Sorrise, disse: “Le chiedo scusa, mio caro”, e lo gettò fuori dalla finestra.

“Mi fai venire mal di testa a stare in quella posizione, Edmund”, disse la signora Sparkler, alzando lo sguardo su di lui dopo un altro minuto; “con questa luce sembri davvero enorme. Siediti, per favore.”

“Certamente, mia cara,” disse il signor Sparkler, e si sedette su una sedia nello stesso posto.

“Se non sapessi che il giorno più lungo è già passato,” disse Fanny, sbadigliando in modo triste, “credevo sicuramente che questo fosse il giorno più lungo. Non avevo mai vissuto una giornata del genere.”

“È il tuo fan, mio amore?”, chiese il signor Sparkler, prendendone uno e mostrandoglielo.

“‘Edmund’,” rispose sua moglie, ancora più stanca, “per favore, non poni domande deboli. Chi altro potrebbe essere se non io?”

“Sì, pensavo fosse tua,” disse il signor Sparkler.

“Allora non dovresti chiederlo,” ribatté Fanny. Dopo un po’ si sdraiò sul divano e esclamò: “Mio Dio, mio Dio, non c’è mai stata una giornata così lunga!” Un altro po’ dopo, si alzò lentamente, camminò un po’ in giro e poi tornò indietro.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Sparkler, brillando di un’idea originale, “penso che tu debba essere un po’ irrequieta in questi giorni.”

“Ah, Fidgets!”, ripeté la signora Sparkler. “Non farlo.”

“Mia adorabile ragazza,” la esortò il signor Sparkler, “prova il tuo aceto aromatizzato. Ho spesso visto mia madre usarlo, e sembra che le faccia davvero bene.”

Ed è, come credo sappiate, una donna davvero eccezionale.

‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Fanny, starting up again. ‘It’s beyond all patience! This is the most wearisome day that ever did dawn upon the world, I am certain.’

Mr Sparkler looked meekly after her as she lounged about the room, and he appeared to be a little frightened. When she had tossed a few trifles about, and had looked down into the darkening street out of all the three windows, she returned to her sofa, and threw herself among its pillows.

‘Now Edmund, come here! Come a little nearer, because I want to be able to touch you with my fan, that I may impress you very much with what I am going to say. That will do. Quite close enough. Oh, you do look so big!’

Mr Sparkler apologised for the circumstance, pleaded that he couldn’t help it, and said that ‘our fellows,’ without more particularly indicating whose fellows, used to call him by the name of Quinbus Flestrin, Junior, or the Young Man Mountain.

‘You ought to have told me so before,’ Fanny complained.

‘My dear,’ returned Mr Sparkler, rather gratified, ‘I didn’t know It would interest you, or I would have made a point of telling you.’

‘There! For goodness sake, don’t talk,’ said Fanny; ‘I want to talk, myself. Edmund, we must not be alone any more. I must take such precautions as will prevent my being ever again reduced to the state of dreadful depression in which I am this evening.’

‘My dear,’ answered Mr Sparkler; ‘being as you are well known to be, a remarkably fine woman with no—’

‘Oh, good GRACIOUS!’ cried Fanny.

Mr Sparkler was so discomposed by the energy of this exclamation, accompanied with a flouncing up from the sofa and a flouncing down again, that a minute or two elapsed before he felt himself equal to saying in explanation:

‘I mean, my dear, that everybody knows you are calculated to shine in society.’

‘Calculated to shine in society,’ retorted Fanny with great irritability; ‘yes, indeed! And then what happens? I no sooner recover, in a visiting point of view, the shock of poor dear papa’s death, and my poor uncle’s—though I do not disguise from myself that the last was a happy release, for, if you are not presentable you had much better die—’

‘You are not referring to me, my love, I hope?’ Mr Sparkler humbly interrupted.

‘Edmund, Edmund, you would wear out a Saint. Am I not expressly speaking of my poor uncle?’

‘You looked with so much expression at myself, my dear girl,’ said Mr Sparkler, ‘that I felt a little uncomfortable. Thank you, my love.’

‘Now you have put me out,’ observed Fanny with a resigned toss of her fan, ‘and I had better go to bed.’

‘Don’t do that, my love,’ urged Mr Sparkler. ‘Take time.’

Fanny took a good deal of time: lying back with her eyes shut, and her eyebrows raised with a hopeless expression as if she had utterly given up all terrestrial affairs. At length, without the slightest notice, she opened her eyes again, and recommenced in a short, sharp manner:

‘What happens then, I ask! What happens? Why, I find myself at the very period when I might shine most in society, and should most like for very momentous reasons to shine in society—I find myself in a situation which to a certain extent disqualifies me for going into society. It’s too bad, really!’

‘My dear,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I don’t think it need keep you at home.’

‘Edmund, you ridiculous creature,’ returned Fanny, with great indignation; ‘do you suppose that a woman in the bloom of youth and not wholly devoid of personal attractions, can put herself, at such a time, in competition as to figure with a woman in every other way her inferior? If you do suppose such a thing, your folly is boundless.’

Mr Sparkler submitted that he had thought ‘it might be got over.’

‘Got over!’ repeated Fanny, with immeasurable scorn.

‘For a time,’ Mr Sparkler submitted.

Honouring the last feeble suggestion with no notice, Mrs Sparkler declared with bitterness that it really was too bad, and that positively it was enough to make one wish one was dead!

‘However,’ she said, when she had in some measure recovered from her sense of personal ill-usage; ‘provoking as it is, and cruel as it seems, I suppose it must be submitted to.’

‘Especially as it was to be expected,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘Edmund,’ returned his wife, ‘if you have nothing more becoming to do than to attempt to insult the woman who has honoured you with her hand, when she finds herself in adversity, I think you had better go to bed!’

Mr Sparkler was much afflicted by the charge, and offered a most tender and earnest apology. His apology was accepted; but Mrs Sparkler requested him to go round to the other side of the sofa and sit in the window-curtain, to tone himself down.

‘Now, Edmund,’ she said, stretching out her fan, and touching him with it at arm’s length, ‘what I was going to say to you when you began as usual to prose and worry, is, that I shall guard against our being alone any more, and that when circumstances prevent my going out to my own satisfaction, I must arrange to have some people or other always here; for I really cannot, and will not, have another such day as this has been.’

Mr Sparkler’s sentiments as to the plan were, in brief, that it had no nonsense about it. He added, ‘And besides, you know it’s likely that you’ll soon have your sister—’

‘Dearest Amy, yes!’ cried Mrs Sparkler with a sigh of affection. ‘Darling little thing! Not, however, that Amy would do here alone.’

Mr Sparkler was going to say ‘No?’ interrogatively, but he saw his danger and said it assentingly, ‘No, Oh dear no; she wouldn’t do here alone.’

‘No, Edmund. For not only are the virtues of the precious child of that still character that they require a contrast—require life and movement around them to bring them out in their right colours and make one love them of all things; but she will require to be roused, on more accounts than one.’

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Fanny, alzandosi di nuovo. “È davvero insopportabile! Sono sicura che questa sia la giornata più noiosa che sia mai esistita al mondo.”

Il signor Sparkler la guardava in modo timido mentre lei si aggirava per la stanza; sembrava un po’ spaventato. Dopo aver gettato qua e là alcuni oggetti insignificanti e aver guardato fuori dalle tre finestre verso la strada che si oscurava, tornò sul suo divano e si sdraiò tra i cuscini.

‘Ora, Edmund, vieni qui! Avvicinati un po’, perché voglio poterti toccare con il mio ventaglio, così da impressionarti davvero molto con ciò che sto per dire. Così va bene. Abbastanza vicino. Oh, sembri davvero così grande!’

Il signor Sparkler si scusò per quella situazione, sostenne di non aver potuto farci nulla e aggiunse che “i nostri compagni”, senza specificare chi fossero esattamente, lo chiamavano Quinbus Flestrin Jr., o il Giovane Uomo Montagna.

“Avresti dovuto dirmelo prima,” si lamentò Fanny.

“Mia cara,” rispose il signor Sparkler, piuttosto compiaciuto, “non sapevo che ti interessasse; altrimenti avrei fatto in modo di dirtelo.”

“Ecco! Per l’amor del cielo, non parlare,” disse Fanny; “voglio essere io a parlare. Edmund, non dobbiamo più stare da soli. Devo prendere tutte le precauzioni possibili per evitare di ritrovarmi mai più in quello stato di terribile depressione in cui mi trovo stasera.”

“Mia cara,” rispose il signor Sparkler; “essendo come tutti sanno una donna straordinariamente gentile e perbene, senza, ”

“Oh, mio Dio!” gridò Fanny.

Il signor Sparkler era così sconvolto dall’energia di quell’esclamazione, unita al fatto che si era alzato di scatto dal divano per poi ricadervi subito dopo, che trascorsero un minuto o due prima che riuscisse a trovare le parole giuste per spiegare la situazione.

“Voglio dire, cara mia, che tutti sanno che sei fatta apposta per brillare in società.”

“Calcolato apposta per brillare in società,” ribatté Fanny con grande irritabilità; “sì, proprio! E poi cosa succede? Non appena riesco a superare, dal punto di vista emotivo, lo shock della morte di povero caro papà, e di mio povero zio, anche se non nascondo che la sua morte è stata in un certo senso un sollievo, perché se non si è presentabili, tanto vale morire, ”

“Non ti riferisci a me, mio amore, vero? Lo Hopespero»”, interruppe umilmente il signor Sparkler.

‘Edmund, Edmund, tu sfiniresti persino un Santo. Non sto forse parlando esplicitamente del mio povero zio?’

“Mi hai guardato con tale intensità, mia cara ragazza,” disse il signor Sparkler, “che mi sono sentito un po’ a disagio. Grazie, mio amore.”

“Ora che mi hai messo fuori,” osservò Fanny con un gesto rassegnato della sua ventola, “è meglio che vada a letto.”

“Non farlo, mio amore”, lo esortò il signor Sparkler. “Prenditi del tempo.”

Fanny impiegò un bel po’ di tempo: sdraiata con gli occhi chiusi, le sopracciglia sollevate in un’espressione disperata, come se avesse completamente abbandonato ogni interesse terreno. Alla fine, senza alcun preavviso, riaprì gli occhi e riprese a parlare in modo breve e deciso.

‘Cosa succede allora, vi chiedo! Cosa succede? Perché mi ritrovo proprio in quel periodo in cui potrei brillare di più nella società, e per motivi davvero importanti dovrei farlo. E invece mi trovo in una situazione che, in un certo senso, mi rende inadatto a partecipare alla vita sociale. È davvero un peccato!’

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Sparkler, “non credo che sia necessario che tu rimanga a casa.”

“‘Edmund, creatura ridicola,’ rispose Fanny con grande indignazione; ‘pensi davvero che una donna nel fiore degli anni, e non del tutto priva di attrattive personali, possa, in un momento del genere, mettersi in competizione con una donna che in ogni altro aspetto è sua inferiore? Se lo pensi davvero, la tua follia è senza limiti.’”

Il signor Sparkler suggerì che si potesse “superare la situazione”.

“Me ne sono liberata!”, ripeté Fanny con un disprezzo infinito.

“Per un momento,” propose il signor Sparkler.

Onorando l’ultima e debole proposta senza alcun preavviso, la signora Sparkler dichiarò con amarezza che era davvero troppo brutto, e che questo bastava davvero per far desiderare a qualcuno di essere morto.

“Tuttavia,” disse lei, quando si fu in parte ripresa dal senso di ingiustizia subita; “per quanto provocatorio e crudele possa sembrare, credo che sia necessario accettarlo.”

“Soprattutto perché era del tutto prevedibile,” disse il signor Sparkler.

“‘Edmund’,” rispose sua moglie, “se non hai nient’altro di più degno da fare se non cercare di insultare la donna che ti ha onorato con il suo matrimonio, proprio quando si trova in difficoltà. Penso che tu faresti meglio ad andare a letto!”

Il signor Sparkler fu molto turbato da questa accusa e offrì scuse sincere e affettuose. Le sue scuse furono accettate; tuttavia la signora Sparkler gli chiese di spostarsi dall’altra parte del divano e di sedersi dietro la tenda della finestra, per calmarsi un po’.

“Ora, Edmund,” disse lei, allungando il proprio ventaglio e toccandolo da una certa distanza, “quello che volevo dirti quando hai iniziato, come al solito, a parlare e a preoccuparti, è che farò in modo che non restiamo più soli, e che, quando le circostanze mi impediranno di uscire come desidero, organizzerò perché ci siano sempre delle persone qui con me; perché davvero non posso, e non voglio, che si ripeta un altro giorno come quello appena trascorso.”

In breve, i sentimenti di Mr Sparkler riguardo al piano erano che non conteneva nulla di superfluo o inutile. Aggiunse anche: “E poi, sai bene che molto probabilmente presto riavrai tua sorella, ”

“Carissima Amy, sì!” esclamò la signora Sparkler con un sospiro affettuoso.
“Piccola adorabile. Anche se, in realtà, Amy non resterebbe qui da sola.”

Il signor Sparkler stava per dire “No?”, in tono interrogativo, ma si rese conto del pericolo e rispose affermativamente: “No, oh no. Non dovrebbe stare qui da sola.”

“No, Edmund. Perché non solo le virtù di quel prezioso bambino possiedono quel carattere particolare che richiede un contrasto per essere pienamente valorizzate; esse necessitano anche di “vita” e “movimento” intorno a sé per mostrarsi nella loro vera luce e far sì che qualcuno le ami davvero più di ogni altra cosa; ma lei stessa, in molti modi, ha bisogno di essere “risvegliata”.”

‘That’s it,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Roused.’

‘Pray don’t, Edmund! Your habit of interrupting without having the least thing in the world to say, distracts one. You must be broken of it. Speaking of Amy;—my poor little pet was devotedly attached to poor papa, and no doubt will have lamented his loss exceedingly, and grieved very much. I have done so myself. I have felt it dreadfully. But Amy will no doubt have felt it even more, from having been on the spot the whole time, and having been with poor dear papa at the last; which I unhappily was not.’

Here Fanny stopped to weep, and to say, ‘Dear, dear, beloved papa! How truly gentlemanly he was! What a contrast to poor uncle!’

‘From the effects of that trying time,’ she pursued, ‘my good little Mouse will have to be roused. Also, from the effects of this long attendance upon Edward in his illness; an attendance which is not yet over, which may even go on for some time longer, and which in the meanwhile unsettles us all by keeping poor dear papa’s affairs from being wound up. Fortunately, however, the papers with his agents here being all sealed up and locked up, as he left them when he providentially came to England, the affairs are in that state of order that they can wait until my brother Edward recovers his health in Sicily, sufficiently to come over, and administer, or execute, or whatever it may be that will have to be done.’

‘He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round,’ Mr Sparkler made bold to opine.

‘For a wonder, I can agree with you,’ returned his wife, languidly turning her eyelids a little in his direction (she held forth, in general, as if to the drawing-room furniture), ‘and can adopt your words. He couldn’t have a better nurse to bring him round. There are times when my dear child is a little wearing to an active mind; but, as a nurse, she is Perfection. Best of Amys!’

Mr Sparkler, growing rash on his late success, observed that Edward had had, biggodd, a long bout of it, my dear girl.

‘If Bout, Edmund,’ returned Mrs Sparkler, ‘is the slang term for indisposition, he has. If it is not, I am unable to give an opinion on the barbarous language you address to Edward’s sister. That he contracted Malaria Fever somewhere, either by travelling day and night to Rome, where, after all, he arrived too late to see poor dear papa before his death—or under some other unwholesome circumstances—is indubitable, if that is what you mean. Likewise that his extremely careless life has made him a very bad subject for it indeed.’

Mr Sparkler considered it a parallel case to that of some of our fellows in the West Indies with Yellow Jack. Mrs Sparkler closed her eyes again, and refused to have any consciousness of our fellows of the West Indies, or of Yellow Jack.

‘So, Amy,’ she pursued, when she reopened her eyelids, ‘will require to be roused from the effects of many tedious and anxious weeks. And lastly, she will require to be roused from a low tendency which I know very well to be at the bottom of her heart. Don’t ask me what it is, Edmund, because I must decline to tell you.’

‘I am not going to, my dear,’ said Mr Sparkler.

‘I shall thus have much improvement to effect in my sweet child,’ Mrs Sparkler continued, ‘and cannot have her near me too soon. Amiable and dear little Twoshoes! As to the settlement of poor papa’s affairs, my interest in that is not very selfish. Papa behaved very generously to me when I was married, and I have little or nothing to expect. Provided he had made no will that can come into force, leaving a legacy to Mrs General, I am contented. Dear papa, dear papa.’

She wept again, but Mrs General was the best of restoratives. The name soon stimulated her to dry her eyes and say:

‘It is a highly encouraging circumstance in Edward’s illness, I am thankful to think, and gives one the greatest confidence in his sense not being impaired, or his proper spirit weakened—down to the time of poor dear papa’s death at all events—that he paid off Mrs General instantly, and sent her out of the house. I applaud him for it. I could forgive him a great deal for doing, with such promptitude, so exactly what I would have done myself!’

Mrs Sparkler was in the full glow of her gratification, when a double knock was heard at the door. A very odd knock. Low, as if to avoid making a noise and attracting attention. Long, as if the person knocking were preoccupied in mind, and forgot to leave off.

‘Halloa!’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Not Amy and Edward without notice and without a carriage!’ said Mrs Sparkler. ‘Look out.’

The room was dark, but the street was lighter, because of its lamps. Mr Sparkler’s head peeping over the balcony looked so very bulky and heavy that it seemed on the point of overbalancing him and flattening the unknown below.

‘It’s one fellow,’ said Mr Sparkler. ‘I can’t see who—stop though!’

On this second thought he went out into the balcony again and had another look. He came back as the door was opened, and announced that he believed he had identified ‘his governor’s tile.’ He was not mistaken, for his governor, with his tile in his hand, was introduced immediately afterwards.

‘Candles!’ said Mrs Sparkler, with a word of excuse for the darkness.

‘It’s light enough for me,’ said Mr Merdle.

When the candles were brought in, Mr Merdle was discovered standing behind the door, picking his lips. ‘I thought I’d give you a call,’ he said. ‘I am rather particularly occupied just now; and, as I happened to be out for a stroll, I thought I’d give you a call.’

As he was in dinner dress, Fanny asked him where he had been dining?

‘Well,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I haven’t been dining anywhere, particularly.’

‘Of course you have dined?’ said Fanny.

‘Why—no, I haven’t exactly dined,’ said Mr Merdle.

“Ecco fatto,” disse il signor Sparkler. “È sveglio.”

“Per favore, non farlo, Edmund! La tua abitudine di interrompere senza avere nulla da dire distragge davvero le persone. Devi smetterla. A proposito di Amy, la mia povera piccola adorava tanto quel povero papà, e non c’è dubbio che abbia sofferto molto per la sua perdita. Anch’io ho sofferto terribilmente. Ma Amy deve aver provato ancora di più, essendo stata presente in tutto quel momento e avendolo accompagnato fino alla fine; cosa che purtroppo io non ho potuto fare.”

Qui Fanny si fermò per piangere e disse: “Caro, caro, adorato papà. Quanto era davvero gentiluomo! Che contrasto con quel povero zio, ”

‘A causa degli effetti di quel difficile periodo,’ proseguì, ‘dovrò svegliare il mio caro piccolo Mouse. Inoltre, a causa della lunga assistenza che ho prestato a Edward durante la sua malattia – un’assistenza che non è ancora finita e potrebbe continuare per ancora qualche tempo – le cose sono rimaste in disordine, poiché gli affari di povero caro papà non sono stati sistemati. Fortunatamente, tuttavia, i documenti relativi ai suoi agenti qui presenti sono tutti sigillati e chiusi a chiave, esattamente come li aveva lasciati quando è venuto in Inghilterra; quindi le cose sono in ordine e possono aspettare che mio fratello Edward si riprenda in Sicilia, abbastanza da poter tornare qui e occuparsi di tutto ciò che dovrà essere fatto.’

“Non avrebbe potuto avere una migliore infermiera per aiutarlo a riprendersi,” osò dire il signor Sparkler.

“Per un certo aspetto, posso essere d’accordo con te,” rispose sua moglie, sollevando languidamente le palpebre nella sua direzione (di solito parlava come se stesse rivolgendosi ai mobili del salotto), “e posso condividere le tue parole. Non avrebbe potuto trovare una nutrice migliore per riprendersi. A volte mio caro >bambino diventa un po’ noioso per una mente attiva; ma, come nutrice, lei è davvero perfetta. La migliore delle Amys!”

Signor Sparkler, a causa di quella tardiva vittoria, gli erano apparse delle eruzioni cutanee; osservò che Edward aveva trascorso davvero molto tempo in quelle condizioni, mia cara ragazza.

“Se ‘Bout’, ovvero Edmund,” rispose la signora Sparkler, “è il termine gergale per indicare un malessere, allora è proprio così. Se invece non lo è, non posso esprimere alcun parere riguardo a quel linguaggio barbaro che usate con la sorella di Edward. È indubbiabile che abbia contratto la febbre malarica da qualche parte, forse viaggiando giorno e notte verso Roma, dove comunque è arrivato troppo tardi per vedere il povero caro papà prima della sua morte, oppure a causa di altre circostanze poco salutari. Allo stesso modo, è indubbio che la sua vita estremamente disattenta lo abbia reso particolarmente vulnerabile a questo tipo di problemi.”

Il signor Sparkler considerò questo caso simile a quelli dei nostri compagni nelle Indie Occidentali con Yellow Jack. La signora Sparkler chiuse di nuovo gli occhi, rifiutando categoricamente di pensare ai nostri compagni delle Indie Occidentali o a Yellow Jack.

“So, Amy,” continuò lei quando riaprì gli occhi, “che sarà necessario farla uscire dagli effetti di molte settimane noiose e ansiose. E infine, sarà necessario aiutarla a superare una debolezza che so molto bene essere radicata nel profondo del suo cuore. Non chiedermi di cosa si tratti, Edmund, perché rifiuto di dirtelo.”

“Non lo farò, cara mia,” disse il signor Sparkler.

“Così potrò apportare molti miglioramenti alla mia adorata bambina”, continuò la signora Sparkler, “e non posso ancora averla vicino a me troppo presto. Carina e adorabile piccola Twoshoes! Per quanto riguarda la sistemazione degli affari di povero papà, il mio interesse in questo non è affatto egoistico. Papà si è comportato molto generosamente con me quando mi sono sposata, e quindi non ho quasi nulla da aspettarmi. A patto che non abbia lasciato un testamento che possa entrare in vigore, destinando un lascito alla signora Generale, sono soddisfatta. Caro papà, caro papà.”

Pianse di nuovo, ma la signora generale era il miglior rimedio per consolarla. Quel nome le fece presto asciugare le lacrime e dire:

‘È una circostanza davvero incoraggiante riguardo alla malattia di Edward; ne sono grata, e questo mi dà la massima fiducia nel fatto che il suo senno non sia stato compromesso, né il suo spirito indebolito. Almeno fino al momento della morte del povero caro papà. Lui ha immediatamente saldato i debiti con la signora Generale e l’ha fatta uscire di casa. Lo ammiro per questo. Gli perdonerei davvero molto se avesse fatto, con tale prontezza e precisione, esattamente ciò che avrei fatto io stessa!’

La signora Sparkler era immersa nella piena soddisfazione del proprio successo, quando si sentì un doppio bussare alla porta. Un bussare molto strano: basso, come se chi bussava volesse evitare di fare rumore e attirare l’attenzione; lungo, come se la persona che bussava fosse assorta nei propri pensieri e si fosse dimenticata di smettere.

“Salve!”, disse il signor Sparkler. “Chi è?”

“Non possiamo partire senza avvisare nessuno e senza una carrozza!”, disse la signora Sparkler. “Attenti.”

La stanza era buia, ma la strada era più illuminata grazie alle sue luci. La testa di Mr Sparkler che spuntava dal balcone sembrava così enorme e pesante da rischiare di farlo perdere l’equilibrio e distruggere tutto ciò che si trovava sotto.

“È uno di loro,” disse il signor Sparkler. “Non riesco a vedere chi sia. Ma aspetta!”

Dopo averci ripensato ancora una volta, uscì di nuovo sul balcone e diede un’altra occhiata. Tornò proprio quando la porta si aprì e annunciò di credere di aver riconosciuto “la piastrella del suo governatore”. Non si sbagliava: poco dopo il suo governatore fu presentato, con quella stessa piastrella in mano.

“Candele!”, disse la signora Sparkler, scusandosi per l’oscurità.

“È abbastanza leggero per me,” disse Signor Merdle.

Quando furono accese le candele, si scoprì che Signor Merdle stava in piedi dietro la porta, mordicchiandosi il labbro. “Ho pensato di farvi una visita,” disse. “In questo momento sono piuttosto impegnato; e poiché mi trovavo per caso a fare una passeggiata, ho deciso di venire da voi.”

Indossando l’abito da cena, Fanny gli chiese dove avesse cenato.

“Beh,” disse Signor Merdle, “non ho cenato da nessuna parte, in particolare.”

“Certo che hai già cenato, no?” disse Fanny.

“Perché, no, in realtà non ho ancora cenato,” disse Signor Merdle.

He had passed his hand over his yellow forehead and considered, as if he were not sure about it. Something to eat was proposed. ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I don’t feel inclined for it. I was to have dined out along with Mrs Merdle. But as I didn’t feel inclined for dinner, I let Mrs Merdle go by herself just as we were getting into the carriage, and thought I’d take a stroll instead.’

Would he have tea or coffee? ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Merdle. ‘I looked in at the Club, and got a bottle of wine.’

At this period of his visit, Mr Merdle took the chair which Edmund Sparkler had offered him, and which he had hitherto been pushing slowly about before him, like a dull man with a pair of skates on for the first time, who could not make up his mind to start. He now put his hat upon another chair beside him, and, looking down into it as if it were some twenty feet deep, said again: ‘You see I thought I’d give you a call.’

‘Flattering to us,’ said Fanny, ‘for you are not a calling man.’

‘No—no,’ returned Mr Merdle, who was by this time taking himself into custody under both coat-sleeves. ‘No, I am not a calling man.’

‘You have too much to do for that,’ said Fanny. ‘Having so much to do, Mr Merdle, loss of appetite is a serious thing with you, and you must have it seen to. You must not be ill.’

‘Oh! I am very well,’ replied Mr Merdle, after deliberating about it. ‘I am as well as I usually am. I am well enough. I am as well as I want to be.’

The master-mind of the age, true to its characteristic of being at all times a mind that had as little as possible to say for itself and great difficulty in saying it, became mute again. Mrs Sparkler began to wonder how long the master-mind meant to stay.

‘I was speaking of poor papa when you came in, sir.’

‘Aye! Quite a coincidence,’ said Mr Merdle.

Fanny did not see that; but felt it incumbent on her to continue talking. ‘I was saying,’ she pursued, ‘that my brother’s illness has occasioned a delay in examining and arranging papa’s property.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. There has been a delay.’

‘Not that it is of consequence,’ said Fanny.

‘Not,’ assented Mr Merdle, after having examined the cornice of all that part of the room which was within his range: ‘not that it is of any consequence.’

‘My only anxiety is,’ said Fanny, ‘that Mrs General should not get anything.’

‘She won’t get anything,’ said Mr Merdle.

Fanny was delighted to hear him express the opinion. Mr Merdle, after taking another gaze into the depths of his hat as if he thought he saw something at the bottom, rubbed his hair and slowly appended to his last remark the confirmatory words, ‘Oh dear no. No. Not she. Not likely.’

As the topic seemed exhausted, and Mr Merdle too, Fanny inquired if he were going to take up Mrs Merdle and the carriage in his way home?

‘No,’ he answered; ‘I shall go by the shortest way, and leave Mrs Merdle to—’ here he looked all over the palms of both his hands as if he were telling his own fortune—‘to take care of herself. I dare say she’ll manage to do it.’

‘Probably,’ said Fanny.

There was then a long silence; during which, Mrs Sparkler, lying back on her sofa again, shut her eyes and raised her eyebrows in her former retirement from mundane affairs.

‘But, however,’ said Mr Merdle, ‘I am equally detaining you and myself. I thought I’d give you a call, you know.’

‘Charmed, I am sure,’ said Fanny.

‘So I am off,’ added Mr Merdle, getting up. ‘Could you lend me a penknife?’

It was an odd thing, Fanny smilingly observed, for her who could seldom prevail upon herself even to write a letter, to lend to a man of such vast business as Mr Merdle. ‘Isn’t it?’ Mr Merdle acquiesced; ‘but I want one; and I know you have got several little wedding keepsakes about, with scissors and tweezers and such things in them. You shall have it back to-morrow.’

‘Edmund,’ said Mrs Sparkler, ‘open (now, very carefully, I beg and beseech, for you are so very awkward) the mother of pearl box on my little table there, and give Mr Merdle the mother of pearl penknife.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘but if you have got one with a darker handle, I think I should prefer one with a darker handle.’

‘Tortoise-shell?’

‘Thank you,’ said Mr Merdle; ‘yes. I think I should prefer tortoise-shell.’

Edmund accordingly received instructions to open the tortoise-shell box, and give Mr Merdle the tortoise-shell knife. On his doing so, his wife said to the master-spirit graciously:

‘I will forgive you, if you ink it.’

‘I’ll undertake not to ink it,’ said Mr Merdle.

The illustrious visitor then put out his coat-cuff, and for a moment entombed Mrs Sparkler’s hand: wrist, bracelet, and all. Where his own hand had shrunk to, was not made manifest, but it was as remote from Mrs Sparkler’s sense of touch as if he had been a highly meritorious Chelsea Veteran or Greenwich Pensioner.

Thoroughly convinced, as he went out of the room, that it was the longest day that ever did come to an end at last, and that there never was a woman, not wholly devoid of personal attractions, so worn out by idiotic and lumpish people, Fanny passed into the balcony for a breath of air. Waters of vexation filled her eyes; and they had the effect of making the famous Mr Merdle, in going down the street, appear to leap, and waltz, and gyrate, as if he were possessed of several Devils.

Si passò la mano sulla fronte gialla e rifletté, come se non ne fosse sicuro. Gli fu offerta del cibo, ma lui rispose: “No, grazie. Non ho voglia di mangiare. Avrei dovuto cenare fuori con la signora Merdle. Ma poiché non avevo appetito, l’ho lasciata andare da sola proprio mentre stavamo salendo in carrozza e ho deciso di fare una passeggiata invece.”

Avrebbe voluto tè o caffè? “No, grazie,” disse Signor Merdle. “Ho dato un’occhiata al Club e ho preso una bottiglia di vino.”

In questo periodo della sua visita, Signor Merdle si sedette sulla sedia che Edmund Sparkler gli aveva offerta; fino ad allora l’aveva spostata lentamente davanti a sé, come un uomo goffo che indossasse per la prima volta dei pattini e non riuscisse a decidersi a iniziare a pattinare. Ora mise il cappello su un’altra sedia accanto a sé, lo guardò come se fosse profondo venti piedi, e disse di nuovo: “Vede, ho pensato di farle una visita.”

“È lusinghiero per noi”, disse Fanny, “poiché tu non sei un uomo destinato a una vita di impegni professionali”.

“No, no,” rispose Signor Merdle, che a quel punto si stava tenendo entrambe le maniche della giacca davanti al corpo. “No, non sono un uomo di chiesa.”

“Hai troppo da fare per potertelo permettere,” disse Fanny. “Con tutto quello che hai da fare, Signor Merdle, la perdita di appetito è un problema serio; devi farti controllare. Non puoi ammalarti.”

“Oh! Sto molto bene,” rispose Mr Merdle, dopo averci pensato su. “Sono altrettanto bene come di solito. Sono abbastanza bene. Sono esattamente così bene quanto desidero essere.”

Il cervello supremo dell’epoca, fedele alla sua caratteristica di essere sempre un’intelligenza che aveva il minimo indispensabile da dire e incontrava grandi difficoltà nel farlo, rimase nuovamente in silenzio. La signora Sparkler iniziò a chiedersi per quanto tempo avrebbe continuato a rimanere in silenzio quel “cervello supremo”.

“Stavo parlando del povero papà quando siete entrato, signore.”

“Ah sì! Che strana coincidenza,” disse Signor Merdle.

Fanny non se ne accorse; ma sentì di dover continuare a parlare. “Stavo dicendo,” proseguì, “che la malattia di mio fratello ha causato un ritardo nell’esaminare e sistemare i beni di papà.”

“Sì,” disse Signor Merdle; “sì, c’è stata un ritardo.”

“Non che abbia molta importanza,” disse Fanny.

“No,” convenne Signor Merdle dopo aver esaminato la cornice di tutta quella parte della stanza che rientrava nel suo campo visivo: “non che abbia alcuna importanza.”

“L’unica mia preoccupazione è,” disse Fanny, “che la signora generale non ottenga nulla.”

“Lei non otterrà nulla,” disse Signor Merdle.

Fanny fu molto felice di sentirgli esprimere quell’opinione. Signor Merdle, dopo aver ancora guardato all’interno del proprio cappello come se pensasse di vedere qualcosa sul fondo, si strofinò i capelli e aggiunse lentamente alle sue precedenti parole le parole affermative: “Oh no. No. Non lei. Impossibile.”

Poiché l’argomento sembrava esaurito, e lo stesso Signor Merdle, Fanny chiese se avrebbe ostacolato il suo ritorno a casa a causa della Signora Merdle e della carrozza.

“No,” rispose; “prenderò la strada più breve e lascerò la signora Merdle a, ”, qui guardò attentamente entrambe le palme delle sue mani come se stesse leggendo il proprio destino, “a cavarsela da sola. Scommetto che ce la farà.”

“Probabilmente,” disse Fanny.

Seguì quindi un lungo silenzio; durante quel tempo, la signora Sparkler, sdraiata di nuovo sul suo divano, chiuse gli occhi e sollevò le sopracciglia, riprendendo quella sua abituale distacco dalle faccende mondane.

“Ma comunque,” disse Signor Merdle, “anch’io vi tratterrò con me. Pensavo di chiamarvi, sapete.”

“Sono sicuramente incantata,” disse Fanny.

“Ora devo andare,” aggiunse Signor Merdle alzandosi in piedi. “Potreste prestarmi un coltello a serramanico?”

“È una cosa strana,” osservò Fanny sorridendo, “perché io, che raramente riesco a convincermi nemmeno di scrivere una lettera, do ora in prestito qualcosa a un uomo con affari così vasti come quelli di Mr Merdle. Non è vero?” Mr Merdle annuì; “ma ne ho bisogno. So che hai diverse piccole cose da regalo per matrimoni, con forbici, pinzette e simili. Me le restituirai domani.”

‘Edmund,’ disse la signora Sparkler, ‘apri (adesso, molto attentamente, ti prego, perché sei davvero molto goffo) la scatola di madreperla sul mio piccolo tavolo lì, e dammi a il signor Merdle il coltello da tasca in madreperla.’

“Grazie,” disse Signor Merdle; “ma se ne avete uno con un manico più scuro, credo che preferirei quello.”

“Guscio di tartaruga?”

“Grazie,” disse Signor Merdle; “sì, credo che preferisca la conchiglia di tartaruga.”

Edmund ricevette quindi l’ordine di aprire la scatola in guscio di tartaruga e di dare a Mr Merdle il coltello in guscio di tartaruga. Non appena lo fece, sua moglie disse con gentilezza allo “spirito-guida”:

“Ti perdonerò, se lo scrivi.”

“Prometto di non scriverci sopra nulla,” disse Signor Merdle.

L’illustre visitatore allora estrasse il polsino del suo cappotto e, per un momento, “sepolse” la mano della signora Sparkler: polso, braccialetto e tutto il resto. Non si poteva vedere dove finisse la sua mano; sembrava comunque essere così lontana dal senso tattile della signora Sparkler, come se fosse stato un anziano veterano di Chelsea o un pensionato di Greenwich, davvero molto meritevole.

Completamente convinta che quel fosse il giorno più lungo di sempre, finalmente giunto al suo termine, e che non esistesse alcuna donna, nemmeno del tutto priva di attrattive personali, che non fosse stata logorata da persone stupide e insipide, Fanny uscì sul balcone per prendere un po’ d’aria. Gli occhi le si riempirono di lacrime di frustrazione; queste lacrime avevano l’effetto che il famoso Signor Merdle, mentre camminava per strada, sembrasse saltare, ballare e girare su se stesso, come se fosse posseduto da diversi demoni.

CHAPTER 25. The Chief Butler Resigns the Seals of Office

The dinner-party was at the great Physician’s. Bar was there, and in full force. Ferdinand Barnacle was there, and in his most engaging state. Few ways of life were hidden from Physician, and he was oftener in its darkest places than even Bishop. There were brilliant ladies about London who perfectly doted on him, my dear, as the most charming creature and the most delightful person, who would have been shocked to find themselves so close to him if they could have known on what sights those thoughtful eyes of his had rested within an hour or two, and near to whose beds, and under what roofs, his composed figure had stood. But Physician was a composed man, who performed neither on his own trumpet, nor on the trumpets of other people. Many wonderful things did he see and hear, and much irreconcilable moral contradiction did he pass his life among; yet his equality of compassion was no more disturbed than the Divine Master’s of all healing was. He went, like the rain, among the just and unjust, doing all the good he could, and neither proclaiming it in the synagogues nor at the corner of streets.

As no man of large experience of humanity, however quietly carried it may be, can fail to be invested with an interest peculiar to the possession of such knowledge, Physician was an attractive man. Even the daintier gentlemen and ladies who had no idea of his secret, and who would have been startled out of more wits than they had, by the monstrous impropriety of his proposing to them ‘Come and see what I see!’ confessed his attraction. Where he was, something real was. And half a grain of reality, like the smallest portion of some other scarce natural productions, will flavour an enormous quantity of diluent.

It came to pass, therefore, that Physician’s little dinners always presented people in their least conventional lights. The guests said to themselves, whether they were conscious of it or no, ‘Here is a man who really has an acquaintance with us as we are, who is admitted to some of us every day with our wigs and paint off, who hears the wanderings of our minds, and sees the undisguised expression of our faces, when both are past our control; we may as well make an approach to reality with him, for the man has got the better of us and is too strong for us.’ Therefore, Physician’s guests came out so surprisingly at his round table that they were almost natural.

Bar’s knowledge of that agglomeration of jurymen which is called humanity was as sharp as a razor; yet a razor is not a generally convenient instrument, and Physician’s plain bright scalpel, though far less keen, was adaptable to far wider purposes. Bar knew all about the gullibility and knavery of people; but Physician could have given him a better insight into their tendernesses and affections, in one week of his rounds, than Westminster Hall and all the circuits put together, in threescore years and ten. Bar always had a suspicion of this, and perhaps was glad to encourage it (for, if the world were really a great Law Court, one would think that the last day of Term could not too soon arrive); and so he liked and respected Physician quite as much as any other kind of man did.

Mr Merdle’s default left a Banquo’s chair at the table; but, if he had been there, he would have merely made the difference of Banquo in it, and consequently he was no loss. Bar, who picked up all sorts of odds and ends about Westminster Hall, much as a raven would have done if he had passed as much of his time there, had been picking up a great many straws lately and tossing them about, to try which way the Merdle wind blew. He now had a little talk on the subject with Mrs Merdle herself; sidling up to that lady, of course, with his double eye-glass and his jury droop.

‘A certain bird,’ said Bar; and he looked as if it could have been no other bird than a magpie; ‘has been whispering among us lawyers lately, that there is to be an addition to the titled personages of this realm.’

‘Really?’ said Mrs Merdle.

‘Yes,’ said Bar. ‘Has not the bird been whispering in very different ears from ours—in lovely ears?’ He looked expressively at Mrs Merdle’s nearest ear-ring.

‘Do you mean mine?’ asked Mrs Merdle.

‘When I say lovely,’ said Bar, ‘I always mean you.’

‘You never mean anything, I think,’ returned Mrs Merdle (not displeased).

‘Oh, cruelly unjust!’ said Bar. ‘But, the bird.’

‘I am the last person in the world to hear news,’ observed Mrs Merdle, carelessly arranging her stronghold. ‘Who is it?’

‘What an admirable witness you would make!’ said Bar. ‘No jury (unless we could empanel one of blind men) could resist you, if you were ever so bad a one; but you would be such a good one!’

‘Why, you ridiculous man?’ asked Mrs Merdle, laughing.

Bar waved his double eye-glass three or four times between himself and the Bosom, as a rallying answer, and inquired in his most insinuating accents:

‘What am I to call the most elegant, accomplished and charming of women, a few weeks, or it may be a few days, hence?’

‘Didn’t your bird tell you what to call her?’ answered Mrs Merdle. ‘Do ask it to-morrow, and tell me the next time you see me what it says.’

This led to further passages of similar pleasantry between the two; but Bar, with all his sharpness, got nothing out of them. Physician, on the other hand, taking Mrs Merdle down to her carriage and attending on her as she put on her cloak, inquired into the symptoms with his usual calm directness.

‘May I ask,’ he said, ‘is this true about Merdle?’

‘My dear doctor,’ she returned, ‘you ask me the very question that I was half disposed to ask you.’

‘To ask me! Why me?’

‘Upon my honour, I think Mr Merdle reposes greater confidence in you than in any one.’

‘On the contrary, he tells me absolutely nothing, even professionally. You have heard the talk, of course?’

CAPITOLO 25. Il maggiordomo capo si dimette dalle sue funzioni

La festa a cena si tenne presso la residenza del grande Medico. C’era il bar, e funzionava a pieno regime. Ferdinand Barnacle era lì, nel suo aspetto più affascinante. Poche vite erano nascoste al Medico; spesso si trovava nei luoghi più oscuri, persino più del Vescovo. C’erano dame eleganti di Londra che lo adoravano profondamente, considerandolo la creatura più incantevole e la persona più deliziosa. Ma sarebbero rimaste scioccate se avessero saputo a quali scene i suoi occhi attenti avevano assistito in un paio d’ore, o vicino a quali letti, sotto quali tetti si era trovato. Tuttavia il Medico era una persona equilibrata: non suonava mai la propria tromba, né quella degli altri. Vide e sentì molte cose meravigliose; nella sua vita incontrò molte contraddizioni morali incompatibili. Eppure la sua compassione rimase immutata, proprio come quella del Divino Maestro che guarisce tutti. Andava tra giusti e ingiusti, facendo tutto il bene che poteva, senza mai proclamarlo nelle sinagoghe né agli angoli delle strade.

Poiché nessun uomo con una vasta esperienza dell’umanità, per quanto questa venga espressa in modo discreto, può non provare un interesse particolare derivante dalla possesso di tale conoscenza, il Dottore era un uomo attraente. Anche i gentiluomini e le signore più raffinati, che non avevano la minima idea dei suoi segreti e che sarebbero rimasti sbalorditi dall’audacia con cui gli avrebbe proposto di “venire a vedere ciò che vedo io”, ammettevano di essere attratti da lui. Lì dove si trovava, c’era qualcosa di reale. E mezzo granello di realtà, proprio come la più piccola quantità di altre rare sostanze naturali, è in grado di dare sapore a una quantità enorme di “diluenti”.

Accadde quindi che i piccoli banchetti del Dottore presentassero sempre le persone sotto il loro aspetto meno convenzionale. I suoi ospiti si dicevano, consapevolmente o no: “Ecco un uomo che ci conosce davvero per quello che siamo; viene ogni giorno tra di noi, con i nostri parrucchi e trucco, ascolta i nostri pensieri più intimi e vede l’espressione sincera dei nostri volti quando ormai non possiamo controllarli. Meglio quindi avvicinarci alla realtà insieme a lui: quell’uomo ci ha superati e è troppo forte per noi.” Per questo motivo, gli ospiti del Dottore si comportavano ai suoi banchetti in modo così naturale da sembrare quasi veri.

La conoscenza di Bar riguardo a quell’agglomerato di persone chiamate “umanità” era affilata come una lama di rasoio; tuttavia, un rasoio non è necessariamente uno strumento particolarmente utile, mentre il semplice e luminoso bisturi del Dottore, sebbene molto meno tagliente, poteva essere utilizzato per scopi molto più ampi. Bar conosceva bene la credulità e l’inganno delle persone; ma in una settimana di visite mediche, il Dottore avrebbe potuto fornirgli informazioni più profonde sulle loro tenerezze e affetti, di quanto Westminster Hall e tutti gli altri tribunali messi insieme potessero fare in sessant’anni. Bar nutriva sempre dei sospetti al riguardo, e forse era anche felice che ci fossero tali differenze (perché, se il mondo fosse davvero stato un grande tribunale di giustizia, si sarebbe pensato che il giorno della sua fine non potesse mai arrivare abbastanza presto); per questo motivo amava e rispettava il Dottore tanto quanto qualsiasi altro tipo di uomo.

La mancanza di Mr Merdle lasciò la sedia di Banquo ancora al tavolo; ma se fosse stato presente, avrebbe semplicemente rappresentato la presenza di Banquo, quindi non costituiva alcuna perdita. Bar, che raccoglieva ogni sorta di informazioni su Westminster Hall, proprio come un corvo avrebbe fatto se vi avesse trascorso molto del suo tempo, ultimamente raccoglieva molte “strisce di paglia” e le gettava via per cercare di capire in quale direzione soffiasse il “vento” di Merdle. Recentemente aveva anche avuto una breve conversazione sull’argomento con la stessa signora Merdle; naturalmente, si era avvicinato a lei indossando i suoi occhiali da vista e con quell’espressione distaccata tipica dei giurati.

“Un certo uccello,” disse Bar; e sembrava proprio che non potesse trattarsi di nessun altro uccello se non di una gazza; “di recente ha iniziato a sussurrare tra noi avvocati che presto ci saranno nuove figure nobili in questo regno.”

“Davvero?” disse la signora Merdle.

“Sì,” disse Bar. “Non ha forse il uccello sussurrato in orecchie molto diverse dalle nostre, in orecchie incantevoli?” Guardò con significato l’orecchino più vicino alla signora Merdle.

“Intendi la mia?” chiese la signora Merdle.

“Quando dico ‘adorabile’, intendo sempre te”, disse Bar.

“Penso che tu non dica mai nulla di serio,” rispose la signora Merdle (senza alcun dispiacere).

“Ah, quanto è crudele e ingiusto!” esclamò Bar. “Ma, quella povera creatura.”

“Sono l’ultima persona al mondo a venire a sapere queste notizie,” osservò la signora Merdle, sistemando con noncuranza le sue “fortezze”. “Di chi si tratta?”

“Che testimone ammirevole saresti!” disse Bar. “Nessuna giuria (a meno che non riuscissimo a selezionare alcuni uomini ciechi) potrebbe resisterti, anche se fossi davvero un cattivo testimone; ma tu sicuramente saresti un ottimo testimone!”

“Ma perché, uomo ridicolo?” chiese la signora Merdle ridendo.

Bar agitò le sue due lenti degli occhiali tre o quattro volte tra sé e la “Bosom”, come segno di incoraggiamento, e poi chiese con i suoi toni più insinuanti:

“Come dovrei chiamare la donna più elegante, raffinata e affascinante di tutte, che tra poche settimane, o forse solo pochi giorni, sarà qui?”

“Non ti ha detto la tua povera bestiola come chiamarla?” rispose la signora Merdle. “Chiediglielo domani, e dimmi la prossima volta che mi vedi cosa ti dice.”

Ciò portò a ulteriori scambi di battute simili tra i due; ma Bar, nonostante tutta la sua acutezza, non riuscì a ottenere nulla da loro. Il dottore, invece, accompagnando la signora Merdle alla sua carrozza e aiutandola a indossare il mantello, esaminò i sintomi con la solita calma e direttezza.

“Posso chiedere, ”, disse, “è vero ciò che si dice di Merdle?”

“Mio caro dottore,” rispose lei, “mi sta ponendo esattamente la stessa domanda che anch’io avevo quasi intenzione di farle.”

“Chiedermelo a me? Perché proprio io?”

‘Per la mia onore, credo che il signor Merdle abbia maggiore fiducia in te che in chiunque altro.’

“Al contrario, non mi dice assolutamente nulla, nemmeno a livello professionale. Avrete sicuramente sentito quelle voci, no?”

‘Of course I have. But you know what Mr Merdle is; you know how taciturn and reserved he is. I assure you I have no idea what foundation for it there may be. I should like it to be true; why should I deny that to you? You would know better, if I did!’

‘Just so,’ said Physician.

‘But whether it is all true, or partly true, or entirely false, I am wholly unable to say. It is a most provoking situation, a most absurd situation; but you know Mr Merdle, and are not surprised.’

Physician was not surprised, handed her into her carriage, and bade her Good Night. He stood for a moment at his own hall door, looking sedately at the elegant equipage as it rattled away. On his return up-stairs, the rest of the guests soon dispersed, and he was left alone. Being a great reader of all kinds of literature (and never at all apologetic for that weakness), he sat down comfortably to read.

The clock upon his study table pointed to a few minutes short of twelve, when his attention was called to it by a ringing at the door bell. A man of plain habits, he had sent his servants to bed and must needs go down to open the door. He went down, and there found a man without hat or coat, whose shirt sleeves were rolled up tight to his shoulders. For a moment, he thought the man had been fighting: the rather, as he was much agitated and out of breath. A second look, however, showed him that the man was particularly clean, and not otherwise discomposed as to his dress than as it answered this description.

‘I come from the warm-baths, sir, round in the neighbouring street.’

‘And what is the matter at the warm-baths?’

‘Would you please to come directly, sir. We found that, lying on the table.’

He put into the physician’s hand a scrap of paper. Physician looked at it, and read his own name and address written in pencil; nothing more. He looked closer at the writing, looked at the man, took his hat from its peg, put the key of his door in his pocket, and they hurried away together.

When they came to the warm-baths, all the other people belonging to that establishment were looking out for them at the door, and running up and down the passages. ‘Request everybody else to keep back, if you please,’ said the physician aloud to the master; ‘and do you take me straight to the place, my friend,’ to the messenger.

The messenger hurried before him, along a grove of little rooms, and turning into one at the end of the grove, looked round the door. Physician was close upon him, and looked round the door too.

There was a bath in that corner, from which the water had been hastily drained off. Lying in it, as in a grave or sarcophagus, with a hurried drapery of sheet and blanket thrown across it, was the body of a heavily-made man, with an obtuse head, and coarse, mean, common features. A sky-light had been opened to release the steam with which the room had been filled; but it hung, condensed into water-drops, heavily upon the walls, and heavily upon the face and figure in the bath. The room was still hot, and the marble of the bath still warm; but the face and figure were clammy to the touch. The white marble at the bottom of the bath was veined with a dreadful red. On the ledge at the side, were an empty laudanum-bottle and a tortoise-shell handled penknife—soiled, but not with ink.

‘Separation of jugular vein—death rapid—been dead at least half an hour.’ This echo of the physician’s words ran through the passages and little rooms, and through the house while he was yet straightening himself from having bent down to reach to the bottom of the bath, and while he was yet dabbling his hands in water; redly veining it as the marble was veined, before it mingled into one tint.

He turned his eyes to the dress upon the sofa, and to the watch, money, and pocket-book on the table. A folded note half buckled up in the pocket-book, and half protruding from it, caught his observant glance. He looked at it, touched it, pulled it a little further out from among the leaves, said quietly, ‘This is addressed to me,’ and opened and read it.

There were no directions for him to give. The people of the house knew what to do; the proper authorities were soon brought; and they took an equable business-like possession of the deceased, and of what had been his property, with no greater disturbance of manner or countenance than usually attends the winding-up of a clock. Physician was glad to walk out into the night air—was even glad, in spite of his great experience, to sit down upon a door-step for a little while: feeling sick and faint.

Bar was a near neighbour of his, and, when he came to the house, he saw a light in the room where he knew his friend often sat late getting up his work. As the light was never there when Bar was not, it gave him assurance that Bar was not yet in bed. In fact, this busy bee had a verdict to get to-morrow, against evidence, and was improving the shining hours in setting snares for the gentlemen of the jury.

Physician’s knock astonished Bar; but, as he immediately suspected that somebody had come to tell him that somebody else was robbing him, or otherwise trying to get the better of him, he came down promptly and softly. He had been clearing his head with a lotion of cold water, as a good preparative to providing hot water for the heads of the jury, and had been reading with the neck of his shirt thrown wide open that he might the more freely choke the opposite witnesses. In consequence, he came down, looking rather wild. Seeing Physician, the least expected of men, he looked wilder and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You asked me once what Merdle’s complaint was.’

‘Extraordinary answer! I know I did.’

‘I told you I had not found out.’

‘Yes. I know you did.’

‘I have found it out.’

‘My God!’ said Bar, starting back, and clapping his hand upon the other’s breast. ‘And so have I! I see it in your face.’

“Certo che ce l’ho. Ma sapete chi è Mr Merdle; sapete quanto sia taciturno e riservato. Vi assicuro che non ho la minima idea di quale possa essere la base di questa informazione. Vorrei che fosse vera. Perché dovrei negarvelo? Voi ne sapreste di più, se lo facessi!”

“Solo per essere sicuri,” disse il medico.

“Ma se tutto ciò sia vero, in parte vero o del tutto falso, non sono assolutamente in grado di dirlo. È una situazione molto provocatoria, davvero assurda. Ma voi conoscete bene il signor Merdle e quindi non vi sorprende.”

Il medico non si sorprese, la aiutò a salire nella sua carrozza e le augurò una buona notte. Rimase per un momento davanti alla porta del suo salone, osservando con calma l’elegante equipaggio che si allontanava. Tornato al piano di sopra, gli altri ospiti si dispersero presto, lasciandolo solo. Essendo un grande lettore di ogni genere di letteratura (e senza mai vergognarsi di questa debolezza), si sedette comodamente per leggere.

L’orologio sul suo tavolo da studio indicava pochi minuti prima delle dodici; in quel momento l’attenzione del proprietario fu attirata dal suono della campanella alla porta. Essendo una persona di abitudini semplici, aveva già mandato i suoi servitori a letto e dovette quindi scendere personalmente ad aprire. Quando arrivò, trovò un uomo senza cappello né cappotto, le maniche della camicia arrotolate fino alle spalle. Per un momento pensò che quell’uomo avesse appena combattuto, soprattutto perché sembrava molto agitato e senza fiato. Tuttavia, un secondo sguardo gli fece notare che l’uomo era particolarmente pulito e che il suo abbigliamento non presentava alcun segno di disordine.

“Vengo dai bagni caldi, signore, in quella strada vicina.”

“E cosa c’è che non va alle terme calde?”

“Le preghiamo di venire subito, signore. L’abbiamo trovato sul tavolo.”

Gli mise in mano un pezzo di carta. Il medico lo guardò e lesse il proprio nome e indirizzo scritti a matita; nient’altro. Guardò più da vicino quelle parole, poi osservò l’uomo, prese il cappello dal gancio, mise la chiave di casa in tasca e insieme se ne andarono di fretta.

Quando arrivarono alle terme calde, tutte le altre persone che facevano parte di quell’istituto li aspettavano alla porta, correndo avanti e indietro nei corridoi. “Per favore, chiedete a tutti gli altri di aspettare fuori”, disse il medico ad alta voce al direttore; “e portatemi subito nel posto giusto, amico mio”, aggiunse al messaggero.

Il messaggero si affrettava davanti a lui, lungo un corridoio formato da piccole stanze; arrivato all’ultima di esse, guardò dentro dalla porta. Il medico era vicino a lui e fece lo stesso.

In quell’angolo c’era una vasca da bagno; l’acqua era stata frettolosamente scaricata via. All’interno, come se fosse un tomba o un sarcofago, giaceva il corpo di un uomo dall’aspetto robusto, con una testa tozza e tratti volgari e brutti. Era stata aperta una finestra per far uscire il vapore che riempiva la stanza; ma quest’ultimo si era condensato in gocce d’acqua, appesantendo pesantemente le pareti, nonché il viso e la figura nella vasca. La stanza era ancora calda, e il marmo della vasca ancora tiepido; ma il viso e la figura erano umidi al tatto. Il marmo bianco sul fondo della vasca presentava strisce rosse terribili. Sul bordo laterale c’erano una bottiglia vuota di laudano e un coltello da tasca con manico in guscio di tartaruga: entrambi erano sporchi, ma non d’inchiostro.

“Separazione della vena giugulare – morte rapida. È morto da almeno mezz’ora.” Queste parole del medico risuonarono nelle sale e nei piccoli locali dell’casa, mentre lui si stava ancora rialzando dopo essersi chinato per raggiungere il fondo della vasca da bagno, mentre ancora si sciacquava le mani nell’acqua; quelle parole, come venature rosse incise nel marmo, si diffusero in tutto l’ambiente prima di fondersi in un’unica tonalità uniforme.

Posò lo sguardo sul vestito sul divano, e poi sull’orologio, sui soldi e sul portafoglio sul tavolo. Un biglietto piegato, parzialmente infilato nel portafoglio e in parte sporgente, attirò la sua attenzione. Lo guardò, lo toccò, lo tirò fuori un po’ di più tra le altre carte, disse sottovoce: “È indirizzato a me”, e lo aprì per leggerlo.

Non c’erano istruzioni da dare; le persone della casa sapevano cosa fare; le autorità competenti arrivarono presto e si occuparono in modo equo e professionale del defunto e di ciò che era stato la sua proprietà, senza alcun turbamento né nel comportamento né nell’espressione del viso, proprio come avviene solitamente quando si conclude il funzionamento di un orologio. Il medico fu felice di uscire nell’aria fresca della notte; anzi, nonostante la sua grande esperienza, fu contento di sedersi per un po’ sul gradino di casa: si sentiva malato e stordito.

Bar era un vicino di casa suo; quando arrivò alla casa, vide una luce nella stanza dove sapeva che il suo amico spesso si tratteneva fino a tardi per lavorare. Poiché quella luce non c’era mai quando Bar non era lì, ne dedusse che Bar non fosse ancora andato a letto. In realtà, quel “lavoratore instancabile” aveva già preso una decisione per il giorno seguente, senza alcuna prova concreta, e stava approfittando delle ore serali per preparare le trappole contro i membri della giuria.

Il bussare del medico sorprese Bar; ma, poiché immediatamente sospettò che qualcuno fosse venuto a dirgli che un altro stava derubandolo o cercando in qualche modo di prevarlo, scese rapidamente e silenziosamente. Si era appena rinfrescato la testa con una lozione di acqua fredda, come preparativo per fornire acqua calda ai membri della giuria, e stava leggendo con il colletto della camicia aperto, in modo da poter soffocare più facilmente gli testimoni avversari. Di conseguenza, scese giù sembrando piuttosto sconvolto. Vedendo il medico, l’ultima persona che si aspettava di vedere, apparve ancora più turbato e chiese: “Che c’è?”

“Mi hai chiesto una volta qual fosse il problema di Merdle, ”

“Risposta straordinaria! So di averlo fatto.”

“Te l’avevo detto: non l’avevo ancora scoperto.”

“Sì. So che l’hai fatto.”

“L’ho scoperto.”

“Mio Dio!” esclamò Bar, facendo un passo indietro e posando una mano sul petto dell’altro. “Anch’io lo stesso! Lo vedo nel tuo viso.”

They went into the nearest room, where Physician gave him the letter to read. He read it through half-a-dozen times. There was not much in it as to quantity; but it made a great demand on his close and continuous attention. He could not sufficiently give utterance to his regret that he had not himself found a clue to this. The smallest clue, he said, would have made him master of the case, and what a case it would have been to have got to the bottom of!

Physician had engaged to break the intelligence in Harley Street. Bar could not at once return to his inveiglements of the most enlightened and remarkable jury he had ever seen in that box, with whom, he could tell his learned friend, no shallow sophistry would go down, and no unhappily abused professional tact and skill prevail (this was the way he meant to begin with them); so he said he would go too, and would loiter to and fro near the house while his friend was inside. They walked there, the better to recover self-possession in the air; and the wings of day were fluttering the night when Physician knocked at the door.

A footman of rainbow hues, in the public eye, was sitting up for his master—that is to say, was fast asleep in the kitchen over a couple of candles and a newspaper, demonstrating the great accumulation of mathematical odds against the probabilities of a house being set on fire by accident When this serving man was roused, Physician had still to await the rousing of the Chief Butler. At last that noble creature came into the dining-room in a flannel gown and list shoes; but with his cravat on, and a Chief Butler all over. It was morning now. Physician had opened the shutters of one window while waiting, that he might see the light.

‘Mrs Merdle’s maid must be called, and told to get Mrs Merdle up, and prepare her as gently as she can to see me. I have dreadful news to break to her.’

Thus Physician to the Chief Butler. The latter, who had a candle in his hand, called his man to take it away. Then he approached the window with dignity; looking on at Physician’s news exactly as he had looked on at the dinners in that very room.

‘Mr Merdle is dead.’

‘I should wish,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘to give a month’s notice.’

‘Mr Merdle has destroyed himself.’

‘Sir,’ said the Chief Butler, ‘that is very unpleasant to the feelings of one in my position, as calculated to awaken prejudice; and I should wish to leave immediately.’

‘If you are not shocked, are you not surprised, man?’ demanded the Physician, warmly.

The Chief Butler, erect and calm, replied in these memorable words. ‘Sir, Mr Merdle never was the gentleman, and no ungentlemanly act on Mr Merdle’s part would surprise me. Is there anybody else I can send to you, or any other directions I can give before I leave, respecting what you would wish to be done?’

When Physician, after discharging himself of his trust up-stairs, rejoined Bar in the street, he said no more of his interview with Mrs Merdle than that he had not yet told her all, but that what he had told her she had borne pretty well. Bar had devoted his leisure in the street to the construction of a most ingenious man-trap for catching the whole of his jury at a blow; having got that matter settled in his mind, it was lucid on the late catastrophe, and they walked home slowly, discussing it in every bearing. Before parting at the Physician’s door, they both looked up at the sunny morning sky, into which the smoke of a few early fires and the breath and voices of a few early stirrers were peacefully rising, and then looked round upon the immense city, and said, if all those hundreds and thousands of beggared people who were yet asleep could only know, as they two spoke, the ruin that impended over them, what a fearful cry against one miserable soul would go up to Heaven!

The report that the great man was dead, got about with astonishing rapidity. At first, he was dead of all the diseases that ever were known, and of several bran-new maladies invented with the speed of Light to meet the demand of the occasion. He had concealed a dropsy from infancy, he had inherited a large estate of water on the chest from his grandfather, he had had an operation performed upon him every morning of his life for eighteen years, he had been subject to the explosion of important veins in his body after the manner of fireworks, he had had something the matter with his lungs, he had had something the matter with his heart, he had had something the matter with his brain. Five hundred people who sat down to breakfast entirely uninformed on the whole subject, believed before they had done breakfast, that they privately and personally knew Physician to have said to Mr Merdle, ‘You must expect to go out, some day, like the snuff of a candle;’ and that they knew Mr Merdle to have said to Physician, ‘A man can die but once.’ By about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, something the matter with the brain, became the favourite theory against the field; and by twelve the something had been distinctly ascertained to be ‘Pressure.’

Pressure was so entirely satisfactory to the public mind, and seemed to make everybody so comfortable, that it might have lasted all day but for Bar’s having taken the real state of the case into Court at half-past nine. This led to its beginning to be currently whispered all over London by about one, that Mr Merdle had killed himself. Pressure, however, so far from being overthrown by the discovery, became a greater favourite than ever. There was a general moralising upon Pressure, in every street. All the people who had tried to make money and had not been able to do it, said, There you were! You no sooner began to devote yourself to the pursuit of wealth than you got Pressure. The idle people improved the occasion in a similar manner. See, said they, what you brought yourself to by work, work, work! You persisted in working, you overdid it. Pressure came on, and you were done for! This consideration was very potent in many quarters, but nowhere more so than among the young clerks and partners who had never been in the slightest danger of overdoing it. These, one and all, declared, quite piously, that they hoped they would never forget the warning as long as they lived, and that their conduct might be so regulated as to keep off Pressure, and preserve them, a comfort to their friends, for many years.

Entrarono nella stanza più vicina, dove il medico gli diede la lettera da leggere. La lesse sei volte almeno. Non conteneva molto in termini di contenuto; ma richiedeva tutta la sua attenzione e concentrazione. Non riusciva a esprimere a sufficienza il proprio rammarico per non essere stato lui stesso ad individuare qualche indizio su questa questione. Disse che anche il più piccolo indizio avrebbe potuto aiutarlo a risolvere il caso. E che caso straordinario sarebbe stato se fosse riuscito a arrivarne alla fine!

Il medico aveva deciso di interrompere le sue attività nell’ambito delle informazioni riservate a Harley Street. Non poteva certo tornare immediatamente alle sue strategie per ingannare quella giuria, tra le più illuminate e straordinarie che avesse mai incontrato in quel tribunale; sapeva bene che con loro nessuna sofisticazione superficiale avrebbe funzionato, né alcuna tattica o abilità professionale mal utilizzata avrebbe avuto successo (era proprio questo il modo in cui intendeva procedere). Così disse che sarebbe andato anche lui e si sarebbe aggirato nei dintorni della casa mentre suo amico era all’interno. Si recarono lì, nel tentativo di riacquistare la propria calma nell’ambiente circostante; quando spuntò l’alba, il medico bussò alla porta.

Un valletto dai colori dell’arcobaleno, agli occhi del pubblico, stava vegliando per il suo padrone, cioè, dormiva profondamente in cucina, accanto a alcune candele e un giornale, dimostrando così quanto fossero scarse le probabilità che una casa venisse accidentalmente data alle fiamme. Quando quel servitore fu svegliato, il Dottore dovette ancora aspettare che si svegliasse anche il Maggiordomo Capo. Finalmente, quella nobile creatura entrò nella sala da pranzo indossando una vestaglia di flanella e scarpe basse; ma con la cravatta indossata, e accompagnato dal Maggiordomo Capo. Ormai era mattina. Il Dottore aveva aperto le persiane di una finestra mentre aspettava, per poter vedere la luce.

“È necessario chiamare la cameriera di Mrs Merdle e dirle di farla alzare, preparandola con la massima delicatezza possibile per ricevermi. Ho terribili notizie da darle.”

E così divenne il medico del capo maggiordomo. Quest’ultimo, che teneva una candela in mano, chiamò il suo servitore perché la portasse via. Poi si avvicinò alla finestra con dignità; ascoltò le notizie del medico esattamente come aveva osservato i pasti che venivano preparati in quella stessa stanza.

‘Signor Merdle è morto.’

“Mi piacerebbe,” disse il maggiordomo capo, “darvi un preavviso di un mese.”

‘Signor Merdle si è autodistrutto.’

“Signore,” disse il maggiordomo capo, “è molto spiacevole per una persona nella mia posizione, poiché può suscitare pregiudizi; vorrei andarmene immediatamente.”

“Se non sei scioccato, allora non sei sorpreso, vero?” chiese il medico con calore.

Il Capo Cameriere, eretto e calmo, rispose con queste parole indimenticabili:
“Signore, Mr Merdle non è mai stato un gentiluomo; quindi nessun comportamento indegno da parte sua mi sorprenderebbe. C’è qualcun altro che posso mandarvi, o qualche altra indicazione che posso darvi prima di andarmene, riguardo a ciò che desiderate venga fatto?”

Quando il Dottore, dopo aver svolto i suoi compiti al piano di sopra, tornò in strada da Bar, non disse nulla riguardo al suo incontro con la signora Merdle, se non che non le aveva ancora raccontato tutto e che ciò che le aveva detto l’aveva accettata abbastanza bene. Durante il tempo libero trascorso in strada, Bar aveva ideato un piano estremamente ingegnoso per catturare tutti i membri della giuria in una sola volta; una volta definito questo piano nella sua mente, tutto divenne chiaro riguardo alla tragica conseguenza che ne sarebbe derivata. Camminarono lentamente verso casa, discutendone sotto ogni aspetto. Prima di separarsi davanti alla porta del Dottore, alzarono entrambi lo sguardo verso il cielo sereno di quella mattina: dal fumo delle prime stufe accese e dai suoni prodotti dalle prime persone che si alzavano, sembrava emergere una sorta di pace. Poi guardarono intorno all’immensa città e pensarono che, se tutte quelle centinaia di migliaia di persone ancora addormentate potessero conoscere la rovina che le minacciava, quale terribile grido si alzerebbe verso il cielo, contro quella sola, misera ‘anima responsabile di tutto!

La notizia della morte di quell’uomo importante si diffuse con una velocità sorprendente. All’inizio si disse che fosse morto a causa di tutte le malattie conosciute, e anche di alcune nuove patologie inventate con la rapidità della luce per soddisfare le esigenze del momento. Aveva nascosto un’idropisia fin dall’infanzia; aveva ereditato da suo nonno una grave condizione polmonare; per diciotto anni ogni mattina gli venivano effettuate operazioni mediche; soffriva di gravi problemi vascolari nel corpo, simili agli effetti di un fuoco d’artificio; aveva problemi ai polmoni, al cuore e anche al cervello. Cinquecento persone che si erano sedute a colazione completamente all’oscuro della situazione credevano già prima di aver finito di mangiare di conoscere personalmente il medico che aveva detto a Mr Merdle: “Un giorno dovrà andarsene, proprio come la punta di una candela”; e credevano anche di sapere che Mr Merdle avesse risposto al medico: “Un uomo può morire solo una volta”. Verso le undici del mattino, l’ipotesi relativa a un problema cerebrale divenne quella più diffusa; entro mezzogiorno si stabilì con certezza che si trattasse di “pressione sanguigna”.

La “Pressione” era così del tutto soddisfacente per l’opinione pubblica e sembrava rendere tutti molto tranquilli, che avrebbe potuto continuare per tutto il giorno se non fosse stato per il fatto che Bar aveva portato la vera situazione in tribunale alle nove e mezza. Questo fece sì che intorno all’una di notte in tutta )Londra iniziasse a circolare la voce che Mr Merdle si fosse suicidato. Tuttavia, la “Pressione”, lontano dall’essere sconfitta da questa scoperta, divenne ancora più popolare di prima. In ogni strada si facevano commenti morali sulla “Pressione”: tutte le persone che avevano cercato di guadagnare denaro senza riuscirci dicevano: “Ecco a cosa porta dedicarsi esclusivamente alla ricerca della ricchezza. La ‘Pressione’ arriva, e poi si è finiti!”. Anche le persone oziose approfittavano dell’occasione per fare lo stesso genere di commenti. “Vedete”, dicevano, “a cosa vi ha portato il lavoro, il lavoro incessante. Avete continuato a lavorare troppo, ed è arrivata la ‘Pressione’. E ora siete rovinati!” Questo ragionamento aveva un grande ascendente in molti ambienti, soprattutto tra i giovani impiegati e soci d’affari che non correvano alcun rischio di lavorare troppo. Tutti quanti dichiaravano, con estrema serietà, di sperare di non dimenticare mai questo avvertimento per tutta la vita, e di comportarsi in modo da evitare la “Pressione” e rimanere una fonte di conforto per i loro amici per molti anni a venire.

But, at about the time of High ‘Change, Pressure began to wane, and appalling whispers to circulate, east, west, north, and south. At first they were faint, and went no further than a doubt whether Mr Merdle’s wealth would be found to be as vast as had been supposed; whether there might not be a temporary difficulty in ‘realising’ it; whether there might not even be a temporary suspension (say a month or so), on the part of the wonderful Bank. As the whispers became louder, which they did from that time every minute, they became more threatening. He had sprung from nothing, by no natural growth or process that any one could account for; he had been, after all, a low, ignorant fellow; he had been a down-looking man, and no one had ever been able to catch his eye; he had been taken up by all sorts of people in quite an unaccountable manner; he had never had any money of his own, his ventures had been utterly reckless, and his expenditure had been most enormous. In steady progression, as the day declined, the talk rose in sound and purpose. He had left a letter at the Baths addressed to his physician, and his physician had got the letter, and the letter would be produced at the Inquest on the morrow, and it would fall like a thunderbolt upon the multitude he had deluded. Numbers of men in every profession and trade would be blighted by his insolvency; old people who had been in easy circumstances all their lives would have no place of repentance for their trust in him but the workhouse; legions of women and children would have their whole future desolated by the hand of this mighty scoundrel. Every partaker of his magnificent feasts would be seen to have been a sharer in the plunder of innumerable homes; every servile worshipper of riches who had helped to set him on his pedestal, would have done better to worship the Devil point-blank. So, the talk, lashed louder and higher by confirmation on confirmation, and by edition after edition of the evening papers, swelled into such a roar when night came, as might have brought one to believe that a solitary watcher on the gallery above the Dome of St Paul’s would have perceived the night air to be laden with a heavy muttering of the name of Merdle, coupled with every form of execration.

For by that time it was known that the late Mr Merdle’s complaint had been simply Forgery and Robbery. He, the uncouth object of such wide-spread adulation, the sitter at great men’s feasts, the roc’s egg of great ladies’ assemblies, the subduer of exclusiveness, the leveller of pride, the patron of patrons, the bargain-driver with a Minister for Lordships of the Circumlocution Office, the recipient of more acknowledgment within some ten or fifteen years, at most, than had been bestowed in England upon all peaceful public benefactors, and upon all the leaders of all the Arts and Sciences, with all their works to testify for them, during two centuries at least—he, the shining wonder, the new constellation to be followed by the wise men bringing gifts, until it stopped over a certain carrion at the bottom of a bath and disappeared—was simply the greatest Forger and the greatest Thief that ever cheated the gallows.

Ma, verso l’ora del tramonto, la pressione iniziò ad attenuarsi e terribili voci iniziarono a circolare in tutte le direzioni: est, ovest, nord, sud. All’inizio erano sommesse e si limitavano a sollevare il dubbio che la ricchezza di Mr Merdle fosse davvero così vasta come si credeva; che potessero esserci difficoltà temporanee nell’“realizzarla”; o addirittura che la meravigliosa Banca potesse decidere di sospendere temporaneamente i pagamenti (per un mese, ad esempio). Man mano che queste voci diventavano più insistenti – e infatti lo facevano ogni minuto – assumevano anche un tono sempre più minaccioso. Mr Merdle era emerso dal nulla, senza alcun processo naturale o logico spiegabile; era un uomo umile e ignorante, che nessuno degnava di uno sguardo; era stato accolto da persone di ogni tipo in modo del tutto inspiegabile; non aveva mai avuto denaro proprio, i suoi affari erano stati estremamente avventati e le sue spese enormi. Con il calare della sera, le voci su di lui diventavano sempre più intense e concrete. Aveva lasciato una lettera al suo medico alle terme; la lettera sarebbe stata presentata all’inchiesta del giorno seguente e avrebbe rappresentato un vero fulmine per coloro che aveva ingannato. Molti uomini di ogni professione ne avrebbero sofferto a causa della sua insolvenza; anziani che avevano vissuto in condizioni agiate non avrebbero trovato altro posto dove pentirsi se non l’ospizio; migliaia di donne e bambini avrebbero visto rovinarsi tutto il loro futuro per colpa di quel furfante. Chiunque avesse partecipato ai suoi banchetti sfarzosi era in realtà complice nel saccheggio di innumerevoli famiglie; chiunque lo avesse adorato come un idolo della ricchezza avrebbe fatto meglio a venerare il Diavolo direttamente. Così, quelle voci, alimentate da nuove conferme e dagli articoli dei giornali serali, si trasformarono in un vero urlo quando arrivò la notte; sembrava davvero possibile che chiunque si trovasse sulle gradinate sopra la Cupola di San Paolo potesse percepire nell’aria notturna il pesante mormorio del nome di Merdle, accompagnato da ogni sorta di invettiva.

Perché in quel momento si seppe che le lamentele del defunto Signor Merdle erano semplicemente frutto di falsificazione e rapina. Lui, quell’uomo rozzo oggetto di un tale ammiramento diffuso, partecipante alle feste dei grandi uomini, protagonista delle riunioni delle dame più influenti, colui che spezzava le barriere dell’esclusività, che umiliava l’orgoglio, protettore dei protettori, negoziatore abile con i ministri per ottenere titoli onorifici. Lui, che in soli dieci o quindici anni aveva ricevuto più riconoscimenti in Inghilterra di quanti ne fossero stati concessi a tutti i benefattori pubblici pacifici, nonché a tutti i leader delle arti e delle scienze, le cui opere testimoniavano del loro operato per almeno due secoli. Lui, quell’miracolo splendente, quella nuova costellazione che gli uomini saggi avrebbero seguito portando doni. Fino a quando non si fermò sopra un cadavere nel fondo di una vasca da bagno e scomparve. In realtà era semplicemente il più grande falsario e il più grande ladro che mai avesse ingannato la giustizia.

CHAPTER 26. Reaping the Whirlwind

With a precursory sound of hurried breath and hurried feet, Mr Pancks rushed into Arthur Clennam’s Counting-house. The Inquest was over, the letter was public, the Bank was broken, the other model structures of straw had taken fire and were turned to smoke. The admired piratical ship had blown up, in the midst of a vast fleet of ships of all rates, and boats of all sizes; and on the deep was nothing but ruin; nothing but burning hulls, bursting magazines, great guns self-exploded tearing friends and neighbours to pieces, drowning men clinging to unseaworthy spars and going down every minute, spent swimmers, floating dead, and sharks.

The usual diligence and order of the Counting-house at the Works were overthrown. Unopened letters and unsorted papers lay strewn about the desk. In the midst of these tokens of prostrated energy and dismissed hope, the master of the Counting-house stood idle in his usual place, with his arms crossed on the desk, and his head bowed down upon them.

Mr Pancks rushed in and saw him, and stood still. In another minute, Mr Pancks’s arms were on the desk, and Mr Pancks’s head was bowed down upon them; and for some time they remained in these attitudes, idle and silent, with the width of the little room between them.

Mr Pancks was the first to lift up his head and speak.

‘I persuaded you to it, Mr Clennam. I know it. Say what you will. You can’t say more to me than I say to myself. You can’t say more than I deserve.’

‘O, Pancks, Pancks!’ returned Clennam, ‘don’t speak of deserving. What do I myself deserve!’

‘Better luck,’ said Pancks.

‘I,’ pursued Clennam, without attending to him, ‘who have ruined my partner! Pancks, Pancks, I have ruined Doyce! The honest, self-helpful, indefatigable old man who has worked his way all through his life; the man who has contended against so much disappointment, and who has brought out of it such a good and hopeful nature; the man I have felt so much for, and meant to be so true and useful to; I have ruined him—brought him to shame and disgrace—ruined him, ruined him!’

The agony into which the reflection wrought his mind was so distressing to see, that Mr Pancks took hold of himself by the hair of his head, and tore it in desperation at the spectacle.

‘Reproach me!’ cried Pancks. ‘Reproach me, sir, or I’ll do myself an injury. Say,—You fool, you villain. Say,—Ass, how could you do it; Beast, what did you mean by it! Catch hold of me somewhere. Say something abusive to me!’ All the time, Mr Pancks was tearing at his tough hair in a most pitiless and cruel manner.

‘If you had never yielded to this fatal mania, Pancks,’ said Clennam, more in commiseration than retaliation, ‘it would have been how much better for you, and how much better for me!’

‘At me again, sir!’ cried Pancks, grinding his teeth in remorse. ‘At me again!’

‘If you had never gone into those accursed calculations, and brought out your results with such abominable clearness,’ groaned Clennam, ‘it would have been how much better for you, Pancks, and how much better for me!’

‘At me again, sir!’ exclaimed Pancks, loosening his hold of his hair; ‘at me again, and again!’

Clennam, however, finding him already beginning to be pacified, had said all he wanted to say, and more. He wrung his hand, only adding, ‘Blind leaders of the blind, Pancks! Blind leaders of the blind! But Doyce, Doyce, Doyce; my injured partner!’ That brought his head down on the desk once more.

Their former attitudes and their former silence were once more first encroached upon by Pancks.

‘Not been to bed, sir, since it began to get about. Been high and low, on the chance of finding some hope of saving any cinders from the fire. All in vain. All gone. All vanished.’

‘I know it,’ returned Clennam, ‘too well.’

Mr Pancks filled up a pause with a groan that came out of the very depths of his soul.

‘Only yesterday, Pancks,’ said Arthur; ‘only yesterday, Monday, I had the fixed intention of selling, realising, and making an end of it.’

‘I can’t say as much for myself, sir,’ returned Pancks. ‘Though it’s wonderful how many people I’ve heard of, who were going to realise yesterday, of all days in the three hundred and sixty-five, if it hadn’t been too late!’

His steam-like breathings, usually droll in their effect, were more tragic than so many groans: while from head to foot, he was in that begrimed, besmeared, neglected state, that he might have been an authentic portrait of Misfortune which could scarcely be discerned through its want of cleaning.

‘Mr Clennam, had you laid out—everything?’ He got over the break before the last word, and also brought out the last word itself with great difficulty.

‘Everything.’

Mr Pancks took hold of his tough hair again, and gave it such a wrench that he pulled out several prongs of it. After looking at these with an eye of wild hatred, he put them in his pocket.

‘My course,’ said Clennam, brushing away some tears that had been silently dropping down his face, ‘must be taken at once. What wretched amends I can make must be made. I must clear my unfortunate partner’s reputation. I must retain nothing for myself. I must resign to our creditors the power of management I have so much abused, and I must work out as much of my fault—or crime—as is susceptible of being worked out in the rest of my days.’

‘Is it impossible, sir, to tide over the present?’

‘Out of the question. Nothing can be tided over now, Pancks. The sooner the business can pass out of my hands, the better for it. There are engagements to be met, this week, which would bring the catastrophe before many days were over, even if I would postpone it for a single day by going on for that space, secretly knowing what I know. All last night I thought of what I would do; what remains is to do it.’

CAPITOLO 26. Raccogliere i frutti del tornado

Con il suono affrettato di respiri e passi veloci, Signor Pancks irruppe nella casa contabile di Arthur Clennam. L’inchiesta era finita, la lettera era stata resa pubblica, la banca era fallita; anche le altre strutture fatte di paglia erano andate in fiamme, trasformandosi in cenere. Quel temuto “nave pirata” era esploso, in mezzo a una vasta flotta di navi di tutte le dimensioni e barche di ogni forma; sul fondo del mare non c’era altro che rovina: scafi in fiamme, magazzini che esplodevano, cannoni che si autodistruggevano, distruggendo uomini e vicini, persone che annegavano aggrappandosi a pezzi di legno inadatti alla navigazione, nuotatori esausti che galleggiavano morti, e squali.

La solita diligenza e ordine della casa di contabilità presso le officine erano stati completamente sovvertiti. Lettere non aperte e documenti non ordinati giacevano sparsi sulla scrivania. In mezzo a questi segni di disordine e di perdita di speranza, il responsabile della casa di contabilità stava fermo nel suo solito posto, con le braccia incrociate sulla scrivania e la testa china su di esse.

Signor Pancks entrò di corsa e lo vide; rimase fermo immobile. Un minuto dopo, le braccia del signor Pancks erano appoggiate sul tavolo e la sua testa era china su di esse; per un po’ rimasero in quella posizione, immobili e in silenzio, con tutta la larghezza della piccola stanza tra loro.

Signor Pancks fu il primo a sollevare la testa e a parlare.

“Sono stato io a convincervi, signor Clennam. Lo so bene. Dite pure quello che volete; non potete dirmi nulla di più di ciò che io stesso mi dico. Non potete dire nulla di più di ciò che merito.”

“Oh, Pancks, Pancks!” rispose Clennam, “non parlate di meritarlo. Cosa dovrei mai meritare io stesso!”

“Buona fortuna,” disse Pancks.

“Io,” continuò Clennam, senza prestargli attenzione, “io che ho rovinato il mio compagno! Pancks, Pancks. Ho rovinato Doyce! Quell’uomo onesto, autosufficiente, instancabile, che ha lavorato sodo per tutta la vita; quell’uomo che ha affrontato tante delusioni e ne è uscito con una natura così buona e piena di speranza. L’uomo per cui provavo tanto affetto e che volevo essere davvero un amico leale e utile. L’ho rovinato. L’ho portato alla vergogna e al disonore. L’ho distrutto, ”

L’agonia che quella riflessione provocava nella sua mente era così angosciante da vedere, che Signor Pancks si afferrò i capelli e li strappò via in preda alla disperazione di fronte a quella scena.

“Rimproveratemi!” gridò Pancks. “Rimproveratemi, signore, altrimenti mi farò del male. Dite, voi idiota, voi maledetto. Dite, come avete potuto fare una cosa del genere; bestia, che senso aveva tutto ciò! Afferratemi in qualche modo. Dite qualcosa di offensivo contro di me!” Nel frattempo, il signor Pancks si strappava i capelli con violenza, in un modo davvero spietato e crudele.

“Se solo non fossi mai ceduto a questa folle ossessione, Pancks,” disse Clennam, più per compassione che per rancore, “sarebbe stato molto meglio sia per te che per me!”

“Di nuovo me, signore!”, esclamò Pancks, stringendo i denti per il rimorso. “Di nuovo me!”

“Se mai non fossi entrato in quei maledetti calcoli e non avessi presentato i tuoi risultati con una chiarezza così abominabile, ”, gemette Clennam, “sarebbe stato molto meglio per te, Pancks, e molto meglio anche per me!”

“Di nuovo a me, signore!” esclamò Pancks, allentando la presa sui suoi capelli;
“di nuovo e ancora a me, ”

Tuttavia, Clennam, vedendolo già iniziare a calmarsi, aveva detto tutto ciò che voleva dire, e anche di più. Gli strinse la mano, aggiungendo soltanto: “Guida cieca dei ciechi, Pancks. Guida cieca dei ciechi! Ma Doyce. Doyce, il mio compagno ferito, ” Queste parole lo fecero di nuovo abbassare la testa sul tavolo.

I loro precedenti atteggiamenti e il loro precedente silenzio furono nuovamente violati per primi da Pancks.

‘Non sono andato a letto, signore, da quando tutto è iniziato. Sono stato dappertutto, nella speranza di trovare qualche speranza di salvare almeno alcuni resti dall’fiamma. Inutile. Tutto distrutto, tutto scomparso.’

“Lo so,” rispose Clennam, “molto bene.”

Signor Pancks riempì il silenzio con un gemito che proveniva dalle profondità della sua ‘anima.

“Solo ieri, Pancks,” disse Arthur; “solo ieri, di lunedì, avevo la ferma intenzione di vendere, di concludere tutto una volta per tutte.”

“Non posso dire lo stesso per me, signore,” rispose Pancks. “È davvero incredibile quante persone abbia sentito dire che avrebbero realizzato qualcosa proprio ieri, tra tutti i giorni dell’anno, se solo non fosse stato troppo tardi!”

I suoi respiri affannosi, solitamente divertenti nel loro effetto, erano in realtà più tragici di tanti gemiti: mentre, dalla testa ai piedi, era in quello stato di trasandatezza, lordura e abbandono, sembrava davvero un ritratto autentico della Sfortuna, un ritratto talmente offuscato dalla mancanza di cura che a malapena si riusciva a distinguerlo.

“Signor Clennam, ha già predisposto, tutto?” Riuscì a pronunciare la frase senza interruzioni, anche se con grande difficoltà.

“Tutto.”

Signor Pancks afferrò di nuovo i suoi capelli duri e tirò così forte che ne strappò alcune ciocche. Dopo averle guardate con occhi pieni di odio selvaggio, le mise in tasca.

“La mia strada da percorrere,” disse Clennam, asciugando via alcune lacrime che silenziosamente gli scorrevano sul viso, “deve essere intrapresa immediatamente. Qualsiasi rimedio possa offrire deve essere attuato al più presto. Devo ripristinare la reputazione del mio sfortunato socio. Non devo trattenere nulla per me stesso. Devo cedere ai nostri creditori il potere di gestione che ho così abusato, e devo cercare di capire fino in fondo quali siano stati i miei errori, o i miei crimini, nel corso degli anni.”

“È davvero impossibile, signore, superare questa situazione temporanea?”

‘Assolutamente impossibile. Ora nulla può essere rimandato, Pancks. Più in fretta questa faccenda esce dalle mie mani, meglio è. Questa settimana ho impegni da rispettare, e se li ritardassi anche solo di un giorno, la catastrofe arriverebbe molto prima del previsto. Anche se lo sapessi con certezza, continuerei comunque. Tutta la scorsa notte ho pensato a cosa fare; ora resta solo agire.’

‘Not entirely of yourself?’ said Pancks, whose face was as damp as if his steam were turning into water as fast as he dismally blew it off. ‘Have some legal help.’

‘Perhaps I had better.’

‘Have Rugg.’

‘There is not much to do. He will do it as well as another.’

‘Shall I fetch Rugg, Mr Clennam?’

‘If you could spare the time, I should be much obliged to you.’

Mr Pancks put on his hat that moment, and steamed away to Pentonville. While he was gone Arthur never raised his head from the desk, but remained in that one position.

Mr Pancks brought his friend and professional adviser, Mr Rugg, back with him. Mr Rugg had had such ample experience, on the road, of Mr Pancks’s being at that present in an irrational state of mind, that he opened his professional mediation by requesting that gentleman to take himself out of the way. Mr Pancks, crushed and submissive, obeyed.

‘He is not unlike what my daughter was, sir, when we began the Breach of Promise action of Rugg and Bawkins, in which she was Plaintiff,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘He takes too strong and direct an interest in the case. His feelings are worked upon. There is no getting on, in our profession, with feelings worked upon, sir.’

As he pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat, he saw, in a side glance or two, that a great change had come over his client.

‘I am sorry to perceive, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘that you have been allowing your own feelings to be worked upon. Now, pray don’t, pray don’t. These losses are much to be deplored, sir, but we must look ‘em in the face.’

‘If the money I have sacrificed had been all my own, Mr Rugg,’ sighed Mr Clennam, ‘I should have cared far less.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ said Mr Rugg, rubbing his hands with a cheerful air. ‘You surprise me. That’s singular, sir. I have generally found, in my experience, that it’s their own money people are most particular about. I have seen people get rid of a good deal of other people’s money, and bear it very well: very well indeed.’

With these comforting remarks, Mr Rugg seated himself on an office-stool at the desk and proceeded to business.

‘Now, Mr Clennam, by your leave, let us go into the matter. Let us see the state of the case. The question is simple. The question is the usual plain, straightforward, common-sense question. What can we do for ourself? What can we do for ourself?’

‘This is not the question with me, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur. ‘You mistake it in the beginning. It is, what can I do for my partner, how can I best make reparation to him?’

‘I am afraid, sir, do you know,’ argued Mr Rugg persuasively, ‘that you are still allowing your feeling to be worked upon. I don’t like the term “reparation,” sir, except as a lever in the hands of counsel. Will you excuse my saying that I feel it my duty to offer you the caution, that you really must not allow your feelings to be worked upon?’

‘Mr Rugg,’ said Clennam, nerving himself to go through with what he had resolved upon, and surprising that gentleman by appearing, in his despondency, to have a settled determination of purpose; ‘you give me the impression that you will not be much disposed to adopt the course I have made up my mind to take. If your disapproval of it should render you unwilling to discharge such business as it necessitates, I am sorry for it, and must seek other aid. But I will represent to you at once, that to argue against it with me is useless.’

‘Good, sir,’ answered Mr Rugg, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Good, sir. Since the business is to be done by some hands, let it be done by mine. Such was my principle in the case of Rugg and Bawkins. Such is my principle in most cases.’

Clennam then proceeded to state to Mr Rugg his fixed resolution. He told Mr Rugg that his partner was a man of great simplicity and integrity, and that in all he meant to do, he was guided above all things by a knowledge of his partner’s character, and a respect for his feelings. He explained that his partner was then absent on an enterprise of importance, and that it particularly behoved himself publicly to accept the blame of what he had rashly done, and publicly to exonerate his partner from all participation in the responsibility of it, lest the successful conduct of that enterprise should be endangered by the slightest suspicion wrongly attaching to his partner’s honour and credit in another country. He told Mr Rugg that to clear his partner morally, to the fullest extent, and publicly and unreservedly to declare that he, Arthur Clennam, of that Firm, had of his own sole act, and even expressly against his partner’s caution, embarked its resources in the swindles that had lately perished, was the only real atonement within his power; was a better atonement to the particular man than it would be to many men; and was therefore the atonement he had first to make. With this view, his intention was to print a declaration to the foregoing effect, which he had already drawn up; and, besides circulating it among all who had dealings with the House, to advertise it in the public papers. Concurrently with this measure (the description of which cost Mr Rugg innumerable wry faces and great uneasiness in his limbs), he would address a letter to all the creditors, exonerating his partner in a solemn manner, informing them of the stoppage of the House until their pleasure could be known and his partner communicated with, and humbly submitting himself to their direction. If, through their consideration for his partner’s innocence, the affairs could ever be got into such train as that the business could be profitably resumed, and its present downfall overcome, then his own share in it should revert to his partner, as the only reparation he could make to him in money value for the distress and loss he had unhappily brought upon him, and he himself, at as small a salary as he could live upon, would ask to be allowed to serve the business as a faithful clerk.

“Non del tutto tuo?” disse Pancks, il cui viso era così umido come se il vapore che ne usciva si stesse trasformando in acqua non appena lui lo soffiava via con aria cupa. “Ricorri a un po’ di aiuto legale.”

“Forse sarebbe meglio così.”

“Prendi il Rugg.”

Non c’è molto da fare. Lui lo farà altrettanto bene quanto un altro.

“Devo chiamare Rugg, signor Clennam?”

“Se poteste dedicarmi un po’ di tempo, vi sarei molto grato.”

In quel momento, Signor Pancks si mise il cappello e se ne andò verso Pentonville. Mentre lui era via, Arthur non alzò mai la testa dal banco, ma rimase nella stessa posizione.

Signor Pancks portò con sé il suo amico e consulente professionista, il signor Rugg. Il signor Rugg, avendo molta esperienza nel constatare che il signor Pancks si trovava in uno stato mentale irrazionale in quei momenti, iniziò la sua mediazione professionale chiedendo a quel gentiluomo di allontanarsi. Signor Pancks, sconfitto e docile, obbedì.

“Non è affatto diverso da mia figlia quando abbiamo avviato la causa legale contro Rugg e Bawkins, nella quale lei era la parte civile,” disse il signor Rugg. “Ha un interesse troppo forte e diretto in questa faccenda; i suoi sentimenti vengono manipolati. Nella nostra professione, non si può procedere quando i sentimenti delle persone sono stati influenzati in questo modo, signore.”

Mentre si toglieva i guanti e li metteva nel cappello, gettò uno o due sguardi di sfuggita e notò che il suo cliente era cambiato molto.

“Mi dispiace molto constatare, signore,” disse il signor Rugg, “che abbiate permesso che i vostri sentimenti venissero manipolati. Ora, per favore, non fatelo più. Queste perdite sono davvero deplorevoli, signore, ma dobbiamo affrontarle con coraggio.”

“Se tutto il denaro che ho sacrificato fosse stato soltanto mio, signor Rugg,” sospirò il signor Clennam, “me ne sarei curato molto meno.”

“Davvero, signore?” disse il signor Rugg, strofinandosi le mani con aria allegra.
“Mi sorprendete. È davvero insolito, signore. Nella mia esperienza ho sempre notato che sono proprio i propri soldi quelli di cui le persone si preoccupano di più. Ho visto molte persone disfarsi di una grande quantità di denaro altrui e sopportarlo senza alcun problema. Davvero, senza alcun problema.”

Con queste parole rassicuranti, il signor Rugg si sedette su uno sgabello da ufficio davanti alla scrivania e iniziò a lavorare.

“Ora, signor Clennam, con il vostro permesso, entriamo nel merito della questione. Diamo un’occhiata alla situazione attuale. La domanda è semplice. È quella solita, chiara, diretta e basata sul buon senso: cosa possiamo fare per noi stessi? Cosa possiamo fare per noi stessi?”

“Non è questa la domanda che ho, signor Rugg,” disse Arthur. “La state fraintendendo fin dall’inizio. La domanda è: cosa posso fare per il mio compagno? In che modo posso rimediare al meglio ai danni che gli ho causato?”

“Temo, signore, che lei non si renda conto, ” argomentò con persuasione il signor Rugg, “che sta ancora permettendo che le sue emozioni vengano manipolate. A me non piace il termine ‘riparazione’, signore, tranne quando viene utilizzato come strumento da parte degli avvocati. Le chiedo scusa se mi permetto di dirle che ritengo mio dovere avvertirla: davvero non deve permettere che le sue emozioni vengano sfruttate a suo vantaggio.”

“Signor Rugg,” disse Clennam, preparandosi mentalmente a portare avanti la decisione che aveva preso e sorprendendo quel gentiluomo per il fatto che, nonostante la sua disperazione, sembrava avere una determinazione ferma; “mi dà l’impressione che lei non sia molto disposto ad adottare il piano che ho deciso di seguire. Se la sua disapprovazione dovesse impedirle di svolgere i compiti necessari, mi dispiace molto, e dovrò cercare un altro aiuto. Ma le dico subito che discutere con me è inutile.”

“Bene, signore,” rispose il signor Rugg, alzando le spalle. “Bene, signore. Poiché l’affare deve essere portato a termine da qualcuno, che sia io ad occuparmene. Questo è sempre stato il mio principio nel caso di Rugg e Bawkins. E lo è anche nella maggior parte dei casi.”

Clennam proseguì quindi esponendo al signor Rugg la sua ferma determinazione. Disse al signor Rugg che il suo socio era un uomo di grande semplicità e integrità, e che in tutto ciò che intendeva fare si guidava soprattutto dalla conoscenza del carattere del proprio socio e dal rispetto per i suoi sentimenti. Spiegò che il suo socio in quel momento era assente per un’impresa importante, e che quindi spettava a lui assumersi pubblicamente la responsabilità delle azioni avventate compiute, al fine di proteggere l’onore e la reputazione del proprio socio in un altro paese. Affermò che l’unica vera forma di espiazione possibile per lui era dichiarare apertamente e senza riserve che era stato lui, Arthur Clennam, ad avviare da solo, persino contro il parere del suo socio, le attività fraudolente che avevano portato al fallimento dell’impresa; questa sarebbe stata una forma di compensazione più efficace per il proprio socio rispetto a qualsiasi altra. Con questo scopo, intendeva pubblicare un comunicato in tal senso, già redatto, e diffonderlo tra tutte le persone che avevano avuto rapporti con l’azienda, oltre ad annunciarlo sui giornali. Contemporaneamente a queste misure, avrebbe scritto una lettera a tutti i creditori per scagionare formalmente il proprio socio, informarli della sospensione delle attività dell’azienda fino a quando non fosse stata presa una decisione e il suo socio potesse essere contattato, e si sarebbe umilmente sottomesso alle loro indicazioni. Se, grazie alla loro considerazione per l’innocenza del proprio socio, fosse stato possibile riprendere l’attività in modo redditizio e superare la crisi attuale, allora la sua parte di proprietà sarebbe stata restituita al suo socio come unica forma di compensazione economica per il danno e le perdite che gli aveva causato; lui stesso, invece, avrebbe accettato uno stipendio molto modesto pur di continuare a lavorare nell’azienda come impiegato fedele.

Though Mr Rugg saw plainly there was no preventing this from being done, still the wryness of his face and the uneasiness of his limbs so sorely required the propitiation of a Protest, that he made one. ‘I offer no objection, sir,’ said he, ‘I argue no point with you. I will carry out your views, sir; but, under protest.’ Mr Rugg then stated, not without prolixity, the heads of his protest. These were, in effect, because the whole town, or he might say the whole country, was in the first madness of the late discovery, and the resentment against the victims would be very strong: those who had not been deluded being certain to wax exceedingly wroth with them for not having been as wise as they were: and those who had been deluded being certain to find excuses and reasons for themselves, of which they were equally certain to see that other sufferers were wholly devoid: not to mention the great probability of every individual sufferer persuading himself, to his violent indignation, that but for the example of all the other sufferers he never would have put himself in the way of suffering. Because such a declaration as Clennam’s, made at such a time, would certainly draw down upon him a storm of animosity, rendering it impossible to calculate on forbearance in the creditors, or on unanimity among them; and exposing him a solitary target to a straggling cross-fire, which might bring him down from half-a-dozen quarters at once.

To all this Clennam merely replied that, granting the whole protest, nothing in it lessened the force, or could lessen the force, of the voluntary and public exoneration of his partner. He therefore, once and for all, requested Mr Rugg’s immediate aid in getting the business despatched. Upon that, Mr Rugg fell to work; and Arthur, retaining no property to himself but his clothes and books, and a little loose money, placed his small private banker’s-account with the papers of the business.

The disclosure was made, and the storm raged fearfully. Thousands of people were wildly staring about for somebody alive to heap reproaches on; and this notable case, courting publicity, set the living somebody so much wanted, on a scaffold. When people who had nothing to do with the case were so sensible of its flagrancy, people who lost money by it could scarcely be expected to deal mildly with it. Letters of reproach and invective showered in from the creditors; and Mr Rugg, who sat upon the high stool every day and read them all, informed his client within a week that he feared there were writs out.

‘I must take the consequences of what I have done,’ said Clennam. ‘The writs will find me here.’

On the very next morning, as he was turning in Bleeding Heart Yard by Mrs Plornish’s corner, Mrs Plornish stood at the door waiting for him, and mysteriously besought him to step into Happy Cottage. There he found Mr Rugg.

‘I thought I’d wait for you here. I wouldn’t go on to the Counting-house this morning if I was you, sir.’

‘Why not, Mr Rugg?’

‘There are as many as five out, to my knowledge.’

‘It cannot be too soon over,’ said Clennam. ‘Let them take me at once.’

‘Yes, but,’ said Mr Rugg, getting between him and the door, ‘hear reason, hear reason. They’ll take you soon enough, Mr Clennam, I don’t doubt; but, hear reason. It almost always happens, in these cases, that some insignificant matter pushes itself in front and makes much of itself. Now, I find there’s a little one out—a mere Palace Court jurisdiction—and I have reason to believe that a caption may be made upon that. I wouldn’t be taken upon that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Clennam.

‘I’d be taken on a full-grown one, sir,’ said Mr Rugg. ‘It’s as well to keep up appearances. As your professional adviser, I should prefer your being taken on a writ from one of the Superior Courts, if you have no objection to do me that favour. It looks better.’

‘Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, in his dejection, ‘my only wish is, that it should be over. I will go on, and take my chance.’

‘Another word of reason, sir!’ cried Mr Rugg. ‘Now, this is reason. The other may be taste; but this is reason. If you should be taken on a little one, sir, you would go to the Marshalsea. Now, you know what the Marshalsea is. Very close. Excessively confined. Whereas in the King’s Bench—’ Mr Rugg waved his right hand freely, as expressing abundance of space.

‘I would rather,’ said Clennam, ‘be taken to the Marshalsea than to any other prison.’

‘Do you say so indeed, sir?’ returned Mr Rugg. ‘Then this is taste, too, and we may be walking.’

He was a little offended at first, but he soon overlooked it. They walked through the Yard to the other end. The Bleeding Hearts were more interested in Arthur since his reverses than formerly; now regarding him as one who was true to the place and had taken up his freedom. Many of them came out to look after him, and to observe to one another, with great unctuousness, that he was ‘pulled down by it.’ Mrs Plornish and her father stood at the top of the steps at their own end, much depressed and shaking their heads.

There was nobody visibly in waiting when Arthur and Mr Rugg arrived at the Counting-house. But an elderly member of the Jewish persuasion, preserved in rum, followed them close, and looked in at the glass before Mr Rugg had opened one of the day’s letters. ‘Oh!’ said Mr Rugg, looking up. ‘How do you do? Step in—Mr Clennam, I think this is the gentleman I was mentioning.’

This gentleman explained the object of his visit to be ‘a tyfling madder ob bithznithz,’ and executed his legal function.

‘Shall I accompany you, Mr Clennam?’ asked Mr Rugg politely, rubbing his hands.

‘I would rather go alone, thank you. Be so good as send me my clothes.’ Mr Rugg in a light airy way replied in the affirmative, and shook hands with him. He and his attendant then went down-stairs, got into the first conveyance they found, and drove to the old gates.

Sebbene il signor Rugg vedesse chiaramente che nulla poteva impedire che ciò avvenisse, l’asprezza del suo volto e l’inquietudine dei suoi movimenti richiedevano a tal punto una dichiarazione di protesta che egli la fece. “Non ho alcuna obiezione, signore,” disse, “non discuto con voi su questo punto. Attuerò le vostre intenzioni, signore, ma con questa protesta.” Il signor Rugg quindi espose, in modo piuttosto prolisso, i motivi della sua protesta. In sostanza, essi erano legati al fatto che l’intera città, o forse addirittura l’intero paese, era nel pieno del tumulto causato da quella recente scoperta; il risentimento verso le vittime sarebbe stato molto forte: coloro che non erano stati ingannati avrebbero sicuramente provato un’immensa rabbia nei loro confronti per non essere stati altrettanto saggi di loro; mentre coloro che erano stati ingannati avrebbero certamente trovato scuse e motivazioni a proprio favore, delle quali sarebbero stati altrettanto certi che gli altri colpiti ne fossero completamente privi. Per non parlare della grande probabilità che ogni singolo individuo colpito si convincesse, con estrema indignazione, che se non fosse stato per l’esempio degli altri sofferenti, lui stesso non si sarebbe mai esposto a tali sofferenze. Una dichiarazione del genere da parte di Clennam, in un momento del genere, avrebbe certamente scatenato su di lui una tempesta di ostilità, rendendo impossibile prevedere la tolleranza da parte dei creditori o il loro accordo tra loro; inoltre, lo avrebbe esposto a attacchi coordinati da più parti, che avrebbero potuto distruggerlo all’istante.

A tutto ciò, Clennam rispose semplicemente che, anche ammettendo la validità di tutte quelle proteste, nulla di esse poteva ridurre, o avrebbe potuto ridurre, l’efficacia dell’esonero volontario e pubblico del suo socio. Pertanto, chiese una volta per tutte l’aiuto immediato del signor Rugg affinché le pratiche necessarie venissero portate a termine al più presto. Su questo, il signor Rugg si mise all’opera; e Arthur, non avendo più nulla di proprio se non i suoi vestiti, i libri e un po’ di denaro contante, affidò il suo piccolo conto bancario personale ai documenti relativi a quell’affare.

La rivelazione fu fatta, e la tempesta scoppiò con violenza. Migliaia di persone guardavano intorno disperatamente in cerca di qualcuno ancora vivo da cui ricevere rimproveri; e questo caso, che cercava attenzione mediatica, finì per mettere proprio quella persona tanto ricercata su un patibolo. Se le persone che non avevano nulla a che fare con il caso erano così consapevoli della sua gravità, era difficile aspettarsi che coloro che ne avevano perso denaro trattassero la questione con misericordia. Lettere di rimprovero e invettive piovvero dalle parti dei creditori; e il signor Rugg, che ogni giorno le leggeva tutte, informò il suo cliente entro una settimana che temeva fossero stati emessi ordini legali contro di lui.

“Devo affrontare le conseguenze delle mie azioni,” disse Clennam. “Gli ufficiali giudiziari mi troveranno qui.”

La mattina seguente, mentre stava passando per il cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard vicino all’angolo di casa della signora Plornish, lei lo aspettava alla porta e lo pregò misteriosamente di entrare in Happy Cottage. Lì trovò il signor Rugg.

“Pensavo di aspettarvi qui. Se fossi in voi, signore, questa mattina non andrei alla Casa del Conteggio.”

“Perché no, signor Rugg?”

“Per quanto ne so, ce ne sono addirittura cinque fuori.”

“Non può finire abbastanza presto”, disse Clennam. “Che mi portino via subito”.

“Sì, ma, ”, disse il signor Rugg, mettendosi tra lui e la porta, “ascolti la ragione, per favore. Ti prenderanno presto, signor Clennam, non ne dubito; ma ascolti la ragione. In questi casi succede quasi sempre che qualche questione insignificante emerga e assuma importanza. Ora, ho scoperto che c’è una piccola questione legata alla giurisdizione del Palazzo. E ho motivo di credere che si possa trarre delle conseguenze da questo. Io non mi impegnerei in una cosa del genere.”

“Perché no?”, chiese Clennam.

“Mi assumerebbero se fossi un adulto, signore,” disse il signor Rugg. “È più opportuno mantenere le apparenze. In qualità di vostro consulente professionale, preferirei che vi assumessero su mandato di uno dei Tribunali Superiori, se non avete obiezioni a farmi questo favore. Sembra più appropriato.”

“Signor Rugg,” disse Arthur con disperazione, “l’unico mio desiderio è che tutto finisca. Continuerò e correrò il mio rischio.”

“Un’altra parola di ragione, signore!” gridò il signor Rugg. “Questa è davvero ragione. L’altra potrebbe essere semplicemente gusto; ma questa è razionalità. Se vi catturassero per una piccola infrazione, signore, finireste al Marshalsea. Sapete bene cos’è il Marshalsea: un luogo molto stretto, estremamente confinato. Mentre invece sulla Banchina del Re, ” Il signor Rugg agitò liberamente la mano destra, come a indicare uno spazio immenso.

“Preferirei,” disse Clennam, “essere portato a Marshalsea piuttosto che in qualsiasi altro carcere.”

“Davvero lo dite, signore?” rispose il signor Rugg. “Allora anche questo è gusto, e possiamo andare avanti.”

All’inizio si sentì un po’ offeso, ma presto se ne dimenticò. Camminarono attraverso il cortile fino all’altra estremità. I “Bleeding Hearts”, da quando Arthur aveva subito quei rovesci, erano molto più interessati a lui di prima; ora lo consideravano una persona fedele a quel luogo e che aveva lottato per la propria libertà. Molti di loro uscirono per prendersi cura di lui e, con grande ipocrisia, commentavano tra loro che fosse “caduto in disgrazia”. La signora Plornish e suo padre stavano in piedi in cima alle scale, dall’altra parte del cortile; sembravano molto depressi e scuotevano la testa.

Non c’era nessuno in vista ad aspettare quando Arthur e il signor Rugg arrivarono alla casa della contabilità. Ma un anziano membro della comunità ebraica, conservato nel rum, li seguì da vicino e guardò all’interno dei bicchieri prima che il signor Rugg aprisse una delle lettere ricevute quel giorno. “Oh!”, esclamò il signor Rugg alzando lo sguardo. “Come state? Entrate pure. Il signor Clennam, credo sia proprio l’uomo di cui parlavo.”

Questo signore spiegò che lo scopo della sua visita era “un tyfling madder ob bithznithz” e svolse quindi la propria funzione legale.

“Devo accompagnarla, signor Clennam?”, chiese gentilmente il signor Rugg, strofinandosi le mani.

“Preferirei andare da solo, grazie. Per favore, mandatemi i miei vestiti.”
Il signor Rugg rispose affermativamente in tono disinvolto e gli strinse la mano. Poi lui e il suo assistente scesero le scale, presero il primo mezzo di trasporto che trovarono e si recarono alle vecchie porte.

‘Where I little thought, Heaven forgive me,’ said Clennam to himself, ‘that I should ever enter thus!’

Mr Chivery was on the Lock, and Young John was in the Lodge: either newly released from it, or waiting to take his own spell of duty. Both were more astonished on seeing who the prisoner was, than one might have thought turnkeys would have been. The elder Mr Chivery shook hands with him in a shame-faced kind of way, and said, ‘I don’t call to mind, sir, as I was ever less glad to see you.’ The younger Mr Chivery, more distant, did not shake hands with him at all; he stood looking at him in a state of indecision so observable that it even came within the observation of Clennam with his heavy eyes and heavy heart. Presently afterwards, Young John disappeared into the jail.

As Clennam knew enough of the place to know that he was required to remain in the Lodge a certain time, he took a seat in a corner, and feigned to be occupied with the perusal of letters from his pocket. They did not so engross his attention, but that he saw, with gratitude, how the elder Mr Chivery kept the Lodge clear of prisoners; how he signed to some, with his keys, not to come in, how he nudged others with his elbows to go out, and how he made his misery as easy to him as he could.

Arthur was sitting with his eyes fixed on the floor, recalling the past, brooding over the present, and not attending to either, when he felt himself touched upon the shoulder. It was by Young John; and he said, ‘You can come now.’

He got up and followed Young John. When they had gone a step or two within the inner iron-gate, Young John turned and said to him:

‘You want a room. I have got you one.’

‘I thank you heartily.’

Young John turned again, and took him in at the old doorway, up the old staircase, into the old room. Arthur stretched out his hand. Young John looked at it, looked at him—sternly—swelled, choked, and said:

‘I don’t know as I can. No, I find I can’t. But I thought you’d like the room, and here it is for you.’

Surprise at this inconsistent behaviour yielded when he was gone (he went away directly) to the feelings which the empty room awakened in Clennam’s wounded breast, and to the crowding associations with the one good and gentle creature who had sanctified it. Her absence in his altered fortunes made it, and him in it, so very desolate and so much in need of such a face of love and truth, that he turned against the wall to weep, sobbing out, as his heart relieved itself, ‘O my Little Dorrit!’

“Non avrei mai pensato, che il cielo mi perdoni,” disse Clennam tra sé e sé, “che un giorno sarei entrato qui in questo modo!”

Il signor Chivery si trovava presso la prigione, mentre il giovane John era nella guardiola: o era appena stato rilasciato, oppure aspettava di iniziare il proprio turno di servizio. Entrambi rimasero molto sorpresi nel scoprire chi fosse il prigioniero, più di quanto si potesse immaginare che degli addetti alla custodia sarebbero stati. Il signor Chivery anziano gli strinse la mano in modo imbarazzato e disse: “Non ricordo, signore, anzi, non sono affatto felice di vederla.” Il signor Chivery più giovane, invece, fu molto distaccato e non gli strinse affatto la mano; rimase fermo a guardarlo, in uno stato di indecisione così evidente che anche Clennam, con i suoi occhi pesanti e il cuore oppresso, se ne accorse. Poco dopo, il giovane John scomparve nuovamente all’interno della prigione.

Poiché Clennam conosceva abbastanza bene quel posto da sapere che doveva rimanervi per un certo tempo, si sedette in un angolo e fingeva di essere impegnato a leggere delle lettere che aveva in tasca. Queste lettere, tuttavia, non lo assorbivano completamente; notò con gratitudine come il signor Chivery facesse in modo che la locanda rimanesse libera da prigionieri: firmava con le sue chiavi per impedire ad alcuni di entrare, spingeva altri con i gomiti perché se ne andassero e cercava in ogni modo di rendere loro la vita il più possibile difficile.

Arthur era seduto, con lo sguardo fisso sul pavimento: ricordava il passato, rifletteva sul presente, ma non prestava attenzione né all’uno né all’altro, quando sentì qualcuno toccargli la spalla. Era Young John; gli disse: “Ora puoi venire.”

Si alzò e seguì Young John. Dopo aver fatto un paio di passi all’interno del cancello di ferro interno, Young John si girò e gli disse:

“Vuoi una stanza? Ne ho trovata una per te.”

“Grazie di cuore.”

Il giovane John si girò di nuovo e lo fece entrare attraverso l’antico portone, su per la vecchia scala, nella vecchia stanza. Arthur tese la mano. Il giovane John la guardò, poi guardò lui, con severità. Si commosse profondamente e disse:

“Non so se riesca a farlo. No, credo di non riuscirci. Ma ho pensato che ti sarebbe piaciuta quella stanza, quindi eccola qui per te.”

La sorpresa di fronte a questo comportamento incoerente si mescolò con i sentimenti che la stanza vuota risvegliava nel cuore ferito di Clennam, nonché con tutti i ricordi legati a quella persona buona e gentile che aveva reso quel luogo così speciale. La sua assenza nelle sue fortune cambiate rendeva tutto così desolato. Lui stesso aveva un disperato bisogno di un volto pieno di amore e verità; così si appoggiò al muro e pianse, singhiozzando: “Oh, mia piccola Dorrit, ”

CHAPTER 27. The Pupil of the Marshalsea

The day was sunny, and the Marshalsea, with the hot noon striking upon it, was unwontedly quiet. Arthur Clennam dropped into a solitary arm-chair, itself as faded as any debtor in the jail, and yielded himself to his thoughts.

In the unnatural peace of having gone through the dreaded arrest, and got there,—the first change of feeling which the prison most commonly induced, and from which dangerous resting-place so many men had slipped down to the depths of degradation and disgrace by so many ways,—he could think of some passages in his life, almost as if he were removed from them into another state of existence. Taking into account where he was, the interest that had first brought him there when he had been free to keep away, and the gentle presence that was equally inseparable from the walls and bars about him and from the impalpable remembrances of his later life which no walls or bars could imprison, it was not remarkable that everything his memory turned upon should bring him round again to Little Dorrit. Yet it was remarkable to him; not because of the fact itself, but because of the reminder it brought with it, how much the dear little creature had influenced his better resolutions.

None of us clearly know to whom or to what we are indebted in this wise, until some marked stop in the whirling wheel of life brings the right perception with it. It comes with sickness, it comes with sorrow, it comes with the loss of the dearly loved, it is one of the most frequent uses of adversity. It came to Clennam in his adversity, strongly and tenderly. ‘When I first gathered myself together,’ he thought, ‘and set something like purpose before my jaded eyes, whom had I before me, toiling on, for a good object’s sake, without encouragement, without notice, against ignoble obstacles that would have turned an army of received heroes and heroines? One weak girl! When I tried to conquer my misplaced love, and to be generous to the man who was more fortunate than I, though he should never know it or repay me with a gracious word, in whom had I watched patience, self-denial, self-subdual, charitable construction, the noblest generosity of the affections? In the same poor girl! If I, a man, with a man’s advantages and means and energies, had slighted the whisper in my heart, that if my father had erred, it was my first duty to conceal the fault and to repair it, what youthful figure with tender feet going almost bare on the damp ground, with spare hands ever working, with its slight shape but half protected from the sharp weather, would have stood before me to put me to shame? Little Dorrit’s.’ So always as he sat alone in the faded chair, thinking. Always, Little Dorrit. Until it seemed to him as if he met the reward of having wandered away from her, and suffered anything to pass between him and his remembrance of her virtues.

His door was opened, and the head of the elder Chivery was put in a very little way, without being turned towards him.

‘I am off the Lock, Mr Clennam, and going out. Can I do anything for you?’

‘Many thanks. Nothing.’

‘You’ll excuse me opening the door,’ said Mr Chivery; ‘but I couldn’t make you hear.’

‘Did you knock?’ ‘Half-a-dozen times.’

Rousing himself, Clennam observed that the prison had awakened from its noontide doze, that the inmates were loitering about the shady yard, and that it was late in the afternoon. He had been thinking for hours.

‘Your things is come,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘and my son is going to carry ‘em up. I should have sent ‘em up but for his wishing to carry ‘em himself. Indeed he would have ‘em himself, and so I couldn’t send ‘em up. Mr Clennam, could I say a word to you?’

‘Pray come in,’ said Arthur; for Mr Chivery’s head was still put in at the door a very little way, and Mr Chivery had but one ear upon him, instead of both eyes. This was native delicacy in Mr Chivery—true politeness; though his exterior had very much of a turnkey about it, and not the least of a gentleman.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mr Chivery, without advancing; ‘it’s no odds me coming in. Mr Clennam, don’t you take no notice of my son (if you’ll be so good) in case you find him cut up anyways difficult. My son has a ‘art, and my son’s ‘art is in the right place. Me and his mother knows where to find it, and we find it sitiwated correct.’

With this mysterious speech, Mr Chivery took his ear away and shut the door. He might have been gone ten minutes, when his son succeeded him.

‘Here’s your portmanteau,’ he said to Arthur, putting it carefully down.

‘It’s very kind of you. I am ashamed that you should have the trouble.’

He was gone before it came to that; but soon returned, saying exactly as before, ‘Here’s your black box:’ which he also put down with care.

‘I am very sensible of this attention. I hope we may shake hands now, Mr John.’

Young John, however, drew back, turning his right wrist in a socket made of his left thumb and middle-finger and said as he had said at first, ‘I don’t know as I can. No; I find I can’t!’ He then stood regarding the prisoner sternly, though with a swelling humour in his eyes that looked like pity.

‘Why are you angry with me,’ said Clennam, ‘and yet so ready to do me these kind services? There must be some mistake between us. If I have done anything to occasion it I am sorry.’

‘No mistake, sir,’ returned John, turning the wrist backwards and forwards in the socket, for which it was rather tight. ‘No mistake, sir, in the feelings with which my eyes behold you at the present moment! If I was at all fairly equal to your weight, Mr Clennam—which I am not; and if you weren’t under a cloud—which you are; and if it wasn’t against all rules of the Marshalsea—which it is; those feelings are such, that they would stimulate me, more to having it out with you in a Round on the present spot than to anything else I could name.’

CAPITOLO 27. L’allievo di Marshalsea

Il giorno era soleggiato; la Marshalsea, investita dal caldo mezzogiorno, era insolitamente silenziosa. Arthur Clennam si lasciò cadere in una poltrona solitaria, altrettanto logora quanto qualsiasi debitore in prigione, e si abbandonò ai suoi pensieri.

Nella strana tranquillità derivante dall’aver superato quell’orribile arresto e di essere finalmente arrivato lì, il primo cambiamento emotivo che la prigione solitamente induce, e da cui così tante persone sono cadute nelle profondità della degradazione e dell’onorevolezza, riusciva a ricordare alcuni momenti della sua vita, come se fosse stato trasportato in un altro stato esistenziale. Tenendo conto di dove si trovava, dell’interesse che inizialmente lo aveva portato lì quando era libero di evitarlo, e della presenza gentile che era altrettanto inscindibile dalle pareti e dalle sbarre intorno a lui, non era sorprendente che tutto ciò a cui la sua memoria si rivolgeva lo riportasse inevitabilmente a Little Dorrit. Eppure, per lui, questo rappresentava davvero qualcosa di significativo, non per il fatto in sé, ma perché quel ricordo gli faceva rendere conto di quanto quella cara creatura avesse influenzato le sue migliori decisioni.

Nessuno di noi sa con certezza a chi o a cosa sia debitore in questo senso, fino a quando un evento improvviso, nel vorticoso volo della vita, non ci porti una percezione corretta delle cose. Questo avviene attraverso la malattia, la tristezza, la perdita di persone amate. È uno degli usi più frequenti dell’avversità. Fu proprio questo che accadde a Clennam nel momento del suo dolore: con forza e tenerezza. “Quando per la prima volta mi riscossi,” pensò, “e porsi un obiettivo davanti ai miei occhi stanchi. A chi mi rivolgevo? A una ragazza debole, che lottava senza incoraggiamenti, senza attenzioni, contro ostacoli ignobili. Chi era quella persona che, per un bene nobile, si impegnava con tanta determinazione? Little Dorrit! Quando cercai di superare il mio amore sbagliato e di essere generoso verso quell’uomo più fortunato di me, anche se lui non avrebbe mai saputo nulla né mi avrebbe ricambiato con una parola gentile. Chi era quella persona che dimostrava pazienza, autocontrollo, compassione e la più nobile generosità d’animo? Ancora Little Dorrit! Se io, un uomo con tutti i vantaggi e le risorse di cui disponevo, avessi ignorato quella voce dentro di me che mi diceva di nascondere gli errori di mio padre e di rimediarvi. Quale giovane figura si sarebbe presentata davanti a me per farmi vergognare? Little Dorrit, ” Così pensava sempre, seduto da solo nella sedia logora. Sempre Little Dorrit. Fino a quando non gli sembrò che il premio per averla abbandonata e aver sofferto tanto fosse proprio lei stessa.

La sua porta fu aperta, e la testa del vecchio Chivery spuntò leggermente, senza che si girasse verso di lui.

“Me ne vado ora, signor Clennam. Posso fare qualcosa per lei?”

“Grazie mille. Niente di che.”

“Mi scuserà se apro la porta,” disse il signor Chivery; “ma non riuscivo a farla sentire.”

“Hai bussato?” “Sei volte.”

Riscuotendosi, Clennam osservò che la prigione si era svegliata dal suo pomeridiano sonnellino, che i detenuti gironzolavano nel cortile ombreggiato e che era già tardi pomeriggio. Aveva pensato per ore.

“Le sue cose sono arrivate,” disse il signor Chivery, “e mio figlio le porterà su. Avrei dovuto mandarle io stesso, ma lui ha voluto farlo personalmente. Insiste davvero nel farlo, quindi non ho potuto inviarle io. Signor Clennam, posso parlarle un attimo?”

“Entra pure,” disse Arthur; infatti la testa di Mr Chivery era ancora appena visibile oltre la porta, e lui aveva soltanto un orecchio funzionante, invece di entrambi gli occhi. Questo faceva parte delle sue caratteristiche innate, vera gentilezza; anche se dall’esterno sembrava molto più un portiere che un vero signore.

“Grazie, signore,” disse il signor Chivery, senza fare un passo avanti; “non c’è alcuna possibilità che io entri. Signor Clennam, per favore non trascuri mio figlio, nel caso dovesse risultare particolarmente difficile da gestire. Mio figlio ha una ‘arte’, e questa ‘arte’ si trova nel posto giusto. Io e sua madre sappiamo dove trovarla, e riteniamo che sia posizionata correttamente.”

Con questo discorso misterioso, il signor Chivery si allontanò e chiuse la porta. Forse era passato un quarto d’ora quando suo figlio lo sostituì.

“Ecco il tuo borsone,” disse a Arthur, posandolo con cura.

“È molto gentile da parte tua. Mi vergogno che tu abbia dovuto affrontare questo problema.”

Se n’era andato prima che le cose arrivassero a quel punto; ma tornò presto, dicendo esattamente le stesse parole di prima: “Ecco la tua scatola nera, ”, e la posò anche questa con cura.

“Apprezzo molto questa attenzione. Spero che ora possiamo stringerci la mano, signor John.”

Il giovane John, tuttavia, indietreggiò, girando il polso destro all’interno di un “alloggio” formato dal pollice e dall’indice sinistri, e disse, proprio come aveva detto all’inizio: “Non so se riesco. No, credo di non riuscirci!” Poi rimase fermo a guardare il prigioniero con severità, ma nei suoi occhi si leggeva un sentimento misto di compassione e umorismo.

“Perché sei arrabbiato con me,” disse Clennam, “eppure così disposto a prestarmi questi aiuti? Deve esserci qualche malinteso tra di noi. Se ho fatto qualcosa che ti ha offeso, mi dispiace.”

“Nessun errore, signore,” rispose John, muovendo il polso avanti e indietro nella sua articolazione, che era piuttosto stretta. “Nessun errore, signore, nei sentimenti con cui i miei occhi vi guardano in questo momento! Se fossi anche solo lontanamente alla vostra stessa statura, signor Clennam – il che non è; se non foste sotto una sorta di ‘nuvola’ che oscura la vostra reputazione – il che invece siete; e se tutto ciò non contravvenisse alle regole della Marshalsea – il che invece succede, questi sentimenti mi spingerebbero molto di più a sfidarvi qui e ora, piuttosto che a fare qualsiasi altra cosa potessi immaginare.”

Arthur looked at him for a moment in some wonder, and some little anger. ‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘A mistake, a mistake!’ Turning away, he sat down with a heavy sigh in the faded chair again.

Young John followed him with his eyes, and, after a short pause, cried out, ‘I beg your pardon!’

‘Freely granted,’ said Clennam, waving his hand without raising his sunken head. ‘Say no more. I am not worth it.’

‘This furniture, sir,’ said Young John in a voice of mild and soft explanation, ‘belongs to me. I am in the habit of letting it out to parties without furniture, that have the room. It an’t much, but it’s at your service. Free, I mean. I could not think of letting you have it on any other terms. You’re welcome to it for nothing.’

Arthur raised his head again to thank him, and to say he could not accept the favour. John was still turning his wrist, and still contending with himself in his former divided manner.

‘What is the matter between us?’ said Arthur.

‘I decline to name it, sir,’ returned Young John, suddenly turning loud and sharp. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

Arthur looked at him again, in vain, for an explanation of his behaviour. After a while, Arthur turned away his head again. Young John said, presently afterwards, with the utmost mildness:

‘The little round table, sir, that’s nigh your elbow, was—you know whose—I needn’t mention him—he died a great gentleman. I bought it of an individual that he gave it to, and that lived here after him. But the individual wasn’t any ways equal to him. Most individuals would find it hard to come up to his level.’

Arthur drew the little table nearer, rested his arm upon it, and kept it there.

‘Perhaps you may not be aware, sir,’ said Young John, ‘that I intruded upon him when he was over here in London. On the whole he was of opinion that it was an intrusion, though he was so good as to ask me to sit down and to inquire after father and all other old friends. Leastways humblest acquaintances. He looked, to me, a good deal changed, and I said so when I came back. I asked him if Miss Amy was well—’

‘And she was?’

‘I should have thought you would have known without putting the question to such as me,’ returned Young John, after appearing to take a large invisible pill. ‘Since you do put me the question, I am sorry I can’t answer it. But the truth is, he looked upon the inquiry as a liberty, and said, “What was that to me?” It was then I became quite aware I was intruding: of which I had been fearful before. However, he spoke very handsome afterwards; very handsome.’

They were both silent for several minutes: except that Young John remarked, at about the middle of the pause, ‘He both spoke and acted very handsome.’

It was again Young John who broke the silence by inquiring:

‘If it’s not a liberty, how long may it be your intentions, sir, to go without eating and drinking?’

‘I have not felt the want of anything yet,’ returned Clennam. ‘I have no appetite just now.’

‘The more reason why you should take some support, sir,’ urged Young John. ‘If you find yourself going on sitting here for hours and hours partaking of no refreshment because you have no appetite, why then you should and must partake of refreshment without an appetite. I’m going to have tea in my own apartment. If it’s not a liberty, please to come and take a cup. Or I can bring a tray here in two minutes.’

Feeling that Young John would impose that trouble on himself if he refused, and also feeling anxious to show that he bore in mind both the elder Mr Chivery’s entreaty, and the younger Mr Chivery’s apology, Arthur rose and expressed his willingness to take a cup of tea in Mr John’s apartment. Young John locked his door for him as they went out, slided the key into his pocket with great dexterity, and led the way to his own residence.

It was at the top of the house nearest to the gateway. It was the room to which Clennam had hurried on the day when the enriched family had left the prison for ever, and where he had lifted her insensible from the floor. He foresaw where they were going as soon as their feet touched the staircase. The room was so far changed that it was papered now, and had been repainted, and was far more comfortably furnished; but he could recall it just as he had seen it in that single glance, when he raised her from the ground and carried her down to the carriage.

Young John looked hard at him, biting his fingers.

‘I see you recollect the room, Mr Clennam?’

‘I recollect it well, Heaven bless her!’

Oblivious of the tea, Young John continued to bite his fingers and to look at his visitor, as long as his visitor continued to glance about the room. Finally, he made a start at the teapot, gustily rattled a quantity of tea into it from a canister, and set off for the common kitchen to fill it with hot water.

The room was so eloquent to Clennam in the changed circumstances of his return to the miserable Marshalsea; it spoke to him so mournfully of her, and of his loss of her; that it would have gone hard with him to resist it, even though he had not been alone. Alone, he did not try. He had his hand on the insensible wall as tenderly as if it had been herself that he touched, and pronounced her name in a low voice. He stood at the window, looking over the prison-parapet with its grim spiked border, and breathed a benediction through the summer haze towards the distant land where she was rich and prosperous.

Young John was some time absent, and, when he came back, showed that he had been outside by bringing with him fresh butter in a cabbage leaf, some thin slices of boiled ham in another cabbage leaf, and a little basket of water-cresses and salad herbs. When these were arranged upon the table to his satisfaction, they sat down to tea.

Arthur lo guardò per un momento, con un po’ di stupore e anche un pizzico di rabbia. “Beh, beh!”, disse. “Un errore, solo un errore.” Poi si allontanò e, con un profondo sospiro, si sedette di nuovo sulla sedia logora.

Il giovane John lo seguì con lo sguardo, e dopo una breve pausa esclamò: “Mi scusi!”

“Con piacere,” disse Clennam, agitando la mano senza alzare la testa china. “Non dite altro. Non ne vale la pena.”

“Questi mobili, signore,” disse Young John con voce dolce e gentile, “appartengono a me. Ho l’abitudine di prestarli a persone che non ne hanno e che dispongono della stanza adatta. Non sono molti, ma sono a vostra disposizione. Gratuitamente, intendo. Non mi sarebbe mai venuto in mente di offrirveli a condizioni diverse. Potete usarli senza pagare nulla.”

Arthur alzò di nuovo la testa per ringraziarlo, dicendo che non poteva accettare quel favore. John continuava a girarsi il polso, ancora lottando con se stesso nel suo solito modo confuso e diviso.

“Qual è il problema tra noi?” disse Arthur.

“Rifiuto di dirlo, signore,” rispose Young John, improvvisamente alzando la voce e diventando più deciso. “Non c’è nulla di grave.”

Arthur lo guardò di nuovo, invano, nella speranza di ottenere una spiegazione del suo comportamento. Dopo un po’, Arthur distolse nuovamente lo sguardo. Poco dopo, il giovane John disse, con la massima dolcezza:

“Quel piccolo tavolo rotondo, signore, che si trova vicino al suo gomito, apparteneva a, beh, non c’è bisogno di menzionare il nome; è morto da vero gentiluomo. L’ho comprato da una persona a cui lui stesso l’aveva donato, e quella persona è rimasta qui dopo la sua morte. Ma quell’altra persona non era affatto all’altezza di lui. La maggior parte delle persone avrebbe difficoltà ad arrivare al suo livello.”

Arthur avvicinò il piccolo tavolo, appoggiò il braccio su di esso e lo lasciò lì.

“Forse non lo sapevate, signore,” disse Young John, “ma io mi sono intromesso con lui quando si trovava qui a Londra. In generale, lui riteneva che fosse davvero un’intromissione, anche se fu così gentile da invitarmi a sedermi e chiedere notizie di mio padre e di tutti gli altri vecchi amici. O almeno di conoscenti più o meno intimi. Mi è sembrato molto cambiato; l’ho detto anche quando sono tornato. Gli ho chiesto se Miss Amy stesse bene, ”

“E poi, cosa fece?”

“Avrei dovuto pensare che tu lo sapessi senza doverme porre questa domanda”, rispose Young John, dopo aver apparentemente ingoiato una grande pillola invisibile. “Poiché me l’hai comunque posta, mi dispiace di non poterla rispondere. Ma la verità è che lui considerò quella domanda un’intrusione e disse: ‘Cosa significa tutto questo per me?’ Fu allora che mi resi pienamente conto di stare invadendo il suo spazio personale. Di ciò avevo già paura prima. Tuttavia, dopo si comportò molto gentilmente; davvero molto gentilmente.”

Rimasero entrambi in silenzio per diversi minuti; fino a quando, a metà di quel momento di quiete, Young John osservò: “Ha parlato e agito in modo davvero nobile.”

Fu ancora il giovane John a rompere il silenzio chiedendo:

“Se non si tratta di una libertà, allora per quanto tempo ancora intenderete rimanere senza mangiare né bere, signore?”

“Non ho ancora sentito la mancanza di nulla,” rispose Clennam. “In questo momento non ho alcun appetito.”

“È ancora più motivo per cui dovreste cercare un po’ di aiuto, signore,” insistette Young John. “Se vi ritrovate a sedervi qui per ore senza mangiare nulla perché non avete appetito, allora dovete assolutamente bere qualcosa anche se non avete fame. Io andrò a prendere il tè nel mio appartamento. Se non è un’offesa, venite pure a berne una tazza con me. Oppure posso portarvi la tavola qui in due minuti.”

Sentendo che se avesse rifiutato, Young John si sarebbe creato problemi da solo, e desiderando anche dimostrare di tenere a mente sia la preghiera del signor Chivery più anziano che le scuse del signor Chivery più giovane, Arthur accettò l’invito e manifestò la propria disponibilità ad andare a bere una tazza di tè nell’appartamento di Young John. Quando uscirono, Young John chiuse a chiave la porta, infilò abilmente la chiave in tasca e lo guidò verso la sua residenza.

Si trovava al piano superiore della casa più vicina all’ingresso. Era la stanza verso cui Clennam si era affrettato il giorno in cui quella famiglia arricchita aveva lasciato per sempre la prigione, e dove aveva sollevato lei, priva di sensi, dal pavimento. Capì subito dove stavano andando non appena i loro piedi toccarono le scale. La stanza era cambiata molto: ora aveva carta da parati nuova, era stata ridipinta e arredata in modo molto più confortevole; ma lui riusciva a ricordarla esattamente com’era quando l’aveva vista in quell’unica occhiata, mentre la sollevava dal suolo e la portava giù fino alla carrozza.

Il giovane John lo guardò attentamente, mordendosi le dita.

“Vedo che ricorda quella stanza, signor Clennam, ”

Me ne ricordo molto bene, che il cielo la benedica!

Ignorando completamente la tazza di tè, il giovane John continuò a mordersi le dita e a guardare il suo visitatore, finché quest’ultimo non smise di osservare attentamente la stanza. Alla fine, si avvicinò alla teiera, versò con abbondanza del tè da una lattina e andò in cucina per riempirla d’acqua calda.

La stanza parlava così eloquentemente a Clennam, nelle mutate circostanze del suo ritorno in quel misero Marshalsea; gli ricordava con tanta tristezza di lei e della sua perdita. Che sarebbe stato difficile per lui resistere, anche se non fosse stato solo. Solo, però, non ci provò nemmeno. Teneva la mano contro quella parete insensibile, con tenerezza, come se stesse toccando lei stessa, e pronunciava il suo nome a bassa voce. Stava davanti alla finestra, guardando oltre la grigia recinzione del carcere. E attraverso la nebbia estiva, inviò una benedizione verso quella lontana terra dove lei era ricca e prospera.

Il giovane John era stato assente per un po’ di tempo; quando tornò, mostrò di essere stato fuori portando con sé burro fresco avvolto in una foglia di cavolo, alcune sottili fette di prosciutto cotto in un’altra foglia di cavolo, e un piccolo cestino pieno di crescione acquatico e erbe per insalata. Quando tutto fu disposto sul tavolo a suo piacimento, si sedettero a prendere il tè.

Clennam tried to do honour to the meal, but unavailingly. The ham sickened him, the bread seemed to turn to sand in his mouth. He could force nothing upon himself but a cup of tea.

‘Try a little something green,’ said Young John, handing him the basket.

He took a sprig or so of water-cress, and tried again; but the bread turned to a heavier sand than before, and the ham (though it was good enough of itself) seemed to blow a faint simoom of ham through the whole Marshalsea.

‘Try a little more something green, sir,’ said Young John; and again handed the basket.

It was so like handing green meat into the cage of a dull imprisoned bird, and John had so evidently brought the little basket as a handful of fresh relief from the stale hot paving-stones and bricks of the jail, that Clennam said, with a smile, ‘It was very kind of you to think of putting this between the wires; but I cannot even get this down to-day.’

As if the difficulty were contagious, Young John soon pushed away his own plate, and fell to folding the cabbage-leaf that had contained the ham. When he had folded it into a number of layers, one over another, so that it was small in the palm of his hand, he began to flatten it between both his hands, and to eye Clennam attentively.

‘I wonder,’ he at length said, compressing his green packet with some force, ‘that if it’s not worth your while to take care of yourself for your own sake, it’s not worth doing for some one else’s.’

‘Truly,’ returned Arthur, with a sigh and a smile, ‘I don’t know for whose.’

‘Mr Clennam,’ said John, warmly, ‘I am surprised that a gentleman who is capable of the straightforwardness that you are capable of, should be capable of the mean action of making me such an answer. Mr Clennam, I am surprised that a gentleman who is capable of having a heart of his own, should be capable of the heartlessness of treating mine in that way. I am astonished at it, sir. Really and truly I am astonished!’

Having got upon his feet to emphasise his concluding words, Young John sat down again, and fell to rolling his green packet on his right leg; never taking his eyes off Clennam, but surveying him with a fixed look of indignant reproach.

‘I had got over it, sir,’ said John. ‘I had conquered it, knowing that it must be conquered, and had come to the resolution to think no more about it. I shouldn’t have given my mind to it again, I hope, if to this prison you had not been brought, and in an hour unfortunate for me, this day!’ (In his agitation Young John adopted his mother’s powerful construction of sentences.) ‘When you first came upon me, sir, in the Lodge, this day, more as if a Upas tree had been made a capture of than a private defendant, such mingled streams of feelings broke loose again within me, that everything was for the first few minutes swept away before them, and I was going round and round in a vortex. I got out of it. I struggled, and got out of it. If it was the last word I had to speak, against that vortex with my utmost powers I strove, and out of it I came. I argued that if I had been rude, apologies was due, and those apologies without a question of demeaning, I did make. And now, when I’ve been so wishful to show that one thought is next to being a holy one with me and goes before all others—now, after all, you dodge me when I ever so gently hint at it, and throw me back upon myself. For, do not, sir,’ said Young John, ‘do not be so base as to deny that dodge you do, and thrown me back upon myself you have!’

All amazement, Arthur gazed at him like one lost, only saying, ‘What is it? What do you mean, John?’ But, John, being in that state of mind in which nothing would seem to be more impossible to a certain class of people than the giving of an answer, went ahead blindly.

‘I hadn’t,’ John declared, ‘no, I hadn’t, and I never had the audaciousness to think, I am sure, that all was anything but lost. I hadn’t, no, why should I say I hadn’t if I ever had, any hope that it was possible to be so blest, not after the words that passed, not even if barriers insurmountable had not been raised! But is that a reason why I am to have no memory, why I am to have no thoughts, why I am to have no sacred spots, nor anything?’

‘What can you mean?’ cried Arthur.

‘It’s all very well to trample on it, sir,’ John went on, scouring a very prairie of wild words, ‘if a person can make up his mind to be guilty of the action. It’s all very well to trample on it, but it’s there. It may be that it couldn’t be trampled upon if it wasn’t there. But that doesn’t make it gentlemanly, that doesn’t make it honourable, that doesn’t justify throwing a person back upon himself after he has struggled and strived out of himself like a butterfly. The world may sneer at a turnkey, but he’s a man—when he isn’t a woman, which among female criminals he’s expected to be.’

Ridiculous as the incoherence of his talk was, there was yet a truthfulness in Young John’s simple, sentimental character, and a sense of being wounded in some very tender respect, expressed in his burning face and in the agitation of his voice and manner, which Arthur must have been cruel to disregard. He turned his thoughts back to the starting-point of this unknown injury; and in the meantime Young John, having rolled his green packet pretty round, cut it carefully into three pieces, and laid it on a plate as if it were some particular delicacy.

‘It seems to me just possible,’ said Arthur, when he had retraced the conversation to the water-cresses and back again, ‘that you have made some reference to Miss Dorrit.’

‘It is just possible, sir,’ returned John Chivery.

‘I don’t understand it. I hope I may not be so unlucky as to make you think I mean to offend you again, for I never have meant to offend you yet, when I say I don’t understand it.’

Clennam cercò di rispettare le regole dell’etichetta durante il pasto, ma senza successo. La carne di maiale lo disgustava; il pane sembrava trasformarsi in sabbia nella sua bocca. Riuscì a ingoiare soltanto una tazza di tè.

“Prova qualcosa di verde,” disse Young John, porgendogli il cestino.

Prese un rametto di acetosella e provò di nuovo; ma il pane si trasformò in una sabbia più densa del precedente, e la carne di maiale (sebbene fosse abbastanza buona) sembrava diffondere nell’intero Marshalsea un debole odore caratteristico della carne di maiale.

“Provate ad aggiungere un po’ di verdure verdi, signore,” disse Young John, porgendogli di nuovo il cestino.

Era come se si mettesse del cibo fresco nella gabbia di un uccello noioso e imprigionato. John aveva chiaramente portato quel piccolo cestino come una manciata di freschezza in mezzo alle pietre calde e ai mattoni della prigione; così Clennam disse, sorridendo: “È stato molto gentile da parte tua pensare di metterlo lì. Ma oggi non riesco nemmeno a prenderlo.”

Come se quella difficoltà fosse contagiosa, il giovane John presto allontanò anche il proprio piatto e si mise a piegare la foglia di cavolo che aveva contenuto la carne di maiale. Quando l’ebbe ripiegata in diversi strati, uno sopra l’altro, fino a ridurla alle dimensioni di un piccolo pezzo nella palma della sua mano, iniziò ad appiattirla tra le sue mani, osservandola attentamente.

“Gli miracoli,” disse infine, stringendo con forza il suo pacchetto verde, “se non vale la pena prendersi cura di sé stessi per il proprio bene, allora non vale nemmeno la pena farlo per qualcun altro.”

“Davvero,” rispose Arthur, con un sospiro e un sorriso, “non so per chi.”

“Signor Clennam,” disse John con calore, “sono sorpreso che un gentiluomo capace di tanta schiettezza possa compiere un atto così meschino come rispondermi in quel modo. Signor Clennam, sono sorpreso che un uomo dotato di un cuore proprio possa essere così spietato nel trattare il mio con tanta crudeltà. Sono davvero stupito, signore. Davvero!”

Una volta rialzatosi per sottolineare le sue ultime parole, Young John si sedette di nuovo e iniziò a far rotolare il suo pacchetto verde sulla gamba destra; non distolse mai lo sguardo da Clennam, osservandolo con uno sguardo fisso pieno di indignato rimprovero.

“L’avevo superato, signore,” disse John. “L’avevo vinto, sapendo che doveva essere vinto, e avevo deciso di non pensarci più. Non avrei dovuto ripensarci, spero, se solo non foste stato portato in questa prigione, in questo momento sfortunato per me!” (Nella sua agitazione, il giovane John adottò lo stile di frase caratteristico di sua madre.) “Quando mi avete incontrato per la prima volta, oggi, nella Lodge, più che come un imputato privato, sembravo una vittima catturata da un albero velenoso. Un’infinità di sentimenti si sono scatenati in me, e per i primi minuti tutto è stato spazzato via da loro; mi sentivo come se fossi intrappolato in un vortice. Ma ce l’ho fatta. Ho lottato con tutte le mie forze, e ne sono uscito. Se fosse stata l’ultima parola che dovevo dire, avrei lottato ancora contro quel vortice con tutte le mie energie. E ora, anche se desidero ardentemente dimostrare che un certo pensiero è per me quasi sacro e ha la massima importanza, voi lo evitate ogni volta che ne parlo, costringendomi a riflettere di nuovo su me stesso. Per favore, signore, non siate così meschini da negare ciò che fate, ”

Con sorpresa, Arthur lo fissò come se fosse perso, dicendo solo: “Che cos’è? Cosa intendi dire, John?” Ma John, essendo in quello stato d’animo in cui, per certe persone, dare una risposta sembrava l’impossibile, continuò a procedere ciecamente.

“Non l’avevo,” dichiarò John, “no, non l’avevo, e sicuramente non ho mai avuto il coraggio di pensare che tutto potesse essere ancora salvato. Non l’avevo. No, perché dovrei dire di no se invece avessi avuto anche solo un minimo di >speranza che fosse possibile essere così fortunati, dopo quelle parole pronunciate, nemmeno se ci fossero state barriere insormontabili! Ma è forse questo un motivo per cui non dovrei avere alcuna memoria, nessun pensiero, nessun luogo sacro, niente?”

“Cosa intendi dire?”, gridò Arthur.

“È tutto molto ‘facile’ da calpestare, signore,” continuò John, utilizzando una serie di parole selvagge e incomprensibili, “se una persona decide davvero di compiere un atto malvagio. È tutto molto ‘facile’ da ignorare, ma esiste comunque. Forse non potrebbe essere ignorato se non esistesse. Ma questo non lo rende certo nobile né onorevole; non giustifica affatto il fatto di gettare di nuovo una persona nelle sue stesse difficoltà, dopo che ha lottato e cercato di liberarsi da esse, proprio come un farfalla che sfida le barriere del suo guscio. Il mondo può deridere un carceriere, ma lui è pur sempre un uomo, a meno che non sia una donna, il che si aspetta da tutte le criminali, del resto.”

Per quanto assurda fosse l’incoerenza del suo discorso, c’era pur sempre una sincerità nel carattere semplice e sentimentale di Young John, nonché un senso di profonda ferita in qualche aspetto molto delicato, che si manifestava nel suo viso arrossato, nell’agitazione della sua voce e nel suo comportamento; cose che Arthur avrebbe dovuto essere crudele a ignorare. Arthur ripensò al punto di partenza di questa “ferita” sconosciuta; intanto Young John, dopo aver arrotolato con cura il proprio pacchetto verde, lo tagliò in tre parti e lo posò su un piatto, come se si trattasse di una prelibatezza speciale.

“Mi sembra del tutto possibile,” disse Arthur, dopo aver ripercorso tutta la conversazione a partire dalle piante acquatiche e ritorno, “che tu abbia fatto qualche riferimento alla signorina Dorrit.”

“È del tutto possibile, signore,” rispose John Chivery.

“Non capisco. Spero di non essere così sfortunato da farti pensare che intenda offenderti di nuovo, perché in realtà non ho mai avuto l’intenzione di farlo, anche quando dico di non capire.”

‘Sir,’ said Young John, ‘will you have the perfidy to deny that you know and long have known that I felt towards Miss Dorrit, call it not the presumption of love, but adoration and sacrifice?’

‘Indeed, John, I will not have any perfidy if I know it; why you should suspect me of it I am at a loss to think. Did you ever hear from Mrs Chivery, your mother, that I went to see her once?’

‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘Never heard of such a thing.’

‘But I did. Can you imagine why?’

‘No, sir,’ returned John, shortly. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘I will tell you. I was solicitous to promote Miss Dorrit’s happiness; and if I could have supposed that Miss Dorrit returned your affection—’

Poor John Chivery turned crimson to the tips of his ears. ‘Miss Dorrit never did, sir. I wish to be honourable and true, so far as in my humble way I can, and I would scorn to pretend for a moment that she ever did, or that she ever led me to believe she did; no, nor even that it was ever to be expected in any cool reason that she would or could. She was far above me in all respects at all times. As likewise,’ added John, ‘similarly was her gen-teel family.’

His chivalrous feeling towards all that belonged to her made him so very respectable, in spite of his small stature and his rather weak legs, and his very weak hair, and his poetical temperament, that a Goliath might have sat in his place demanding less consideration at Arthur’s hands.

‘You speak, John,’ he said, with cordial admiration, ‘like a Man.’

‘Well, sir,’ returned John, brushing his hand across his eyes, ‘then I wish you’d do the same.’

He was quick with this unexpected retort, and it again made Arthur regard him with a wondering expression of face.

‘Leastways,’ said John, stretching his hand across the tea-tray, ‘if too strong a remark, withdrawn! But, why not, why not? When I say to you, Mr Clennam, take care of yourself for some one else’s sake, why not be open, though a turnkey? Why did I get you the room which I knew you’d like best? Why did I carry up your things? Not that I found ‘em heavy; I don’t mention ‘em on that accounts; far from it. Why have I cultivated you in the manner I have done since the morning? On the ground of your own merits? No. They’re very great, I’ve no doubt at all; but not on the ground of them. Another’s merits have had their weight, and have had far more weight with Me. Then why not speak free?’

‘Unaffectedly, John,’ said Clennam, ‘you are so good a fellow and I have so true a respect for your character, that if I have appeared to be less sensible than I really am of the fact that the kind services you have rendered me to-day are attributable to my having been trusted by Miss Dorrit as her friend—I confess it to be a fault, and I ask your forgiveness.’

‘Oh! why not,’ John repeated with returning scorn, ‘why not speak free!’

‘I declare to you,’ returned Arthur, ‘that I do not understand you. Look at me. Consider the trouble I have been in. Is it likely that I would wilfully add to my other self-reproaches, that of being ungrateful or treacherous to you. I do not understand you.’

John’s incredulous face slowly softened into a face of doubt. He rose, backed into the garret-window of the room, beckoned Arthur to come there, and stood looking at him thoughtfully.

‘Mr Clennam, do you mean to say that you don’t know?’

‘What, John?’

‘Lord,’ said Young John, appealing with a gasp to the spikes on the wall. ‘He says, What!’

Clennam looked at the spikes, and looked at John; and looked at the spikes, and looked at John.

‘He says What! And what is more,’ exclaimed Young John, surveying him in a doleful maze, ‘he appears to mean it! Do you see this window, sir?’

‘Of course I see this window.’

‘See this room?’

‘Why, of course I see this room.’

‘That wall opposite, and that yard down below? They have all been witnesses of it, from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from month to month. For how often have I seen Miss Dorrit here when she has not seen me!’

‘Witnesses of what?’ said Clennam.

‘Of Miss Dorrit’s love.’

‘For whom?’

‘You,’ said John. And touched him with the back of his hand upon the breast, and backed to his chair, and sat down on it with a pale face, holding the arms, and shaking his head at him.

If he had dealt Clennam a heavy blow, instead of laying that light touch upon him, its effect could not have been to shake him more. He stood amazed; his eyes looking at John; his lips parted, and seeming now and then to form the word ‘Me!’ without uttering it; his hands dropped at his sides; his whole appearance that of a man who has been awakened from sleep, and stupefied by intelligence beyond his full comprehension.

‘Me!’ he at length said aloud.

‘Ah!’ groaned Young John. ‘You!’

He did what he could to muster a smile, and returned, ‘Your fancy. You are completely mistaken.’

‘I mistaken, sir!’ said Young John. ‘I completely mistaken on that subject! No, Mr Clennam, don’t tell me so. On any other, if you like, for I don’t set up to be a penetrating character, and am well aware of my own deficiencies. But, I mistaken on a point that has caused me more smart in my breast than a flight of savages’ arrows could have done! I mistaken on a point that almost sent me into my grave, as I sometimes wished it would, if the grave could only have been made compatible with the tobacco-business and father and mother’s feelings! I mistaken on a point that, even at the present moment, makes me take out my pocket-handkerchief like a great girl, as people say: though I am sure I don’t know why a great girl should be a term of reproach, for every rightly constituted male mind loves ‘em great and small. Don’t tell me so, don’t tell me so!’

Still highly respectable at bottom, though absurd enough upon the surface, Young John took out his pocket-handkerchief with a genuine absence both of display and concealment, which is only to be seen in a man with a great deal of good in him, when he takes out his pocket-handkerchief for the purpose of wiping his eyes. Having dried them, and indulged in the harmless luxury of a sob and a sniff, he put it up again.

“Signore,” disse il giovane John, “avrete la perfidia di negare che sapete e da tempo sapete che i miei sentimenti verso la signorina Dorrit non sono altro che adorazione e sacrificio, anche se non si possono definire certo presunzioni d’amore?”

“Infatti, John, non commetterei mai alcuna slealtà se ne fossi a conoscenza; non capisco proprio perché tu debba sospettarmi di questo. Hai mai avuto notizie da tua madre, la signora Chivery, riguardo al fatto che io sia andato a trovarla una volta?”

“No, signore,” rispose John in breve. “Non ho mai sentito parlare di una cosa del genere.”

“Ma l’ho fatto. Riesci a immaginare il perché?”

“No, signore,” rispose brevemente John. “Non riesco a immaginare il motivo.”

“Ve lo dirò. Ero desideroso di promuovere la felicità della signorina Dorrit; e se avessi potuto supporre che lei ricambiasse i vostri sentimenti, ”

Povero John Chivery, arrossì fino alle punte delle orecchie. “Miss Dorrit non l’ha mai fatto, signore. Desidero essere onesto e sincero, nel modo più umile possibile; disprezzerei profondamente l’idea di fingere anche solo per un momento che lei l’abbia mai fatto, o che mi abbia mai fatto credere che lo avesse fatto. No, nemmeno si potrebbe pensare, con un minimo di buon senso, che lei fosse disposta o in grado di farlo. Era sempre molto superiore a me sotto ogni aspetto. E allo stesso modo,” aggiunse John, “lo era anche la sua nobile famiglia.”

Il suo senso cavalleresco verso tutto ciò che le apparteneva lo rendeva davvero molto rispettabile; nonostante la sua statura bassa, le gambe piuttosto deboli, i capelli molto fini e il suo temperamento poetico, anche un gigante avrebbe potuto trovarsi al suo posto senza ricevere meno considerazione da parte di Arthur.

“Parli davvero come un uomo, John”, disse, con sincera ammirazione.

“Beh, signore,” rispose John, passandosi una mano sugli occhi, “allora vorrei che facesse lo stesso anche lei.”

Rispose rapidamente con questa inaspettata replica, e ancora una volta fece sì che Arthur lo guardasse con un’espressione di sorpresa sul viso.

“Almeno,” disse John, tendendo la mano attraverso il vassoio del tè, “se le mie parole sono state troppo dure, le ritiro! Ma perché no? Quando vi dico, signor Clennam, prendetevi cura di voi stesso per il bene di qualcun altro, perché non essere aperti, anche se solo un po’? Perché vi ho procurato quella stanza che sapevo vi sarebbe piaciuta di più? Perché ho portato su le vostre cose? Non perché mi sembrassero pesanti; non è per questo che lo faccio. Anzi, proprio il contrario. Perché vi ho coltivato nel modo in cui l’ho fatto fin dal mattino? Sulla base dei vostri meriti personali? No. I vostri meriti sono sicuramente grandi, non ne ho alcun >dubbio; ma non è per questo che l’ho fatto. Sono stati i meriti di un altro a influenzarmi, e hanno avuto molto più peso su di Me. Allora, perché non parlare liberamente?”

“Con assoluta sincerità, John,” disse Clennam, “sei davvero una brava persona e nutro un profondo rispetto per il tuo carattere. Se ho potuto sembrare meno consapevole di quanto in realtà lo sia del fatto che i gentili aiuti che mi hai fornito oggi derivino dal fatto che la signorina Dorrit mi ha considerato suo amico. Confesso che si tratta di un errore e ti chiedo il tuo perdono.”

“Ah, perché no, ”, ripeté John con un tono di disprezzo, “perché non parlare liberamente?”

“Vi dichiaro,” rispose Arthur, “che non vi capisco. Guardatemi: considerate i problemi che ho dovuto affrontare. È possibile che io, di proposito, aggiunga alle mie altre autocritiche anche quella di essere ingrato o traditore nei vostri confronti? Non vi capisco.”

Il viso incredulo di John si ammorbidì lentamente, trasformandosi in un’espressione di >dubbio. Si allontanò, appoggiandosi alla finestra del sottotetto della stanza, chiamò Arthur ad avvicinarsi e rimase lì a guardarlo con aria pensierosa.

“Signor Clennam, vuol dire davvero che non lo sa?”

“Che cosa, John?”

“Signore,” disse il giovane John, rivolgendosi disperatamente alle spine sulla parete. “Lui dice. Cosa!”

Clennam guardò le spine, poi guardò John; e di nuovo guardò le spine, poi ancora John.

“Dice ‘Che cosa!’ E per di più,” esclamò il giovane John, osservandolo con aria confusa, “sembra davvero che lo intenda! Vede questa finestra, signore?”

“Certo che vedo questa finestra.”

“Vedi questa stanza?”

“Certo che vedo questa stanza, ”

“Quel muro laggiù e quel cortile sotto di esso. Hanno tutti assistito a tutto ciò, giorno dopo giorno, da notte a notte, settimana dopo settimana, mese dopo mese. Quante volte ho visto la signorina Dorrit qui, mentre lei non mi vedeva!”

“Testimoni di cosa?” chiese Clennam.

‘Del amore della signorina Dorrit.’

“Per chi?”

“Tu,” disse John. Gli toccò il petto con il dorso della mano, poi si allontanò e tornò a sedersi sulla sua sedia, con il viso pallido, incrociando le braccia e scuotendo la testa verso di lui.

Se gli avesse inflitto un colpo violento, invece di toccarlo dolcemente, l’effetto sarebbe stato ancora più devastante. Stava fermo, sbalordito; i suoi occhi fissavano John; le sue labbra si aprirono più volte, come se volessero pronunciare la parola “Me!”, senza però riuscirci; le sue mani caddero lungo i fianchi; l’intera sua espressione era quella di un uomo che si è svegliato da un sonno e che è stato sopraffatto da una realtà troppo complessa per essere compresa appieno.

“Me!”, disse finalmente ad alta voce.

“Ah!” gemette il giovane John. “Tu!”

Fece del suo meglio per sorridere e rispose: “Le tue fantasie. Ti sbagli completamente.”

“Mi sono sbagliato, signore!” disse il giovane John. “Mi sono completamente sbagliato su quell’argomento! No, signor Clennam, non ditemi così. Su qualsiasi altro argomento, se volete, perché non pretendo di essere una persona particolarmente perspicace e sono ben consapevole delle mie carenze. Ma mi sono sbagliato su un punto che mi ha causato più preoccupazioni di quante ne potrebbero causare le frecce di una banda di selvaggi. Mi sono sbagliato su un punto che per poco non mi ha mandato dritto all’inferno. Anzi, a volte avrei voluto proprio che ciò accadesse, se solo quell’inferno potesse essere compatibile con il commercio del tabacco e i sentimenti di mio padre e mia madre. Mi sono sbagliato su un punto che, anche in questo momento, mi fa tirare fuori il fazzoletto come farebbe una ‘gran signora’. Anche se non capisco proprio perché definire ‘gran signora’ qualcuno dovrebbe essere considerato un rimprovero. Dopotutto, ogni mente maschile sana ama le donne, grandi o piccole che siano. Non ditemi così, per favore!”

Ancora molto rispettabile nella sua condizione, sebbene apparentemente assurdo, il giovane John tirò fuori il fazzoletto da tasca con una vera e propria mancanza di ostentazione o nascondimento; un comportamento tipico di una persona dal cuore buono, quando utilizza il fazzoletto per asciugarsi gli occhi. Dopo esserseli asciugati e aver concesso a se stesso il piacere innocuo di singhiozzare e soffiarsi il naso, lo ripose nuovamente in tasca.

The touch was still in its influence so like a blow that Arthur could not get many words together to close the subject with. He assured John Chivery when he had returned his handkerchief to his pocket, that he did all honour to his disinterestedness and to the fidelity of his remembrance of Miss Dorrit. As to the impression on his mind, of which he had just relieved it—here John interposed, and said, ‘No impression! Certainty!’—as to that, they might perhaps speak of it at another time, but would say no more now. Feeling low-spirited and weary, he would go back to his room, with John’s leave, and come out no more that night. John assented, and he crept back in the shadow of the wall to his own lodging.

The feeling of the blow was still so strong upon him that, when the dirty old woman was gone whom he found sitting on the stairs outside his door, waiting to make his bed, and who gave him to understand while doing it, that she had received her instructions from Mr Chivery, ‘not the old ‘un but the young ‘un,’ he sat down in the faded arm-chair, pressing his head between his hands, as if he had been stunned. Little Dorrit love him! More bewildering to him than his misery, far.

Consider the improbability. He had been accustomed to call her his child, and his dear child, and to invite her confidence by dwelling upon the difference in their respective ages, and to speak of himself as one who was turning old. Yet she might not have thought him old. Something reminded him that he had not thought himself so, until the roses had floated away upon the river.

He had her two letters among other papers in his box, and he took them out and read them. There seemed to be a sound in them like the sound of her sweet voice. It fell upon his ear with many tones of tenderness, that were not insusceptible of the new meaning. Now it was that the quiet desolation of her answer, ‘No, No, No,’ made to him that night in that very room—that night when he had been shown the dawn of her altered fortune, and when other words had passed between them which he had been destined to remember in humiliation and a prisoner, rushed into his mind.

Consider the improbability.

But it had a preponderating tendency, when considered, to become fainter. There was another and a curious inquiry of his own heart’s that concurrently became stronger. In the reluctance he had felt to believe that she loved any one; in his desire to set that question at rest; in a half-formed consciousness he had had that there would be a kind of nobleness in his helping her love for any one, was there no suppressed something on his own side that he had hushed as it arose? Had he ever whispered to himself that he must not think of such a thing as her loving him, that he must not take advantage of her gratitude, that he must keep his experience in remembrance as a warning and reproof; that he must regard such youthful hopes as having passed away, as his friend’s dead daughter had passed away; that he must be steady in saying to himself that the time had gone by him, and he was too saddened and old?

He had kissed her when he raised her from the ground on the day when she had been so consistently and expressively forgotten. Quite as he might have kissed her, if she had been conscious? No difference?

The darkness found him occupied with these thoughts. The darkness also found Mr and Mrs Plornish knocking at his door. They brought with them a basket, filled with choice selections from that stock in trade which met with such a quick sale and produced such a slow return. Mrs Plornish was affected to tears. Mr Plornish amiably growled, in his philosophical but not lucid manner, that there was ups you see, and there was downs. It was in vain to ask why ups, why downs; there they was, you know. He had heerd it given for a truth that accordin’ as the world went round, which round it did rewolve undoubted, even the best of gentlemen must take his turn of standing with his ed upside down and all his air a flying the wrong way into what you might call Space. Wery well then. What Mr Plornish said was, wery well then. That gentleman’s ed would come up-ards when his turn come, that gentleman’s air would be a pleasure to look upon being all smooth again, and wery well then!

It has been already stated that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, wept. It further happened that Mrs Plornish, not being philosophical, was intelligible. It may have arisen out of her softened state of mind, out of her sex’s wit, out of a woman’s quick association of ideas, or out of a woman’s no association of ideas, but it further happened somehow that Mrs Plornish’s intelligibility displayed itself upon the very subject of Arthur’s meditations.

‘The way father has been talking about you, Mr Clennam,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘you hardly would believe. It’s made him quite poorly. As to his voice, this misfortune has took it away. You know what a sweet singer father is; but he couldn’t get a note out for the children at tea, if you’ll credit what I tell you.’

While speaking, Mrs Plornish shook her head, and wiped her eyes, and looked retrospectively about the room.

‘As to Mr Baptist,’ pursued Mrs Plornish, ‘whatever he’ll do when he comes to know of it, I can’t conceive nor yet imagine. He’d have been here before now, you may be sure, but that he’s away on confidential business of your own. The persevering manner in which he follows up that business, and gives himself no rest from it—it really do,’ said Mrs Plornish, winding up in the Italian manner, ‘as I say to him, Mooshattonisha padrona.’

Though not conceited, Mrs Plornish felt that she had turned this Tuscan sentence with peculiar elegance. Mr Plornish could not conceal his exultation in her accomplishments as a linguist.

‘But what I say is, Mr Clennam,’ the good woman went on, ‘there’s always something to be thankful for, as I am sure you will yourself admit. Speaking in this room, it’s not hard to think what the present something is. It’s a thing to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is not here to know it.’

Quel tocco continuava ad avere il suo effetto; quindi, come se avesse ricevuto un colpo, Arthur non riuscì a trovare le parole giuste per concludere l’argomento. Quando restituì il fazzoletto in tasca a John Chivery, gli assicurò che aveva mantenuto la massima onestà riguardo alla sua imparzialità e alla fedeltà dei suoi ricordi su Miss Dorrit. Per quanto riguardava l’impressione che quel tocco gli aveva lasciato – di cui aveva appena parlato – John intervenne, dicendo: “Nessuna impressione. Solo certezza!” Forse ne avrebbero potuto parlare in un altro momento, ma per il momento non c’era nulla da aggiungere. Sentendosi depresso e stanco, chiese il permesso di tornare nella sua stanza e non uscì più quella notte. John acconsentì, e lui si allontanò nell’ombra del muro, dirigendosi verso la propria dimora.

La sensazione del colpo era ancora così intensa che, quando quella vecchia donna sporca se ne andò – quella che aveva trovato seduta sulle scale fuori dalla sua porta, in attesa di fare il suo letto, e che, mentre lo faceva, gli fece capire che aveva ricevuto le istruzioni da Mr Chivery (“non la vecchia, ma la giovane”) – lui si sedette nella poltrona logora, premendosi la testa tra le mani, come se fosse stato stordito. Quanto lo amava la piccola Dorrit. Per lui, questo era molto più sconcertante della sua stessa miseria.

Considerate quanta improbabilità ci fosse in tutto questo. Era abituato a chiamarla la sua bambina, la sua cara bambina, e ad incoraggiarla a confidarsi in lui sottolineando la differenza d’età tra loro, parlando di sé stesso come di una persona che invecchiava. Eppure, forse lei non lo considerava vecchio. Qualcosa gli ricordò che nemmeno lui si era mai visto così, fino a quando quelle rose non furono portate via dal fiume.

Aveva quelle due lettere tra altri documenti nella sua scatola; le prese e le lesse. Sembrava che contenessero il suono della sua dolce voce. Un suono pieno di tenerezza, capace di suscitare in lui nuovi sentimenti. Fu proprio quella risposta silenziosa e negativa – “No, No, No” – a riportargli alla mente quella notte nella stessa stanza. Quella notte in cui gli era stata rivelata l’“alba” della sua fortuna cambiata, e in cui erano state scambiate altre parole che avrebbe dovuto ricordare per sempre, tra umiliazione e prigionia.

Considerate l’improbabilità di tutto ciò.

Ma, considerandola attentamente, quella tendenza aveva la netta inclinazione a indebolirsi. C’era un’altra domanda, curiosa e insistente, che nasceva nel suo cuore e che allo stesso tempo diventava sempre più forte: nella riluttanza che provava ad ammettere che lei potesse amare qualcun altro; nel desiderio di risolvere una volta per tutte quella questione; in quell’idea vaga ma persistente che aiutarla a “amare” qualcuno potesse rappresentare una sorta di nobiltà. Non c’era forse qualcosa dentro di lui che veniva represso, qualcosa che lui stesso teneva nascosto ogni volta che affiorava? Forse aveva mai mormorato a se stesso che non doveva nemmeno pensare che lei potesse amarlo, che non doveva approfittare della sua gratitudine, che doveva ricordare sempre quell’esperienza come un avvertimento e una lezione. Che doveva considerare quelle speranze giovanili ormai svanite, proprio come la figlia morta della sua amica. E che doveva rimanere fermo nel credere che quel “tempo” fosse già passato per lui, che ora era troppo triste e troppo vecchio.

L’aveva baciata quando l’aveva sollevata da terra, in quel giorno in cui lei era stata così costantemente e apertamente dimenticata. Proprio come avrebbe potuto baciarla, se fosse stata cosciente. Nessuna differenza?

L’oscurità lo trovò immerso in questi pensieri. L’oscurità trovò anche il signor e la signora Plornish che bussavano alla sua porta. Portavano con sé un cesto, pieno di prodotti scelti tra quelli che venivano venduti rapidamente, ma che generavano profitti lenti. La signora Plornish aveva gli occhi pieni di lacrime. Il signor Plornish, con il suo modo filosofico ma non del tutto lucido, osservò che ci sono momenti in cui le cose vanno bene, e altri in cui vanno male. Non aveva senso chiedere perché; semplicemente, le cose erano così. Aveva sentito dire che, mentre il mondo continua a girare – e questo, senza dubbio, accade – anche i migliori gentiluomini devono, a un certo punto, trovarsi nella situazione di avere la testa in giù e l’aria che respirano che “vola” nella direzione sbagliata, verso quella che si potrebbe chiamare “Spazio”. Beh, molto bene, allora. Quello che il signor Plornish diceva era, molto bene. Quando sarebbe arrivato il suo turno, anche a quel gentiluomo la testa sarebbe tornata su, e l’aria che respirava sarebbe stata di nuovo “normale”. E allora, molto bene!

È già stato detto che la signora Plornish, non essendo filosofica, pianse. Inoltre, poiché non era filosofica, risultava comprensibile nel suo modo di esprimersi. Ciò potrebbe essere dovuto al suo stato d’animo più mite, alla saggezza tipica del suo sesso, alla capacità delle donne di collegare rapidamente le idee, oppure, forse, proprio al fatto che non riuscisse affatto a collegarle. Comunque sia, la comprensibilità della signora Plornish si manifestò proprio riguardo all’argomento delle meditazioni di Arthur.

“Il modo in cui papà parla di voi, signor Clennam,” disse la signora Plornish, “è davvero incredibile. Questa sfortuna lo ha messo molto male. Per quanto riguarda la sua voce, questa disgrazia l’ha completamente distrutta. Sapete quanto sia un cantante meraviglioso vostro padre; ma non riusciva nemmeno a emettere una nota per i bambini durante il tè, se mi credete.”

Mentre parlava, la signora Plornish scuoteva la testa, si asciugava gli occhi e guardava intorno nella stanza con un’aria nostalgica.

“Per quanto riguarda il signor Baptist,” proseguì la signora Plornish, “non riesco nemmeno a immaginare cosa farà quando lo scoprirà. Sono sicura che sarebbe già qui, ma è via per affari confidenziali legati a voi. Quel suo insistere costante nel seguire quella faccenda senza mai riposarsi, davvero,” concluse la signora Plornish, usando il modo di dire tipico italiano, “gli dico sempre: ‘Mooshattonisha padrona’.”

Sebbene non fosse presuntuosa, la signora Plornish riteneva di aver tradotto questa frase toscana con particolare eleganza. Il signor Plornish non riusciva a nascondere la sua gioia per le sue capacità linguistiche.

“Ma quello che voglio dire, signor Clennam,” continuò la buona donna, “è che c’è sempre qualcosa per cui essere grati, e sono sicura che anche voi lo ammetterete. Parlando in questa stanza, non è difficile capire di cosa si tratti. È davvero qualcosa per cui essere grati il fatto che la signorina Dorrit non sia qui a saperlo.”

Arthur thought she looked at him with particular expression.

‘It’s a thing,’ reiterated Mrs Plornish, ‘to be thankful for, indeed, that Miss Dorrit is far away. It’s to be hoped she is not likely to hear of it. If she had been here to see it, sir, it’s not to be doubted that the sight of you,’ Mrs Plornish repeated those words—‘not to be doubted, that the sight of you—in misfortune and trouble, would have been almost too much for her affectionate heart. There’s nothing I can think of, that would have touched Miss Dorrit so bad as that.’

Of a certainty Mrs Plornish did look at him now, with a sort of quivering defiance in her friendly emotion.

‘Yes!’ said she. ‘And it shows what notice father takes, though at his time of life, that he says to me this afternoon, which Happy Cottage knows I neither make it up nor any ways enlarge, “Mary, it’s much to be rejoiced in that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” Those were father’s words. Father’s own words was, “Much to be rejoiced in, Mary, that Miss Dorrit is not on the spot to behold it.” I says to father then, I says to him, “Father, you are right!” That,’ Mrs Plornish concluded, with the air of a very precise legal witness, ‘is what passed betwixt father and me. And I tell you nothing but what did pass betwixt me and father.’

Mr Plornish, as being of a more laconic temperament, embraced this opportunity of interposing with the suggestion that she should now leave Mr Clennam to himself. ‘For, you see,’ said Mr Plornish, gravely, ‘I know what it is, old gal;’ repeating that valuable remark several times, as if it appeared to him to include some great moral secret. Finally, the worthy couple went away arm in arm.

Little Dorrit, Little Dorrit. Again, for hours. Always Little Dorrit!

Happily, if it ever had been so, it was over, and better over. Granted that she had loved him, and he had known it and had suffered himself to love her, what a road to have led her away upon—the road that would have brought her back to this miserable place! He ought to be much comforted by the reflection that she was quit of it forever; that she was, or would soon be, married (vague rumours of her father’s projects in that direction had reached Bleeding Heart Yard, with the news of her sister’s marriage); and that the Marshalsea gate had shut for ever on all those perplexed possibilities of a time that was gone.

Dear Little Dorrit.

Looking back upon his own poor story, she was its vanishing-point. Every thing in its perspective led to her innocent figure. He had travelled thousands of miles towards it; previous unquiet hopes and doubts had worked themselves out before it; it was the centre of the interest of his life; it was the termination of everything that was good and pleasant in it; beyond, there was nothing but mere waste and darkened sky.

As ill at ease as on the first night of his lying down to sleep within those dreary walls, he wore the night out with such thoughts. What time Young John lay wrapt in peaceful slumber, after composing and arranging the following monumental inscription on his pillow—

STRANGER! RESPECT THE TOMB OF JOHN CHIVERY, JUNIOR, WHO DIED AT AN ADVANCED AGE NOT NECESSARY TO MENTION. HE ENCOUNTERED HIS RIVAL IN A DISTRESSED STATE, AND FELT INCLINED TO HAVE A ROUND WITH HIM; BUT, FOR THE SAKE OF THE LOVED ONE, CONQUERED THOSE FEELINGS OF BITTERNESS, AND BECAME MAGNANIMOUS.

Arthur pensò che lo stesse guardando con un’espressione particolare.

“È davvero una fortuna,” ripeté la signora Plornish, “che la signorina Dorrit sia lontana. Speriamo che non venga a saperlo. Se fosse stata qui a vedere tutto questo, signore, non c’è dubbio che la vista di voi, in tanta sfortuna e difficoltà, sarebbe stata quasi troppo per il suo cuore affettuoso. Non riesco a pensare a nulla che potesse ferire così profondamente la signorina Dorrit.”

Con certezza, la signora Plornish lo stava guardando ora, con una sorta di sfida tremolante nel suo atteggiamento cordiale.

“Sì!”, disse lei. “E questo dimostra quanto mio padre presti attenzione alle cose. Anche a quest’età avanzata, questa pomeriggio mi ha detto qualcosa che Happy Cottage sa bene che né io ho inventato né in alcun modo ho ampliato: ‘Mary, è davvero motivo di gioia il fatto che Miss Dorrit non sia lì ad assistere a tutto questo.’ Queste sono state le parole di mio padre. Proprio lui ha detto: ‘È molto da festeggiare, Mary, che Miss Dorrit non sia presente.’ Allora gli ho risposto: ‘Padre, hai ragione!’” Con l’aria di un testimone legale estremamente preciso, la signora Plornish concluse: “Ecco ciò che è realmente accaduto tra mio padre e me. Vi dico soltanto la verità.”

Il signor Plornish, essendo di temperamento più laconico, colse l’occasione per suggerire che lei ora dovesse lasciare il signor Clennam da solo. “Perché, vedete,” disse seriamente il signor Plornish, ripetendo più volte questa frase, come se contenesse qualche grande segreto morale. Alla fine, la degna coppia se ne andò mano nella mano.

Piccola Dorrit, Piccola Dorrit. Ancora, per ore intere. Sempre Piccola Dorrit!

Fortunatamente, se mai era successo qualcosa del genere, ora era finito, e meglio così. Ammettiamo pure che lei lo avesse amato, e che lui lo sapesse e si fosse comunque costretto ad amarla. Che strada terribile le aveva fatto percorrere, una strada che l’avrebbe riportata in questo posto miserabile! Dovrebbe sentirsi molto sollevato al pensiero che lei ne fosse finalmente libera, per sempre; che fosse già sposata, o lo sarebbe presto stata (voci vaghe sui piani di suo padre in quel senso erano arrivate fino a Bleeding Heart Yard, insieme alla notizia del matrimonio di sua sorella); e che il cancello di Marshalsea fosse per sempre chiuso davanti a tutte quelle possibili complicazioni di un passato ormai lontano.

Cara Piccola Dorrit.

Riflettendo sulla propria triste storia, lei ne rappresentava il punto di fuga. Tutto, nella prospettiva di quella storia, conduceva alla sua figura innocente. Aveva percorso migliaia di chilometri verso di lei; tutte le speranze e i dubbi precedenti si erano risolti prima ancora di incontrarla; era il centro dell’interesse della sua vita; rappresentava la fine di tutto ciò che in essa c’era di buono e piacevole; al di là di lei, non c’era nulla se non desolazione e cielo oscurato.

Ancora più a disagio di quella prima notte in cui aveva cercato di dormire tra quelle tetre mura, trascorse la notte con simili pensieri. Quanto tempo. Il giovane John giaceva immerso in un sonno tranquillo, dopo aver composto e inciso questa monumentale iscrizione sul suo cuscino.

STRANIERO!
Rispetta la tomba di John Chivery Jr.,
che morì in età avanzata. Non c’è bisogno di dirlo.
Incontrò il proprio rivale in uno stato di difficoltà,
e provò l’impulso di affrontarlo;
ma, per amore della persona amata,
superò quei sentimenti di rancore e divenne generoso.

CHAPTER 28. An Appearance in the Marshalsea

The opinion of the community outside the prison gates bore hard on Clennam as time went on, and he made no friends among the community within. Too depressed to associate with the herd in the yard, who got together to forget their cares; too retiring and too unhappy to join in the poor socialities of the tavern; he kept his own room, and was held in distrust. Some said he was proud; some objected that he was sullen and reserved; some were contemptuous of him, for that he was a poor-spirited dog who pined under his debts. The whole population were shy of him on these various counts of indictment, but especially the last, which involved a species of domestic treason; and he soon became so confirmed in his seclusion, that his only time for walking up and down was when the evening Club were assembled at their songs and toasts and sentiments, and when the yard was nearly left to the women and children.

Imprisonment began to tell upon him. He knew that he idled and moped. After what he had known of the influences of imprisonment within the four small walls of the very room he occupied, this consciousness made him afraid of himself. Shrinking from the observation of other men, and shrinking from his own, he began to change very sensibly. Anybody might see that the shadow of the wall was dark upon him.

One day when he might have been some ten or twelve weeks in jail, and when he had been trying to read and had not been able to release even the imaginary people of the book from the Marshalsea, a footstep stopped at his door, and a hand tapped at it. He arose and opened it, and an agreeable voice accosted him with ‘How do you do, Mr Clennam? I hope I am not unwelcome in calling to see you.’

It was the sprightly young Barnacle, Ferdinand. He looked very good-natured and prepossessing, though overpoweringly gay and free, in contrast with the squalid prison.

‘You are surprised to see me, Mr Clennam,’ he said, taking the seat which Clennam offered him.

‘I must confess to being much surprised.’

‘Not disagreeably, I hope?’

‘By no means.’

‘Thank you. Frankly,’ said the engaging young Barnacle, ‘I have been excessively sorry to hear that you were under the necessity of a temporary retirement here, and I hope (of course as between two private gentlemen) that our place has had nothing to do with it?’

‘Your office?’

‘Our Circumlocution place.’

‘I cannot charge any part of my reverses upon that remarkable establishment.’

‘Upon my life,’ said the vivacious young Barnacle, ‘I am heartily glad to know it. It is quite a relief to me to hear you say it. I should have so exceedingly regretted our place having had anything to do with your difficulties.’

Clennam again assured him that he absolved it of the responsibility.

‘That’s right,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I am very happy to hear it. I was rather afraid in my own mind that we might have helped to floor you, because there is no doubt that it is our misfortune to do that kind of thing now and then. We don’t want to do it; but if men will be gravelled, why—we can’t help it.’

‘Without giving an unqualified assent to what you say,’ returned Arthur, gloomily, ‘I am much obliged to you for your interest in me.’

‘No, but really! Our place is,’ said the easy young Barnacle, ‘the most inoffensive place possible. You’ll say we are a humbug. I won’t say we are not; but all that sort of thing is intended to be, and must be. Don’t you see?’

‘I do not,’ said Clennam.

‘You don’t regard it from the right point of view. It is the point of view that is the essential thing. Regard our place from the point of view that we only ask you to leave us alone, and we are as capital a Department as you’ll find anywhere.’

‘Is your place there to be left alone?’ asked Clennam.

‘You exactly hit it,’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It is there with the express intention that everything shall be left alone. That is what it means. That is what it’s for. No doubt there’s a certain form to be kept up that it’s for something else, but it’s only a form. Why, good Heaven, we are nothing but forms! Think what a lot of our forms you have gone through. And you have never got any nearer to an end?’

‘Never,’ said Clennam.

‘Look at it from the right point of view, and there you have us—official and effectual. It’s like a limited game of cricket. A field of outsiders are always going in to bowl at the Public Service, and we block the balls.’

Clennam asked what became of the bowlers? The airy young Barnacle replied that they grew tired, got dead beat, got lamed, got their backs broken, died off, gave it up, went in for other games.

‘And this occasions me to congratulate myself again,’ he pursued, ‘on the circumstance that our place has had nothing to do with your temporary retirement. It very easily might have had a hand in it; because it is undeniable that we are sometimes a most unlucky place, in our effects upon people who will not leave us alone. Mr Clennam, I am quite unreserved with you. As between yourself and myself, I know I may be. I was so, when I first saw you making the mistake of not leaving us alone; because I perceived that you were inexperienced and sanguine, and had—I hope you’ll not object to my saying—some simplicity?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Some simplicity. Therefore I felt what a pity it was, and I went out of my way to hint to you (which really was not official, but I never am official when I can help it) something to the effect that if I were you, I wouldn’t bother myself. However, you did bother yourself, and you have since bothered yourself. Now, don’t do it any more.’

‘I am not likely to have the opportunity,’ said Clennam.

‘Oh yes, you are! You’ll leave here. Everybody leaves here. There are no ends of ways of leaving here. Now, don’t come back to us. That entreaty is the second object of my call. Pray, don’t come back to us. Upon my honour,’ said Ferdinand in a very friendly and confiding way, ‘I shall be greatly vexed if you don’t take warning by the past and keep away from us.’

CAPITOLO 28. Un’apparizione a Marshalsea

Con il passare del tempo, l’opinione della comunità al di fuori delle mura della prigione divenne sempre più pesante per Clennam; inoltre, non riuscì ad fare amicizia nemmeno all’interno di quella stessa comunità. Troppo depresso per unirsi agli altri detenuti nel cortile, dove tutti si riunivano per dimenticare i propri problemi; troppo riservato e infelice per partecipare alle modeste attività sociali che avvenivano nella taverna, preferiva rimanere nella propria stanza, suscitando così diffidenza da parte degli altri. Alcuni lo consideravano orgoglioso; altri lo trovavano cupo e riservato; ancora altri lo disprezzavano, definendolo un uomo dallo spirito depresso che soffriva a causa dei propri debiti. L’intera popolazione lo evitava per tutti questi motivi, soprattutto per l’ultimo, che rappresentava una sorta di “tradimento domestico”. Presto, Clennam divenne così isolato che l’unica occasione in cui usciva era quando la sera si riunivano nel cortile per cantare, brindare e condividere sentimenti; in quei momenti, il cortile veniva quasi completamente lasciato alle donne e ai bambini.

La prigione iniziò a farne le spese. Lui sapeva di passare il tempo in modo futile e senza scopo. Dopo ciò che aveva imparato sulle influenze negative della prigione all’interno di quelle quattro piccole pareti della stanza in cui viveva, questa consapevolezza iniziò a spaventarlo. Evitando lo sguardo degli altri e anche il proprio, iniziò a cambiare in modo evidente. Chiunque avrebbe potuto notare che l’“ombra” delle pareti lo influenzava negativamente.

Un giorno, quando doveva essere già da circa dieci o dodici settimane in prigione, e mentre cercava di leggere senza riuscire nemmeno a “liberare” le persone immaginarie presenti nei libri dal carcere stesso, dei passi si fermarono davanti alla sua porta e una mano bussò. Si alzò e aprì; una voce piacevole gli disse: “Come sta, signor Clennam? Spero di non essere sgradita venendo a trovarla.”

Era il vivace e giovane Barnacle, Ferdinando. Sembrava molto gentile e attraente, nonostante il suo spirito spensierato e libero, in netto contrasto con la squallida prigione.

“Siete sorpreso di vedermi, signor Clennam,” disse, sedendosi nel posto che Clennam gli aveva offerto.

Devo ammettere di essere molto sorpreso.

“Non in modo sgradevole, spero, ”

“Assolutamente no.”

“Grazie. Onestamente,” disse il giovane e affascinante Barnacle, “mi dispiace molto sapere che abbiate dovuto ritirarvi temporaneamente qui, e spero (naturalmente tra due gentiluomini) che il nostro luogo non abbia avuto nulla a che fare con questa situazione.”

“Il tuo ufficio?”

“Il nostro luogo di eufemismi.”

“Non posso incolpare alcuna responsabilità delle mie sfortune in quell’istituzione straordinaria.”

“Per la mia vita,” disse il vivace giovane Barnacle, “sono davvero felice di saperlo. È un grande sollievo per me sentirti dire queste parole. Avrei provato un immenso rammarico se il nostro ruolo avesse avuto qualche legame con le tue difficoltà.”

Clennam gli assicurò nuovamente di esserne stato esentato da qualsiasi responsabilità.

“Esatto,” disse Ferdinando. “Sono molto contento di sentirlo dire. In realtà avevo paura che potessimo essere stati la causa dei vostri problemi, perché non c’è alcun >dubbio che a volte sia nostra sfortuna dover fare cose del genere. Non vogliamo farlo; ma se le persone insistono, beh, non possiamo evitarlo.”

“Senza dare un assenso incondizionato a ciò che dici,” rispose Arthur con tono cupo, “sono molto grato per il tuo interesse nei miei confronti.”

“No, ma davvero! Il nostro posto è, ”, disse il giovane e spensierato Barnacle, “il luogo più inoffensivo possibile. Direte che siamo degli impostori. Non lo negherò; ma tutto questo genere di cose è proprio quello che intendiamo essere, e deve essere così. Non capite?”

“Non lo faccio,” disse Clennam.

“Non lo stai considerando dal punto di vista giusto. È proprio il punto di vista che conta davvero. Guarda al nostro posto dal punto di vista che ci limitiamo a chiederti di lasciarci soli, e siamo un Dipartimento altrettanto importante di qualsiasi altro tu possa trovare.”

“Tuo posto è davvero destinato a rimanere solo?” chiese Clennam.

“Hai colto esattamente il punto,” rispose Ferdinando. “È proprio così: tutto è stato lasciato da solo apposta. Questo è il suo significato, questo è lo scopo per cui esiste. Non c’è alcun >dubbio che ci sia una certa forma da rispettare, ma si tratta soltanto di una forma. Perché, mio Dio, noi non siamo altro che forme! Pensate a quante forme abbiamo attraversato nella nostra vita. Eppure non siamo mai arrivati nemmeno vicini a una fine.”

“Mai,” disse Clennam.

“Guarda la cosa dal punto di vista giusto, e eccoci lì: ufficiali ed efficaci. È come un gioco di cricket a squadre limitate. Un gruppo di estranei continua ad attaccare il ‘Servizio Pubblico’, ma noi blocciamo tutti i loro tentativi.”

Clennam chiese cosa ne fosse stato dei giocatori di bowling. Il giovane e vivace Barnacle rispose che si erano stancati, avevano smesso del tutto, si erano infortunati, avevano riportato gravi danni fisici, erano morti, avevano abbandonato quel sport per dedicarsi ad altri giochi.

“E questo mi spinge di nuovo a congratularmi,” proseguì, “per il fatto che il nostro luogo non abbia avuto alcuna responsabilità nella tua temporanea ritirata. Avrebbe potuto facilmente esserne la causa; perché è innegabile che a volte siamo un luogo davvero sfortunato, nel modo in cui influenziamo le persone che non vogliono lasciarci soli. Signor Clennam, sono assolutamente franco con voi. Tra me e te, so di poterlo essere. Lo ero quando vi ho visto commettere l’errore di non lasciarci soli; perché mi sono reso conto che eravate inesperto e idealista. E spero che non vi dispiaccia se lo dico: avevate anche una certa semplicità d’animo, vero?”

“Assolutamente no.”

“Un po’ di semplicità. Per questo ho trovato davvero una grande peccato, e mi sono preso la briga di farti capire (il che in realtà non era ufficiale, ma io non lo sono mai quando posso evitarlo) che, se fossi stato al tuo posto, non mi sarei nemmeno dato la pena. Eppure tu l’hai fatto. E continui a farlo. Ora, basta.”

“Probabilmente non avrò l’opportunità”, disse Clennam.

“Oh sì, lo farai! Te ne andrai da qui. Tutti se ne vanno da qui. Ci sono infinite modi per andarsene da qui. Ora, per favore, non tornate da noi. Questo è il secondo motivo della mia richiesta: vi prego, non tornate da noi. Per la mia onore,” disse Ferdinando in tono molto amichevole e confidenziale, “mi dispiacerebbe moltissimo se non prendeste atto del passato e vi teneste lontani da noi.”

‘And the invention?’ said Clennam.

‘My good fellow,’ returned Ferdinand, ‘if you’ll excuse the freedom of that form of address, nobody wants to know of the invention, and nobody cares twopence-halfpenny about it.’

‘Nobody in the Office, that is to say?’

‘Nor out of it. Everybody is ready to dislike and ridicule any invention. You have no idea how many people want to be left alone. You have no idea how the Genius of the country (overlook the Parliamentary nature of the phrase, and don’t be bored by it) tends to being left alone. Believe me, Mr Clennam,’ said the sprightly young Barnacle in his pleasantest manner, ‘our place is not a wicked Giant to be charged at full tilt; but only a windmill showing you, as it grinds immense quantities of chaff, which way the country wind blows.’

‘If I could believe that,’ said Clennam, ‘it would be a dismal prospect for all of us.’

‘Oh! Don’t say so!’ returned Ferdinand. ‘It’s all right. We must have humbug, we all like humbug, we couldn’t get on without humbug. A little humbug, and a groove, and everything goes on admirably, if you leave it alone.’

With this hopeful confession of his faith as the head of the rising Barnacles who were born of woman, to be followed under a variety of watchwords which they utterly repudiated and disbelieved, Ferdinand rose. Nothing could be more agreeable than his frank and courteous bearing, or adapted with a more gentlemanly instinct to the circumstances of his visit.

‘Is it fair to ask,’ he said, as Clennam gave him his hand with a real feeling of thankfulness for his candour and good-humour, ‘whether it is true that our late lamented Merdle is the cause of this passing inconvenience?’

‘I am one of the many he has ruined. Yes.’

‘He must have been an exceedingly clever fellow,’ said Ferdinand Barnacle.

Arthur, not being in the mood to extol the memory of the deceased, was silent.

‘A consummate rascal, of course,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but remarkably clever! One cannot help admiring the fellow. Must have been such a master of humbug. Knew people so well—got over them so completely—did so much with them!’

In his easy way, he was really moved to genuine admiration.

‘I hope,’ said Arthur, ‘that he and his dupes may be a warning to people not to have so much done with them again.’

‘My dear Mr Clennam,’ returned Ferdinand, laughing, ‘have you really such a verdant hope? The next man who has as large a capacity and as genuine a taste for swindling, will succeed as well. Pardon me, but I think you really have no idea how the human bees will swarm to the beating of any old tin kettle; in that fact lies the complete manual of governing them. When they can be got to believe that the kettle is made of the precious metals, in that fact lies the whole power of men like our late lamented. No doubt there are here and there,’ said Ferdinand politely, ‘exceptional cases, where people have been taken in for what appeared to them to be much better reasons; and I need not go far to find such a case; but they don’t invalidate the rule. Good day! I hope that when I have the pleasure of seeing you, next, this passing cloud will have given place to sunshine. Don’t come a step beyond the door. I know the way out perfectly. Good day!’

With those words, the best and brightest of the Barnacles went down-stairs, hummed his way through the Lodge, mounted his horse in the front court-yard, and rode off to keep an appointment with his noble kinsman, who wanted a little coaching before he could triumphantly answer certain infidel Snobs who were going to question the Nobs about their statesmanship.

He must have passed Mr Rugg on his way out, for, a minute or two afterwards, that ruddy-headed gentleman shone in at the door, like an elderly Phoebus.

‘How do you do to-day, sir?’ said Mr Rugg. ‘Is there any little thing I can do for you to-day, sir?’

‘No, I thank you.’

Mr Rugg’s enjoyment of embarrassed affairs was like a housekeeper’s enjoyment in pickling and preserving, or a washerwoman’s enjoyment of a heavy wash, or a dustman’s enjoyment of an overflowing dust-bin, or any other professional enjoyment of a mess in the way of business.

‘I still look round, from time to time, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, cheerfully, ‘to see whether any lingering Detainers are accumulating at the gate. They have fallen in pretty thick, sir; as thick as we could have expected.’

He remarked upon the circumstance as if it were matter of congratulation: rubbing his hands briskly, and rolling his head a little.

‘As thick,’ repeated Mr Rugg, ‘as we could reasonably have expected. Quite a shower-bath of ‘em. I don’t often intrude upon you now, when I look round, because I know you are not inclined for company, and that if you wished to see me, you would leave word in the Lodge. But I am here pretty well every day, sir. Would this be an unseasonable time, sir,’ asked Mr Rugg, coaxingly, ‘for me to offer an observation?’

‘As seasonable a time as any other.’

‘Hum! Public opinion, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘has been busy with you.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Might it not be advisable, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, more coaxingly yet, ‘now to make, at last and after all, a trifling concession to public opinion? We all do it in one way or another. The fact is, we must do it.’

‘I cannot set myself right with it, Mr Rugg, and have no business to expect that I ever shall.’

‘Don’t say that, sir, don’t say that. The cost of being moved to the Bench is almost insignificant, and if the general feeling is strong that you ought to be there, why—really—’

‘I thought you had settled, Mr Rugg,’ said Arthur, ‘that my determination to remain here was a matter of taste.’

‘Well, sir, well! But is it good taste, is it good taste? That’s the Question.’ Mr Rugg was so soothingly persuasive as to be quite pathetic. ‘I was almost going to say, is it good feeling? This is an extensive affair of yours; and your remaining here where a man can come for a pound or two, is remarked upon as not in keeping. It is not in keeping. I can’t tell you, sir, in how many quarters I heard it mentioned. I heard comments made upon it last night in a Parlour frequented by what I should call, if I did not look in there now and then myself, the best legal company—I heard, there, comments on it that I was sorry to hear. They hurt me on your account. Again, only this morning at breakfast. My daughter (but a woman, you’ll say: yet still with a feeling for these things, and even with some little personal experience, as the plaintiff in Rugg and Bawkins) was expressing her great surprise; her great surprise. Now under these circumstances, and considering that none of us can quite set ourselves above public opinion, wouldn’t a trifling concession to that opinion be—Come, sir,’ said Rugg, ‘I will put it on the lowest ground of argument, and say, Amiable?’

“E l’invenzione?” chiese Clennam.

“Mio caro amico,” rispose Ferdinando, “se mi perdonate questa forma di address così informale, nessuno vuole sapere nulla di quell’invenzione, e a nessuno interessa minimamente.”

“Nessuno in ufficio, intendi?”

“Nemmeno un po’. Tutti sono pronti a disprezzare e deridere qualsiasi invenzione. Non avete idea di quante persone desiderino essere lasciate solo. Non capite nemmeno come il Genio del paese (mettendo da parte la natura parlamentare di questa espressione, e senza annoiarvi per questo) tenda a voler restare solo. Credetemi, signor Clennam,” disse il vivace giovane Barnacle con il suo modo più piacevole, “il nostro ruolo non è quello di un gigante malvagio contro cui attaccare con tutte le nostre forze; bensì quello di un mulino a vento che vi mostra, mentre macina enormi quantità di paglia, in quale direzione soffia il vento del paese.”

“Se solo potessi crederci, ”, disse Clennam, “sarebbe una prospettiva davvero desolante per tutti noi.”

“Oh! Non dire così!” rispose Ferdinando. “Va tutto bene. Dobbiamo avere un po’ di inganno. A tutti piace l’inganno; senza di esso non potremmo andare avanti. Un po’ di inganno, e tutto funziona meravigliosamente, se lo lasciamo stare, ”

Con questa sincera confessione della sua fede come capo di quei gruppi che si stavano rialzando, nati da donne e seguiti da varie parole d’ordine che essi stesso rigettavano completamente e non credevano affatto in esse, Ferdinando dimostrò un comportamento sincero e cortese; nulla poteva essere più appropriato o adattarsi meglio, con un istinto da vero gentiluomo, alle circostanze della sua visita.

“È giusto chiedere questo?” disse lui, mentre Clennam gli stringeva la mano con un vero senso di gratitudine per la sua onestà e il suo buon umorismo. “È davvero vero che il nostro povero Merdle sia la causa di queste temporanee difficoltà?”

“Sono uno dei tanti che ha rovinato. Sì.”

“Deve essere stato un uomo estremamente intelligente,” disse Ferdinando Barnacle.

Arthur, non avendo voglia di esaltare la memoria del defunto, rimase in silenzio.

“Un vero e proprio furfante, naturalmente,” disse Ferdinando, “ma incredibilmente intelligente! Non si può fare a meno di ammirarlo. Dev’essere stato davvero un maestro nell’ingannare le persone. Le conosceva così bene, riusciva a manipolarle completamente, faceva davvero di tutto con loro!”

Con il suo modo naturale di fare, suscitò davvero in loro un autentico sentimento di ammirazione.

“Spero”, disse Arthur, “che lui e le sue vittime possano servire da monito per le altre persone, affinché non si fidino più di loro.”

“Mio caro signor Clennam,” rispose Ferdinando ridendo, “davvero avete una tale, fervente speranza? Il prossimo individuo che possieda una capacità altrettanto grande e un vero talento per l’inganno riuscirà ugualmente bene. Scusate, ma credo davvero che non abbiate la minima idea di come le persone possano essere indotte ad agire seguendo le indicazioni di qualsiasi oggetto apparentemente insignificante; in questo sta il segreto per manipolarle. Basta far loro credere che quell’oggetto sia fatto di metalli preziosi, e allora l’uomo avrà tutto il potere. Non c’è dubbio,” aggiunse Ferdinando con gentilezza, “che esistano casi eccezionali in cui le persone vengono ingannate per motivi che a loro sembrano molto più validi; non devo andare lontano per trovarne uno. Ma questi casi non invalidano la regola generale. Buongiorno! Spero che, quando avrò il piacere di rivedervi, questa nuvola passeggera sia ormai stata sostituita dal sole. Non entrate nemmeno oltre la porta: conosco perfettamente la strada per uscire. Buongiorno!”

Con quelle parole, il migliore e il più intelligente tra i membri dei Barnacles scese le scale, attraversò silenziosamente la Lodge, montò sul suo cavallo nel cortile anteriore e partì per un appuntamento con il suo nobile parente, che desiderava ricevere qualche consiglio prima di poter rispondere con successo a certi snob infedeli che avevano intenzione di mettere in dubbio le capacità politiche dei nobili.

Deve essersi incontrato con il signor Rugg uscendo, perché un minuto o due dopo, quel gentiluomo dai capelli rossi apparve alla porta, come una sorta di anziano Febo.

“Come state oggi, signore? C’è qualcosa che posso fare per voi oggi, signore?” disse il signor Rugg.

“No, grazie.”

Il piacere che il signor Rugg provava nelle situazioni imbarazzanti era simile al piacere che una cameriera prova nel conservare e insaporire cibi, o a quello di una lavandaia nel fare lavori pesanti, o a quello di un spazzino nel vedere una cesta della spazzatura piena fino all’orlo. In altre parole, era il piacere che qualsiasi professionista prova nel vedere il disordine rappresentare un ostacolo al proprio lavoro.

“Ancora oggi guardo intorno, di tanto in tanto, signore,” disse felicemente il signor Rugg, “per vedere se ci siano ancora persone che si trattenono all’ingresso. Ne sono arrivate molte, signore; proprio quante ci aspettavamo.”

Commentò la situazione come se si trattasse di qualcosa da celebrare: si sfregò le mani con vigore e scosse leggermente la testa.

“Proprio così,” ripeté il signor Rugg, “esattamente come ci aspettavamo. Una vera e propria pioggia di queste cose. Ora non vi disturbo spesso, perché so che non amate la compagnia altrui, e che se voleste vedermi, lasciereste un messaggio nella Loggia. Ma sono qui quasi ogni giorno, signore. Non sarebbe forse un momento inopportuno,” chiese il signor Rugg con tono accomodante, “per farmi questa osservazione?”

‘Un’epoca tanto adatta quanto qualsiasi altra.’

“Ahem. L’opinione pubblica, signore,” disse il signor Rugg, “si è molto occupata di voi.”

“Non ne dubito affatto.”

“Non sarebbe forse opportuno, signore,” disse il signor Rugg, ancora più accomodante, “adesso, finalmente, fare una piccola concessione all’opinione pubblica? Tutti noi lo facciamo in un modo o nell’altro. Il fatto è che dobbiamo farlo.”

“Non riesco a sistemare le cose con questa situazione, signor Rugg, e non ho alcun diritto di aspettarmi che ci riuscirò mai.”

“Non dica così, signore, non dica così. Il costo legato al trasferimento sulla Panchina è quasi insignificante, e se l’opinione generale è concorde sul fatto che lei debba trovarsi lì, allora perché, davvero, ”

“Pensavo che aveste accettato la cosa, signor Rugg,” disse Arthur, “che la mia decisione di rimanere qui fosse una questione di gusto.”

“Beh, signore, beh! Ma è una cosa che si addice? Questa è la domanda.” Il signor Rugg era così persuasivo e gentile da risultare quasi commovente. “Stavo quasi per dire: ‘È una cosa che ha senso?’ Si tratta di un’impresa piuttosto importante, e il fatto che voi rimaniate qui, dove chiunque può venire a chiedervi una o due sterline, viene considerato inappropriato. Non è affatto appropriato. Non so quante volte ne abbia parlato la gente. L’ho sentito commentare ieri sera in un locale frequentato da quella che potrei definire, se non ci andassi anch’io di tanto in tanto, la migliore compagnia legale. Commenti davvero spiacevoli. Mi hanno fatto male per voi. Ancora stamattina a colazione. Mia figlia (una donna, direte, ma comunque con un certo senso per queste cose, e anche qualche esperienza personale, essendo stata lei stessa la parte civile nel caso Rugg contro Bawkins) esprimeva la sua grande sorpresa. Davvero grande sorpresa. In queste circostanze, considerando che nessuno di noi può davvero ignorare l’opinione pubblica, non sarebbe forse opportuno fare un piccolo compromesso? Beh, signore, ” disse Rugg, “metterò la questione sul piano più semplice possibile. È una cosa che si addice?”

Arthur’s thoughts had once more wandered away to Little Dorrit, and the question remained unanswered.

‘As to myself, sir,’ said Mr Rugg, hoping that his eloquence had reduced him to a state of indecision, ‘it is a principle of mine not to consider myself when a client’s inclinations are in the scale. But, knowing your considerate character and general wish to oblige, I will repeat that I should prefer your being in the Bench. Your case has made a noise; it is a creditable case to be professionally concerned in; I should feel on a better standing with my connection, if you went to the Bench. Don’t let that influence you, sir. I merely state the fact.’

So errant had the prisoner’s attention already grown in solitude and dejection, and so accustomed had it become to commune with only one silent figure within the ever-frowning walls, that Clennam had to shake off a kind of stupor before he could look at Mr Rugg, recall the thread of his talk, and hurriedly say, ‘I am unchanged, and unchangeable, in my decision. Pray, let it be; let it be!’ Mr Rugg, without concealing that he was nettled and mortified, replied:

‘Oh! Beyond a doubt, sir. I have travelled out of the record, sir, I am aware, in putting the point to you. But really, when I hear it remarked in several companies, and in very good company, that however worthy of a foreigner, it is not worthy of the spirit of an Englishman to remain in the Marshalsea when the glorious liberties of his island home admit of his removal to the Bench, I thought I would depart from the narrow professional line marked out to me, and mention it. Personally,’ said Mr Rugg, ‘I have no opinion on the topic.’

‘That’s well,’ returned Arthur.

‘Oh! None at all, sir!’ said Mr Rugg. ‘If I had, I should have been unwilling, some minutes ago, to see a client of mine visited in this place by a gentleman of a high family riding a saddle-horse. But it was not my business. If I had, I might have wished to be now empowered to mention to another gentleman, a gentleman of military exterior at present waiting in the Lodge, that my client had never intended to remain here, and was on the eve of removal to a superior abode. But my course as a professional machine is clear; I have nothing to do with it. Is it your good pleasure to see the gentleman, sir?’

‘Who is waiting to see me, did you say?’

‘I did take that unprofessional liberty, sir. Hearing that I was your professional adviser, he declined to interpose before my very limited function was performed. Happily,’ said Mr Rugg, with sarcasm, ‘I did not so far travel out of the record as to ask the gentleman for his name.’

‘I suppose I have no resource but to see him,’ sighed Clennam, wearily.

‘Then it is your good pleasure, sir?’ retorted Rugg. ‘Am I honoured by your instructions to mention as much to the gentleman, as I pass out? I am? Thank you, sir. I take my leave.’ His leave he took accordingly, in dudgeon.

The gentleman of military exterior had so imperfectly awakened Clennam’s curiosity, in the existing state of his mind, that a half-forgetfulness of such a visitor’s having been referred to, was already creeping over it as a part of the sombre veil which almost always dimmed it now, when a heavy footstep on the stairs aroused him. It appeared to ascend them, not very promptly or spontaneously, yet with a display of stride and clatter meant to be insulting. As it paused for a moment on the landing outside his door, he could not recall his association with the peculiarity of its sound, though he thought he had one. Only a moment was given him for consideration. His door was immediately swung open by a thump, and in the doorway stood the missing Blandois, the cause of many anxieties.

‘Salve, fellow jail-bird!’ said he. ‘You want me, it seems. Here I am!’

Before Arthur could speak to him in his indignant wonder, Cavalletto followed him into the room. Mr Pancks followed Cavalletto. Neither of the two had been there since its present occupant had had possession of it. Mr Pancks, breathing hard, sidled near the window, put his hat on the ground, stirred his hair up with both hands, and folded his arms, like a man who had come to a pause in a hard day’s work. Mr Baptist, never taking his eyes from his dreaded chum of old, softly sat down on the floor with his back against the door and one of his ankles in each hand: resuming the attitude (except that it was now expressive of unwinking watchfulness) in which he had sat before the same man in the deeper shade of another prison, one hot morning at Marseilles.

‘I have it on the witnessing of these two madmen,’ said Monsieur Blandois, otherwise Lagnier, otherwise Rigaud, ‘that you want me, brother-bird. Here I am!’

Glancing round contemptuously at the bedstead, which was turned up by day, he leaned his back against it as a resting-place, without removing his hat from his head, and stood defiantly lounging with his hands in his pockets.

‘You villain of ill-omen!’ said Arthur. ‘You have purposely cast a dreadful suspicion upon my mother’s house. Why have you done it? What prompted you to the devilish invention?’

Monsieur Rigaud, after frowning at him for a moment, laughed. ‘Hear this noble gentleman! Listen, all the world, to this creature of Virtue! But take care, take care. It is possible, my friend, that your ardour is a little compromising. Holy Blue! It is possible.’

‘Signore!’ interposed Cavalletto, also addressing Arthur: ‘for to commence, hear me! I received your instructions to find him, Rigaud; is it not?’

‘It is the truth.’

‘I go, consequentementally,’—it would have given Mrs Plornish great concern if she could have been persuaded that his occasional lengthening of an adverb in this way, was the chief fault of his English,—‘first among my countrymen. I ask them what news in Londra, of foreigners arrived. Then I go among the French. Then I go among the Germans. They all tell me. The great part of us know well the other, and they all tell me. But!—no person can tell me nothing of him, Rigaud. Fifteen times,’ said Cavalletto, thrice throwing out his left hand with all its fingers spread, and doing it so rapidly that the sense of sight could hardly follow the action, ‘I ask of him in every place where go the foreigners; and fifteen times,’ repeating the same swift performance, ‘they know nothing. But!—’

I pensieri di Arthur si erano nuovamente allontanati da Little Dorrit, e la domanda rimaneva senza risposta.

“Per quanto mi riguarda, signore,” disse il signor Rugg, sperando che la sua eloquenza lo avesse reso indeciso, “è una mia regola non prendere in considerazione i miei interessi personali quando le preferenze di un cliente sono decisive. Tuttavia, conoscendo il vostro carattere premuroso e il desiderio generale che avete di essere d’aiuto, ripeto che preferirei se voi vi sedeste nella Corte. Il vostro caso ha suscitato grande attenzione; è un caso degno di interesse professionale. Mi sentirei in una posizione più vantaggiosa nei confronti delle persone con cui ho rapporti, se voi vi sedeste nella Corte. Non lasciate che questo vi influenzi, signore. Vi sto semplicemente esponendo i fatti.”

Nella sua solitudine e nel suo sconforto, l’attenzione del prigioniero si era ormai rivolta verso una sola figura silenziosa all’interno di quelle mura sempre imponenti; per questo Clennam dovette scuotersi da una sorta di torpore prima di riuscire a guardare il signor Rugg, ricordare il filo del loro dialogo e dire in fretta: “La mia decisione è rimasta immutata, e rimarrà tale. Per favore, lasciate che le cose seguano il loro corso, ” Il signor Rugg, senza nascondere di essere offeso e mortificato, rispose.

‘Oh! Senza alcun dubbio, signore. Ho viaggiato al di là dei limiti consuetudinari; sono consapevole che ciò possa sembrare insolito da parte mia. Ma davvero, quando sento dire in diverse compagnie, e in compagnie molto rispettabili, che per quanto tale comportamento possa essere degno di uno straniero, non è certo degno dello spirito di un inglese rimanere a Marshalsea mentre le gloriose libertà della sua patria gli permetterebbero di assumere una posizione più elevata. Ho pensato quindi di uscire dai limiti del mio ruolo professionale e menzionare questo argomento. Personalmente,’ disse il signor Rugg, ‘non ho alcuna opinione al riguardo.’

“Beh, è così,” rispose Arthur.

“Oh! Assolutamente no, signore!” disse il signor Rugg. “Se l’avessi fatto, qualche minuto fa non avrei voluto che un cliente mio fosse visitato in questo luogo da un gentiluomo di alta famiglia a cavallo. Ma non era affar mio. Forse ora vorrei avere il permesso di dire a un altro gentiluomo – un uomo dall’aspetto militare che sta aspettando nella sala d’attesa – che il mio cliente non aveva mai intenzione di rimanere qui e stava per trasferirsi in una residenza più dignitosa. Ma il mio ruolo, come professionista, è chiaro: non ho nulla a che fare con questa faccenda. Desiderate incontrare quel gentiluomo, signore?”

“Chi è che aspetta di vedermi, hai detto?”

“Ho effettivamente preso quella libertà poco professionale, signore. Sentendo che ero il suo consulente professionista, ha rifiutato di intervenire prima che io svolgessi la mia funzione, peraltro molto limitata. Fortunatamente,” disse il signor Rugg con sarcasmo, “non sono andato oltre i limiti consentiti chiedendo al gentiluomo il suo nome.”

“Suppongo che non mi resti altra scelta se non vederlo,” sospirò Clennam, stancamente.

“Allora è davvero un piacere per voi, signore?” ribatté Rugg. “Mi onorate dando l’ordine di riferire tutto questo al gentiluomo non appena me ne andrò? Davvero? Grazie, signore. Mi congedo.” E così fece, con aria offesa.

Il gentiluomo dall’aspetto militare aveva destato in Clennam una curiosità così debole, data la sua attuale condizione mentale, che l’idea stessa di aver già sentito parlare di quel visitatore iniziava a svanire nella sua memoria, come parte di quella cupa nebbia che ormai quasi sempre offuscava i suoi ricordi. Quando poi un passo pesante risuonò sulle scale, si riscosse. Sembrava che qualcuno stesse salendo lentamente, ma con un’andatura decisa e rumorosa, chiaramente intesa come offensiva. Mentre quel passo si fermava per un momento davanti alla sua porta, Clennam non riuscì a ricordare in quale modo quel suono fosse collegato a qualcosa che gli fosse accaduto in passato. Gli fu concesso solo un attimo per riflettere. Poi la sua porta si aprì di scatto, e sulla soglia apparve Blandois, la causa di tante sue preoccupazioni.

“Ehi, compagno di prigione!” disse. “Sembra che tu abbia bisogno di me. Ecco qui!”

Prima che Arthur potesse parlare con lui, nel suo indignato stupore, Cavalletto lo seguì nella stanza. Mr Pancks seguì Cavalletto. Nessuno dei due era stato lì da quando il nuovo inquilino ne aveva preso possesso. Mr Pancks, ansimando, si avvicinò alla finestra, posò il cappello a terra, si sistemò i capelli con entrambe le mani e incrociò le braccia, come un uomo che si fosse fermato dopo una lunga giornata di lavoro. Mr Baptist, senza mai staccare lo sguardo dal suo temuto vecchio compagno, si sedette dolcemente a terra, appoggiandosi alla porta e tenendo uno degli ankle in ciascuna mano; riprese così la stessa posizione (sebbene ora esprimesse una vigilanza attenta e costante) in cui si era seduto davanti allo stesso uomo, in un’altra prigione, una calda mattina a Marsiglia.

“Lo giuro sotto la testimonianza di questi due pazzi,” disse Monsieur Blandois, che in realtà si chiamava Lagnier o Rigaud,“che mi vuoi, fratello mio. Ecco qui!”

Guardando con disprezzo intorno al letto, che durante il giorno era stato ribaltato, si appoggiò contro di esso per riposare, senza nemmeno togliersi il cappello dalla testa, e rimase lì in piedi, con le mani in tasca, in atteggiamento provocatorio.

“Tu, malvagio villano di cattivo auspicio!” disse Arthur. “Hai intenzionalmente gettato una terribile sospetta sulla casa di mia madre. Perché l’hai fatto? Che cosa ti ha spinto a inventare una tale calunnia?”

Monsieur Rigaud, dopo averlo fissato per un momento con espressione corrucciata, scoppiò a ridere. “Ascoltate questo nobile gentiluomo! Ascoltate tutti, questa creatura di Virtù. Ma fate attenzione: è possibile, mio caro amico, che il vostro entusiasmo sia un po’ troppo compromettente. Santo cielo, è davvero possibile.”

“Signore!” intervenne Cavalletto, rivolgendosi anche a Arthur: “Per cominciare, ascoltatemi! Ho ricevuto le vostre istruzioni di trovarlo, Rigaud; non è vero?”

“È la verità.”

“Vado, di conseguenza, ”, e avrebbe causato grande preoccupazione a Mrs Plornish se le fosse stato possibile convincere che questa abitudine del giovane di allungare occasionalmente gli avverbi in questo modo rappresentasse il principale difetto nella sua pronuncia dell’inglese, “Primo tra i miei connazionali. Chiedo loro quali notizie ci siano a Londra riguardo agli stranieri appena arrivati; poi mi avvicino ai francesi, poi ai tedeschi. Tutti mi dicono qualcosa. La maggior parte di noi conosce bene gli altri, e tutti mi forniscono informazioni. Ma, nessuno sa nulla su di lui, Rigaud. Quindici volte”, disse Cavalletto, aprendo tre volte la mano sinistra con tutti i dita distesi, in modo così rapido che lo sguardo faticava a seguirne i movimenti, “ho chiesto informazioni su di lui ovunque si radunassero gli stranieri. E quindici volte, nessuno sa nulla. Ma, ”

At this significant Italian rest on the word ‘But,’ his backhanded shake of his right forefinger came into play; a very little, and very cautiously.

‘But!—After a long time when I have not been able to find that he is here in Londra, some one tells me of a soldier with white hair—hey?—not hair like this that he carries—white—who lives retired secrettementally, in a certain place. But!—’ with another rest upon the word, ‘who sometimes in the after-dinner, walks, and smokes. It is necessary, as they say in Italy (and as they know, poor people), to have patience. I have patience. I ask where is this certain place. One. believes it is here, one believes it is there. Eh well! It is not here, it is not there. I wait patientissamentally. At last I find it. Then I watch; then I hide, until he walks and smokes. He is a soldier with grey hair—But!—’ a very decided rest indeed, and a very vigorous play from side to side of the back-handed forefinger—‘he is also this man that you see.’

It was noticeable, that, in his old habit of submission to one who had been at the trouble of asserting superiority over him, he even then bestowed upon Rigaud a confused bend of his head, after thus pointing him out.

‘Eh well, Signore!’ he cried in conclusion, addressing Arthur again. ‘I waited for a good opportunity. I writed some words to Signor Panco,’ an air of novelty came over Mr Pancks with this designation, ‘to come and help. I showed him, Rigaud, at his window, to Signor Panco, who was often the spy in the day. I slept at night near the door of the house. At last we entered, only this to-day, and now you see him! As he would not come up in presence of the illustrious Advocate,’ such was Mr Baptist’s honourable mention of Mr Rugg, ‘we waited down below there, together, and Signor Panco guarded the street.’

At the close of this recital, Arthur turned his eyes upon the impudent and wicked face. As it met his, the nose came down over the moustache and the moustache went up under the nose. When nose and moustache had settled into their places again, Monsieur Rigaud loudly snapped his fingers half-a-dozen times; bending forward to jerk the snaps at Arthur, as if they were palpable missiles which he jerked into his face.

‘Now, Philosopher!’ said Rigaud. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘I want to know,’ returned Arthur, without disguising his abhorrence, ‘how you dare direct a suspicion of murder against my mother’s house?’

‘Dare!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Ho, ho! Hear him! Dare? Is it dare? By Heaven, my small boy, but you are a little imprudent!’

‘I want that suspicion to be cleared away,’ said Arthur. ‘You shall be taken there, and be publicly seen. I want to know, moreover, what business you had there when I had a burning desire to fling you down-stairs. Don’t frown at me, man! I have seen enough of you to know that you are a bully and coward. I need no revival of my spirits from the effects of this wretched place to tell you so plain a fact, and one that you know so well.’

White to the lips, Rigaud stroked his moustache, muttering, ‘By Heaven, my small boy, but you are a little compromising of my lady, your respectable mother’—and seemed for a minute undecided how to act. His indecision was soon gone. He sat himself down with a threatening swagger, and said:

‘Give me a bottle of wine. You can buy wine here. Send one of your madmen to get me a bottle of wine. I won’t talk to you without wine. Come! Yes or no?’

‘Fetch him what he wants, Cavalletto,’ said Arthur, scornfully, producing the money.

‘Contraband beast,’ added Rigaud, ‘bring Port wine! I’ll drink nothing but Porto-Porto.’

The contraband beast, however, assuring all present, with his significant finger, that he peremptorily declined to leave his post at the door, Signor Panco offered his services. He soon returned with the bottle of wine: which, according to the custom of the place, originating in a scarcity of corkscrews among the Collegians (in common with a scarcity of much else), was already opened for use.

‘Madman! A large glass,’ said Rigaud.

Signor Panco put a tumbler before him; not without a visible conflict of feeling on the question of throwing it at his head.

‘Haha!’ boasted Rigaud. ‘Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman. A gentleman from the beginning, and a gentleman to the end. What the Devil! A gentleman must be waited on, I hope? It’s a part of my character to be waited on!’

He half filled the tumbler as he said it, and drank off the contents when he had done saying it.

‘Hah!’ smacking his lips. ‘Not a very old prisoner that! I judge by your looks, brave sir, that imprisonment will subdue your blood much sooner than it softens this hot wine. You are mellowing—losing body and colour already. I salute you!’

He tossed off another half glass: holding it up both before and afterwards, so as to display his small, white hand.

‘To business,’ he then continued. ‘To conversation. You have shown yourself more free of speech than body, sir.’

‘I have used the freedom of telling you what you know yourself to be. You know yourself, as we all know you, to be far worse than that.’

‘Add, always a gentleman, and it’s no matter. Except in that regard, we are all alike. For example: you couldn’t for your life be a gentleman; I couldn’t for my life be otherwise. How great the difference! Let us go on. Words, sir, never influence the course of the cards, or the course of the dice. Do you know that? You do? I also play a game, and words are without power over it.’

Now that he was confronted with Cavalletto, and knew that his story was known—whatever thin disguise he had worn, he dropped; and faced it out, with a bare face, as the infamous wretch he was.

‘No, my son,’ he resumed, with a snap of his fingers. ‘I play my game to the end in spite of words; and Death of my Body and Death of my Soul! I’ll win it. You want to know why I played this little trick that you have interrupted? Know then that I had, and that I have—do you understand me? have—a commodity to sell to my lady your respectable mother. I described my precious commodity, and fixed my price. Touching the bargain, your admirable mother was a little too calm, too stolid, too immovable and statue-like. In fine, your admirable mother vexed me. To make variety in my position, and to amuse myself—what! a gentleman must be amused at somebody’s expense!—I conceived the happy idea of disappearing. An idea, see you, that your characteristic mother and my Flintwinch would have been well enough pleased to execute. Ah! Bah, bah, bah, don’t look as from high to low at me! I repeat it. Well enough pleased, excessively enchanted, and with all their hearts ravished. How strongly will you have it?’

In questo momento cruciale in italiano, la parola “Ma” fu sottolineata con un gesto del dito indice destro, molto leggero e molto cauto.

“Ma, – Dopo tanto tempo in cui non sono riuscita a scoprire che si trovi qui a Londra, qualcuno mi parla di un soldato con i capelli bianchi, eh? Non quei capelli bianchi che lui ha, ma capelli veramente bianchi, che vive in ritiro, in segreto, in un certo posto. Ma,!” Con un’altra pausa, “che a volte, dopo cena, va a fare una passeggiata e fuma. Bisogna avere pazienza, come dicono in Italia (e come sanno bene i poveri, ) Ho pazienza. Chiedo dove si trovi questo posto. Alcuni credono che sia qui, altri che sia là. Eh. Non è né qui né là. Aspetto con grande pazienza. Alla fine lo scopro. Poi lo osservo. Poi mi nascondo, fino a quando non esce per fare una passeggiata e fumare. È un soldato con i capelli grigi. Ma,!” Un’altra pausa decisa, accompagnata da un movimento vigoroso del dito indice, “È proprio quell’uomo che vedete, ”

Era evidente che, nella sua vecchia abitudine di sottomettersi a chi si era preso la briga di dimostrargli la propria superiorità, anche in quel momento fece un gesto confuso con la testa verso Rigaud, dopo averlo indicato in quel modo.

“Ebbene, Signore!” esclamò alla fine, rivolgendosi di nuovo a Arthur. “Ho aspettato l’occasione giusta. Ho scritto alcune parole al signor Panco, affinché venisse ad aiutarci. Gli ho mostrato, insieme a Rigaud, il signor Panco alla sua finestra; lui spesso agiva da spia durante il giorno. Di notte dormivo vicino alla porta di quella casa. Finalmente siamo entrati oggi stesso, e ora lo vedete qui!” “Poiché non voleva presentarsi davanti all’illustre Avvocato,” così il signor Baptist menzionò onorevolmente il signor Rugg, “abbiamo aspettato tutti insieme laggiù sotto. E il signor Panco teneva d’occhio la strada.”

Alla fine di questo recital, Arthur fissò quel volto impudente e malvagio. Non appena i loro sguardi si incrociarono, il naso di Monsieur Rigaud si abbassò sopra la barba, che a sua volta si sollevò sotto il naso. Quando entrambi furono tornati nella loro posizione originale, Monsieur Rigaud schioccò le dita ad alta voce per sei volte; poi si chinò in avanti e fece scattare quei suoni verso Arthur, come se fossero proiettili reali che stava lanciando contro di lui.

“Ora, Filosofo!”, disse Rigaud. “Cosa vuoi da me?”

“Voglio saperlo,” rispose Arthur, senza nascondere il proprio disgusto,
“come osi lanciare accuse di omicidio contro la casa di mia madre?”

“Coraggio!” gridò Rigaud. “Ce l’ho, ce l’ho! Sentite! Coraggio. È davvero coraggio? Per Dio, mio piccolo ragazzo, ma sei un po’ troppo imprudente!”

“Voglio che quel sospetto venga dissipato,” disse Arthur. “Vi porteranno lì e vi faranno vedere in pubblico. Inoltre, voglio sapere quale fosse la vostra ragione per essere lì, quando io avevo un desiderio ardente di gettarvi giù dalle scale. Non guardatemi con quel cipiglio, uomo! Ho visto abbastanza di voi da capire che siete un bullo e un codardo. Non ho bisogno che questo posto maledetto mi rinvigorisca per dirvi una verità così evidente, una verità che voi stesso conoscete molto bene.”

Con le labbra pallide, Rigaud si accarezzò la barba mormorando: “Per Dio, mio piccolo ragazzo, ma stai davvero mettendo in imbarazzo mia signora, tua rispettabile madre” – e per un momento sembrò indeciso su cosa fare. La sua indecisione durò poco. Si sedette con aria minacciosa e disse:

“Dammi una bottiglia di vino. Puoi comprarlo qui. Manda uno dei tuoi pazzi a prendermi una bottiglia di vino. Non parlerò con te senza vino. Vieni! Sì o no?”

“Dagli quello che vuole, Cavalletto,” disse Arthur con disprezzo, estraendo i soldi.

“Bestia del contrabbando,” aggiunse Rigaud, “portami il vino di Porto! Non berò altro che Porto-Porto.”

Tuttavia, quella “bestia del contrabbando”, con il suo dito indice che sembrava indicare con decisione il rifiuto di lasciare la sua postazione alla porta, assicurò tutti i presenti della sua ferma intenzione di rimanere lì. Signor Panco allora si offrì di aiutare; poco dopo tornò con la bottiglia di vino: che, secondo le usanze del luogo – dovute alla scarsità di cavatappi tra i membri del Collegio (così come a molte altre carenze) – era già stata aperta e pronta all’uso.

“Pazzo! Un bicchiere grande,” disse Rigaud.

Il signor Panco mise davanti a sé un bicchiere; non senza un evidente conflitto interiore riguardo al fatto di gettarlo sulla sua testa.

“Ahah!” si vantò Rigaud. “Un gentiluomo una volta, e sempre un gentiluomo. Un gentiluomo dall’inizio alla fine. Accidenti! Un gentiluomo merita di essere servito, vero? È proprio nella mia natura essere servito, ”

Mentre lo diceva, riempì a metà il bicchiere e poi bevve tutto il contenuto non appena finì di parlare.

‘Ahah!’ disse, schioccando le labbra. ‘Non è un prigioniero molto anziano, vero? A giudicare dal tuo aspetto, nobile signore, credo che questa prigione dominerà il tuo sangue molto prima che raffreddi questo vino caldo. Stai invecchiando. Il tuo corpo e il tuo colore stanno già cambiando. Ti saluto!’

Bevve un altro mezzo bicchiere: lo tenne in mano prima e dopo, per mostrare la sua piccola mano bianca.

“Al lavoro, allora,” continuò. “Alla conversazione. Avete dimostrato di essere molto più loquace del vostro -corpo, signore.”

“Ho utilizzato la libertà di dirvi ciò che voi stessi sapete di essere. Voi sapete di essere, proprio come tutti noi sappiamo, molto peggio di così.”

‘Add, che è sempre un gentiluomo, non importa. Tranne in quel senso, siamo tutti uguali. Ad esempio: tu non potresti mai essere un gentiluomo; io, invece, non potrei mai essere altro che ciò che sono. Che grande differenza! Andiamo avanti. Le parole, signore, non influenzano mai il risultato di un gioco a carte o dei dadi. Lo sai? Sì? Anch’io gioco, e le parole non hanno alcun potere su di esso.’

Ora che si trovava di fronte a Cavalletto e sapeva che la sua storia era nota, abbandonò ogni tipo di mascheramento e affrontò la situazione con il suo vero volto, come quel miserabile infame che realmente era.

“No, figlio mio,” riprese lui, schioccando le dita. “Gioco la mia partita fino in fondo, nonostante tutto; e che sia la Morte del mio Corpo o della mia Anima. La vincerò! Vuoi sapere perché ho fatto quel piccolo trucco che hai interrotto? Allora sappi che avevo, e che ho ancora, una merce da vendere a tua madre, la tua rispettabile madre. Ho descritto questa “merce preziosa” e ne ho fissato il prezzo. Quando si è trattato di concludere l’accordo, tua madre è stata un po’ troppo calma, troppo impassibile. Insomma, mi ha infastidito. Per variare un po’ la situazione e per divertirmi, beh, un gentiluomo deve pur divertirsi a spese di qualcuno, ho avuto l’idea geniale di scomparire. Un’idea, capisci, che tua madre e il mio Flintwinch avrebbero sicuramente trovato molto piacevole da attuare. Ah! Bah, bah, bah. Non guardarmi con quel tono sprezzante! Ripeto: li avrebbe davvero divertiti moltissimo. E tu, quanto desideri che io scompaia?”

He threw out the lees of his glass on the ground, so that they nearly spattered Cavalletto. This seemed to draw his attention to him anew. He set down his glass and said:

‘I’ll not fill it. What! I am born to be served. Come then, you Cavalletto, and fill!’

The little man looked at Clennam, whose eyes were occupied with Rigaud, and, seeing no prohibition, got up from the ground, and poured out from the bottle into the glass. The blending, as he did so, of his old submission with a sense of something humorous; the striving of that with a certain smouldering ferocity, which might have flashed fire in an instant (as the born gentleman seemed to think, for he had a wary eye upon him); and the easy yielding of all to a good-natured, careless, predominant propensity to sit down on the ground again: formed a very remarkable combination of character.

‘This happy idea, brave sir,’ Rigaud resumed after drinking, ‘was a happy idea for several reasons. It amused me, it worried your dear mama and my Flintwinch, it caused you agonies (my terms for a lesson in politeness towards a gentleman), and it suggested to all the amiable persons interested that your entirely devoted is a man to fear. By Heaven, he is a man to fear! Beyond this; it might have restored her wit to my lady your mother—might, under the pressing little suspicion your wisdom has recognised, have persuaded her at last to announce, covertly, in the journals, that the difficulties of a certain contract would be removed by the appearance of a certain important party to it. Perhaps yes, perhaps no. But that, you have interrupted. Now, what is it you say? What is it you want?’

Never had Clennam felt more acutely that he was a prisoner in bonds, than when he saw this man before him, and could not accompany him to his mother’s house. All the undiscernible difficulties and dangers he had ever feared were closing in, when he could not stir hand or foot.

‘Perhaps, my friend, philosopher, man of virtue, Imbecile, what you will; perhaps,’ said Rigaud, pausing in his drink to look out of his glass with his horrible smile, ‘you would have done better to leave me alone?’

‘No! At least,’ said Clennam, ‘you are known to be alive and unharmed. At least you cannot escape from these two witnesses; and they can produce you before any public authorities, or before hundreds of people!’

‘But will not produce me before one,’ said Rigaud, snapping his fingers again with an air of triumphant menace. ‘To the Devil with your witnesses! To the Devil with your produced! To the Devil with yourself! What! Do I know what I know, for that? Have I my commodity on sale, for that? Bah, poor debtor! You have interrupted my little project. Let it pass. How then? What remains? To you, nothing; to me, all. Produce me! Is that what you want? I will produce myself, only too quickly. Contrabandist! Give me pen, ink, and paper.’

Cavalletto got up again as before, and laid them before him in his former manner. Rigaud, after some villainous thinking and smiling, wrote, and read aloud, as follows:

‘To MRS CLENNAM.

‘Wait answer.

‘Prison of the Marshalsea. ‘At the apartment of your son.

‘Dear Madam,

‘I am in despair to be informed to-day by our prisoner here (who has had the goodness to employ spies to seek me, living for politic reasons in retirement), that you have had fears for my safety.

‘Reassure yourself, dear madam. I am well, I am strong and constant.

‘With the greatest impatience I should fly to your house, but that I foresee it to be possible, under the circumstances, that you will not yet have quite definitively arranged the little proposition I have had the honour to submit to you. I name one week from this day, for a last final visit on my part; when you will unconditionally accept it or reject it, with its train of consequences.

‘I suppress my ardour to embrace you and achieve this interesting business, in order that you may have leisure to adjust its details to our perfect mutual satisfaction.

‘In the meanwhile, it is not too much to propose (our prisoner having deranged my housekeeping), that my expenses of lodging and nourishment at an hotel shall be paid by you.

‘Receive, dear madam, the assurance of my highest and most distinguished consideration,

‘RIGAUD BLANDOIS.

‘A thousand friendships to that dear Flintwinch.

‘I kiss the hands of Madame F.’

When he had finished this epistle, Rigaud folded it and tossed it with a flourish at Clennam’s feet. ‘Hola you! Apropos of producing, let somebody produce that at its address, and produce the answer here.’

‘Cavalletto,’ said Arthur. ‘Will you take this fellow’s letter?’

But, Cavalletto’s significant finger again expressing that his post was at the door to keep watch over Rigaud, now he had found him with so much trouble, and that the duty of his post was to sit on the floor backed up by the door, looking at Rigaud and holding his own ankles,—Signor Panco once more volunteered. His services being accepted, Cavalletto suffered the door to open barely wide enough to admit of his squeezing himself out, and immediately shut it on him.

‘Touch me with a finger, touch me with an epithet, question my superiority as I sit here drinking my wine at my pleasure,’ said Rigaud, ‘and I follow the letter and cancel my week’s grace. You wanted me? You have got me! How do you like me?’

‘You know,’ returned Clennam, with a bitter sense of his helplessness, ‘that when I sought you, I was not a prisoner.’

‘To the Devil with you and your prison,’ retorted Rigaud, leisurely, as he took from his pocket a case containing the materials for making cigarettes, and employed his facile hands in folding a few for present use; ‘I care for neither of you. Contrabandist! A light.’

Again Cavalletto got up, and gave him what he wanted. There had been something dreadful in the noiseless skill of his cold, white hands, with the fingers lithely twisting about and twining one over another like serpents. Clennam could not prevent himself from shuddering inwardly, as if he had been looking on at a nest of those creatures.

Gettò via i sedimenti del suo bicchiere a terra, tanto che quasi schizzarono addosso a Cavalletto. Questo sembrò attirare di nuovo la sua attenzione su di lui. Posò il bicchiere e disse:

“Non lo riempirò. Che cosa? Sono nato per essere servito. Allora vieni tu, Cavalletto, e riempilo!”

Il piccolo uomo guardò Clennam, i cui occhi erano fissi su Rigaud; non vedendo alcuna proibizione, si alzò da terra e versò il contenuto della bottiglia nel bicchiere. Il modo in cui mescolava la sua vecchia sottomissione con un senso di umorismo; lo sforzo che faceva per controllare quella sottomissione, unito a una certa ferocia repressa che avrebbe potuto esplodere in un istante (come sembrava pensare Clennam, che lo osservava con attenzione); e la facilità con cui tutto ciò si arrendeva a una natura gentile, spensierata e incline a sedersi di nuovo a terra: formavano davvero una combinazione molto straordinaria di carattere.

“Questa idea felice, nobile signore,” riprese Rigaud dopo aver bevuto, “è stata davvero una buona idea per diversi motivi: mi ha divertito, ha preoccupato vostra cara madre e il mio Flintwinch, vi ha causato sofferenze, (parole mie per descrivere una lezione di educazione verso un gentiluomo), e ha fatto capire a tutte le persone interessate che il vostro fedele servitore è davvero un uomo da temere. Per Dio, è davvero un uomo da temere! Inoltre, forse avrebbe potuto restituire la lucidità a vostra madre: magari, sotto quella sospetta che voi stessi avete intuito, l’avrebbe convinta finalmente ad annunciare, in modo discreto, sui giornali, che le difficoltà legate a un certo contratto sarebbero state risolte con l’arrivo di una certa persona importante. Forse sì, forse no. Ma ora, interrompetemi: cosa dite? Cosa volete?”

Nessuna volta prima Clennam aveva avuto la netta consapevolezza di essere prigioniero di vincoli e restrizioni, quanto quando vide quell’uomo davanti a sé e non poté accompagnarlo alla casa di sua madre. Tutte le difficoltà e i pericoli che aveva sempre temuto sembravano avvicinarsi, mentre lui era completamente impotente.

“Forse, mio amico, filosofo, uomo di virtù. Idiota, quello che vuoi tu; forse,” disse Rigaud, fermandosi per un attimo mentre beveva e guardando fuori dal bicchiere con quel suo orribile sorriso, “sarebbe stato meglio lasciarmi da solo, ”

“No! Almeno,” disse Clennam, “si sa che sei vivo e illeso. Almeno non puoi sfuggire a questi due testimoni; e loro possono farti comparire davanti a qualsiasi autorità pubblica, o davanti a centinaia di persone!”

“Ma non mi farai comparire davanti a nessuno,” disse Rigaud, facendo di nuovo schioccare le dita con un tono minaccioso e trionfante. “Al Diavolo i vostri testimoni! Al Diavolo tutto ciò che avete prodotto! Al Diavolo anche voi stesso! Cosa? Per questo so ciò che so? Per questo il mio ‘prodotto’ è in vendita? Bah, povero debitore. Avete interrotto il mio piccolo progetto. Lasciamo perdere. Allora, cosa resta? Per voi, nulla; per me, tutto. Fatemi comparire! È questo che volete? Io mi farò apparire, molto volentieri. Contrabbandiere! Datemi penna, inchiostro e carta.”

Cavalletto si alzò di nuovo come prima e li dispose davanti a sé nel solito modo. Rigaud, dopo alcuni pensieri malvagi e con un sorriso, scrisse e lesse ad alta voce quanto segue:

“A MADAMA CLENNAM.”

“Aspetta la risposta.”

“La ‘prigione’ di Marshalsea. Nell’appartamento di vostro figlio.”

“Carissima signora,”

“Sono nel dispero quando oggi il nostro prigioniero qui (ha avuto la gentilezza di assumere spie per cercarmi, essendo costretto a vivere in ritiro per motivi politici) mi ha informato che avete temuto per la mia sicurezza.”

“Rassicuratevi, cara signora. Sto bene, sono forte e costante.”

Con la massima impazienza volerei subito da te a casa tua, ma temo che, date le circostanze attuali, tu non abbia ancora definitivamente deciso riguardo alla proposta che ho avuto l’onore di farti. Indico quindi una settimana da oggi come termine ultimo per la mia visita; dopo quel periodo accetterai incondizionatamente o rifiuterai questa proposta, con tutte le sue conseguenze.

“Trattengo il mio entusiasmo per abbracciarti e portare a termine questa interessante faccenda, affinché tu possa avere il tempo necessario per sistemarne i dettagli in modo che soddisfi appieno entrambi.”

“Nel frattempo, non è troppo chiedere che le mie spese di alloggio e vitto in hotel siano pagate da voi, visto che il nostro prigioniero ha messo sottosopra la mia organizzazione domestica.”

“Riceva, cara signora, l’espressione della mia più alta e distinta considerazione.”

‘RIGAUD BLANDOIS.’

“Mille amicizie a quel caro Flintwinch.”

“Bacio le mani di Madame F.”

Dopo aver terminato questa lettera, Rigaud la piegò e la gettò con un gesto teatrale ai piedi di Clennam. “Ehi tu! A proposito della produzione, che qualcuno si occupi di inviarla al destinatario e di ricevere qui la risposta.”

“Cavalletto,” disse Arthur. “Prenderai la lettera di questo ragazzo?”

Ma il dito significativo di Cavalletto indicava ancora una volta che la sua postazione era proprio alla porta, per tenere d’occhio Rigaud. Ora che lo aveva trovato in tanta difficoltà, il compito della sua postazione consisteva nel sedersi a terra, appoggiato alla porta, a guardare Rigaud e tenersi le caviglie. Signor Panco si offrì di nuovo volontario. Dopo che la sua proposta fu accettata, Cavalletto fece aprire la porta solo quanto bastava perché potesse strisciare fuori, e poi la richiusero immediatamente alle sue spalle.

“Toccatemi anche solo con un dito, insultatemi, mettete in discussione la mia superiorità mentre sono qui a bere il mio vino secondo i miei desideri,” disse Rigaud, “e io seguirò le regole e annullerò la grazia che mi era stata concessa per una settimana. Voi mi volevate? Ora mi avete. Come vi piaccio?”

“Lo sai,” rispose Clennam, con un amaro senso di impotenza,
“che quando ti cercai, non ero prigioniero.”

“Al diavolo tu e la tua prigione”, ribatté con calma Rigaud, mentre tirava fuori dalla tasca una scatola contenente il materiale per fare sigarette; con abilità ne preparò alcune da fumare subito. “Non mi interessa nessuno dei due. Contrabbandiere! Dammi una sigaretta.”

Di nuovo Cavalletto si alzò e gli diede ciò che voleva. C’era qualcosa di terribile nella destrezza silenziosa delle sue mani fredde e bianche, con le dita che si contorcevano agilmente l’una intorno all’altra come serpenti. Clennam non poté fare a meno di tremare interiormente, come se stesse osservando un nido di quelle creature.

‘Hola, Pig!’ cried Rigaud, with a noisy stimulating cry, as if Cavalletto were an Italian horse or mule. ‘What! The infernal old jail was a respectable one to this. There was dignity in the bars and stones of that place. It was a prison for men. But this? Bah! A hospital for imbeciles!’

He smoked his cigarette out, with his ugly smile so fixed upon his face that he looked as though he were smoking with his drooping beak of a nose, rather than with his mouth; like a fancy in a weird picture. When he had lighted a second cigarette at the still burning end of the first, he said to Clennam:

‘One must pass the time in the madman’s absence. One must talk. One can’t drink strong wine all day long, or I would have another bottle. She’s handsome, sir. Though not exactly to my taste, still, by the Thunder and the Lightning! handsome. I felicitate you on your admiration.’

‘I neither know nor ask,’ said Clennam, ‘of whom you speak.’

‘Della bella Gowana, sir, as they say in Italy. Of the Gowan, the fair Gowan.’

‘Of whose husband you were the—follower, I think?’

‘Sir? Follower? You are insolent. The friend.’

‘Do you sell all your friends?’

Rigaud took his cigarette from his mouth, and eyed him with a momentary revelation of surprise. But he put it between his lips again, as he answered with coolness:

‘I sell anything that commands a price. How do your lawyers live, your politicians, your intriguers, your men of the Exchange? How do you live? How do you come here? Have you sold no friend? Lady of mine! I rather think, yes!’

Clennam turned away from him towards the window, and sat looking out at the wall.

‘Effectively, sir,’ said Rigaud, ‘Society sells itself and sells me: and I sell Society. I perceive you have acquaintance with another lady. Also handsome. A strong spirit. Let us see. How do they call her? Wade.’

He received no answer, but could easily discern that he had hit the mark.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘that handsome lady and strong spirit addresses me in the street, and I am not insensible. I respond. That handsome lady and strong spirit does me the favour to remark, in full confidence, “I have my curiosity, and I have my chagrins. You are not more than ordinarily honourable, perhaps?” I announce myself, “Madame, a gentleman from the birth, and a gentleman to the death; but not more than ordinarily honourable. I despise such a weak fantasy.” Thereupon she is pleased to compliment. “The difference between you and the rest is,” she answers, “that you say so.” For she knows Society. I accept her congratulations with gallantry and politeness. Politeness and little gallantries are inseparable from my character. She then makes a proposition, which is, in effect, that she has seen us much together; that it appears to her that I am for the passing time the cat of the house, the friend of the family; that her curiosity and her chagrins awaken the fancy to be acquainted with their movements, to know the manner of their life, how the fair Gowana is beloved, how the fair Gowana is cherished, and so on. She is not rich, but offers such and such little recompenses for the little cares and derangements of such services; and I graciously—to do everything graciously is a part of my character—consent to accept them. O yes! So goes the world. It is the mode.’

Though Clennam’s back was turned while he spoke, and thenceforth to the end of the interview, he kept those glittering eyes of his that were too near together, upon him, and evidently saw in the very carriage of the head, as he passed with his braggart recklessness from clause to clause of what he said, that he was saying nothing which Clennam did not already know.

‘Whoof! The fair Gowana!’ he said, lighting a third cigarette with a sound as if his lightest breath could blow her away. ‘Charming, but imprudent! For it was not well of the fair Gowana to make mysteries of letters from old lovers, in her bedchamber on the mountain, that her husband might not see them. No, no. That was not well. Whoof! The Gowana was mistaken there.’

‘I earnestly hope,’ cried Arthur aloud, ‘that Pancks may not be long gone, for this man’s presence pollutes the room.’

‘Ah! But he’ll flourish here, and everywhere,’ said Rigaud, with an exulting look and snap of his fingers. ‘He always has; he always will!’ Stretching his body out on the only three chairs in the room besides that on which Clennam sat, he sang, smiting himself on the breast as the gallant personage of the song.

‘Who passes by this road so late? Compagnon de la Majolaine! Who passes by this road so late? Always gay!

‘Sing the Refrain, pig! You could sing it once, in another jail. Sing it! Or, by every Saint who was stoned to death, I’ll be affronted and compromising; and then some people who are not dead yet, had better have been stoned along with them!’

‘Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Compagnon de la Majolaine! Of all the king’s knights ‘tis the flower, Always gay!’

Partly in his old habit of submission, partly because his not doing it might injure his benefactor, and partly because he would as soon do it as anything else, Cavalletto took up the Refrain this time. Rigaud laughed, and fell to smoking with his eyes shut.

Possibly another quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr Pancks’s step was heard upon the stairs, but the interval seemed to Clennam insupportably long. His step was attended by another step; and when Cavalletto opened the door, he admitted Mr Pancks and Mr Flintwinch. The latter was no sooner visible, than Rigaud rushed at him and embraced him boisterously.

‘How do you find yourself, sir?’ said Mr Flintwinch, as soon as he could disengage himself, which he struggled to do with very little ceremony. ‘Thank you, no; I don’t want any more.’ This was in reference to another menace of attention from his recovered friend. ‘Well, Arthur. You remember what I said to you about sleeping dogs and missing ones. It’s come true, you see.’

“Salve, Pig!” gridò Rigaud con un urlo forte e eccitato, come se Cavalletto fosse un cavallo o un mulo italiano. “Ma che cosa. Quella vecchia prigione infernale era almeno rispettabile; c’era dignità nelle sbarre e nelle pietre di quel posto. Era una prigione per uomini. Ma questa? Bah! È solo un ospedale per idioti!”

Finì di fumare la sua sigaretta, con quel suo brutto sorriso fisso sul viso, tanto che sembrava stesse fumando con il suo naso pendulo, piuttosto che con la bocca; come un’immagine strana in un dipinto bizzarro. Quando accese una seconda sigaretta utilizzando l’estremità ancora ardente della prima, disse a Clennam:

‘Si deve passare il tempo in assenza di quel pazzo. Si deve parlare. Non si può bere vino forte tutto il giorno, altrimenti ne ordinerei un’altra bottiglia. È bella, signore. Anche se non proprio secondo i miei gusti. Comunque, per il Tuono e la Luce! È davvero bella. Congratulo voi per la vostra ammirazione.’

“Non so né chiedo di chi stiate parlando,” disse Clennam.

“Di quella bellissima Gowana, signore, come si dice in Italia. La bella Gowan.”

“Di quale marito eri tu la seguace, giusto?”

“Signore? Seguace? Siete irrispettoso. L’amico.”

“Vendi tutti i tuoi amici?”

Rigaud tolse la sigaretta dalla bocca e lo guardò con un momento di sorpresa. Ma poi se la rimise tra le labbra e rispose con calma:

“Vendo qualsiasi cosa abbia un prezzo. Come vivono i vostri avvocati, i vostri politici, i vostri intrighisti, gli uomini della Borsa? Come fate a vivere? Come siete arrivati qui? Non avete mai venduto nessun amico. Mia signora! Credo proprio di sì, ”

Clennam si allontanò da lui e si avvicinò alla finestra, sedendosi a guardare fuori, verso il muro.

“Effettivamente, signore,” disse Rigaud, “la Società si vende e mi vende; e io vendo la Società. Noto che lei conosce un’altra signora. Anche lei bella, dal carattere forte. Vediamo. Come si chiama? Wade.”

Non ricevette alcuna risposta, ma capì facilmente di aver colpito nel segno giusto.

“Sì,” continuò, “quella bella signora e quel forte carattere mi parlano per strada, e io non sono insensibile. Rispondo loro. Quella bella signora e quel forte carattere hanno la gentilezza di dirmi, con piena fiducia: ‘Ho le mie curiosità, e ho i miei dispiaceri. Lei non è certo più onorevole del solito, vero?’ Io mi presento: ‘Madame, un gentiluomo per nascita, e un gentiluomo fino alla morte. Ma non certo più onorevole del solito. Disprezzo simili vanità deboli.’ Allora lei è felice di complimentarmi. ‘La differenza tra lei e gli altri,’ risponde, ‘è che lei lo ammette apertamente.’ Perché lei conosce bene la società. Accetto i suoi complimenti con galanteria e cortesia. La cortesia e le piccole galanterie fanno parte del mio carattere. Poi lei mi fa una proposta: in sostanza, dice che ci ha visti spesso insieme; che a suo parere io sono, per il momento, l’amico di famiglia, colui che partecipa alle loro attività quotidiane. Che la sua curiosità e i suoi dispiaceri le fanno desiderare di conoscere meglio le loro abitudini, come viene amata quella bella Gowana, come viene coccolata. Non è ricca, ma offre piccole ricompense in cambio dei miei piccoli sforzi. E io accetto gentilmente. Far tutto con gentilezza fa parte del mio carattere. Oh sì. Così va il mondo. È questa la regola.”

Anche se Clennam aveva il dorso rivolto mentre parlava, e per tutta la durata dell’intervista, continuò a fissarlo con quegli occhi scintillanti, troppo vicini tra loro; evidentemente, nel modo in cui muoveva la testa mentre pronunciava con quella sua arrogante noncuranza le varie frasi, capiva che non stava dicendo nulla di nuovo per Clennam.

“Uff! La bella Gowana, ”, disse, accendendo la terza sigaretta con un gesto che sembrava indicare quanto fosse fragile e potesse essere distrutta anche dal minimo soffio. “Deliziosa, ma imprudente. Non era affatto giusto da parte della bella Gowana nascondere lettere degli antichi suoi amanti nella sua camera da letto, in montagna, per evitare che suo marito le vedesse. No, no. Quello non era affatto corretto.” Uff! La Gowana aveva commesso un errore grave.

“Spero davvero”, gridò ad alta voce Arthur, “che Pancks non sia andato via da molto, perché la presenza di quest’uomo contamina questa stanza.”

“Ah! Ma qui e ovunque fiorirà,” disse Rigaud con uno sguardo esultante e schioccando le dita. “Sempre lo ha fatto; sempre lo farà!” Allungandosi sulle uniche tre sedie presenti nella stanza, oltre a quella su cui sedeva Clennam, cantò battendosi il petto come il nobile personaggio della canzone.

“Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?
Compagno di Majolaine. Chi passa per questa strada a quest’ora tarda?
Sempre allegro, sempre felice, ”

“Canta il ritornello, maiale! Potresti cantarlo anche in un’altra prigione. Canta! Altrimenti, per tutti i Santi che sono stati lapidati a morte, io sarò costretto ad arrendermi e a compromettermi; e allora, alcuni di quelli che ancora non sono morti avrebbero fatto meglio ad essere lapidati insieme a loro!”

“Di tutti i cavalieri del re, è proprio lui il fiore, Il compagno di Majolaine! Di tutti i cavalieri del re, è proprio lui il fiore, Sempre allegro!”

In parte a causa della sua vecchia abitudine di sottomissione, in parte perché non farlo avrebbe potuto nuocere al suo benefattore, e in parte perché gli sarebbe piaciuto farlo tanto quanto qualsiasi altra cosa, Cavalletto accettò di riprendere il ruolo del “Refrain” questa volta. Rigaud rise e si mise a fumare con gli occhi chiusi.

Probabilmente trascorse un altro quarto d’ora prima che si sentissero i passi di Mr Pancks sulle scale, ma quel lasso di tempo sembrò a Clennam insopportabilmente lungo. Ai passi di Mr Pancks ne seguirono altri; quando Cavalletto aprì la porta, fece entrare Mr Pancks e Mr Flintwinch. Non appena quest’ultimo comparve, Rigaud gli corse incontro e lo abbracciò con entusiasmo.

“Come state, signore?” disse il signor Flintwinch non appena riuscì a liberarsi, cosa che fece con notevole sforzo e senza troppi formalismi. “Grazie, no; non ne voglio più.” Si riferiva a un’altra minaccia di attenzioni da parte del suo amico ormai guarito. “Beh, Arthur. Vi ricordate quello che vi ho detto riguardo ai cani che dormono e a quelli che si perdono? Si è avverato, vedete.”

He was as imperturbable as ever, to all appearance, and nodded his head in a moralising way as he looked round the room.

‘And this is the Marshalsea prison for debt!’ said Mr Flintwinch. ‘Hah! you have brought your pigs to a very indifferent market, Arthur.’

If Arthur had patience, Rigaud had not. He took his little Flintwinch, with fierce playfulness, by the two lapels of his coat, and cried:

‘To the Devil with the Market, to the Devil with the Pigs, and to the Devil with the Pig-Driver! Now! Give me the answer to my letter.’

‘If you can make it convenient to let go a moment, sir,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘I’ll first hand Mr Arthur a little note that I have for him.’

He did so. It was in his mother’s maimed writing, on a slip of paper, and contained only these words:

‘I hope it is enough that you have ruined yourself. Rest contented without more ruin. Jeremiah Flintwinch is my messenger and representative. Your affectionate M. C.’

Clennam read this twice, in silence, and then tore it to pieces. Rigaud in the meanwhile stepped into a chair, and sat himself on the back with his feet upon the seat.

‘Now, Beau Flintwinch,’ he said, when he had closely watched the note to its destruction, ‘the answer to my letter?’

‘Mrs Clennam did not write, Mr Blandois, her hands being cramped, and she thinking it as well to send it verbally by me.’ Mr Flintwinch screwed this out of himself, unwillingly and rustily. ‘She sends her compliments, and says she doesn’t on the whole wish to term you unreasonable, and that she agrees. But without prejudicing the appointment that stands for this day week.’

Monsieur Rigaud, after indulging in a fit of laughter, descended from his throne, saying, ‘Good! I go to seek an hotel!’ But, there his eyes encountered Cavalletto, who was still at his post.

‘Come, Pig,’ he added, ‘I have had you for a follower against my will; now, I’ll have you against yours. I tell you, my little reptiles, I am born to be served. I demand the service of this contrabandist as my domestic until this day week.’

In answer to Cavalletto’s look of inquiry, Clennam made him a sign to go; but he added aloud, ‘unless you are afraid of him.’ Cavalletto replied with a very emphatic finger-negative.’No, master, I am not afraid of him, when I no more keep it secrettementally that he was once my comrade.’ Rigaud took no notice of either remark until he had lighted his last cigarette and was quite ready for walking.

‘Afraid of him,’ he said then, looking round upon them all. ‘Whoof! My children, my babies, my little dolls, you are all afraid of him. You give him his bottle of wine here; you give him meat, drink, and lodging there; you dare not touch him with a finger or an epithet. No. It is his character to triumph! Whoof!

‘Of all the king’s knights he’s the flower, And he’s always gay!’

With this adaptation of the Refrain to himself, he stalked out of the room closely followed by Cavalletto, whom perhaps he had pressed into his service because he tolerably well knew it would not be easy to get rid of him. Mr Flintwinch, after scraping his chin, and looking about with caustic disparagement of the Pig-Market, nodded to Arthur, and followed. Mr Pancks, still penitent and depressed, followed too; after receiving with great attention a secret word or two of instructions from Arthur, and whispering back that he would see this affair out, and stand by it to the end. The prisoner, with the feeling that he was more despised, more scorned and repudiated, more helpless, altogether more miserable and fallen than before, was left alone again.

Era, come sempre, del tutto imperturbabile; annuì in modo moralizzante mentre guardava intorno alla stanza.

“E questa è la prigione di Marshalsea per i debitori!” disse il signor Flintwinch. “Ah! Avete portato i vostri maiali in un mercato davvero poco interessante, Arthur.”

Se Arthur avesse avuto pazienza, Rigaud invece no. Prese il suo piccolo attrezzo, Flintwinch, e, con grande spirito giocoso, afferrò i due colletti del suo cappotto, gridando:

“All’inferno il mercato, all’inferno i maiali, e all’inferno anche chi li guida! Ora! Dammi la risposta alla mia lettera.”

“Se potesse concedermi un momento per consegnare questa nota al signor Arthur, la pregherei,” rispose il signor Flintwinch. “Si tratta di una comunicazione personale che ho per lui.”

Lo fece. Era scritto nella grafia distorta di sua madre, su un foglietto di carta, e conteneva soltanto queste parole:

“Spero sia sufficiente che tu ti sia rovinato da solo. Accontentati di questa distruzione, senza ulteriori danni. Jeremiah Flintwinch è il mio messaggero e rappresentante. Il tuo affezionatissimo M.C.”

Clennam lesse queste parole due volte, in silenzio, poi le strappò in pezzi. Nel frattempo, Rigaud si avvicinò a una sedia, vi si sedette con la schiena appoggiata allo schienale e i piedi posati sul sedile stesso.

“Ora, Beau Flintwinch,” disse lui, dopo aver osservato attentamente la distruzione di quel biglietto, “la risposta alla mia lettera?”

‘Signora Clennam non ha scritto, signor Blandois: le mani le dolevano, e ha ritenuto più opportuno che fossi io a trasmetterle il messaggio a voce.’ Mr Flintwinch lo disse con riluttanza e in modo goffo. ‘Vi invia i suoi complimenti e aggiunge di non voler assolutamente definirvi irragionevoli. E concorda con voi. Ma senza pregiudicare l’appuntamento fissato per questa data.’

Signor Rigaud, dopo essersi lasciato andare a una risata, scese dal suo trono dicendo: “Bene! Vado a cercare un hotel!” Ma lì i suoi occhi incontrarono Cavalletto, che era ancora al suo posto.

“Come, Pig,” aggiunse, “ti ho avuto come seguace contro la mia volontà; ora ti userò contro la tua. Vi dico, mie piccole serpenti, sono nato per essere servito. Esigo che questo contrabbandiere mi serva come mio domestico, fino a questa data.”

In risposta allo sguardo interrogativo di Cavalletto, Clennam gli fece segno di andarsene; ma aggiunse ad alta voce: “A meno che tu non abbia paura di lui.” Cavalletto rispose con un deciso movimento della mano negativo: “No, padrone, non ho paura di lui, ormai non lo nascondo più segretamente, visto che un tempo è stato mio compagno.” Rigaud non prestò attenzione a nessuna delle due osservazioni fino a quando non si fu acceso l’ultima sigaretta e fosse completamente pronto per andarsene.

“Spaventati di lui,” disse poi, guardandoli tutti intorno. “Uff! Miei figli, mie piccole creature, voi tutti lo temete. Gli date la sua bottiglia di vino qui; gli date carne, bevande e alloggio là; non osate nemmeno toccarlo con un dito o pronunciare una parola offensiva contro di lui. No. È proprio nel suo carattere trionfare! Uff!”

Di tutti i cavalieri del re, lui è la “fioritura”;
è sempre così allegro e felice!

Con questa sua personale adattazione del ritornello, uscì dalla stanza, seguito da vicino da Cavalletto, che forse aveva costretto a servirlo perché sapeva bene che non sarebbe stato facile sbarazzarsene. Il signor Flintwinch, dopo essersi grattato il mento e aver osservato con disprezzo il “Mercato del Maiale”, annuì verso Arthur e lo seguì. Anche il signor Pancks, ancora pentito e depresso, li accompagnò; dopo aver ricevuto da Arthur alcune istruzioni in segreto, sussurrò che avrebbe risolto la questione e l’avrebbe portata a termine fino alla fine. Il prigioniero, sentendosi ancora più disprezzato, deriso, abbandonato e impotente di prima, rimase di nuovo solo.

CHAPTER 29. A Plea in the Marshalsea

Haggard anxiety and remorse are bad companions to be barred up with. Brooding all day, and resting very little indeed at night, will not arm a man against misery. Next morning, Clennam felt that his health was sinking, as his spirits had already sunk and that the weight under which he bent was bearing him down.

Night after night he had risen from his bed of wretchedness at twelve or one o’clock, and had sat at his window watching the sickly lamps in the yard, and looking upward for the first wan trace of day, hours before it was possible that the sky could show it to him. Now when the night came, he could not even persuade himself to undress.

For a burning restlessness set in, an agonised impatience of the prison, and a conviction that he was going to break his heart and die there, which caused him indescribable suffering. His dread and hatred of the place became so intense that he felt it a labour to draw his breath in it. The sensation of being stifled sometimes so overpowered him, that he would stand at the window holding his throat and gasping. At the same time a longing for other air, and a yearning to be beyond the blind blank wall, made him feel as if he must go mad with the ardour of the desire.

Many other prisoners had had experience of this condition before him, and its violence and continuity had worn themselves out in their cases, as they did in his. Two nights and a day exhausted it. It came back by fits, but those grew fainter and returned at lengthening intervals. A desolate calm succeeded; and the middle of the week found him settled down in the despondency of low, slow fever.

With Cavalletto and Pancks away, he had no visitors to fear but Mr and Mrs Plornish. His anxiety, in reference to that worthy pair, was that they should not come near him; for, in the morbid state of his nerves, he sought to be left alone, and spared the being seen so subdued and weak. He wrote a note to Mrs Plornish representing himself as occupied with his affairs, and bound by the necessity of devoting himself to them, to remain for a time even without the pleasant interruption of a sight of her kind face. As to Young John, who looked in daily at a certain hour, when the turnkeys were relieved, to ask if he could do anything for him; he always made a pretence of being engaged in writing, and to answer cheerfully in the negative. The subject of their only long conversation had never been revived between them. Through all these changes of unhappiness, however, it had never lost its hold on Clennam’s mind.

The sixth day of the appointed week was a moist, hot, misty day. It seemed as though the prison’s poverty, and shabbiness, and dirt, were growing in the sultry atmosphere. With an aching head and a weary heart, Clennam had watched the miserable night out, listening to the fall of rain on the yard pavement, thinking of its softer fall upon the country earth. A blurred circle of yellow haze had risen up in the sky in lieu of sun, and he had watched the patch it put upon his wall, like a bit of the prison’s raggedness. He had heard the gates open; and the badly shod feet that waited outside shuffle in; and the sweeping, and pumping, and moving about, begin, which commenced the prison morning. So ill and faint that he was obliged to rest many times in the process of getting himself washed, he had at length crept to his chair by the open window. In it he sat dozing, while the old woman who arranged his room went through her morning’s work.

Light of head with want of sleep and want of food (his appetite, and even his sense of taste, having forsaken him), he had been two or three times conscious, in the night, of going astray. He had heard fragments of tunes and songs in the warm wind, which he knew had no existence. Now that he began to doze in exhaustion, he heard them again; and voices seemed to address him, and he answered, and started.

Dozing and dreaming, without the power of reckoning time, so that a minute might have been an hour and an hour a minute, some abiding impression of a garden stole over him—a garden of flowers, with a damp warm wind gently stirring their scents. It required such a painful effort to lift his head for the purpose of inquiring into this, or inquiring into anything, that the impression appeared to have become quite an old and importunate one when he looked round. Beside the tea-cup on his table he saw, then, a blooming nosegay: a wonderful handful of the choicest and most lovely flowers.

Nothing had ever appeared so beautiful in his sight. He took them up and inhaled their fragrance, and he lifted them to his hot head, and he put them down and opened his parched hands to them, as cold hands are opened to receive the cheering of a fire. It was not until he had delighted in them for some time, that he wondered who had sent them; and opened his door to ask the woman who must have put them there, how they had come into her hands. But she was gone, and seemed to have been long gone; for the tea she had left for him on the table was cold. He tried to drink some, but could not bear the odour of it: so he crept back to his chair by the open window, and put the flowers on the little round table of old.

When the first faintness consequent on having moved about had left him, he subsided into his former state. One of the night-tunes was playing in the wind, when the door of his room seemed to open to a light touch, and, after a moment’s pause, a quiet figure seemed to stand there, with a black mantle on it. It seemed to draw the mantle off and drop it on the ground, and then it seemed to be his Little Dorrit in her old, worn dress. It seemed to tremble, and to clasp its hands, and to smile, and to burst into tears.

CAPITOLO 29. Una supplica presso il Marshalsea

Un’ansia e un rimorso estenuanti non sono certo buoni compagni di vita. Ruminare tutto il giorno e riposare molto poco di notte non aiuteranno mai una persona a sfuggire alla sofferenza. La mattina seguente, Clennam si rese conto che la sua salute stava peggiorando: lo spirito era già distrutto, e il peso che lo opprimeva continuava ad abbassarlo sempre di più.

Notte dopo notte, alle dodici o all’una di ore, si alzava dal suo letto di miseria e si sedeva alla sua finestra a osservare le lampade pallide nel cortile, cercando con lo sguardo il primo segno dell’alba, ore prima che fosse possibile per il cielo mostrarlo. Ora, quando arrivava la notte, non riusciva nemmeno a convincersi di spogliarsi.

Un’insopportabile inquietudine lo assalì; un’angosciante impazienza riguardo a quella prigione. E la certezza che ci avrebbe spezzato il cuore e saremmo morti lì dentro. Tutto questo gli causava sofferenze indescrivibili. Il suo terrore e il suo odio per quel luogo divennero così intensi che respirare in quell’ambiente gli risultava estremamente difficile. A volte la sensazione di soffocamento lo sopraffaceva completamente; allora si avvicinava alla finestra, si teneva la gola e cercava disperatamente di respirare. Allo stesso tempo, un’immensa voglia di aria fresca, e il desiderio di uscire da quella parete cieca e impenetrabile, lo facevano sentire sul punto di impazzire per l’intensità di quel desiderio.

Molti altri prigionieri avevano già sperimentato questa condizione prima di lui; la sua violenza e continuità si erano esaurite nei loro casi, proprio come nel suo. Due notti e un giorno furono sufficienti a prostrarlo completamente. La sofferenza tornava a intervalli, ma questi diventavano sempre più lunghi; infine seguì una calma desolata. A metà settimana, si trovava ormai immerso nella depressione tipica di una febbre bassa e lenta.

Con Cavalletto e Pancks lontani, non aveva motivo di temere alcuna visita, se non quella del signor e della signora Plornish. La sua ansia riguardo a quella coppia consisteva nel timore che potessero avvicinarsi a lui; infatti, nello stato morbido dei suoi nervi, desiderava essere lasciato solo e evitava di farsi vedere in uno stato così depresso e fragile. Scrisse una nota alla signora Plornish, spiegandole che era impegnato nelle sue faccende e che, per necessità, doveva dedicarsi interamente ad esse, quindi non avrebbe potuto riceverla per un periodo di tempo, nemmeno con il piacere di vedere il suo gentile volto. Per quanto riguardava Young John, che ogni giorno, all’ora in cui i custodi venivano sostituiti, veniva a chiedergli se potesse fare qualcosa per lui, lui fingeva sempre di essere impegnato a scrivere e rispondeva negativamente con gentilezza. L’unica volta che avevano avuto una lunga conversazione su questo argomento, non era mai più stata ripresa. Nonostante tutte queste difficoltà, il ricordo di quella donna non aveva mai perso il suo potere su Clennam.

Il sesto giorno della settimana stabilita fu una giornata umida, calda e nebbiosa. Sembrava che la povertà, la trasandatezza e la sporcizia del carcere crescessero in quell’atmosfera afosa. Con la testa dolorante e il cuore stanco, Clennam aveva osservato quella misera notte, ascoltando il suono della pioggia che cadeva sul selciato del cortile, pensando a come fosse più dolce quando pioveva sulla terra campagnola. Nel cielo era sorto un cerchio sfocato di nebbia gialla al posto del sole; aveva visto quella luce diffondersi sul muro della sua cella, come un simbolo della miseria del carcere. Aveva sentito le porte aprirsi, i passi stanchi delle persone che entravano, e poi tutto il movimento e il rumore che caratterizzavano l’inizio di una nuova mattina in prigione. Era così malato e debole che dovette riposare più volte mentre si lavava; alla fine riuscì a raggiungere la sua sedia accanto alla finestra aperta. Lì sedette, sonnecchiando, mentre la vecchia donna che curava la sua cella svolgeva le sue faccende mattutine.

A causa della mancanza di sonno e di cibo (poiché anche il suo appetito, e persino il suo senso del gusto, lo avevano abbandonato), durante la notte si era reso conto due o tre volte di essersi perso. Aveva sentito frammenti di melodie e >canti nel caldo >vento, che sapeva non esistere realmente. Ora, mentre iniziava ad assopirsi per la stanchezza, li udì di nuovo; sembrava che delle voci gli parlassero, rispondeva loro e cercava di muoversi nella direzione indicata.

Assopito e sognante, privo della capacità di misurare il tempo, un minuto poteva sembrargli un’ora e un’ora un minuto; una persistente impressione di un giardino si impadronì di lui: un giardino pieno di >fiori, con una brezza umida e calda che accarezzava dolcemente i loro profumi. Richiedeva uno sforzo estremamente doloroso alzare lo sguardo per cercare di capire cosa stesse succedendo. E quando finalmente guardò intorno, quell’impressione sembrava ormai diventata qualcosa di molto antico e insistente. Accanto alla tazza di tè sul suo tavolo, vide allora un mazzo di fiori appena sbocciati: una meravigliosa raccolta dei fiori più belli e selezionati.

Niente mai gli era apparso così bello. Le prese e ne inalò il profumo; se le portò vicino alla fronte calda, poi le posò a terra e aprì le mani aride per accoglierle, come si fanno con le mani fredde quando si riceve il calore di un fuoco. Solo dopo averne goduto per un po’ si chiese chi le avesse mandate; allora aprì la porta per chiedere alla donna che sicuramente le aveva lasciate lì come fossero finite nelle sue mani. Ma lei se n’era andata, e sembrava da molto tempo; il tè che gli aveva lasciato sul tavolo era freddo. Provò a berne un po’, ma non riuscì a sopportarne l’odore; così tornò silenziosamente alla sua sedia accanto alla finestra aperta e posò i >fiori sul vecchio tavolino rotondo.

Quando la prima sensazione di stanchezza dovuta al movimento si fu dissipata, tornò allo stato precedente. Una delle melodie notturne risuonava nel vento quando, con un leggero tocco, la porta della sua stanza sembrò aprirsi; dopo un attimo di silenzio, una figura silenziosa apparve lì dentro, avvolta in un mantello nero. Sembrò togliersi il mantello e gettarlo a terra; poi si rese conto che era la sua piccola Dorrit, con quel vecchio abito logoro. Tremava, si stringeva le mani, sorrideva, e poi scoppiò in lacrime.

He roused himself, and cried out. And then he saw, in the loving, pitying, sorrowing, dear face, as in a mirror, how changed he was; and she came towards him; and with her hands laid on his breast to keep him in his chair, and with her knees upon the floor at his feet, and with her lips raised up to kiss him, and with her tears dropping on him as the rain from Heaven had dropped upon the flowers, Little Dorrit, a living presence, called him by his name.

‘O, my best friend! Dear Mr Clennam, don’t let me see you weep! Unless you weep with pleasure to see me. I hope you do. Your own poor child come back!’

So faithful, tender, and unspoiled by Fortune. In the sound of her voice, in the light of her eyes, in the touch of her hands, so Angelically comforting and true!

As he embraced her, she said to him, ‘They never told me you were ill,’ and drawing an arm softly round his neck, laid his head upon her bosom, put a hand upon his head, and resting her cheek upon that hand, nursed him as lovingly, and GOD knows as innocently, as she had nursed her father in that room when she had been but a baby, needing all the care from others that she took of them.

When he could speak, he said, ‘Is it possible that you have come to me? And in this dress?’

‘I hoped you would like me better in this dress than any other. I have always kept it by me, to remind me: though I wanted no reminding. I am not alone, you see. I have brought an old friend with me.’

Looking round, he saw Maggy in her big cap which had been long abandoned, with a basket on her arm as in the bygone days, chuckling rapturously.

‘It was only yesterday evening that I came to London with my brother. I sent round to Mrs Plornish almost as soon as we arrived, that I might hear of you and let you know I had come. Then I heard that you were here. Did you happen to think of me in the night? I almost believe you must have thought of me a little. I thought of you so anxiously, and it appeared so long to morning.’

‘I have thought of you—’ he hesitated what to call her. She perceived it in an instant.

‘You have not spoken to me by my right name yet. You know what my right name always is with you.’

‘I have thought of you, Little Dorrit, every day, every hour, every minute, since I have been here.’

‘Have you? Have you?’

He saw the bright delight of her face, and the flush that kindled in it, with a feeling of shame. He, a broken, bankrupt, sick, dishonoured prisoner.

‘I was here before the gates were opened, but I was afraid to come straight to you. I should have done you more harm than good, at first; for the prison was so familiar and yet so strange, and it brought back so many remembrances of my poor father, and of you too, that at first it overpowered me. But we went to Mr Chivery before we came to the gate, and he brought us in, and got John’s room for us—my poor old room, you know—and we waited there a little. I brought the flowers to the door, but you didn’t hear me.’

She looked something more womanly than when she had gone away, and the ripening touch of the Italian sun was visible upon her face. But, otherwise, she was quite unchanged. The same deep, timid earnestness that he had always seen in her, and never without emotion, he saw still. If it had a new meaning that smote him to the heart, the change was in his perception, not in her.

She took off her old bonnet, hung it in the old place, and noiselessly began, with Maggy’s help, to make his room as fresh and neat as it could be made, and to sprinkle it with a pleasant-smelling water. When that was done, the basket, which was filled with grapes and other fruit, was unpacked, and all its contents were quietly put away. When that was done, a moment’s whisper despatched Maggy to despatch somebody else to fill the basket again; which soon came back replenished with new stores, from which a present provision of cooling drink and jelly, and a prospective supply of roast chicken and wine and water, were the first extracts. These various arrangements completed, she took out her old needle-case to make him a curtain for his window; and thus, with a quiet reigning in the room, that seemed to diffuse itself through the else noisy prison, he found himself composed in his chair, with Little Dorrit working at his side.

To see the modest head again bent down over its task, and the nimble fingers busy at their old work—though she was not so absorbed in it, but that her compassionate eyes were often raised to his face, and, when they drooped again had tears in them—to be so consoled and comforted, and to believe that all the devotion of this great nature was turned to him in his adversity to pour out its inexhaustible wealth of goodness upon him, did not steady Clennam’s trembling voice or hand, or strengthen him in his weakness. Yet it inspired him with an inward fortitude, that rose with his love. And how dearly he loved her now, what words can tell!

As they sat side by side in the shadow of the wall, the shadow fell like light upon him. She would not let him speak much, and he lay back in his chair, looking at her. Now and again she would rise and give him the glass that he might drink, or would smooth the resting-place of his head; then she would gently resume her seat by him, and bend over her work again.

The shadow moved with the sun, but she never moved from his side, except to wait upon him. The sun went down and she was still there. She had done her work now, and her hand, faltering on the arm of his chair since its last tending of him, was hesitating there yet. He laid his hand upon it, and it clasped him with a trembling supplication.

‘Dear Mr Clennam, I must say something to you before I go. I have put it off from hour to hour, but I must say it.’

‘I too, dear Little Dorrit. I have put off what I must say.’

Si svegliò di scatto e gridò. Poi vide, nel volto amorevole, pieno di compassione e tristezza, come in uno specchio, quanto fosse cambiato; lei gli si avvicinò, posò le mani sul suo petto per farlo rimanere seduto sulla sedia, appoggiò le ginocchia a terra ai suoi piedi, sollevò le labbra per baciarlo, e le sue lacrime caddero su di lui, come la pioggia dal cielo sui >fiori. Little Dorrit, una presenza viva, lo chiamò per nome.

“Oh, mio carissimo amico! Caro signor Clennam, non lasciate che vi veda piangere. A meno che non piangiate di gioia nel vedermi. Spero proprio che sia così. Vostro povero figlio è tornato!”

Così fedele, tenera e intatta dalle avversità della vita. Nel suono della sua voce, nella luce dei suoi occhi, nel tocco delle sue mani. Così angelicamente consolante e sincera!

Mentre la abbracciava, lei gli disse: “Non mi avevano mai detto che eri malato”. Poi, avvolgendo dolcemente un braccio intorno al suo collo, posò la sua testa sul proprio petto, mise una mano sulla sua testa e, appoggiando la guancia su quella mano, lo accarezzò con tanto affetto, e, Dio lo sa, con tanta innocenza, proprio come aveva fatto con suo padre in quella stessa stanza quando era ancora una bambina, avendo bisogno di tutta quell’attenzione che ora lei stessa offriva a lui.

Quando riuscì a parlare, disse: “È possibile che tu sia venuta da me. E con questo abito?”

“Speravo che ti piacessi di più con questo vestito rispetto agli altri. L’ho sempre tenuto con me, per ricordarmi, anche se non ne avevo bisogno. Vedi, non sono sola; ho portato con me un vecchio amico.”

Guardandosi intorno, la vide: Maggy, con il suo grande cappello che da tempo non indossava più, con un cestino in braccio, proprio come nei tempi passati, ridendo felicemente.

“È stato solo ieri sera che sono arrivato a Londra con mio fratello. Appena siamo atterrati, ho mandato un messaggio alla signora Plornish per sapere notizie di te e farti sapere che ero arrivato. Poi ho scoperto che eri qui. Hai pensato a me quella notte? Credo proprio che tu abbia pensato a me, almeno un po’. Pensavo a te con tanta ansia. E sembrava che ci volesse un’eternità prima dell’alba, ”

“Ho pensato a te, ” Esitò nel decidere come chiamarla. Lei se ne accorse all’istante.

“Non mi hai ancora chiamato con il mio vero nome. Tu sai quale sia il mio vero nome quando siamo insieme.”

“Ho pensato a te, Piccola Dorrit, ogni giorno, ogni ora, ogni minuto, da quando sono qui.”

“L’hai fatto davvero? L’hai fatto davvero?”

Vide la gioia radiosa sul suo viso e il rossore che vi comparve, e provò vergogna. Lui, un prigioniero spezzato, fallito, malato, disonorato.

‘Ero qui già prima che le porte si aprissero, ma avevo paura di venire direttamente da te. All’inizio, avrei potuto farti più male che bene. Quella prigione mi era così familiare e allo stesso tempo così strana; riportava a mente tanti ricordi di mio povero padre, e anche di te. All’inizio, tutto questo mi ha sopraffatto. Ma prima di arrivare alla porta, siamo andati da Mr Chivery, e lui ci ha fatto entrare, procurandoci la stanza di John. La mia vecchia, povera stanza. E abbiamo aspettato lì per un po’. Ho portato i >fiori fino alla porta, ma tu non mi hai sentito.’

Sembrava più donna rispetto a quando se n’era andata; sul suo viso si vedeva l’effetto positivo del sole italiano. Ma, per il resto, era rimasta praticamente immutata. Quella stessa profonda, timida e sincera sincerità che lui aveva sempre visto in lei, e che mai lo lasciava indifferente, c’era ancora. Se c’era qualche cambiamento, riguardava la sua percezione di lei, non lei stessa.

Si tolse il vecchio cappello, lo appese nello stesso posto di sempre e, con l’aiuto di Maggy, iniziò silenziosamente a rendere la sua stanza il più fresca e ordinata possibile, spruzzandola con un liquido profumato. Una volta fatto ciò, il cestino pieno di uva e altri frutti fu svuotato e il contenuto riposto con cura. Poco dopo, Maggy venne mandata a rifornire nuovamente il cestino; presto tornò con provviste fresche: bevande rinfrescanti, gelatina, oltre a pollo arrosto, vino e acqua. Una volta completati tutti questi preparativi, tirò fuori la sua vecchia scatola da cucito per confezionargli una tenda da appendere alla finestra. Così, in mezzo al silenzio che sembrava diffondersi anche nell’altrimenti rumoroso carcere, si ritrovò tranquillamente seduto nella sua sedia, con Little Dorrit al suo fianco.

Rivedere di nuovo quella testa umile china sul suo compito, quelle dita agili impegnate nel loro vecchio lavoro. Anche se lei non era così assorbita da esso, i suoi occhi pieni di compassione si alzavano spesso verso il suo viso; e quando tornavano a posarsi, vi erano sempre delle lacrime. Essere così consolati e rincuorati. Creder che tutta la devozione di questa grande natura fosse rivolta a lui in quel momento di sventura, affinché potesse ricevere tutto il suo inesauribile tesoro di bontà. Questo non bastava certo a rendere ferma la voce o la mano tremanti di Clennam, né a rafforzare la sua debolezza. Tuttavia, gli infondeva una forza interiore che lo faceva sentire più forte. E quanto profondamente la amasse ora. Che parole potrebbero descriverlo?

Mentre sedevano uno accanto all’altro nell’ombra del muro, quella ombra cadeva su di lui come luce. Lei non gli permetteva di parlare molto; lui si appoggiava allo schienale della sedia, guardandola. Di tanto in tanto lei si alzava per dargli il bicchiere da bere o sistemargli la testa sul cuscino; poi tornava a sedersi accanto a lui e riprendeva a lavorare.

L’ombra si muoveva insieme al sole, ma non si allontanava mai dal suo fianco, se non per prendersi cura di lui. Quando il sole tramontava, lei era ancora lì. Aveva già compiuto il proprio dovere; la sua mano, che da allora tremolava sul braccio della sua sedia mentre lo assisteva, continuava a esitare lì. Lui posò la propria mano su di essa, e lei la strinse con un gesto tremante, pieno di supplica.

“Caro signor Clennam, devo dirle qualcosa prima di andarmene. L’ho rimandato ora dopo ora, ma devo assolutamente farlo.”

anch’io, cara piccola Dorrit. Ho rimandato ciò che dovevo dire.

She nervously moved her hand towards his lips as if to stop him; then it dropped, trembling, into its former place.

‘I am not going abroad again. My brother is, but I am not. He was always attached to me, and he is so grateful to me now—so much too grateful, for it is only because I happened to be with him in his illness—that he says I shall be free to stay where I like best, and to do what I like best. He only wishes me to be happy, he says.’

There was one bright star shining in the sky. She looked up at it while she spoke, as if it were the fervent purpose of her own heart shining above her.

‘You will understand, I dare say, without my telling you, that my brother has come home to find my dear father’s will, and to take possession of his property. He says, if there is a will, he is sure I shall be left rich; and if there is none, that he will make me so.’

He would have spoken; but she put up her trembling hand again, and he stopped.

‘I have no use for money, I have no wish for it. It would be of no value at all to me but for your sake. I could not be rich, and you here. I must always be much worse than poor, with you distressed. Will you let me lend you all I have? Will you let me give it you? Will you let me show you that I have never forgotten, that I never can forget, your protection of me when this was my home? Dear Mr Clennam, make me of all the world the happiest, by saying Yes? Make me as happy as I can be in leaving you here, by saying nothing to-night, and letting me go away with the hope that you will think of it kindly; and that for my sake—not for yours, for mine, for nobody’s but mine!—you will give me the greatest joy I can experience on earth, the joy of knowing that I have been serviceable to you, and that I have paid some little of the great debt of my affection and gratitude. I can’t say what I wish to say. I can’t visit you here where I have lived so long, I can’t think of you here where I have seen so much, and be as calm and comforting as I ought. My tears will make their way. I cannot keep them back. But pray, pray, pray, do not turn from your Little Dorrit, now, in your affliction! Pray, pray, pray, I beg you and implore you with all my grieving heart, my friend—my dear!—take all I have, and make it a Blessing to me!’

The star had shone on her face until now, when her face sank upon his hand and her own.

It had grown darker when he raised her in his encircling arm, and softly answered her.

‘No, darling Little Dorrit. No, my child. I must not hear of such a sacrifice. Liberty and hope would be so dear, bought at such a price, that I could never support their weight, never bear the reproach of possessing them. But with what ardent thankfulness and love I say this, I may call Heaven to witness!’

‘And yet you will not let me be faithful to you in your affliction?’

‘Say, dearest Little Dorrit, and yet I will try to be faithful to you. If, in the bygone days when this was your home and when this was your dress, I had understood myself (I speak only of myself) better, and had read the secrets of my own breast more distinctly; if, through my reserve and self-mistrust, I had discerned a light that I see brightly now when it has passed far away, and my weak footsteps can never overtake it; if I had then known, and told you that I loved and honoured you, not as the poor child I used to call you, but as a woman whose true hand would raise me high above myself and make me a far happier and better man; if I had so used the opportunity there is no recalling—as I wish I had, O I wish I had!—and if something had kept us apart then, when I was moderately thriving, and when you were poor; I might have met your noble offer of your fortune, dearest girl, with other words than these, and still have blushed to touch it. But, as it is, I must never touch it, never!’

She besought him, more pathetically and earnestly, with her little supplicatory hand, than she could have done in any words.

‘I am disgraced enough, my Little Dorrit. I must not descend so low as that, and carry you—so dear, so generous, so good—down with me. GOD bless you, GOD reward you! It is past.’

He took her in his arms, as if she had been his daughter.

‘Always so much older, so much rougher, and so much less worthy, even what I was must be dismissed by both of us, and you must see me only as I am. I put this parting kiss upon your cheek, my child—who might have been more near to me, who never could have been more dear—a ruined man far removed from you, for ever separated from you, whose course is run while yours is but beginning. I have not the courage to ask to be forgotten by you in my humiliation; but I ask to be remembered only as I am.’

The bell began to ring, warning visitors to depart. He took her mantle from the wall, and tenderly wrapped it round her.

‘One other word, my Little Dorrit. A hard one to me, but it is a necessary one. The time when you and this prison had anything in common has long gone by. Do you understand?’

‘O! you will never say to me,’ she cried, weeping bitterly, and holding up her clasped hands in entreaty, ‘that I am not to come back any more! You will surely not desert me so!’

‘I would say it, if I could; but I have not the courage quite to shut out this dear face, and abandon all hope of its return. But do not come soon, do not come often! This is now a tainted place, and I well know the taint of it clings to me. You belong to much brighter and better scenes. You are not to look back here, my Little Dorrit; you are to look away to very different and much happier paths. Again, GOD bless you in them! GOD reward you!’

Maggy, who had fallen into very low spirits, here cried, ‘Oh get him into a hospital; do get him into a hospital, Mother! He’ll never look like hisself again, if he an’t got into a hospital. And then the little woman as was always a spinning at her wheel, she can go to the cupboard with the Princess, and say, what do you keep the Chicking there for? and then they can take it out and give it to him, and then all be happy!’

Lei mosse nervosamente la mano verso le sue labbra, come se volesse fermarlo; poi la lasciò cadere, tremante, al suo posto originale.

“Non andrò più all’estero. Mio fratello sì, ma io no. Lui è sempre stato molto legato a me, e ora mi è così grato, troppo grato, anzi; tutto perché per caso ero con lui durante la sua malattia. Dice che ora posso restare dove voglio e fare ciò che desidero di più. Vuole solo che io sia felice.”

C’era una stella luminosa che brillava nel cielo. Mentre parlava, alzò lo sguardo verso di essa, come se fosse lo stesso ardente desiderio del suo cuore che risplendeva lassù.

“Immagino che capirete senza che io debba dirlo: mio fratello è tornato a casa per trovare il testamento di mio caro padre e prendere possesso delle sue proprietà. Dice che, se c’è un testamento, sono sicuro che rimarrò ricco; e se non ce n’è, lui stesso mi renderà ricco.”

Avrebbe parlato; ma lei alzò di nuovo la sua mano tremante, e lui si fermò.

“Non ho alcun bisogno di denaro, non ne desidero nemmeno. Non mi sarebbe di alcun valore se non fosse per te. Non potrei essere ricco e tu qui. Devo sempre essere molto peggio che povero, quando tu sei in difficoltà. Mi permetterai di prestarti tutto ciò che ho? Mi permetterai di dartelo? Mi permetterai di dimostrarti che non ho mai dimenticato, che non potrò mai dimenticare, il tuo aiuto quando questa era la mia casa. Caro signor Clennam, rendimi la persona più felice del mondo, dicendo di sì. Rendimi felice nel lasciarti qui, senza dire nulla. Lasciami andare con la speranza che tu ci penserai con gentilezza. E che, per me, non per te, per me, solo per me, mi darai la più grande gioia che possa provare sulla terra: la gioia di sapere di essere stato utile a te, e di aver ripagato anche solo in parte il grande debito del mio affetto e della mia gratitudine. Non so cosa voglio dire. Non posso venire da te qui, dove ho vissuto così a lungo. Non riesco a pensarti qui, dove ho visto tanto. E rimanere calma e consolante come dovrei. Le mie lacrime scenderanno. Non riesco a trattenerle. Ma ti prego, ti prego, non allontanarti ora dalla tua piccola Dorrit, nel tuo dolore. Ti prego, con tutto il mio cuore addolorato. Amico mio. Caro, prendi tutto ciò che ho. E trasformalo in una benedizione per me, ”

La stella aveva illuminato il suo viso fino a quel momento; poi il suo volto si abbassò sulla sua mano e su quello di lui.

Era diventato ancora più buio quando la sollevò con il braccio che la circondava e le rispose dolcemente.

“No, cara Piccola Dorrit. No, mio bambino. Non posso sopportare l’idea di un simile sacrificio. La libertà e la speranza sarebbero così preziose, acquistate a un prezzo così alto, che non potrei mai sopportarne il peso, né tollerare il rimorso di possederle. Ma dico queste cose con tale fervente gratitudine e amore, che posso chiamare il Cielo a farne testimone!”

“Eppure non mi permetti di essere fedele a te nei tuoi momenti di sofferenza, ”

“Dimmi, cara Piccola Dorrit. Anche se così sia, proverò comunque a essere fedele a te. Se, nei giorni passati, quando questa era la tua casa e quando indossavi quel vestito, fossi riuscita a comprendere meglio me stessa (parlo solo di me), se avessi letto più chiaramente i ‘segreti’ del mio cuore; se, a causa della mia riservatezza e del mio sospetto verso me stessa, non avessi perso di vista una luce che ora vedo con chiarezza, anche se ormai è lontana da me, e i miei deboli passi non potranno mai raggiungerla; se allora avessi saputo, e te lo avessi detto, che ti amavo e ti rispettavo, non come quella povera ‘bambina’ che ti chiamavo, ma come una donna la cui vera forza mi avrebbe sollevata al di sopra di me stessa, rendendomi una persona molto più felice e migliore; se avessi sfruttato quell’opportunità, ah, quanto vorrei averlo fatto!. E se qualcosa ci avesse separati allora, quando io avevo una vita relativamente agiata e tu eri povera, forse avrei accolto la tua nobile offerta con parole diverse da queste, e comunque mi sarei vergognata di accettarla. Ma così come stanno le cose, non potrò mai accettarla.”

Gli lo chiese con maggiore patetica e sincera supplica, con quella sua piccola mano implorante, di quanto avrebbe potuto fare con qualsiasi parola.

“Sono già abbastanza disonorata, mia piccola Dorrit. Non devo scendere ancora più in basso, portandoti con me. Tu che sei così cara, così generosa, così buona. Che Dio ti benedica, che Dio ti ricompensi! È finito.”

La prese tra le braccia, come se fosse sua figlia.

“Sempre così più vecchio, così più ruvido, e così molto meno degno. Anche ciò che ero una volta deve essere scartato da entrambi noi. Devi vedermi soltanto per quello che sono. Poso questo bacio d’addio sulla tua guancia, mio bambino. Che avrebbe potuto essere molto più vicino a me. Che non avrebbe mai potuto essermi più caro. Un uomo distrutto, lontano da te per sempre. Il cui cammino è già terminato, mentre il tuo è appena iniziato. Non ho il coraggio di chiederti di dimenticarmi nella mia umiliazione. Ma ti prego: ricordami soltanto per quello che sono.”

La campanella iniziò a suonare, avvisando i visitatori di andarsene. Prese il suo mantello dal muro e lo avvolse dolcemente intorno a lei.

“Un’ultima parola, mia piccola Dorrit. Una parola difficile per me, ma necessaria. Il momento in cui tu e questa prigione avevate qualcosa in comune è ormai passato da tempo. Capisci?”

“Oh! Non mi dirai mai,” gridò lei, piangendo amaramente e alzando le mani giunte in preghiera, “che non dovrò più tornare! Sicuramente non mi abbandonerai così!”

“Lo direi, se potessi; ma non ho il coraggio necessario per allontanare questo volto caro e abbandonare ogni speranza del suo ritorno. Ma non venire troppo presto, non venire spesso! Questo posto è ormai contaminato, e so bene che quella contaminazione si attacca anche a me. Tu appartieni a scenari molto più luminosi e migliori. Non devi guardare indietro qui, mia piccola Dorrit; devi guardare avanti verso sentieri molto diversi e molto più felici. Ancora una volta: che DIO ti benedica in essi! Che DIO ti ricompensi!”

Maggy, che era caduta in uno stato di profonda tristezza, gridò: “Oh, portatelo in ospedale. Per favore, mamma! Non tornerà mai più come prima se non va in ospedale. E poi quella piccola donna, che di solito lavorava alla sua ruota, potrebbe andare nell’armadio insieme alla Principessa e chiedere: ‘Perché tenete quel Chicking lì?’ Allora potrebbero prenderlo e darglielo, e così tutti sarebbero felici!”

The interruption was seasonable, for the bell had nearly rung itself out. Again tenderly wrapping her mantle about her, and taking her on his arm (though, but for her visit, he was almost too weak to walk), Arthur led Little Dorrit down-stairs. She was the last visitor to pass out at the Lodge, and the gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her.

With the funeral clang that it sounded into Arthur’s heart, his sense of weakness returned. It was a toilsome journey up-stairs to his room, and he re-entered its dark solitary precincts in unutterable misery.

When it was almost midnight, and the prison had long been quiet, a cautious creak came up the stairs, and a cautious tap of a key was given at his door. It was Young John. He glided in, in his stockings, and held the door closed, while he spoke in a whisper.

‘It’s against all rules, but I don’t mind. I was determined to come through, and come to you.’

‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, sir. I was waiting in the court-yard for Miss Dorrit when she came out. I thought you’d like some one to see that she was safe.’

‘Thank you, thank you! You took her home, John?’

‘I saw her to her hotel. The same that Mr Dorrit was at. Miss Dorrit walked all the way, and talked to me so kind, it quite knocked me over. Why do you think she walked instead of riding?’

‘I don’t know, John.’

‘To talk about you. She said to me, “John, you was always honourable, and if you’ll promise me that you will take care of him, and never let him want for help and comfort when I am not there, my mind will be at rest so far.” I promised her. And I’ll stand by you,’ said John Chivery, ‘for ever!’

Clennam, much affected, stretched out his hand to this honest spirit.

‘Before I take it,’ said John, looking at it, without coming from the door, ‘guess what message Miss Dorrit gave me.’

Clennam shook his head.

‘“Tell him,”’ repeated John, in a distinct, though quavering voice, ‘“that his Little Dorrit sent him her undying love.” Now it’s delivered. Have I been honourable, sir?’

‘Very, very!’

‘Will you tell Miss Dorrit I’ve been honourable, sir?’

‘I will indeed.’

‘There’s my hand, sir,’ said John, ‘and I’ll stand by you forever!’

After a hearty squeeze, he disappeared with the same cautious creak upon the stair, crept shoeless over the pavement of the yard, and, locking the gates behind him, passed out into the front where he had left his shoes. If the same way had been paved with burning ploughshares, it is not at all improbable that John would have traversed it with the same devotion, for the same purpose.

L’interruzione fu tempestiva, perché la campana stava per suonare di nuovo. Avvolgendo nuovamente con tenerezza il suo mantello attorno a lei e prendendola sul braccio (sebbene, se non fosse stato per quella visita, fosse quasi troppo debole per camminare), Arthur condusse Little Dorrit giù per le scale. Lei fu l’ultima visitatrice ad uscire dalla Lodge; il cancello si chiuse con un tonfo pesante e senza speranza alle sue spalle.

Con quel suono funebre che echeggiò nel cuore di Arthur, il suo senso di debolezza tornò. Fu un arduo viaggio su per le scale, fino alla sua stanza; rientrando in quei luoghi bui e solitari, provava un dolore indescrivibile.

Quando mancava poco a mezzanotte e la prigione era da tempo silenziosa, si udì un lieve scricchiolio salire le scale, seguito dal delicato suono di una chiave che veniva infilata nella serratura della sua cella. Era Young John. Entrò furtivamente, indossando ancora le calze, e tenne la porta chiusa mentre parlava sottovoce.

“È contro tutte le regole, ma non mi dispiace. Ero determinato a riuscirci e a raggiungerti.”

‘Qual è il problema?’

“Niente di grave, signore. Stavo aspettando nella corte il ritorno della signorina Dorrit; ho pensato che volesse qualcuno che si assicurasse che fosse al sicuro.”

“Grazie, grazie! L’hai portata a casa, vero, John?”

“L’ho accompagnata al suo hotel. Lo stesso in cui soggiornava il signor Dorrit. La signorina Dorrit ha camminato tutto il tragitto e mi ha parlato con tale gentilezza che mi ha davvero colpito profondamente. Perché pensi che abbia preferito camminare invece di prendere un mezzo di trasporto?”

“Non lo so, John.”

“Per parlare di te. Mi ha detto: ‘John, tu sei sempre stato onesto; se mi prometti che ti prenderai cura di lui e che non gli mancherà mai aiuto né conforto quando io non ci sarò, potrò stare tranquilla.’ Gliel’ho promesso. E starò al tuo fianco,” disse John Chivery, “per sempre!”

Clennam, profondamente commosso, tese la mano verso questo uomo onesto.

“Prima di prenderlo,” disse John, guardandolo senza uscire dalla porta, “indovinate quale messaggio mi ha dato la signorina Dorrit.”

Clennam scosse la testa.

“Diglielo,” ripeté John, con una voce chiara, anche se tremante, “che la sua Little Dorrit gli manda il suo amore eterno.” Ora è stato detto. Sono stato onesto, signore?

“Molto, molto!”

“Potrebbe dire alla signorina Dorrit che ho agito onorevolmente, signore?”

“Lo farò davvero.”

“Ecco la mia mano, signore,” disse John, “e sarò al vostro fianco per sempre!”

Dopo una vigorosa stretta, scomparve con lo stesso silenzioso scricchiolio sulle scale, strisciò a piedi nudi lungo il vialetto del cortile e, dopo aver chiuso a chiave i cancelli, uscì davanti casa, dove aveva lasciato le sue scarpe. Anche se quel percorso fosse stato ricoperto di falci ardenti, non è affatto improbabile che John lo avrebbe percorso con la stessa devozione, per lo stesso scopo.

CHAPTER 30. Closing in

The last day of the appointed week touched the bars of the Marshalsea gate. Black, all night, since the gate had clashed upon Little Dorrit, its iron stripes were turned by the early-glowing sun into stripes of gold. Far aslant across the city, over its jumbled roofs, and through the open tracery of its church towers, struck the long bright rays, bars of the prison of this lower world.

Throughout the day the old house within the gateway remained untroubled by any visitors. But, when the sun was low, three men turned in at the gateway and made for the dilapidated house.

Rigaud was the first, and walked by himself smoking. Mr Baptist was the second, and jogged close after him, looking at no other object. Mr Pancks was the third, and carried his hat under his arm for the liberation of his restive hair; the weather being extremely hot. They all came together at the door-steps.

‘You pair of madmen!’ said Rigaud, facing about. ‘Don’t go yet!’

‘We don’t mean to,’ said Mr Pancks.

Giving him a dark glance in acknowledgment of his answer, Rigaud knocked loudly. He had charged himself with drink, for the playing out of his game, and was impatient to begin. He had hardly finished one long resounding knock, when he turned to the knocker again and began another. That was not yet finished when Jeremiah Flintwinch opened the door, and they all clanked into the stone hall. Rigaud, thrusting Mr Flintwinch aside, proceeded straight up-stairs. His two attendants followed him, Mr Flintwinch followed them, and they all came trooping into Mrs Clennam’s quiet room. It was in its usual state; except that one of the windows was wide open, and Affery sat on its old-fashioned window-seat, mending a stocking. The usual articles were on the little table; the usual deadened fire was in the grate; the bed had its usual pall upon it; and the mistress of all sat on her black bier-like sofa, propped up by her black angular bolster that was like the headsman’s block.

Yet there was a nameless air of preparation in the room, as if it were strung up for an occasion. From what the room derived it—every one of its small variety of objects being in the fixed spot it had occupied for years—no one could have said without looking attentively at its mistress, and that, too, with a previous knowledge of her face. Although her unchanging black dress was in every plait precisely as of old, and her unchanging attitude was rigidly preserved, a very slight additional setting of her features and contraction of her gloomy forehead was so powerfully marked, that it marked everything about her.

‘Who are these?’ she said, wonderingly, as the two attendants entered. ‘What do these people want here?’

‘Who are these, dear madame, is it?’ returned Rigaud. ‘Faith, they are friends of your son the prisoner. And what do they want here, is it? Death, madame, I don’t know. You will do well to ask them.’

‘You know you told us at the door, not to go yet,’ said Pancks.

‘And you know you told me at the door, you didn’t mean to go,’ retorted Rigaud. ‘In a word, madame, permit me to present two spies of the prisoner’s—madmen, but spies. If you wish them to remain here during our little conversation, say the word. It is nothing to me.’

‘Why should I wish them to remain here?’ said Mrs Clennam. ‘What have I to do with them?’

‘Then, dearest madame,’ said Rigaud, throwing himself into an arm-chair so heavily that the old room trembled, ‘you will do well to dismiss them. It is your affair. They are not my spies, not my rascals.’

‘Hark! You Pancks,’ said Mrs Clennam, bending her brows upon him angrily, ‘you Casby’s clerk! Attend to your employer’s business and your own. Go. And take that other man with you.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ returned Mr Pancks, ‘I am glad to say I see no objection to our both retiring. We have done all we undertook to do for Mr Clennam. His constant anxiety has been (and it grew worse upon him when he became a prisoner), that this agreeable gentleman should be brought back here to the place from which he slipped away. Here he is—brought back. And I will say,’ added Mr Pancks, ‘to his ill-looking face, that in my opinion the world would be no worse for his slipping out of it altogether.’

‘Your opinion is not asked,’ answered Mrs Clennam. ‘Go.’

‘I am sorry not to leave you in better company, ma’am,’ said Pancks; ‘and sorry, too, that Mr Clennam can’t be present. It’s my fault, that is.’

‘You mean his own,’ she returned.

‘No, I mean mine, ma’am,’ said Pancks, ‘for it was my misfortune to lead him into a ruinous investment.’ (Mr Pancks still clung to that word, and never said speculation.) ‘Though I can prove by figures,’ added Mr Pancks, with an anxious countenance, ‘that it ought to have been a good investment. I have gone over it since it failed, every day of my life, and it comes out—regarded as a question of figures—triumphant. The present is not a time or place,’ Mr Pancks pursued, with a longing glance into his hat, where he kept his calculations, ‘for entering upon the figures; but the figures are not to be disputed. Mr Clennam ought to have been at this moment in his carriage and pair, and I ought to have been worth from three to five thousand pound.’

Mr Pancks put his hair erect with a general aspect of confidence that could hardly have been surpassed, if he had had the amount in his pocket. These incontrovertible figures had been the occupation of every moment of his leisure since he had lost his money, and were destined to afford him consolation to the end of his days.

‘However,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘enough of that. Altro, old boy, you have seen the figures, and you know how they come out.’ Mr Baptist, who had not the slightest arithmetical power of compensating himself in this way, nodded, with a fine display of bright teeth.

CAPITOLO 30. AVVICINAMENTO FINALE

L’ultimo giorno della settimana stabilita toccò le sbarre del cancello di Marshalsea. Nella notte, poiché il cancello si era chiuso su Little Dorrit, le sue strisce di ferro venivano trasformate dal sole che nasceva all’alba in strisce d’oro. Lungo tutta la città, sopra i tetti disordinati e attraverso le vetrate aperte delle torri delle chiese, si diffondevano quei lunghi raggi luminosi: le sbarre di questa prigione del mondo inferiore.

Per tutto il giorno, la vecchia casa all’interno del cancello non fu disturbata da alcun visitatore. Ma quando il sole iniziò a tramontare, tre uomini entrarono dal cancello e si diressero verso quella casa fatiscente.

Rigaud fu il primo; camminava da solo fumando. Mr Baptist fu il secondo; lo seguiva da vicino, senza guardare nulla intorno. Mr Pancks fu il terzo; teneva il cappello sotto il braccio per liberare i suoi capelli irrequieti. Il tempo era estremamente caldo. Si incontrarono tutti sul gradino della porta.

“Voi due pazzi!” disse Rigaud, voltandosi di scatto. “Non andate via ancora!”

“Non volevamo farlo,” disse Signor Pancks.

Dandogli uno sguardo cupo in segno di approvazione alla sua risposta, Rigaud bussò forte. Si era concesso da bere per celebrare la conclusione della sua “partita” e non vedeva l’ora di iniziare. Appena finì di bussare una volta, si girò subito verso la porta e cominciò a bussare di nuovo. Non aveva ancora terminato quando Jeremiah Flintwinch aprì la porta e tutti entrarono nella sala di pietra. Rigaud, spingendo da parte il signor Flintwinch, si diresse subito verso le scale; i suoi due attendenti lo seguirono, così come il signor Flintwinch, e insieme entrarono nella tranquilla stanza di mrs Clennam. Tutto era come al solito: tranne che una delle finestre era completamente aperta, e Affery sedeva sul suo vecchio sgabello accanto alla finestra, riparando una calza. Gli oggetti abituali erano sul piccolo tavolo; il fuoco, spento come sempre, ardeva nel camino; il letto era coperto dal solito panno nero; e la padrona di casa sedeva sul suo divano nero, appoggiata al cuscino angoloso e scuro che assomigliava al blocco per l’esecuzione.

Ciononostante, nella stanza aleggiava un’atmosfera di preparazione, come se tutto fosse stato predisposto per un’occasione particolare. Da ciò che la stanza stessa rivelava – ogni uno dei suoi piccoli oggetti era al proprio posto, esattamente dove si trovavano da anni – nessuno avrebbe potuto capirlo senza osservarla attentamente, e anche allora, solo chi conoscesse già il suo volto avrebbe potuto comprenderne il significato. Sebbene il suo abito nero invariabile fosse esattamente come una volta, e la sua postura immutata fosse rigorosamente mantenuta, alcune lievi variazioni nel suo viso e la contrazione della sua fronte cupa erano così evidenti da segnare ogni dettaglio di lei.

“Chi sono queste persone?” chiese lei, incuriosita, mentre le due assistenti entravano. “Cosa vogliono qui?”

“Chi sono queste persone, cara signora?”, rispose Rigaud. “Sono amici di vostro figlio, il prigioniero. E cosa vogliono qui? Forse la morte, signora. Non lo so. Sarà meglio che le chiediate voi stessa.”

“Sai bene che ci hai detto alla porta di non andare ancora,” disse Pancks.

“E sai bene che alla porta mi hai detto che non volevi andartene,” ribatté Rigaud. “In breve, signora, permettetemi di presentarvi due ‘spie’ del prigioniero, pazzi, ma spie. Se desiderate che rimangano qui durante la nostra piccola conversazione, basta dirlo. Per me non è un problema.”

“Perché dovrei desiderare che rimangano qui?” disse Signora Clennam. “Che cosa ho io a che fare con loro?”

“Allora, cara signora,” disse Rigaud, gettandosi pesantemente in una poltrona fino a far tremare tutta la vecchia stanza, “fareste bene a licenziarli. È una vostra questione. Non sono i miei spie, né dei miei furfanti.”

“Ascolta bene, tu Pancks,” disse Signora Clennam aggrottando le sopracciglia con rabbia, “tu, il segretario di Casby! Occupati degli affari del tuo datore di lavoro e dei tuoi. Vai. E porta con te anche quell’altro uomo.”

“Grazie, signora,” rispose Signor Pancks, “sono lieto di dire che non ho alcuna obiezione al fatto che entrambi ci ritiriamo. Abbiamo fatto tutto ciò che era in nostro potere per aiutare il signor Clennam. La sua costante preoccupazione – e questa è aumentata quando è diventato prigioniero – era che questo gentile signore venisse riportato qui, nel luogo da cui era fuggito. Ebbene, eccolo qui, riportato indietro. E devo dire,” aggiunse Signor Pancks, “a giudicare dal suo aspetto poco attraente, secondo me il mondo non ne risentirebbe affatto se lui sparisse del tutto.”

“La tua opinione non è richiesta,” rispose Signora Clennam. “Vai.”

“Mi dispiace non potervi lasciare in compagnia migliore, signora,” disse Pancks;
“e mi dispiace anche che il signor Clennam non possa essere presente. È colpa mia.”

“Intendi la sua stessa,” rispose lei.

“No, intendo la mia, signora,” disse Pancks, “perché è stata sfortuna mia convincerlo a compiere un investimento disastroso.” (Il signor Pancks continuava ad usare quella parola, senza mai chiamarla “speculazione”.) “Anche se posso dimostrare con i numeri,” aggiunse il signor Pancks, con un’espressione ansiosa, “che si sarebbe trattato di un ottimo investimento. Da quando è fallito, ne ho riesaminato i dettagli ogni giorno della mia vita, e i calcoli risultano, corretti, se considerati solo dal punto di vista matematico. Ora non è il momento né il luogo adatto,” proseguì, lanciando uno sguardo desideroso verso il cappello dove teneva i suoi appunti, “per discutere di queste cifre; ma i numeri non lasciano spazio a dubbi. In questo momento, il signor Clennam dovrebbe essere già in carrozza, con tutto il suo seguito, e io dovrei valere tra i tre e i cinquemila sterline, ”

Mr Pancks si sistemava i capelli all’indietro con un’aria di fiducia tale da essere difficilmente superabile, anche se ne avesse posseduta la stessa quantità in tasca. Questi dati incontrovertibili avevano occupato ogni momento del suo tempo libero da quando aveva perso i suoi soldi, e erano destinati a offrirgli conforto per il resto dei suoi giorni.

“Tuttavia,” disse Signor Pancks, “basta così. Ora, ragazzo mio, hai visto i numeri e sai come sono risultati.” Il signor Baptist, che non possedeva la minima capacità aritmetica per compensare le cose in questo modo, annuì, mostrando i suoi bei denti bianchi.

At whom Mr Flintwinch had been looking, and to whom he then said:

‘Oh! it’s you, is it? I thought I remembered your face, but I wasn’t certain till I saw your teeth. Ah! yes, to be sure. It was this officious refugee,’ said Jeremiah to Mrs Clennam, ‘who came knocking at the door on the night when Arthur and Chatterbox were here, and who asked me a whole Catechism of questions about Mr Blandois.’

‘It is true,’ Mr Baptist cheerfully admitted. ‘And behold him, padrone! I have found him consequentementally.’

‘I shouldn’t have objected,’ returned Mr Flintwinch, ‘to your having broken your neck consequentementally.’

‘And now,’ said Mr Pancks, whose eye had often stealthily wandered to the window-seat and the stocking that was being mended there, ‘I’ve only one other word to say before I go. If Mr Clennam was here—but unfortunately, though he has so far got the better of this fine gentleman as to return him to this place against his will, he is ill and in prison—ill and in prison, poor fellow—if he was here,’ said Mr Pancks, taking one step aside towards the window-seat, and laying his right hand upon the stocking; ‘he would say, “Affery, tell your dreams!”’

Mr Pancks held up his right forefinger between his nose and the stocking with a ghostly air of warning, turned, steamed out and towed Mr Baptist after him. The house-door was heard to close upon them, their steps were heard passing over the dull pavement of the echoing court-yard, and still nobody had added a word. Mrs Clennam and Jeremiah had exchanged a look; and had then looked, and looked still, at Affery, who sat mending the stocking with great assiduity.

‘Come!’ said Mr Flintwinch at length, screwing himself a curve or two in the direction of the window-seat, and rubbing the palms of his hands on his coat-tail as if he were preparing them to do something: ‘Whatever has to be said among us had better be begun to be said without more loss of time.—So, Affery, my woman, take yourself away!’

In a moment Affery had thrown the stocking down, started up, caught hold of the windowsill with her right hand, lodged herself upon the window-seat with her right knee, and was flourishing her left hand, beating expected assailants off.

‘No, I won’t, Jeremiah—no, I won’t—no, I won’t! I won’t go! I’ll stay here. I’ll hear all I don’t know, and say all I know. I will, at last, if I die for it. I will, I will, I will, I will!’

Mr Flintwinch, stiffening with indignation and amazement, moistened the fingers of one hand at his lips, softly described a circle with them in the palm of the other hand, and continued with a menacing grin to screw himself in the direction of his wife; gasping some remark as he advanced, of which, in his choking anger, only the words, ‘Such a dose!’ were audible.

‘Not a bit nearer, Jeremiah!’ cried Affery, never ceasing to beat the air. ‘Don’t come a bit nearer to me, or I’ll rouse the neighbourhood! I’ll throw myself out of window. I’ll scream Fire and Murder! I’ll wake the dead! Stop where you are, or I’ll make shrieks enough to wake the dead!’

The determined voice of Mrs Clennam echoed ‘Stop!’ Jeremiah had stopped already.

‘It is closing in, Flintwinch. Let her alone. Affery, do you turn against me after these many years?’

‘I do, if it’s turning against you to hear what I don’t know, and say what I know. I have broke out now, and I can’t go back. I am determined to do it. I will do it, I will, I will, I will! If that’s turning against you, yes, I turn against both of you two clever ones. I told Arthur when he first come home to stand up against you. I told him it was no reason, because I was afeard of my life of you, that he should be. All manner of things have been a-going on since then, and I won’t be run up by Jeremiah, nor yet I won’t be dazed and scared, nor made a party to I don’t know what, no more. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! I’ll up for Arthur when he has nothing left, and is ill, and in prison, and can’t up for himself. I will, I will, I will, I will!’

‘How do you know, you heap of confusion,’ asked Mrs Clennam sternly, ‘that in doing what you are doing now, you are even serving Arthur?’

‘I don’t know nothing rightly about anything,’ said Affery; ‘and if ever you said a true word in your life, it’s when you call me a heap of confusion, for you two clever ones have done your most to make me such. You married me whether I liked it or not, and you’ve led me, pretty well ever since, such a life of dreaming and frightening as never was known, and what do you expect me to be but a heap of confusion? You wanted to make me such, and I am such; but I won’t submit no longer; no, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!’ She was still beating the air against all comers.

After gazing at her in silence, Mrs Clennam turned to Rigaud. ‘You see and hear this foolish creature. Do you object to such a piece of distraction remaining where she is?’

‘I, madame,’ he replied, ‘do I? That’s a question for you.’

‘I do not,’ she said, gloomily. ‘There is little left to choose now. Flintwinch, it is closing in.’

Mr Flintwinch replied by directing a look of red vengeance at his wife, and then, as if to pinion himself from falling upon her, screwed his crossed arms into the breast of his waistcoat, and with his chin very near one of his elbows stood in a corner, watching Rigaud in the oddest attitude. Rigaud, for his part, arose from his chair, and seated himself on the table with his legs dangling. In this easy attitude, he met Mrs Clennam’s set face, with his moustache going up and his nose coming down.

‘Madame, I am a gentleman—’

‘Of whom,’ she interrupted in her steady tones, ‘I have heard disparagement, in connection with a French jail and an accusation of murder.’

A chi stava guardando il signor Flintwinch, e a chi poi disse:

“Oh! Sei tu, vero? Pensavo di ricordarmi il tuo viso, ma non ne ero sicura finché non ho visto i tuoi denti. Ah! Sì, senza dubbio. È stato questo rifugiato così impiccione,” disse Jeremiah a Mrs Clennam, “che è venuto a bussare alla porta quella notte quando Arthur e Chatterbox erano qui, e che mi ha fatto un intero catechismo di domande su Mr Blandois.”

“È vero,” ammise felicemente il signor Battista. “E eccolo qui, padrone! L’ho trovato, seguendo le sue indicazioni.”

“Non avrei dovuto obiettare,” rispose il signor Flintwinch, “al fatto che tu ti sia rotto il collo a causa di ciò.”

“E ora,” disse Mr Pancks, il cui sguardo era spesso andato furtivamente verso il posto accanto alla finestra e verso la calza che veniva riparata lì, “ho solo un’altra cosa da dire prima di andarmene. Se Mr Clennam fosse qui, ma purtroppo, anche se finora è riuscito a costringere questo gentiluomo ad tornare in questo posto contro la sua volontà, ora è malato e si trova in prigione, malato e in prigione, povero uomo. Se fosse qui,” continuò Mr Pancks, spostandosi verso il posto accanto alla finestra e posando la sua mano destra sulla calza, “direbbe: ‘Affery, continua a sognare!’”

Mr Pancks sollevò il proprio dito indice destro tra il naso e la calza, con un’aria sinistra e minacciosa, poi si girò e se ne andò trascinando dietro di sé Mr Baptist. Si sentì la porta della casa chiudersi alle loro spalle; i loro passi risuonarono sul selciato del cortile deserto. E ancora nessuno aveva detto una parola. Mrs Clennam e Jeremiah si scambiarono uno sguardo, poi continuarono a fissare Affery, che sedeva lì intenta a riparare la calza con grande diligenza.

“Come!” disse finalmente il signor Flintwinch, avvicinandosi lentamente alla poltrona vicino alla finestra e strofinandosi le palme delle mani sulla coda del suo cappotto, come se si stesse preparando a fare qualcosa: “Quello che deve essere detto tra di noi dovrebbe iniziare al più presto, senza ulteriori perdite di tempo. Allora, Affery, mia donna, vattene!”

In un attimo, Affery gettò giù la calza, si alzò in piedi, si aggrappò al davanzale della finestra con la mano destra e si appoggiò sul sedile della finestra con il ginocchio destro; intanto, con la mano sinistra colpiva ripetutamente gli aggressori che si aspettavano di attaccarla.

“No, non lo farò, Jeremiah, no, non lo farò, no, non lo farò! Non me ne andrò. Rimarrò qui. Ascolterò tutto ciò che non so e dirò tutto ciò che so. Lo farò, anche a costo della vita. Lo farò, lo farò, lo farò!”

Il signor Flintwinch, irrigidito dall’indignazione e dallo stupore, umidì le dita di una mano con la bocca, disegnò delicatamente un cerchio con esse nella palma dell’altra mano, e continuò ad avvicinarsi a sua moglie con un sorriso minaccioso; mentre avanzava, emise alcuni suoni soffocati, dei quali, nel suo furore, si riuscirono a udire solo le parole: “Che dose!”

“Nemmeno di un passo più vicino, Jeremiah!” gridò Affery, continuando senza sosta a colpire l’aria con le mani. “Non avvicinarti nemmeno di un po’, altrimenti sveglierò tutto il quartiere! Mi butterò fuori dalla finestra! Urlerò ‘Fuoco!’ e ‘Assassinio!’, sveglierò i morti. Fermati lì dove sei, altrimenti farò abbastanza rumore da svegliare anche i morti!”

La voce decisa di Signora Clennam risuonò: “Fermati!”. Jeremiah si era già fermato.

“Sta per arrivare, Flintwinch. Lasciala da sola. Affery, dopo tutti questi anni ti rivolterai contro di me?”

“Sì, anche se questo dovesse rivelarsi contro di voi ascoltare ciò che non so e dire ciò che so. Ora sono uscita allo scoperto e non posso più tornare indietro. Sono decisa a farlo. Lo farò, lo farò, lo farò! Anche se questo dovesse rivelarsi contro di voi, sì, allora mi rivolgerò contro entrambi voi due intelligentoni. Ho detto a Arthur quando è tornato a casa per la prima volta di opporsi a voi. Gli ho detto che non c’era alcun motivo per farlo, perché avevo paura per la mia vita a causa vostra. Da allora sono successe molte cose. Non permetterò più che Jeremiah mi manipoli, né che venga fatto del mezzo di chissà quali intrighi. No, non lo permetterò più! Sarò al fianco di Arthur quando non avrà più nulla, quando sarà malato e in prigione, e non potrà più badare a se stesso. Lo farò, lo farò, lo farò!”

“Come fai a saperlo, tu che sei un mucchio di confusione?”, chiese severamente Signora Clennam, “come fai a essere sicura che facendo ciò che stai facendo adesso, in realtà stia aiutando anche Arthur?”

“Non so davvero nulla con certezza su nulla,” disse Affery; “e se mai nella tua vita hai detto una parola vera, è stato quando mi hai definito un disastro totale. Voi due, che vi credete così intelligenti, avete fatto di tutto per rendermi tale. Mi avete sposata, che io lo volessi o no, e da allora mi avete condotta in una vita piena di sogni e paure, come mai si era vista prima. Cosa volete che diventi, se non un disastro totale? Voi volevate che fossi così, ed ecco come sono. Ma non me ne starò più zitta; no, non lo farò!” Continuava a gridare contro chiunque le si avvicinasse.

Dopo averla fissata in silenzio, Madama Clennam si rivolse a Rigaud. “Voi vedete e sentite questa creatura sciocca. Vi dispiace che una distrazione del genere rimanga dove si trova?”

“Io, signora,” rispose lui, “lo faccio davvero? Questa è una domanda che dovete porgervi voi.”

“Non lo farò,” disse lei, con tristezza. “Ora non c’è quasi più nulla da scegliere. Flintwinch, sta per arrivare.”

Il signor Flintwinch rispose lanciando alla moglie uno sguardo pieno di vendetta; poi, come se volesse impedirsi di aggredirla, incrociò le braccia sul petto del gilet e, con il mento molto vicino a uno degli gomiti, rimase in un angolo, osservando Rigaud con un’aria davvero strana. Rigaud, dal canto suo, si alzò dalla sedia e si sedette sul tavolo, lasciando penzolare le gambe. In questa posizione rilassata, incrociò lo sguardo serio della signora Clennam; il suo mustacchio si sollevava mentre il naso si abbassava.

“Signora, sono un gentiluomo, ”

“Di cui,” interruppe lei con voce ferma, “ho sentito parlare in termini negativi, in relazione a una prigione francese e ad un’accusa di omicidio.”

He kissed his hand to her with his exaggerated gallantry.

‘Perfectly. Exactly. Of a lady too! What absurdity! How incredible! I had the honour of making a great success then; I hope to have the honour of making a great success now. I kiss your hands. Madame, I am a gentleman (I was going to observe), who when he says, “I will definitely finish this or that affair at the present sitting,” does definitely finish it. I announce to you that we are arrived at our last sitting on our little business. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’

She kept her eyes fixed upon him with a frown. ‘Yes.’

‘Further, I am a gentleman to whom mere mercenary trade-bargains are unknown, but to whom money is always acceptable as the means of pursuing his pleasures. You do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’

‘Scarcely necessary to ask, one would say. Yes.’

‘Further, I am a gentleman of the softest and sweetest disposition, but who, if trifled with, becomes enraged. Noble natures under such circumstances become enraged. I possess a noble nature. When the lion is awakened—that is to say, when I enrage—the satisfaction of my animosity is as acceptable to me as money. You always do me the favour to follow, and to comprehend?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, somewhat louder than before.

‘Do not let me derange you; pray be tranquil. I have said we are now arrived at our last sitting. Allow me to recall the two sittings we have held.’

‘It is not necessary.’

‘Death, madame,’ he burst out, ‘it’s my fancy! Besides, it clears the way. The first sitting was limited. I had the honour of making your acquaintance—of presenting my letter; I am a Knight of Industry, at your service, madame, but my polished manners had won me so much of success, as a master of languages, among your compatriots who are as stiff as their own starch is to one another, but are ready to relax to a foreign gentleman of polished manners—and of observing one or two little things,’ he glanced around the room and smiled, ‘about this honourable house, to know which was necessary to assure me, and to convince me that I had the distinguished pleasure of making the acquaintance of the lady I sought. I achieved this. I gave my word of honour to our dear Flintwinch that I would return. I gracefully departed.’

Her face neither acquiesced nor demurred. The same when he paused, and when he spoke, it as yet showed him always the one attentive frown, and the dark revelation before mentioned of her being nerved for the occasion.

‘I say, gracefully departed, because it was graceful to retire without alarming a lady. To be morally graceful, not less than physically, is a part of the character of Rigaud Blandois. It was also politic, as leaving you with something overhanging you, to expect me again with a little anxiety on a day not named. But your slave is politic. By Heaven, madame, politic! Let us return. On the day not named, I have again the honour to render myself at your house. I intimate that I have something to sell, which, if not bought, will compromise madame whom I highly esteem. I explain myself generally. I demand—I think it was a thousand pounds. Will you correct me?’

Thus forced to speak, she replied with constraint, ‘You demanded as much as a thousand pounds.’

‘I demand at present, Two. Such are the evils of delay. But to return once more. We are not accordant; we differ on that occasion. I am playful; playfulness is a part of my amiable character. Playfully, I become as one slain and hidden. For, it may alone be worth half the sum to madame, to be freed from the suspicions that my droll idea awakens. Accident and spies intermix themselves against my playfulness, and spoil the fruit, perhaps—who knows? only you and Flintwinch—when it is just ripe. Thus, madame, I am here for the last time. Listen! Definitely the last.’

As he struck his straggling boot-heels against the flap of the table, meeting her frown with an insolent gaze, he began to change his tone for a fierce one.

‘Bah! Stop an instant! Let us advance by steps. Here is my Hotel-note to be paid, according to contract. Five minutes hence we may be at daggers’ points. I’ll not leave it till then, or you’ll cheat me. Pay it! Count me the money!’

‘Take it from his hand and pay it, Flintwinch,’ said Mrs Clennam.

He spirted it into Mr Flintwinch’s face when the old man advanced to take it, and held forth his hand, repeating noisily, ‘Pay it! Count it out! Good money!’ Jeremiah picked the bill up, looked at the total with a bloodshot eye, took a small canvas bag from his pocket, and told the amount into his hand.

Rigaud chinked the money, weighed it in his hand, threw it up a little way and caught it, chinked it again.

‘The sound of it, to the bold Rigaud Blandois, is like the taste of fresh meat to the tiger. Say, then, madame. How much?’

He turned upon her suddenly with a menacing gesture of the weighted hand that clenched the money, as if he were going to strike her with it.

‘I tell you again, as I told you before, that we are not rich here, as you suppose us to be, and that your demand is excessive. I have not the present means of complying with such a demand, if I had ever so great an inclination.’

‘If!’ cried Rigaud. ‘Hear this lady with her If! Will you say that you have not the inclination?’

‘I will say what presents itself to me, and not what presents itself to you.’

‘Say it then. As to the inclination. Quick! Come to the inclination, and I know what to do.’

She was no quicker, and no slower, in her reply. ‘It would seem that you have obtained possession of a paper—or of papers—which I assuredly have the inclination to recover.’

Rigaud, with a loud laugh, drummed his heels against the table, and chinked his money. ‘I think so! I believe you there!’

‘The paper might be worth, to me, a sum of money. I cannot say how much, or how little.’

Le baciò la mano con quella sua esagerata galanteria.

‘Perfettamente. Esattamente. E inoltre da una signora! Che assurdità! Che incredibilità! Allora ho avuto l’onore di ottenere un grande successo; spero ora di avere l’onore di ottenere un altro grande successo. Bacio le vostre mani. Signora, sono un gentiluomo (stavo per aggiungere) che, quando dice “Assolutamente porterò a termine questa o quell’affare in questa seduta”, allora lo fa davvero. Vi annuncio che abbiamo raggiunto l’ultima fase del nostro piccolo accordo. Vi prego di seguirmi e di capire.’

Lo fissava con un sopracciglio corrugato. “Sì.”

“Inoltre, io sono un gentiluomo per il quale gli semplici accordi commerciali basati sul denaro non hanno alcun significato; per me, il denaro rappresenta soltanto uno strumento per realizzare i miei desideri. Vi prego di seguirmi e di capire ciò che intendo.”

“Senza dubbio superfluo chiederlo, si direbbe. Sì.”

“Inoltre, sono un gentiluomo dal carattere dolce e mite, ma che, se preso in giro, diventa furioso. Anche le nature nobili, in tali circostanze, si infuriano. Possiedo una nobile natura. Quando il leone si risveglia, cioè quando mi arrabbio, la soddisfazione della mia rabbia è per me altrettanto importante quanto il denaro. Mi fai sempre l’onore di seguirmi e di capire, vero?”

“Sì,” rispose lei, con un tono leggermente più alto del solito.

“Non lasciate che vi disturbi; per favore, rimanete tranquilli. Ho detto che ora abbiamo raggiunto l’ultima seduta. Lasciatemi ricordare le due sedute che abbiamo tenuto fino ad ora.”

“Non è necessario.”

“‘Morte, signora,’ esclamò, ‘è solo una mia fantasia. Inoltre, questo mi permette di liberare il posto. La prima seduta era limitata; ho avuto l’onore di farvi conoscere e di presentarvi la mia lettera. Sono un Cavaliere dell’Industria, a vostra disposizione, signora. Ma le mie buone maniere mi hanno permesso di ottenere tanto successo tra i vostri connazionali, che sono così rigidi l’uno con l’altro, ma pronti ad aprirsi a un gentiluomo straniero dalle buone maniere. E ho notato anche alcune piccole cose, ” Guardò intorno alla stanza e sorrise. “Queste cose mi hanno permesso di essere certo che avevo il piacere di conoscere la signora che cercavo. L’ho ottenuto. Ho dato la mia parola d’onore a Flintwinch che sarei tornato. E me ne sono andato con grazia.”

Il suo viso né acconsentiva né si opponeva. Lo stesso quando lui faceva una pausa, e quando parlava: mostrava sempre lo stesso sguardo attento, con quella espressione cupa che aveva già rivelato il suo nervosismo per quell’occasione.

“Dico ‘se ne è andato con grazia’, perché ritirarsi senza allarmare una signora è davvero un atto di gentilezza. Essere moralmente corretti, tanto quanto fisicamente, fa parte del carattere di Rigaud Blandois. Era anche una mossa politica: lasciarvi con l’ansia di aspettarmi di nuovo in un giorno non ancora stabilito. Ma il mio servo è davvero abile nelle strategie politiche. Per Dio, signora, davvero abile! Torniamo ora: nel giorno designato, avrò nuovamente l’onore di presentarmi a casa vostra. Devo dirvi che ho qualcosa da vendervi. E se non verrà acquistato, ciò potrebbe mettere in pericolo voi, che stimo molto. Mi spiego in modo generico. Chiedo, credo fossero mille sterline. Mi correggete se sbaglio?”

Costretta così a parlare, rispose con difficoltà: “Avete chiesto una somma pari a mille sterline.”

“Chiedo ora due cose. Ecco i mali che derivano dal ritardo. Ma torniamo ancora sull’argomento: non siamo d’accordo su quel punto. Io sono scherzoso; lo scherzo fa parte del mio carattere amabile. Scherzosamente, mi comporto come se fossi stato ucciso e nascosto. Perché forse, solo questo potrebbe valere la metà di tutto per madame: essere liberata dai sospetti che la mia idea bizzarra potrebbe suscitare. Incidenti e spie si intromettono nei miei scherzi, rovinando forse il risultato. Chi lo sa? Solo voi e Flintwinch potete capire quando il momento giusto è arrivato. Quindi, madame, questa è l’ultima volta che vi parlo. Ascoltate: davvero l’ultima.”

Mentre i suoi tacchi strascicati battevano contro il bordo del tavolo, incrociando il suo sguardo corrucciato con uno sprezzante, iniziò a cambiare tono, passando a uno aggressivo.

“Bah! Fermati un attimo! Diamo il via passo dopo passo. Ecco la mia ricevuta dell’hotel da pagare, secondo l’accordo. Tra cinque minuti potremmo già trovarci in conflitto aperto. Non la lascerò andare fino ad allora, altrimenti mi trufferete. Pagatela! Contatemi i soldi!”

“Prendilo dalla sua mano e pagalo, Flintwinch,” disse Signora Clennam.

Glielo soffiò in faccia al signor Flintwinch quando l’uomo anziano si avvicinò per prenderlo, tendendo la mano e ripetendo ad alta voce: “Pagalo! Contali bene! Buon denaro!” Jeremiah raccolse il conto, guardò la somma con un occhio iniettato di sangue, tirò fuori una piccola borsa di tela dalla tasca e gli diede la somma richiesta.

Rigaud contò i soldi, li pesò nella mano, li lanciò un po’ più lontano e li riacchiuse; poi li contò di nuovo.

“Per il temerario Rigaud Blandois, il suono di quella cosa è come il sapore della carne fresca per un tigre. Allora, ditemi, signora: quanto?”

Le si avvicinò improvvisamente con un gesto minaccioso, quella mano pesante che stringeva i soldi, come se volesse colpirla con essi.

“Vi dico di nuovo, proprio come vi ho detto prima, che qui non siamo ricchi, come voi presumete che siamo, e che la vostra richiesta è eccessiva. Attualmente non dispongo dei mezzi necessari per soddisfare una tale richiesta, anche se ne avessi grande desiderio.”

“‘Se!’ gridò Rigaud. ‘Ascoltate questa signora e il suo “se”! Potrete davvero dire di non avere alcuna inclinazione in questo senso?’”

“Dirò ciò che mi viene in mente, e non ciò che vi viene in mente.”

“Allora dillo. Per quanto riguarda quella inclinazione. Presto! Parla di quell’inclinazione e io saprò cosa fare.”

La sua risposta non fu né più veloce né più lenta del dovuto. “Sembra che tu abbia ottenuto in tuo possesso alcuni documenti, che io, di certo, desidero recuperare.”

Rigaud, ridendo ad alta voce, batté i tacchi sul tavolo e fece tintinnare le monete. “Credo proprio di sì! Sono convinto di te!”

“Quel documento potrebbe valere, per me, una certa somma di denaro. Non posso dire esattamente quanto, o quanto poco.”

‘What the Devil!’ he asked savagely. ‘Not after a week’s grace to consider?’

‘No! I will not out of my scanty means—for I tell you again, we are poor here, and not rich—I will not offer any price for a power that I do not know the worst and the fullest extent of. This is the third time of your hinting and threatening. You must speak explicitly, or you may go where you will, and do what you will. It is better to be torn to pieces at a spring, than to be a mouse at the caprice of such a cat.’

He looked at her so hard with those eyes too near together that the sinister sight of each, crossing that of the other, seemed to make the bridge of his hooked nose crooked. After a long survey, he said, with the further setting off of his internal smile:

‘You are a bold woman!’

‘I am a resolved woman.’

‘You always were. What? She always was; is it not so, my little Flintwinch?’

‘Flintwinch, say nothing to him. It is for him to say, here and now, all he can; or to go hence, and do all he can. You know this to be our determination. Leave him to his action on it.’

She did not shrink under his evil leer, or avoid it. He turned it upon her again, but she remained steady at the point to which she had fixed herself. He got off the table, placed a chair near the sofa, sat down in it, and leaned an arm upon the sofa close to her own, which he touched with his hand. Her face was ever frowning, attentive, and settled.

‘It is your pleasure then, madame, that I shall relate a morsel of family history in this little family society,’ said Rigaud, with a warning play of his lithe fingers on her arm. ‘I am something of a doctor. Let me touch your pulse.’

She suffered him to take her wrist in his hand. Holding it, he proceeded to say:

‘A history of a strange marriage, and a strange mother, and a revenge, and a suppression.—Aye, aye, aye? this pulse is beating curiously! It appears to me that it doubles while I touch it. Are these the usual changes of your malady, madame?’

There was a struggle in her maimed arm as she twisted it away, but there was none in her face. On his face there was his own smile.

‘I have lived an adventurous life. I am an adventurous character. I have known many adventurers; interesting spirits—amiable society! To one of them I owe my knowledge and my proofs—I repeat it, estimable lady—proofs—of the ravishing little family history I go to commence. You will be charmed with it. But, bah! I forget. One should name a history. Shall I name it the history of a house? But, bah, again. There are so many houses. Shall I name it the history of this house?’

Leaning over the sofa, poised on two legs of his chair and his left elbow; that hand often tapping her arm to beat his words home; his legs crossed; his right hand sometimes arranging his hair, sometimes smoothing his moustache, sometimes striking his nose, always threatening her whatever it did; coarse, insolent, rapacious, cruel, and powerful, he pursued his narrative at his ease.

‘In fine, then, I name it the history of this house. I commence it. There live here, let us suppose, an uncle and nephew. The uncle, a rigid old gentleman of strong force of character; the nephew, habitually timid, repressed, and under constraint.’

Mistress Affery, fixedly attentive in the window-seat, biting the rolled up end of her apron, and trembling from head to foot, here cried out, ‘Jeremiah, keep off from me! I’ve heerd, in my dreams, of Arthur’s father and his uncle. He’s a talking of them. It was before my time here; but I’ve heerd in my dreams that Arthur’s father was a poor, irresolute, frightened chap, who had had everything but his orphan life scared out of him when he was young, and that he had no voice in the choice of his wife even, but his uncle chose her. There she sits! I heerd it in my dreams, and you said it to her own self.’

As Mr Flintwinch shook his fist at her, and as Mrs Clennam gazed upon her, Rigaud kissed his hand to her.

‘Perfectly right, dear Madame Flintwinch. You have a genius for dreaming.’

‘I don’t want none of your praises,’ returned Affery. ‘I don’t want to have nothing at all to say to you. But Jeremiah said they was dreams, and I’ll tell ‘em as such!’ Here she put her apron in her mouth again, as if she were stopping somebody else’s mouth—perhaps Jeremiah’s, which was chattering with threats as if he were grimly cold.

‘Our beloved Madame Flintwinch,’ said Rigaud, ‘developing all of a sudden a fine susceptibility and spirituality, is right to a marvel. Yes. So runs the history. Monsieur, the uncle, commands the nephew to marry. Monsieur says to him in effect, “My nephew, I introduce to you a lady of strong force of character, like myself—a resolved lady, a stern lady, a lady who has a will that can break the weak to powder: a lady without pity, without love, implacable, revengeful, cold as the stone, but raging as the fire.” Ah! what fortitude! Ah, what superiority of intellectual strength! Truly, a proud and noble character that I describe in the supposed words of Monsieur, the uncle. Ha, ha, ha! Death of my soul, I love the sweet lady!’

Mrs Clennam’s face had changed. There was a remarkable darkness of colour on it, and the brow was more contracted. ‘Madame, madame,’ said Rigaud, tapping her on the arm, as if his cruel hand were sounding a musical instrument, ‘I perceive I interest you. I perceive I awaken your sympathy. Let us go on.’

The drooping nose and the ascending moustache had, however, to be hidden for a moment with the white hand, before he could go on; he enjoyed the effect he made so much.

‘The nephew, being, as the lucid Madame Flintwinch has remarked, a poor devil who has had everything but his orphan life frightened and famished out of him—the nephew abases his head, and makes response: “My uncle, it is to you to command. Do as you will!” Monsieur, the uncle, does as he will. It is what he always does. The auspicious nuptials take place; the newly married come home to this charming mansion; the lady is received, let us suppose, by Flintwinch. Hey, old intriguer?’

“Che diavolo!” esclamò con rabbia. “Non si può nemmeno concedere una settimana per pensarci?”

“No! Non spenderò i miei scarsi mezzi – perché vi ripeto: siamo poveri qui, non ricchi – non offrirò alcun prezzo per un potere di cui non conosco nemmeno le peggiori e più complete conseguenze. Questa è la terza volta che mi fate allusioni e minacce. Dovete parlare chiaramente, altrimenti potete andare dove volete e fare ciò che volete. È meglio essere squartati da una fontana piuttosto che diventare un topo ai capricci di un gatto del genere.”

La guardò con tanta intensità, con quegli occhi così vicini tra loro che l’effetto sinistro della loro combinazione sembrava far diventare ancora più storto il ponte formato dal suo naso adunco. Dopo averla osservata a lungo, disse, accompagnando quelle parole da un sorriso interiore sempre più evidente:

“Sei davvero una donna coraggiosa!”

“Sono una donna decisa.”

“Sei sempre stata così. Vero? Anche lei lo è sempre stata, non è vero, mia piccola Flintwinch?”

“Flintwinch, non dirgli nulla. È a lui che spetta decidere, ora e qui, se può dire tutto ciò che ha da dire, oppure andarsene e fare tutto ciò che è in suo potere. Tu sai che questa è la nostra decisione. Lascialo agire secondo questa decisione.”

Non indietreggiò di fronte al suo sguardo malvagio, né lo evitò. Lui lo rivolse nuovamente verso di lei, ma lei rimase ferma nella posizione che aveva scelto. Lui si alzò dal tavolo, mise una sedia vicino al divano, vi si sedette e appoggiò un braccio sul divano, proprio accanto al suo; con la mano toccò il suo braccio. Il suo viso era sempre serio, attento e deciso.

“Allora, signora, sarà un piacere per voi se racconterò una piccola storia di famiglia in questa nostra piccola riunione,” disse Rigaud, muovendo con fare allusivo le sue dita agili sul suo braccio. “Sono più o meno un medico. Lasciate che vi controlli il polso.”

“Lo lasciò che le prendesse il polso nella sua mano; tenendolo così, proseguì a dire, ”

‘Una storia di un matrimonio strano, di una madre strana, di una vendetta, e di una soppressione. Sì, sì. Il battito del suo polso è davvero curioso. Mi sembra che aumenti quando lo tocco. Sono forse questi i soliti sintomi della sua malattia, signora?’

C’era una certa difficoltà nel muovere il suo braccio ferito mentre lo allontanava, ma sul suo viso non si leggeva alcuna traccia di dolore. Sul viso di lui, invece, c’era il suo solito sorriso.

“Ho vissuto una vita piena di avventure. Sono una persona dal temperamento avventuroso; ho conosciuto molti avventurieri, persone interessanti, un ambiente piacevole in cui trascorrere il tempo! A uno di loro devo la mia conoscenza e le prove che sto per presentarvi. Ripeto: signora stimata, queste prove riguardano quella incantevole piccola famiglia la cui storia sto per iniziare a raccontare. Ne rimarrete affascinati. Ma, bah! Me ne sono dimenticato. Bisogna dare un nome a questa storia. Dovrei chiamarla la storia di una casa? Ma, ci sono così tante case. Forse dovrei chiamarla la storia di questa casa in particolare, ”

Appoggiato allo schienale del divano, con le gambe della sedia e il gomito sinistro appoggiati sul pavimento; quella mano che spesso batteva sul braccio di lei per enfatizzare le sue parole; le gambe incrociate; la mano destra che a volte sistemava i suoi capelli, altre volte si accarezzava la barba, altre ancora si colpiva il naso. Sempre minacciante, sempre aggressivo, crudele e potente, continuava tranquillamente la sua narrazione.

‘In definitiva, allora, la chiamo la storia di questa casa. La inizio ora. Qui vivono, supponiamo, un zio e un nipote: lo zio, un anziano signore rigido e dal carattere deciso; il nipote, solitamente timido, represso e sotto costrizione.’

Signora Affery, immobile e attenta nella poltrona accanto alla finestra, mordicchiando l’estremità arrotolata del grembiule e tremando dalla testa ai piedi, esclamò: “Jeremiah, allontanati da me! Ne ho sentito parlare nei miei sogni. Del padre di Arthur e di suo zio. Loro ne parlano spesso. Era prima che io venissi qui; ma nei miei sogni ho saputo che il padre di Arthur era un uomo povero, indeciso, spaventato. Gli è stata portata via quasi tutta la felicità nella sua giovinezza. Non aveva nemmeno voce in capitolo nella scelta della moglie: fu suo zio a decidere per lui. Ecco lei lì. L’ho sentito nei miei sogni. E voi gliel’avete detto anche voi stesso, ”

Mentre il signor Flintwinch le scuoteva il pugno contro di lei, e mentre la signora Clennam la fissava, Rigaud le baciò la mano in suo onore.

“Assolutamente giusto, cara signora Flintwinch. Lei ha davvero un talento straordinario nel sognare.”

“Non voglio nessuna delle tue lodi,” rispose Affery. “Non voglio avere assolutamente nulla da dirti. Ma Jeremiah ha detto che si trattava di sogni, e io glielo dirò proprio così!” Poi mise di nuovo il grembiule in bocca, come se volesse zittire qualcun altro, forse Jeremiah, che continuava a mormorare minacce, come se fosse terribilmente arrabbiato.

“La nostra amata Madame Flintwinch,” disse Rigaud, “che all’improvviso ha sviluppato una grande sensibilità e spiritualità, è davvero meravigliosa. Sì. Così recita la storia. Il signor zio ordina al nipote di sposarsi; in pratica gli dice: ‘Nipote mio, ti presento una donna dal carattere forte, come il mio. Una donna risoluta, severa, con una volontà capace di distruggere i deboli. Una donna senza pietà, senza amore, implacabile, vendicativa, fredda come la pietra, ma furiosa come il fuoco.” Ah! Che forza d’animo. Che superiorità di intelligenza! Davvero, un carattere nobile e orgoglioso. Descritto, in parole del signor zio. Ahahah. Morte della mia anima, io amo davvero questa dolce donna!”

Il viso di Mrs Clennam era cambiato. Presentava un colore scuro insolito, e la fronte era ancora più contratta. “Madame, madame,” disse Rigaud, battendole sul braccio, come se la sua mano crudele stesse suonando uno strumento musicale, “vedo che mi trovo nel vostro interesse. Vedo che suscito la vostra simpatia. Andiamo avanti.”

Il naso pendulo e la barba che si inalzava dovevano però essere nascosti, per un momento, con la mano bianca, prima che potesse continuare; gli piaceva molto l’effetto che produceva.

‘Il nipote, essendo, come ha osservato la lucida Madame Flintwinch, un povero diavolo a cui è stato tolto tutto tranne che una vita di orfanozza e povertà, il nipote abbassa la testa e risponde: “Mio zio, spetta a voi dare gli ordini. Fate ciò che desiderate!” Monsieur, lo zio, fa ciò che vuole. È sempre così che procede. Le nozze si svolgono con successo; la coppia novella ritorna a questa incantevole dimora; la signora viene accolta, supponiamo, da Flintwinch. Ehi, vecchio intrigante!’

Jeremiah, with his eyes upon his mistress, made no reply. Rigaud looked from one to the other, struck his ugly nose, and made a clucking with his tongue.

‘Soon the lady makes a singular and exciting discovery. Thereupon, full of anger, full of jealousy, full of vengeance, she forms—see you, madame!—a scheme of retribution, the weight of which she ingeniously forces her crushed husband to bear himself, as well as execute upon her enemy. What superior intelligence!’

‘Keep off, Jeremiah!’ cried the palpitating Affery, taking her apron from her mouth again. ‘But it was one of my dreams, that you told her, when you quarrelled with her one winter evening at dusk—there she sits and you looking at her—that she oughtn’t to have let Arthur when he come home, suspect his father only; that she had always had the strength and the power; and that she ought to have stood up more to Arthur, for his father. It was in the same dream where you said to her that she was not—not something, but I don’t know what, for she burst out tremendous and stopped you. You know the dream as well as I do. When you come down-stairs into the kitchen with the candle in your hand, and hitched my apron off my head. When you told me I had been dreaming. When you wouldn’t believe the noises.’ After this explosion Affery put her apron into her mouth again; always keeping her hand on the window-sill and her knee on the window-seat, ready to cry out or jump out if her lord and master approached.

Rigaud had not lost a word of this.

‘Haha!’ he cried, lifting his eyebrows, folding his arms, and leaning back in his chair. ‘Assuredly, Madame Flintwinch is an oracle! How shall we interpret the oracle, you and I and the old intriguer? He said that you were not—? And you burst out and stopped him! What was it you were not? What is it you are not? Say then, madame!’

Under this ferocious banter, she sat breathing harder, and her mouth was disturbed. Her lips quivered and opened, in spite of her utmost efforts to keep them still.

‘Come then, madame! Speak, then! Our old intriguer said that you were not—and you stopped him. He was going to say that you were not—what? I know already, but I want a little confidence from you. How, then? You are not what?’

She tried again to repress herself, but broke out vehemently, ‘Not Arthur’s mother!’

‘Good,’ said Rigaud. ‘You are amenable.’

With the set expression of her face all torn away by the explosion of her passion, and with a bursting, from every rent feature, of the smouldering fire so long pent up, she cried out: ‘I will tell it myself! I will not hear it from your lips, and with the taint of your wickedness upon it. Since it must be seen, I will have it seen by the light I stood in. Not another word. Hear me!’

‘Unless you are a more obstinate and more persisting woman than even I know you to be,’ Mr Flintwinch interposed, ‘you had better leave Mr Rigaud, Mr Blandois, Mr Beelzebub, to tell it in his own way. What does it signify when he knows all about it?’

‘He does not know all about it.’

‘He knows all he cares about it,’ Mr Flintwinch testily urged.

‘He does not know me.’

‘What do you suppose he cares for you, you conceited woman?’ said Mr Flintwinch.

‘I tell you, Flintwinch, I will speak. I tell you when it has come to this, I will tell it with my own lips, and will express myself throughout it. What! Have I suffered nothing in this room, no deprivation, no imprisonment, that I should condescend at last to contemplate myself in such a glass as that. Can you see him? Can you hear him? If your wife were a hundred times the ingrate that she is, and if I were a thousand times more hopeless than I am of inducing her to be silent if this man is silenced, I would tell it myself, before I would bear the torment of the hearing it from him.’

Rigaud pushed his chair a little back; pushed his legs out straight before him; and sat with his arms folded over against her.

‘You do not know what it is,’ she went on addressing him, ‘to be brought up strictly and straitly. I was so brought up. Mine was no light youth of sinful gaiety and pleasure. Mine were days of wholesome repression, punishment, and fear. The corruption of our hearts, the evil of our ways, the curse that is upon us, the terrors that surround us—these were the themes of my childhood. They formed my character, and filled me with an abhorrence of evil-doers. When old Mr Gilbert Clennam proposed his orphan nephew to my father for my husband, my father impressed upon me that his bringing-up had been, like mine, one of severe restraint. He told me, that besides the discipline his spirit had undergone, he had lived in a starved house, where rioting and gaiety were unknown, and where every day was a day of toil and trial like the last. He told me that he had been a man in years long before his uncle had acknowledged him as one; and that from his school-days to that hour, his uncle’s roof has been a sanctuary to him from the contagion of the irreligious and dissolute. When, within a twelvemonth of our marriage, I found my husband, at that time when my father spoke of him, to have sinned against the Lord and outraged me by holding a guilty creature in my place, was I to doubt that it had been appointed to me to make the discovery, and that it was appointed to me to lay the hand of punishment upon that creature of perdition? Was I to dismiss in a moment—not my own wrongs—what was I! but all the rejection of sin, and all the war against it, in which I had been bred?’

She laid her wrathful hand upon the watch on the table.

‘No! “Do not forget.” The initials of those words are within here now, and were within here then. I was appointed to find the old letter that referred to them, and that told me what they meant, and whose work they were, and why they were worked, lying with this watch in his secret drawer. But for that appointment there would have been no discovery. “Do not forget.” It spoke to me like a voice from an angry cloud. Do not forget the deadly sin, do not forget the appointed discovery, do not forget the appointed suffering. I did not forget. Was it my own wrong I remembered? Mine! I was but a servant and a minister. What power could I have over them, but that they were bound in the bonds of their sin, and delivered to me!’

Geremia, con lo sguardo fisso sulla sua amante, non rispose. Rigaud li guardò entrambi, si colpì il brutto naso e fece schioccare la lingua.

‘Presto la signora fa una scoperta straordinaria ed eccitante. Allora, piena di rabbia, piena di invidia, piena di desiderio di vendetta, elabora un piano di rappresaglia. Vedete, signora! Un piano così ingegnoso che costringe suo marito, ormai distrutto, ad assumersene l’intero peso e ad attuarlo contro il suo nemico. Che intelligenza superiore!’

“Stai lontano da lei, Jeremiah!” gridò Affery, con il cuore che le batteva all’impazzata, riprendendo a tenersi la gonna in bocca. “Ma era uno dei miei sogni, quello in cui le hai detto quelle cose, quando avete litigato quella sera d’inverno al tramonto. Lì lei sedeva e tu la guardavi. Dicevi che non avrebbe dovuto lasciare che Arthur sospettasse di suo padre quando è tornato a casa. Che aveva sempre avuto la forza e il potere necessari. E che avrebbe dovuto opporsi con più decisione a Arthur, per il bene di suo padre. Era lo stesso sogno in cui le hai detto che lei non era, non so cosa, perché all’improvviso è scoppiata a piangere e ti ha fermato. Conosci quel sogno tanto bene quanto me. Quando sei sceso in cucina con la candela in mano e mi hai tolto la gonna dalla testa. Quando mi hai detto che stavo sognando. Quando non volevi credere a quei rumori, ” Dopo quest’esplosione di emozioni, Affery riprese a tenersi la gonna in bocca, continuando a fissare il davanzale della finestra con la mano e il ginocchio appoggiati al sedile, pronta a gridare o a saltare fuori se il suo padrone si fosse avvicinato.

Rigaud non aveva perso una parola di tutto ciò.

“Ahah!” esclamò, alzando le sopracciglia, incrociando le braccia e appoggiandosi allo schienale della sedia. “Certamente, Madame Flintwinch è un’oracola! Come dovremmo interpretare questa profezia, tu, io e quel vecchio intrigante? Ha detto che tu non eri,? E tu sei intervenuta immediatamente per fermarlo! Che cosa non eri? Che cosa non sei? Allora dimmelo, signora!”

Sotto queste battute feroci, lei sedeva respirando sempre più affannosamente; le sue labbra tremavano e si aprivano, nonostante i suoi sforzi disperati per tenerle ferme.

“Allora, signora! Parlate dunque! Il nostro vecchio intrigante ha detto che voi non eravate, e voi lo avete fermato. Stava per dire che voi non eravate, cosa? Lo so già, ma vorrei un po’ di fiducia da parte vostra. Allora, cosa? Voi non siete, cosa?”

Cercò di nuovo di trattenersi, ma scoppiò in un pianto violento: “Non essere la madre di Arthur!”

“Bene,” disse Rigaud. “Sei disponibile.”

Con il volto completamente distrutto dall’esplosione della sua passione, e con quella fiamma infuocata che da tempo era stata trattenuta prorompendo da ogni parte del suo essere, gridò: “Lo dirò io stessa! Non lo voglio sentire dalle tue labbra, contaminato dal tuo male. Poiché deve essere visto, che sia visto alla luce in cui ho vissuto. Nessuna altra parola. Ascoltami!”

“Tranne se siate una donna più ostinata e perseverante di quanto io sappia che siate,” intervenne il signor Flintwinch, “dovreste lasciare che il signor Rigaud, il signor Blandois, il signor Beelzebub lo dica a modo loro. Cosa significa se lui sa già tutto al riguardo?”

“Lui non sa tutto al riguardo.”

“Sa tutto ciò che gli interessa”, insistette con tono irritato il signor Flintwinch.

“Lui non mi conosce.”

“Cosa pensi che gli importi di te, donna presuntuosa?” disse il signor Flintwinch.

“Te lo dico, Flintwinch: parlerò. Te lo dico che quando arriverà il momento, lo dirò con le mie stesse labbra e mi esprimerò apertamente al riguardo. Cosa! Non ho forse subito privazioni in questa stanza, non sono stato imprigionato. Perché dovrei finalmente degradarmi a guardare me stesso attraverso uno specchio del genere? Riesci a vederlo? Riesci a sentirlo? Anche se tua moglie fosse cento volte più ingrata di quanto non lo sia, e anche se io fossi mille volte meno in grado di farla tacere. Se quest’uomo dovesse essere zittito, lo dirò io stesso, piuttosto che sopportare il tormento di ascoltarlo da lui.”

Rigaud spostò leggermente la sedia all’indietro, allungò le gambe davanti a sé e si sedette con le braccia incrociate dietro la schiena.

“Non sai cosa significhi essere cresciuti con rigidi principi morali,” continuò a dirgli. “Io sono stata educata proprio così. La mia infanzia non è stata caratterizzata da gioie peccaminose o eccessi di felicità; al contrario, ho trascorso giorni pieni di repressione, punizioni e paura. La corruzione dei nostri cuori, il male nelle nostre azioni, la maledizione che ci sovrasta, le terribili realtà che ci circondano, queste sono state le costanti della mia infanzia. Sono state queste esperienze a plasmare il mio carattere e a far sì che provassi un profondo disprezzo per i malvagi. Quando il vecchio signor Gilbert Clennam propose al mio padre di dare in sposa suo nipote orfano a mio padre, questi mi spiegò che anche lui era stato educato con la stessa severità. Mi raccontò che, oltre alla disciplina rigorosa a cui era stato sottoposto, aveva vissuto in una casa dove non c’era mai stata gioia o eccessi; ogni giorno era un giorno di fatica e sofferenza. Mi disse anche che era diventato adulto molto tempo prima che suo zio lo riconoscesse come tale, e che, dai tempi della scuola fino a quel momento, la casa di suo zio era stata per lui un rifugio dalla corruzione e dal vizio. E quando, dodici mesi dopo il nostro matrimonio, scoprii che mio marito aveva peccato contro il Signore e mi aveva tradita tenendo con me una creatura colpevole, avrei dovuto forse dubitare che fosse destino per me scoprire la verità e punire quella creatura di perdizione? Avrei dovuto ignorare, in un istante, non solo i miei stessi errori, ma tutto ciò che rappresentava il mio impegno contro il peccato, tutta la lotta che avevo intrapreso per combatterlo?”

Posò la sua mano furiosa sull’orologio sul tavolo.

“No! ‘Non dimenticare.’ Le iniziali di quelle parole si trovano qui dentro ora, e si trovavano qui anche allora. Sono stato incaricato di trovare quella vecchia lettera che le menzionava, che mi spiegasse il loro significato, a chi appartenevano e perché fossero state scritte, nascoste insieme a questo orologio nel suo cassetto segreto. Senza quell’incarico, nulla di tutto ciò sarebbe stato scoperto. ‘Non dimenticare.’ Quelle parole mi parlavano come una voce proveniente da una nuvola piena di rabbia. Non dimenticare il peccato mortale, non dimenticare la scoperta che era stata prevista, non dimenticare il dolore che doveva seguire. Non l’ho dimenticato. Era forse un mio errore quello che ricordavo? Mio! Ero soltanto un servitore, un messaggero. Quale potere avrei potuto avere su di loro, se non quello di far sì che rimanessero legati ai vincoli del loro peccato e mi venissero consegnati?”

More than forty years had passed over the grey head of this determined woman, since the time she recalled. More than forty years of strife and struggle with the whisper that, by whatever name she called her vindictive pride and rage, nothing through all eternity could change their nature. Yet, gone those more than forty years, and come this Nemesis now looking her in the face, she still abided by her old impiety—still reversed the order of Creation, and breathed her own breath into a clay image of her Creator. Verily, verily, travellers have seen many monstrous idols in many countries; but no human eyes have ever seen more daring, gross, and shocking images of the Divine nature than we creatures of the dust make in our own likenesses, of our own bad passions.

‘When I forced him to give her up to me, by her name and place of abode,’ she went on in her torrent of indignation and defence; ‘when I accused her, and she fell hiding her face at my feet, was it my injury that I asserted, were they my reproaches that I poured upon her? Those who were appointed of old to go to wicked kings and accuse them—were they not ministers and servants? And had not I, unworthy and far-removed from them, sin to denounce? When she pleaded to me her youth, and his wretched and hard life (that was her phrase for the virtuous training he had belied), and the desecrated ceremony of marriage there had secretly been between them, and the terrors of want and shame that had overwhelmed them both when I was first appointed to be the instrument of their punishment, and the love (for she said the word to me, down at my feet) in which she had abandoned him and left him to me, was it my enemy that became my footstool, were they the words of my wrath that made her shrink and quiver! Not unto me the strength be ascribed; not unto me the wringing of the expiation!’

Many years had come and gone since she had had the free use even of her fingers; but it was noticeable that she had already more than once struck her clenched hand vigorously upon the table, and that when she said these words she raised her whole arm in the air, as though it had been a common action with her.

‘And what was the repentance that was extorted from the hardness of her heart and the blackness of her depravity? I, vindictive and implacable? It may be so, to such as you who know no righteousness, and no appointment except Satan’s. Laugh; but I will be known as I know myself, and as Flintwinch knows me, though it is only to you and this half-witted woman.’

‘Add, to yourself, madame,’ said Rigaud. ‘I have my little suspicions that madame is rather solicitous to be justified to herself.’

‘It is false. It is not so. I have no need to be,’ she said, with great energy and anger.

‘Truly?’ retorted Rigaud. ‘Hah!’

‘I ask, what was the penitence, in works, that was demanded of her? “You have a child; I have none. You love that child. Give him to me. He shall believe himself to be my son, and he shall be believed by every one to be my son. To save you from exposure, his father shall swear never to see or communicate with you more; equally to save him from being stripped by his uncle, and to save your child from being a beggar, you shall swear never to see or communicate with either of them more. That done, and your present means, derived from my husband, renounced, I charge myself with your support. You may, with your place of retreat unknown, then leave, if you please, uncontradicted by me, the lie that when you passed out of all knowledge but mine, you merited a good name.” That was all. She had to sacrifice her sinful and shameful affections; no more. She was then free to bear her load of guilt in secret, and to break her heart in secret; and through such present misery (light enough for her, I think!) to purchase her redemption from endless misery, if she could. If, in this, I punished her here, did I not open to her a way hereafter? If she knew herself to be surrounded by insatiable vengeance and unquenchable fires, were they mine? If I threatened her, then and afterwards, with the terrors that encompassed her, did I hold them in my right hand?’

She turned the watch upon the table, and opened it, and, with an unsoftening face, looked at the worked letters within.

‘They did not forget. It is appointed against such offences that the offenders shall not be able to forget. If the presence of Arthur was a daily reproach to his father, and if the absence of Arthur was a daily agony to his mother, that was the just dispensation of Jehovah. As well might it be charged upon me, that the stings of an awakened conscience drove her mad, and that it was the will of the Disposer of all things that she should live so, many years. I devoted myself to reclaim the otherwise predestined and lost boy; to give him the reputation of an honest origin; to bring him up in fear and trembling, and in a life of practical contrition for the sins that were heavy on his head before his entrance into this condemned world. Was that a cruelty? Was I, too, not visited with consequences of the original offence in which I had no complicity? Arthur’s father and I lived no further apart, with half the globe between us, than when we were together in this house. He died, and sent this watch back to me, with its Do not forget. I do NOT forget, though I do not read it as he did. I read in it, that I was appointed to do these things. I have so read these three letters since I have had them lying on this table, and I did so read them, with equal distinctness, when they were thousands of miles away.’

As she took the watch-case in her hand, with that new freedom in the use of her hand of which she showed no consciousness whatever, bending her eyes upon it as if she were defying it to move her, Rigaud cried with a loud and contemptuous snapping of his fingers. ‘Come, madame! Time runs out. Come, lady of piety, it must be! You can tell nothing I don’t know. Come to the money stolen, or I will! Death of my soul, I have had enough of your other jargon. Come straight to the stolen money!’

Erano trascorsi più di quarant’anni sulla testa grigia di questa donna determinata, da quando ricordava quell’epoca. Più di quarant’anni di lotte e sforzi contro quella voce che, qualunque nome le desse a quel suo spirito vendicativo e a quella sua rabbia, nulla, per tutta l’eternità, avrebbe potuto cambiare la loro natura. Eppure, nonostante quei più di quarant’anni fossero trascorsi, e ora che quella Nemesis le stava di fronte, lei continuava a seguire la sua vecchia impietà: continuava a ribaltare l’ordine della Creazione, a insufflare il proprio respiro in immagini di argilla del proprio Creatore. Davvero, viaggiatori hanno visto molti idoli mostruosi in molti paesi; ma nessun occhio umano ha mai visto immagini più audaci, volgari e scioccanti della natura divina di quelle che noi, creature del polvere, creiamo a nostra immagine, con le nostre cattive passioni.

“Quando lo costrinsi a consegnarla a me, indicandole nome e luogo di residenza,” continuò lei nel suo fiume di indignazione e difesa; “quando la accusai, e lei si nascose il viso ai miei piedi. Era forse la mia offesa quella che sostenevo, erano forse le mie rimproveri quelli che le riversavo addosso? Coloro che anticamente venivano incaricati di recarsi presso re malvagi e di accusarli, non erano forse ministri e servitori? E io, indegna e lontana da loro, non stavo forse commettendo un peccato nel denunciare quelle azioni? Quando lei mi supplicò parlando della sua giovane età, della vita miserabile e difficile di lui (così definiva l’educazione virtuosa che lui aveva negato), della cerimonia nuziale profanata che si era svolta tra loro in segreto, delle terribili difficoltà economiche e umilianti che li avevano colpiti quando fui incaricata di infliggere loro la punizione. E dell’amore (così mi disse, ai miei piedi) per cui lo aveva abbandonato e lasciato a me. Fu forse il mio nemico ad diventare il mio strumento di vendetta? Furono forse le parole della mia rabbia a farla tremare e indietreggiare? Non a me appartiene questa forza; non a me spetta il compito di infliggere punizioni!”

Molti anni erano trascorsi da quando poteva muovere liberamente anche le dita; tuttavia era evidente che aveva già più volte colpito con forza la tavola con il pugno chiuso, e che, mentre pronunciava quelle parole, alzava l’intero braccio in aria, come se fosse un gesto abituale per lei.

‘E qual fu allora quel pentimento che venne strappato dalla durezza del suo cuore e dall’oscurità della sua depravazione? Io, vendicativa e implacabile? Forse sì, per persone come voi che non conoscono la giustizia, né alcun legame se non quello con Satana. Ridete pure; ma io sarò conosciuta così come mi conosco io stessa, e così come Flintwinch mi conosce, anche se solo voi e questa donna semidotata ne siete a conoscenza.’

“Aggiungete questo anche voi, signora,” disse Rigaud. “Ho qualche sospetto che la signora sia piuttosto desiderosa di trovare delle giustificazioni per se stessa.”

“È falso. Non è vero. Non ho bisogno di esserlo,” disse, con grande energia e rabbia.

“Davvero?” ribatté Rigaud. “Ah!”

“Vi chiedo: quale penitenza, sotto forma di azioni concrete, le fu richiesta?
‘Avete un bambino; io non ne ho. Voi amate quel bambino. Dateglielo a me. Lui crederà di essere mio figlio, e tutti lo crederanno mio figlio. Per salvarvi dall’umiliazione, suo padre giurerà di non vedervi più né comunicare con voi; allo stesso modo, per salvare lui dallo sfruttamento da parte di suo zio, e per salvare vostro bambino dalla povertà, dovete giurare di non vedere più né comunicare con nessuno dei due. Una volta fatto ciò, e rinunciando alle risorse che attualmente ricevete da mio marito, mi assumerò la responsabilità del vostro sostentamento. Potrete allora, con il vostro rifugio sconosciuto, andarvene, se lo desiderate, senza che io vi contraddica, e potrete continuare a mentire dicendo di aver meritato una buona reputazione quando siete rimasta senza alcuna conoscenza al di fuori della mia.’
Era tutto. Doveva sacrificare i suoi sentimenti peccaminosi e vergognosi, nient’altro. A quel punto era libera di portare in segreto il peso del suo peccato e di spezzarsi il cuore in silenzio; e, attraverso tali sofferenze presenti – che, penso, per lei erano abbastanza lievi! – poteva cercare la propria redenzione da un’infinita miseria, se ci riusciva. Se in questo modo la punivo ora, non le stavo forse aprendo una via per il futuro? Se sapeva di essere circondata da vendette insaziabili e fuochi inestinguibili, erano forse mie quelle vendette, quei fuochi? Se la minacciavo, allora e in seguito, con le terribili conseguenze che la minacciavano, non le stavo forse dando il potere di controllarle?”

Posò l’orologio sul tavolo, lo aprì e, con un volto privo di espressione, guardò le lettere incise all’interno.

‘Non dimenticarono mai. È proprio per punizioni del genere che i colpevoli non possono dimenticare. Se la presenza di Arthur rappresentava ogni giorno una umiliazione per suo padre, e se la sua assenza causava sofferenze continue a sua madre, questa era senz’altro la giusta volontà di Jehovah. Anche se si potesse attribuire a me la colpa di aver fatto impazzire quella donna a causa dei rimorsi della sua coscienza risvegliata, e anche se fosse stata la volontà del Creatore che vivesse in quel modo per tanti anni. Io mi dedicai a salvare quel ragazzo, destinato fin dall’inizio al male; cercai di dargli un’origine onesta, di educarlo nel timore e nella contrizione per i peccati che lo opprimevano. Era questo una crudeltà? Anch’io non sono stato risparmiato dalle conseguenze del peccato originale in cui non avevo alcuna colpa. Il padre di Arthur e io non vivemmo più lontani l’uno dall’altro, nonostante ci separasse metà del mondo; lui morì e mi inviò questo orologio, con la scritta “Non dimenticare”. Io NON dimentico, anche se non lo interpreto nello stesso modo in cui lo faceva lui. Leggo in quelle parole che ero stato destinato a compiere queste azioni. Ho letto queste tre lettere migliaia di chilometri lontano, e le ho lette con la stessa chiarezza di allora.’

Mentre prendeva la cassa dell’orologio tra le mani, con quella nuova libertà nel usarle – di cui non mostrava alcuna consapevolezza – e fissandola come se sfidasse lei stessa a muoversi, Rigaud gridò, schioccando le dita in modo sonoro e sprezzante: “Venga, signora! Il tempo sta per scadere. Venga, donna di pietà. Deve farlo! Non c’è nulla che io non sappia. Dica subito dove sono i soldi rubati, altrimenti. Morte della mia anima, ne ho abbastanza dei suoi discorsi incomprensibili. Dica semplicemente dove sono i soldi!”

‘Wretch that you are,’ she answered, and now her hands clasped her head: ‘through what fatal error of Flintwinch’s, through what incompleteness on his part, who was the only other person helping in these things and trusted with them, through whose and what bringing together of the ashes of a burnt paper, you have become possessed of that codicil, I know no more than how you acquired the rest of your power here—’

‘And yet,’ interrupted Rigaud, ‘it is my odd fortune to have by me, in a convenient place that I know of, that same short little addition to the will of Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, written by a lady and witnessed by the same lady and our old intriguer! Ah, bah, old intriguer, crooked little puppet! Madame, let us go on. Time presses. You or I to finish?’

‘I!’ she answered, with increased determination, if it were possible. ‘I, because I will not endure to be shown myself, and have myself shown to any one, with your horrible distortion upon me. You, with your practices of infamous foreign prisons and galleys would make it the money that impelled me. It was not the money.’

‘Bah, bah, bah! I repudiate, for the moment, my politeness, and say, Lies, lies, lies. You know you suppressed the deed and kept the money.’

‘Not for the money’s sake, wretch!’ She made a struggle as if she were starting up; even as if, in her vehemence, she had almost risen on her disabled feet. ‘If Gilbert Clennam, reduced to imbecility, at the point of death, and labouring under the delusion of some imaginary relenting towards a girl of whom he had heard that his nephew had once had a fancy for her which he had crushed out of him, and that she afterwards drooped away into melancholy and withdrawal from all who knew her—if, in that state of weakness, he dictated to me, whose life she had darkened with her sin, and who had been appointed to know her wickedness from her own hand and her own lips, a bequest meant as a recompense to her for supposed unmerited suffering; was there no difference between my spurning that injustice, and coveting mere money—a thing which you, and your comrades in the prisons, may steal from anyone?’

‘Time presses, madame. Take care!’

‘If this house was blazing from the roof to the ground,’ she returned, ‘I would stay in it to justify myself against my righteous motives being classed with those of stabbers and thieves.’

Rigaud snapped his fingers tauntingly in her face. ‘One thousand guineas to the little beauty you slowly hunted to death. One thousand guineas to the youngest daughter her patron might have at fifty, or (if he had none) brother’s youngest daughter, on her coming of age, “as the remembrance his disinterestedness may like best, of his protection of a friendless young orphan girl.” Two thousand guineas. What! You will never come to the money?’

‘That patron,’ she was vehemently proceeding, when he checked her.

‘Names! Call him Mr Frederick Dorrit. No more evasions.’

‘That Frederick Dorrit was the beginning of it all. If he had not been a player of music, and had not kept, in those days of his youth and prosperity, an idle house where singers, and players, and such-like children of Evil turned their backs on the Light and their faces to the Darkness, she might have remained in her lowly station, and might not have been raised out of it to be cast down. But, no. Satan entered into that Frederick Dorrit, and counselled him that he was a man of innocent and laudable tastes who did kind actions, and that here was a poor girl with a voice for singing music with. Then he is to have her taught. Then Arthur’s father, who has all along been secretly pining in the ways of virtuous ruggedness for those accursed snares which are called the Arts, becomes acquainted with her. And so, a graceless orphan, training to be a singing girl, carries it, by that Frederick Dorrit’s agency, against me, and I am humbled and deceived!—Not I, that is to say,’ she added quickly, as colour flushed into her face; ‘a greater than I. What am I?’

Jeremiah Flintwinch, who had been gradually screwing himself towards her, and who was now very near her elbow without her knowing it, made a specially wry face of objection when she said these words, and moreover twitched his gaiters, as if such pretensions were equivalent to little barbs in his legs.

‘Lastly,’ she continued, ‘for I am at the end of these things, and I will say no more of them, and you shall say no more of them, and all that remains will be to determine whether the knowledge of them can be kept among us who are here present; lastly, when I suppressed that paper, with the knowledge of Arthur’s father—’

‘But not with his consent, you know,’ said Mr Flintwinch.

‘Who said with his consent?’ She started to find Jeremiah so near her, and drew back her head, looking at him with some rising distrust. ‘You were often enough between us when he would have had me produce it and I would not, to have contradicted me if I had said, with his consent. I say, when I suppressed that paper, I made no effort to destroy it, but kept it by me, here in this house, many years. The rest of the Gilbert property being left to Arthur’s father, I could at any time, without unsettling more than the two sums, have made a pretence of finding it. But, besides that I must have supported such pretence by a direct falsehood (a great responsibility), I have seen no new reason, in all the time I have been tried here, to bring it to light. It was a rewarding of sin; the wrong result of a delusion. I did what I was appointed to do, and I have undergone, within these four walls, what I was appointed to undergo. When the paper was at last destroyed—as I thought—in my presence, she had long been dead, and her patron, Frederick Dorrit, had long been deservedly ruined and imbecile. He had no daughter. I had found the niece before then; and what I did for her, was better for her far than the money of which she would have had no good.’ She added, after a moment, as though she addressed the watch: ‘She herself was innocent, and I might not have forgotten to relinquish it to her at my death:’ and sat looking at it.

“Miserabile che sei,” rispose lei, e ora si prese la testa tra le mani:
“Per quale terribile errore di Flintwinch, per quale imperfezione da parte sua – lui l’unica altra persona che aiutava in queste faccende e a cui venivano affidate tali responsabilità – per quale combinazione casuale delle ceneri di un foglio bruciato, tu hai ottenuto quel codicillo. Non so nulla, se non come abbia acquisito il resto del tuo potere, ”

“Eppure,” interruppe Rigaud, “è proprio la mia strana fortuna avere con me, in un posto comodo che conosco, quella stessa breve aggiunta al testamento di Monsieur Gilbert Clennam, scritta da una signora e testimoniata dalla stessa signora e dal nostro vecchio intrigante! Ah, bah, vecchio intrigante, meschino piccolo burattino! Madame, continuiamo. Il tempo stringe. Chi di noi due dovrà finire per primo?”

“Sì!” rispose lei, con ancora maggiore determinazione, se ciò fosse stato possibile. “Io, perché non sopporto l’idea di essere vista da qualcuno, con quella tua orribile distorsione impressa su di me. Tu, con le tue pratiche delle infami prigioni straniere e delle galere, sarebbe stato il denaro a spingermi. Ma non è stato il denaro.”

“Bah, bah, bah! Per il momento rinuncio alla mia cortesia e dico: bugie, bugie, bugie. Sai bene che hai nascosto quell’atto e tenuto i soldi per te.”

“Per l’amor del cielo, misera creatura!”, gridò lei, lottando come se stesse cercando di alzarsi in piedi; sembrava quasi che, nella sua furia, fosse sul punto di rialzarsi con quelle gambe paralizzate. “Se Gilbert Clennam, ridotto all’idiozia, nel momento della morte, e convinto dell’esistenza di un qualche presunto pentimento da parte di una ragazza di cui aveva sentito dire che suo nipote un tempo l’aveva amata, ma che lei poi era caduta nella melanconia e si era ritirata dal mondo, se in quello stato di debolezza lui mi dettasse un testamento inteso come ricompensa per i presunti sofferimenti ingiustamente subiti da lei, non ci sarebbe forse alcuna differenza tra rifiutare tale ingiustizia e desiderare semplicemente del denaro, qualcosa che tu, e i tuoi compagni nelle prigioni, potreste rubare a chiunque?”

“Il tempo stringe, signora. Prestatemi attenzione!”

“Anche se questa casa stesse bruciando da cima a fondo,” rispose lei, “rimarrei dentro per dimostrare che le mie intenzioni oneste non dovrebbero essere messe allo stesso livello di quelle di assassini e ladri.”

Rigaud schioccò le dita in modo provocatorio davanti a lei. “Mille ghinee per questa piccola bellezza che hai lentamente inseguito fino alla morte. Mille ghinee per la figlia minore che il suo protettore avrebbe potuto avere a cinquant’anni, o, se non ne aveva, per la figlia minore di suo fratello, al raggiungimento della maggiore età, ‘Come ricordo, a scelta del protettore, del suo aiuto verso una giovane orfana senza famiglia.’ Duemila ghinee. Cosa! Non riuscirai mai ad ottenere quei soldi, ”

“Quel protettore, ”, stava dicendo con veemenza, quando lui la interruppe.

“Nomi! Chiamatelo signor Frederick Dorrit. Niente più evasioni.”

‘Quel Frederick Dorrit fu l’inizio di tutto. Se non fosse stato un musicista, e se in quei giorni della sua giovinezza e prosperità non avesse mantenuto una casa dove cantanti, musicisti e simili individui si allontanavano dalla Luce e si rivolgevano verso le Tenebre, lei sarebbe potuta rimanere nella sua umile condizione, senza mai essere elevata per poi essere di nuovo abbassata. Ma no. Satana entrò in quel Frederick Dorrit e lo persuase che era un uomo dalle gusti innocenti e lodevoli, che compiva azioni buone, e che c’era una povera ragazza con una voce adatta al canto. Allora decise di farla insegnare musica. E così il padre di Arthur, che da sempre anelava segretamente alle virtù, ma era attratto da quelle maledette “arti”, venne a conoscenza di lei. E così, una orfana senza grazia, addestrata per diventare cantante, fu usata da quel Frederick Dorrit contro di me. E io fui umiliata e ingannata. No, non io personalmente,’ aggiunse rapidamente, arrossendo; ‘una persona più potente di me. Cosa sono io, dopotutto?’

Jeremiah Flintwinch, che gradualmente si era avvicinato a lei senza che lei se ne accorgesse, e che ormai si trovava molto vicino al suo gomito, fece una smorfia particolarmente ironica di disapprovazione quando lei pronunciò quelle parole; inoltre, tirò leggermente i suoi stivali, come se tali pretese rappresentassero delle piccole spine piantate nelle sue gambe.

“Infine,” continuò, “poiché sono giunta alla fine di queste cose e non ne parlerò più, né voi dovreste farlo; l’unica cosa che rimane da stabilire è se questa conoscenza possa essere conservata tra noi presenti. Infine, quando ho distrutto quel documento, insieme alle informazioni riguardanti il padre di Arthur, ”

“Ma non con il suo consenso, capite,” disse il signor Flintwinch.

“Chi ha detto che è stato con il suo consenso?”, pensò, rendendosi conto che Jeremiah era troppo vicino a lei; allora ritirò la testa indietro e lo guardò con crescente sospetto. “Spesso eri tu tra noi quando lui avrebbe voluto che gli mostrassi quel documento, ma io rifiutavo. E se avessi detto che era stato con il suo consenso, tu mi avresti contraddetta. Quando ho nascosto quel foglio, non ho cercato di distruggerlo, ma l’ho tenuto con me, in questa casa, per molti anni. Poiché il resto dei beni dei Gilbert erano stati lasciati al padre di Arthur, avrei potuto, in qualsiasi momento, senza causare troppi problemi, fingere di averlo trovato. Ma oltre a questo, avrei dovuto inventare una bugia per sostenere quella menzogna. Una responsabilità enorme. E in tutto il tempo in cui sono stata processata qui, non ho visto alcun motivo valido per rivelarlo. Era solo un premio per un peccato. Il risultato sbagliato di un’illusione. Ho fatto ciò che mi era stato chiesto di fare. E ho subito, tra queste quattro mura, ciò che mi era stato destinato. Quando quel documento è stato finalmente distrutto – come pensavo – davanti ai miei occhi, lei era già morta da tempo. E il suo protettore, Frederick Dorrit, era ormai rovinato e ridotto all’idiozia. Non aveva più figlie. Prima di allora, avevo già trovato la nipote. E ciò che ho fatto per lei, è stato molto meglio di quei soldi di cui lei non avrebbe mai tratto alcun beneficio, ” Dopo un momento, come se stesse parlando al proprio orologio, aggiunse: “Lei stessa era innocente. E forse non avrei dimenticato di lasciarle quel documento in eredità alla mia morte, ” Poi rimase seduta a fissarlo.

‘Shall I recall something to you, worthy madame?’ said Rigaud. ‘The little paper was in this house on the night when our friend the prisoner—jail-comrade of my soul—came home from foreign countries. Shall I recall yet something more to you? The little singing-bird that never was fledged, was long kept in a cage by a guardian of your appointing, well enough known to our old intriguer here. Shall we coax our old intriguer to tell us when he saw him last?’

‘I’ll tell you!’ cried Affery, unstopping her mouth. ‘I dreamed it, first of all my dreams. Jeremiah, if you come a-nigh me now, I’ll scream to be heard at St Paul’s! The person as this man has spoken of, was Jeremiah’s own twin brother; and he was here in the dead of the night, on the night when Arthur come home, and Jeremiah with his own hands give him this paper, along with I don’t know what more, and he took it away in an iron box—Help! Murder! Save me from Jere-mi-ah!’

Mr Flintwinch had made a run at her, but Rigaud had caught him in his arms midway. After a moment’s wrestle with him, Flintwinch gave up, and put his hands in his pockets.

‘What!’ cried Rigaud, rallying him as he poked and jerked him back with his elbows, ‘assault a lady with such a genius for dreaming! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she’ll be a fortune to you as an exhibition. All that she dreams comes true. Ha, ha, ha! You’re so like him, Little Flintwinch. So like him, as I knew him (when I first spoke English for him to the host) in the Cabaret of the Three Billiard Tables, in the little street of the high roofs, by the wharf at Antwerp! Ah, but he was a brave boy to drink. Ah, but he was a brave boy to smoke! Ah, but he lived in a sweet bachelor-apartment—furnished, on the fifth floor, above the wood and charcoal merchant’s, and the dress-maker’s, and the chair-maker’s, and the maker of tubs—where I knew him too, and wherewith his cognac and tobacco, he had twelve sleeps a day and one fit, until he had a fit too much, and ascended to the skies. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter how I took possession of the papers in his iron box? Perhaps he confided it to my hands for you, perhaps it was locked and my curiosity was piqued, perhaps I suppressed it. Ha, ha, ha! What does it matter, so that I have it safe? We are not particular here; hey, Flintwinch? We are not particular here; is it not so, madame?’

Retiring before him with vicious counter-jerks of his own elbows, Mr Flintwinch had got back into his corner, where he now stood with his hands in his pockets, taking breath, and returning Mrs Clennam’s stare. ‘Ha, ha, ha! But what’s this?’ cried Rigaud. ‘It appears as if you don’t know, one the other. Permit me, Madame Clennam who suppresses, to present Monsieur Flintwinch who intrigues.’

Mr Flintwinch, unpocketing one of his hands to scrape his jaw, advanced a step or so in that attitude, still returning Mrs Clennam’s look, and thus addressed her:

‘Now, I know what you mean by opening your eyes so wide at me, but you needn’t take the trouble, because I don’t care for it. I’ve been telling you for how many years that you’re one of the most opinionated and obstinate of women. That’s what you are. You call yourself humble and sinful, but you are the most Bumptious of your sex. That’s what you are. I have told you, over and over again when we have had a tiff, that you wanted to make everything go down before you, but I wouldn’t go down before you—that you wanted to swallow up everybody alive, but I wouldn’t be swallowed up alive. Why didn’t you destroy the paper when you first laid hands upon it? I advised you to; but no, it’s not your way to take advice. You must keep it forsooth. Perhaps you may carry it out at some other time, forsooth. As if I didn’t know better than that! I think I see your pride carrying it out, with a chance of being suspected of having kept it by you. But that’s the way you cheat yourself. Just as you cheat yourself into making out that you didn’t do all this business because you were a rigorous woman, all slight, and spite, and power, and unforgiveness, but because you were a servant and a minister, and were appointed to do it. Who are you, that you should be appointed to do it? That may be your religion, but it’s my gammon. And to tell you all the truth while I am about it,’ said Mr Flintwinch, crossing his arms, and becoming the express image of irascible doggedness, ‘I have been rasped—rasped these forty years—by your taking such high ground even with me, who knows better; the effect of it being coolly to put me on low ground. I admire you very much; you are a woman of strong head and great talent; but the strongest head, and the greatest talent, can’t rasp a man for forty years without making him sore. So I don’t care for your present eyes. Now, I am coming to the paper, and mark what I say. You put it away somewhere, and you kept your own counsel where. You’re an active woman at that time, and if you want to get that paper, you can get it. But, mark. There comes a time when you are struck into what you are now, and then if you want to get that paper, you can’t get it. So it lies, long years, in its hiding-place. At last, when we are expecting Arthur home every day, and when any day may bring him home, and it’s impossible to say what rummaging he may make about the house, I recommend you five thousand times, if you can’t get at it, to let me get at it, that it may be put in the fire. But no—no one but you knows where it is, and that’s power; and, call yourself whatever humble names you will, I call you a female Lucifer in appetite for power! On a Sunday night, Arthur comes home. He has not been in this room ten minutes, when he speaks of his father’s watch. You know very well that the Do Not Forget, at the time when his father sent that watch to you, could only mean, the rest of the story being then all dead and over, Do Not Forget the suppression. Make restitution! Arthur’s ways have frightened you a bit, and the paper shall be burnt after all. So, before that jumping jade and Jezebel,’ Mr Flintwinch grinned at his wife, ‘has got you into bed, you at last tell me where you have put the paper, among the old ledgers in the cellars, where Arthur himself went prowling the very next morning. But it’s not to be burnt on a Sunday night. No; you are strict, you are; we must wait over twelve o’clock, and get into Monday. Now, all this is a swallowing of me up alive that rasps me; so, feeling a little out of temper, and not being as strict as yourself, I take a look at the document before twelve o’clock to refresh my memory as to its appearance—fold up one of the many yellow old papers in the cellars like it—and afterwards, when we have got into Monday morning, and I have, by the light of your lamp, to walk from you, lying on that bed, to this grate, make a little exchange like the conjuror, and burn accordingly. My brother Ephraim, the lunatic-keeper (I wish he had had himself to keep in a strait-waistcoat), had had many jobs since the close of the long job he got from you, but had not done well. His wife died (not that that was much; mine might have died instead, and welcome), he speculated unsuccessfully in lunatics, he got into difficulty about over-roasting a patient to bring him to reason, and he got into debt. He was going out of the way, on what he had been able to scrape up, and a trifle from me. He was here that early Monday morning, waiting for the tide; in short, he was going to Antwerp, where (I am afraid you’ll be shocked at my saying, And be damned to him!) he made the acquaintance of this gentleman. He had come a long way, and, I thought then, was only sleepy; but, I suppose now, was drunk. When Arthur’s mother had been under the care of him and his wife, she had been always writing, incessantly writing,—mostly letters of confession to you, and Prayers for forgiveness. My brother had handed, from time to time, lots of these sheets to me. I thought I might as well keep them to myself as have them swallowed up alive too; so I kept them in a box, looking over them when I felt in the humour. Convinced that it was advisable to get the paper out of the place, with Arthur coming about it, I put it into this same box, and I locked the whole up with two locks, and I trusted it to my brother to take away and keep, till I should write about it. I did write about it, and never got an answer. I didn’t know what to make of it, till this gentleman favoured us with his first visit. Of course, I began to suspect how it was, then; and I don’t want his word for it now to understand how he gets his knowledge from my papers, and your paper, and my brother’s cognac and tobacco talk (I wish he’d had to gag himself). Now, I have only one thing more to say, you hammer-headed woman, and that is, that I haven’t altogether made up my mind whether I might, or might not, have ever given you any trouble about the codicil. I think not; and that I should have been quite satisfied with knowing I had got the better of you, and that I held the power over you. In the present state of circumstances, I have no more explanation to give you till this time to-morrow night. So you may as well,’ said Mr Flintwinch, terminating his oration with a screw, ‘keep your eyes open at somebody else, for it’s no use keeping ‘em open at me.’

“Devo ricordarvi qualcosa, nobile signora?” disse Rigaud. “Quel piccolo foglio di carta si trovava in questa casa la sera in cui il nostro amico, il prigioniero, il compagno di cella della mia anima, tornò a casa da paesi stranieri. Devo ricordarvi ancora qualcosa? Quell’uccellino canoro che non era mai riuscito a spiccare il volo fu a lungo tenuto in gabbia da un custode nominato da voi, una persona ben conosciuta da questo nostro vecchio intrigante. Forse dovremmo convincere il nostro vecchio intrigante a raccontarci quando l’ha visto l’ultima volta, ”

“Te lo dirò!” gridò Affery senza sosta. “L’ho sognato. Era il mio primo sogno. Jeremiah, se ora ti avvicini a me, urlerò così forte che mi sentiranno fino a St Paul’s! Quella persona di cui questo uomo ha parlato era in realtà il fratello gemello di Jeremiah; è stato qui, nel cuore della notte, quella stessa notte in cui Arthur è tornato a casa. Jeremiah gli ha dato personalmente questo foglio, insieme ad altre cose che non so. Lui se l’è portato via in una scatola di ferro. Aiuto! Omicidio! Salvatemi da Jeremiah!”

Il signor Flintwinch aveva cercato di avvicinarsi a lei, ma Rigaud lo aveva afferrato a metà strada. Dopo un breve lottare, Flintwinch si arrese e mise le mani in tasca.

“Che cosa!” gridò Rigaud, aiutandolo mentre lo spingeva indietro con i gomiti, “assalire una signora con un tale talento per sognare! Ahahah! Sarà una vera fortuna per te, come esibizione. Tutto ciò che lei sogna si avvera davvero. Ahahah! Sei proprio come lui, piccolo Flintwinch. Proprio come lo conoscevo io (quando parlavo inglese per lui al padrone di casa) nel Cabaret dei Tre Biliardi, in quella piccola strada dalle alte grondaie, vicino al molo ad Anversa! Ah. Ma era un ragazzo coraggioso: beveva con gusto, fumava con gusto. Viveva in un delizioso appartamento da scapolo, al quinto piano, sopra il negozio del commerciante di legna e carbone, quello della sarta, del falegname. Lo conoscevo anche lì; con il suo cognac e il suo tabacco, dormiva dodici ore al giorno. Fino a quando non ne ebbe abbastanza, e, salì in cielo. Ahahah! Che importa come abbia ottenuto quei documenti dalla sua scatola di ferro? Forse me li ha affidati proprio per te. Forse erano chiusi a chiave, e la mia curiosità è stata stimolata. Forse li ho semplicemente presi. Ahahah! Che importa, purché ora siano al sicuro? Qui non siamo troppo schizzinosi, eh, Flintwinch? Non siamo troppo schizzinosi, vero, signora?”

Arretrando davanti a lui con violenti contrattacchi dei propri gomiti, il signor Flintwinch era tornato nel suo angolo, dove ora stava con le mani in tasca, riprendendo fiato e ricambiando lo sguardo di mrs Clennam.
“Ahahah! Ma che cos’è questo?” esclamò Rigaud. “Sembra proprio che voi due non vi conosciate. Permettetemi, Madame Clennam, di presentarvi Monsieur Flintwinch, il quale invece si intriga, ”

Il signor Flintwinch, togliendo una mano dalla tasca per grattarsi la mandibola, fece un passo avanti mantenendo quella stessa posizione, continuando a incrociare lo sguardo di la signora Clennam, e le disse:

“I capisco ora cosa intendi quando apri così tanto gli occhi davanti a me, ma non c’era bisogno di prendersi la briga. Non mi interessa affatto. Ti dico da anni che sei una delle donne più testarde e presuntuose che esistano. È proprio questo che sei. Ti definisci umile e peccatrice, ma in realtà sei la più arrogante del tuo sesso. Te l’ho ripetuto infinite volte, quando abbiamo avuto dei litigi: vuoi che tutto ruoti intorno a te, ma io non intendo sottomettermi ai tuoi voleri. Vuoi ‘inghiottire’ tutti quelli che ti ostacolano, ma io non permetterò che mi distruggano. Perché non hai distrutto quel documento non appena l’hai avuto in mano? Ti avevo consigliato di farlo. Ma no. Non è nel tuo stile accettare consigli. Devi assolutamente tenerlo. Forse un giorno lo userai. Come se io non lo sapessi già! Immagino che la tua orgoglio te lo farà usare, anche a rischio di essere scoperta. Ma così ti inganni da sola. Proprio come quando fingi di non aver fatto tutto questo perché sei una donna rigida, piena di disprezzo, potere e rancore. Quando in realtà lo fai solo per il potere che desideri. Chi sei tu, per meritare quel potere? Quella può essere la tua religione. Ma per me è solo sciocchezza. E ora, per dirti tutta la verità, ” disse Mr Flintwinch, incrociando le braccia e assumendo un’espressione di irascibile ostinazione, “sono stato tormentato per quarant’anni dal tuo comportamento arrogante. Anche con me, che so molto meglio di te. Il risultato è sempre stato lo stesso: mi hai costretto a sottomettermi. Ti ammiro davvero. Sei una donna intelligente e talentuosa. Ma anche la testa più forte e il talento più grande non possono tormentare un uomo per quarant’anni senza farlo soffrire. Quindi non mi interessano affatto i tuoi sguardi di adorazione in questo momento. Ora, veniamo al documento. L’hai nascosto da qualche parte. E hai deciso di agire secondo i tuoi piani. In quel periodo eri molto attiva. Se vuoi recuperare quel documento, puoi farlo. Ma ascolta bene: arriverà un momento in cui non potrai più ottenerlo. Quindi rimarrà nascosto per molti anni. Alla fine, quando aspettiamo il ritorno di Arthur ogni giorno, e qualsiasi giorno potrebbe essere quello giusto, e non si sa cosa potrebbe succedere in casa, ti consiglio mille volte di lasciarmi fare, così quel documento potrà essere distrutto. Ma no. Solo tu conosci dove si trova. E questo è potere. Chiamati pure umile quanto vuoi. Per me sei solo una donna avida di potere, come Lucifero! Una domenica sera. Arthur torna a casa. Non è passato nemmeno un minuto che parla del orologio di suo padre. Sai bene che quel messaggio significava soltanto ‘Non dimenticare di reprimere tutto ciò che è stato fatto’. Devi restituire il denaro! Il comportamento di Arthur ti ha spaventata un po’. E alla fine quel documento verrà bruciato. Quindi, prima che quella donna e quella strega ti portino a letto, ” Mr Flintwinch sorrise alla moglie, “dimmi finalmente dove hai nascosto quel documento. Tra quei vecchi registri in cantina. Dove Arthur stesso è andato a cercarlo il giorno dopo. Ma non deve essere bruciato una domenica sera. No. Sei troppo rigida. Dobbiamo aspettare fino alle dodici di lunedì. Ora, tutto questo mi tormenta. Quindi, un po’ arrabbiato e meno rigido del solito, ho dato un’occhiata a quel documento prima delle dodici. Per ricordarmi com’era fatto. Ho preso uno dei tanti vecchi fogli gialli in cantina e l’ho messo insieme al resto. Poi, lunedì mattina, alla luce della tua lampada, sono andato da te, che eri a letto. E ho bruciato il documento. Mio fratello Ephraim, quello che si occupava dei pazzi, dopo aver perso il lavoro che gli avevi dato, non è riuscito a cavarsela bene. Sua moglie è morta. Lui ha cercato di guadagnare soldi con i pazzi. Ma senza successo. Si è indebitato. Quel lunedì mattina era qui, aspettando il momento giusto per partire per Anversa. E lì, ha incontrato questo signore. Era venuto da lontano. Pensavo fosse solo stanco. Ma probabilmente era ubriaco. Quando la madre di Arthur era sotto la loro cura, lei scriveva continuamente. Lettere di confessione per te. E preghiere per il perdono. Mio fratello mi ha passato molti di quei fogli. Ho pensato che fosse meglio tenerli io. Così li ho messi in una scatola. Li leggevo quando avevo voglia. Convinto che fosse opportuno togliere quel documento da lì. Con Arthur che continuava a cercarlo. L’ho messo nella stessa scatola. E l’ho chiusa a chiave. Ho affidato tutto a mio fratello, affinché lo tenesse per me. Finché non avrei scritto di nuovo. Ho scritto. Ma non ho ricevuto risposta. Non sapevo cosa pensare. Fino a quando questo signore non ci ha fatto visita. Ora capisco come abbia ottenuto quelle informazioni. Dai miei documenti. Dal tuo documento. E dalle chiacchiere di mio fratro sul cognac e il tabacco. Vorrei che si fosse tenuto la bocca chiusa. Ora, ho solo una cosa da dire ancora. Tu donna testarda. Non so ancora se avrei dovuto causarti problemi riguardo a quel codicillo. Penso di no. Sarei stato molto soddisfatto semplicemente sapendo di aver vinto io. E di avere il potere su di te. Nelle circostanze attuali, non ho altro da dirti fino a domani sera. Quindi, puoi anche tenere gli occhi aperti su qualcun altro. Perché non ha senso tenerli aperti su di me, ”

She slowly withdrew them when he had ceased, and dropped her forehead on her hand. Her other hand pressed hard upon the table, and again the curious stir was observable in her, as if she were going to rise.

‘This box can never bring, elsewhere, the price it will bring here. This knowledge can never be of the same profit to you, sold to any other person, as sold to me. But I have not the present means of raising the sum you have demanded. I have not prospered. What will you take now, and what at another time, and how am I to be assured of your silence?’

‘My angel,’ said Rigaud, ‘I have said what I will take, and time presses. Before coming here, I placed copies of the most important of these papers in another hand. Put off the time till the Marshalsea gate shall be shut for the night, and it will be too late to treat. The prisoner will have read them.’

She put her two hands to her head again, uttered a loud exclamation, and started to her feet. She staggered for a moment, as if she would have fallen; then stood firm.

‘Say what you mean. Say what you mean, man!’

Before her ghostly figure, so long unused to its erect attitude, and so stiffened in it, Rigaud fell back and dropped his voice. It was, to all the three, almost as if a dead woman had risen.

‘Miss Dorrit,’ answered Rigaud, ‘the little niece of Monsieur Frederick, whom I have known across the water, is attached to the prisoner. Miss Dorrit, little niece of Monsieur Frederick, watches at this moment over the prisoner, who is ill. For her I with my own hands left a packet at the prison, on my way here, with a letter of instructions, “for his sake”—she will do anything for his sake—to keep it without breaking the seal, in case of its being reclaimed before the hour of shutting up to-night—if it should not be reclaimed before the ringing of the prison bell, to give it to him; and it encloses a second copy for herself, which he must give to her. What! I don’t trust myself among you, now we have got so far, without giving my secret a second life. And as to its not bringing me, elsewhere, the price it will bring here, say then, madame, have you limited and settled the price the little niece will give—for his sake—to hush it up? Once more I say, time presses. The packet not reclaimed before the ringing of the bell to-night, you cannot buy. I sell, then, to the little girl!’

Once more the stir and struggle in her, and she ran to a closet, tore the door open, took down a hood or shawl, and wrapped it over her head. Affery, who had watched her in terror, darted to her in the middle of the room, caught hold of her dress, and went on her knees to her.

‘Don’t, don’t, don’t! What are you doing? Where are you going? You’re a fearful woman, but I don’t bear you no ill-will. I can do poor Arthur no good now, that I see; and you needn’t be afraid of me. I’ll keep your secret. Don’t go out, you’ll fall dead in the street. Only promise me, that, if it’s the poor thing that’s kept here secretly, you’ll let me take charge of her and be her nurse. Only promise me that, and never be afraid of me.’

Mrs Clennam stood still for an instant, at the height of her rapid haste, saying in stern amazement:

‘Kept here? She has been dead a score of years or more. Ask Flintwinch—ask him. They can both tell you that she died when Arthur went abroad.’

‘So much the worse,’ said Affery, with a shiver, ‘for she haunts the house, then. Who else rustles about it, making signals by dropping dust so softly? Who else comes and goes, and marks the walls with long crooked touches when we are all a-bed? Who else holds the door sometimes? But don’t go out—don’t go out! Mistress, you’ll die in the street!’

Her mistress only disengaged her dress from the beseeching hands, said to Rigaud, ‘Wait here till I come back!’ and ran out of the room. They saw her, from the window, run wildly through the court-yard and out at the gateway.

For a few moments they stood motionless. Affery was the first to move, and she, wringing her hands, pursued her mistress. Next, Jeremiah Flintwinch, slowly backing to the door, with one hand in a pocket, and the other rubbing his chin, twisted himself out in his reticent way, speechlessly. Rigaud, left alone, composed himself upon the window-seat of the open window, in the old Marseilles-jail attitude. He laid his cigarettes and fire-box ready to his hand, and fell to smoking.

‘Whoof! Almost as dull as the infernal old jail. Warmer, but almost as dismal. Wait till she comes back? Yes, certainly; but where is she gone, and how long will she be gone? No matter! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, my amiable subject, you will get your money. You will enrich yourself. You have lived a gentleman; you will die a gentleman. You triumph, my little boy; but it is your character to triumph. Whoof!’

In the hour of his triumph, his moustache went up and his nose came down, as he ogled a great beam over his head with particular satisfaction.

Quando lui smise, lei li ritirò lentamente e appoggiò la fronte sulla mano; con l’altra mano premeva forte sul tavolo. Di nuovo si notava quel movimento strano in lei, come se stesse per alzarsi.

“Questa scatola non potrà mai fruttare, altrove, lo stesso profitto che frutta qui. Questa conoscenza non potrà mai essere per te di ugual valore se venduta a qualcun altro, rispetto a quando viene venduta a me. Ma al momento non dispongo dei mezzi necessari per pagare la somma che hai richiesto. Non sono stato fortunato negli affari. Cosa vorrai ora? E in un altro momento? E come posso essere certo del tuo silenzio?”

“Mio angelo,” disse Rigaud, “ho già detto cosa intendo prendere, e il tempo stringe. Prima di venire qui, ho messo delle copie dei documenti più importanti in un’altra mano. Rimanda il tempo fino a quando il cancello di Marshalsea non verrà chiuso per la notte; altrimenti sarà troppo tardi per intervenire. Il prigioniero avrà già letto quei documenti.”

Si premette di nuovo le mani sulla testa, emise un grido forte e si alzò in piedi. Barcollò per un momento, come se stesse per cadere; poi riacquistò l’equilibrio.

“Dì quello che intendi. Dì davvero quello che pensi, amico!”

Di fronte alla sua figura spettrale, ormai da tempo non abituata a quella posizione eretta e irrigidita in essa, Rigaud indietreggiò e abbassò la voce. Per tutti e tre fu come se una donna morta fosse risorta.

“Miss Dorrit,” rispose Rigaud, “la piccola nipote di Monsieur Frederick, che conosco dall’altra parte dell’fiume, è molto legata a quel prigioniero. In questo momento, Miss Dorrit veglia su di lui, poiché è malato. Per lei, lungo il cammino verso qui, ho lasciato personalmente un pacco nella prigione, insieme a una lettera con istruzioni: ‘Per il suo bene’. Farà qualsiasi cosa per il suo bene. Il pacco contiene anche una seconda copia, che lui dovrà darle. Ma, non mi fido di lasciare questo segreto tra di voi senza averne creato un’altra copia. E riguardo al prezzo che questa informazione potrebbe fruttare altrove. Madame, avete già fissato il prezzo che la nipote sarà disposta a pagare per tenere tutto sotto silenzio? Ancora una volta: il tempo stringe. Se il pacco non verrà ritirato prima del suono della campana di mezzanotte, non potrete comprarlo. Allora lo vendo a quella ragazza!”

Di nuovo, un tumulto interiore la invase; corse verso un armadio, strappò via la porta, prese un cappuccio o uno scialle e se lo avvolse intorno alla testa. Affery, che l’aveva osservata con terrore, le corse incontro nel mezzo della stanza, afferrò il suo vestito e si inginocchiò davanti a lei.

“Non farlo, non farlo! Cosa stai facendo? Dove stai andando? Sei una donna paurosa, ma non ti porto rancore. Ora non posso più aiutare povero Arthur; e non devi aver paura di me. Terrò il tuo segreto. Non uscire, potresti morire per strada. Promettimi solo che, se si tratta di quella povera creatura tenuta nascosta qui, mi permetterai di prendermene cura e di essere la sua infermiera. Promettimelo, e non aver mai più paura di me.”

Signora Clennam rimase immobile per un istante, nel bel mezzo della sua frenetica corsa, e disse con severo stupore:

“Tenuta qui? È morta da vent’anni o più. Chiedi a Flintwinch, chiedilo a lui: entrambi possono dirti che è morta quando Arthur è partito per l’estero.”

“È ancora peggio,” disse Affery, rabbrividendo, “perché allora lei infesta quella casa. Chi altro si muove furtivamente lì dentro, facendo segnali lasciando cadere la polvere così silenziosamente? Chi altro va avanti e indietro, disegnando lunghe linee tortuose sulle pareti mentre tutti noi dormiamo? E chi altro a volte trattiene la porta. Ma non uscite! Non uscite, signora. Morirete per strada!”

Sua padrona si liberò solo del vestito dalle mani insistenti di Rigaud, disse: “Aspetta qui finché non torno!”, e uscì di corsa dalla stanza. Loro la videro, dalla finestra, correre disperatamente attraverso il cortile e poi uscire dal cancello d’ingresso.

Per alcuni momenti rimasero immobili. Affery fu la prima a muoversi: stringendosi le mani, inseguì la sua padrona. Poi Jeremiah Flintwinch, indietreggiando lentamente verso la porta, con una mano in tasca e l’altra che si strofinava il mento, uscì in silenzio, con quel suo modo riservato. Rigaud, lasciato da solo, si sistemò sulla sedia accanto alla finestra aperta della vecchia prigione di Marsiglia; mise a portata di mano le sigarette e la scatola di fiammiferi, e iniziò a fumare.

‘Uff! Quasi altrettanto noioso quanto quella vecchia prigione infernale. Più caldo, ma comunque altrettanto deprimente. Aspettare che torni? Sì, certamente. Ma dove è andata, e per quanto tempo resterà via? Non importa! Rigaud Lagnier Blandois, mio caro suddito, riceverai i tuoi soldi. Diventerai ricco. Hai vissuto da gentiluomo; morirai da gentiluomo. Vinci, mio piccolo ragazzo. Ma è proprio nel tuo carattere trionfare. Uff!’

Nell’ora del suo trionfo, i suoi mustacchi si sollevarono e il suo naso si abbassò, mentre osservava con particolare soddisfazione un grande raggio di luce sopra la sua testa.

CHAPTER 31. Closed

The sun had set, and the streets were dim in the dusty twilight, when the figure so long unused to them hurried on its way. In the immediate neighbourhood of the old house it attracted little attention, for there were only a few straggling people to notice it; but, ascending from the river by the crooked ways that led to London Bridge, and passing into the great main road, it became surrounded by astonishment.

Resolute and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain, conspicuously dressed in its black garments and with its hurried head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward, taking no more heed of the throng than a sleep-walker. More remarkable by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes. Saunterers pricked up their attention to observe it; busy people, crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions pausing and standing aside, whispered one another to look at this spectral woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious after it.

Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air, and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness between the controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn of the life from which she was secluded and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the bridge and gone some distance straight onward, she remembered that she must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and turned to look about her for a promising place of inquiry, that she found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces.

‘Why are you encircling me?’ she asked, trembling.

None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there arose a shrill cry of ‘’Cause you’re mad!’

‘I am sure as sane as any one here. I want to find the Marshalsea prison.’

The shrill outer circle again retorted, ‘Then that ‘ud show you was mad if nothing else did, ‘cause it’s right opposite!’

A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as a whooping ensued on this reply, and said: ‘Was it the Marshalsea you wanted? I’m going on duty there. Come across with me.’

She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd, rather injured by the near prospect of losing her, pressing before and behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment to Bedlam. After a momentary whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened, and shut upon them. In the Lodge, which seemed by contrast with the outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already striving with the prison shadows.

‘Why, John!’ said the turnkey who admitted them. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered by the boys. Who did you want, ma’am?’

‘Miss Dorrit. Is she here?’

The young man became more interested. ‘Yes, she is here. What might your name be?’

‘Mrs Clennam.’

‘Mr Clennam’s mother?’ asked the young man.

She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. ‘Yes. She had better be told it is his mother.’

‘You see,’ said the young man, ‘the Marshal’s family living in the country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms in his house to use when she likes. Don’t you think you had better come up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?’

She signified her assent, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening prison-yard, with its inmates strolling here and there, leaning out of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment as they best might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her.

‘Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as—’

Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the face that turned to her.

‘This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don’t know what it is.’ With an agitated wave of her hand, she put all that aside. ‘You have a packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not reclaimed before this place closed to-night.’

‘Yes.’

‘I reclaim it.’

Little Dorrit took it from her bosom, and gave it into her hand, which remained stretched out after receiving it.

‘Have you any idea of its contents?’

Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her, which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated, Little Dorrit answered ‘No.’

‘Read them.’

Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window. In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken exclamation or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself before her.

CAPITOLO 31. CHIUSO

Il sole era già calato e le strade erano immerse nella penombra polverosa quando quella figura, a lungo sconosciuta in quei luoghi, proseguì il suo cammino frettolosamente. Nelle immediate vicinanze della vecchia casa, attirò poca attenzione: c’erano solo poche persone sparse per le strade che potessero notarla; ma quando iniziò ad ascendere lungo i sentieri tortuosi che conducevano al fiume e poi verso il grande Ponte di Londra, attirò l’attenzione di tutti quelli che la videro passare.

Decisa e dall’aspetto selvaggio, veloce nei movimenti ma allo stesso tempo debole e incerta, vestita in modo vistoso con abiti neri e con un copricapo indossato frettolosamente, pallida e smunta, avanzava senza prestare alcuna attenzione alla folla, come se fosse una sonnambula. Ancora più straordinaria per il fatto di essere così distinta dalla massa che la circondava piuttosto che se fosse stata posta su un piedistallo per essere ammirata da tutti, quella figura attirava gli sguardi di chiunque. I passanti si fermavano per osservarla; le persone impegnate rallentavano il passo e giravano la testa; i compagni di viaggio si fermavano e si spostavano di lato, sussurrando tra loro per guardare questa donna spettrale che li superava. E il movimento della sua figura sembrava creare un vortice, attirando verso di sé sia i più pigri che i più curiosi.

Stordita dall’irruzione tumultuosa di tutte queste facce che la fissavano nella sua “prigione” di anni, dalla sensazione confusa di trovarsi “in aria”, e ancora di più dalla sensazione altrettanto confusa di essere in movimento; turbata dai cambiamenti improvvisi degli oggetti a cui ricordava solo vagamente, e dal contrasto tra le immagini che la sua immaginazione aveva spesso creato della vita da cui era isolata e dalla realtà travolgente che la circondava, procedeva come se fosse avvolta da pensieri distraggenti, piuttosto che dall’interazione con gli esseri umani e dalle osservazioni del mondo esterno. Ma dopo aver attraversato il ponte e percorso un po’ di strada in linea d’aria, si rese conto di dover chiedere indicazioni; fu solo allora, quando si fermò e si guardò intorno alla ricerca di un luogo adatto per informarsi, che si trovò circondata da sguardi ansiosi e attenti.

“Perché mi stai circondando?”, chiese lei, tremando.

Nessuno di quelli che erano più vicini rispose; ma dall’anello esterno si levò un grido stridulo: “Perché sei pazzo!”

“Sono sicuro di essere altrettanto sano di chiunque altro qui. Voglio trovare la prigione di Marshalsea.”

Il cerchio esterno stridulo ribatté di nuovo: “Allora questo dovrebbe dimostrarti che sei pazzo, anche se non bastasse altro, perché è proprio il contrario!”

Un giovane di statura bassa, dall’aspetto tranquillo e gentile si avvicinò a lei; in risposta alle sue parole scoppiò un gran clamore, e lui disse: “È la Marshalsea che volevi? Sto andando lì in servizio. Vieni con me.”

Lei posò la mano sul suo braccio e lui la portò con sé; la folla, piuttosto angosciata all’idea di perderla, li pressava da tutte le parti, suggerendo addirittura di rimandare tutto a un altro momento. Dopo un breve giro nel cortile esterno della prigione, la porta si aprì e si richiuse alle loro spalle. Nella cella, che, in contrasto con il rumore esterno, sembrava un luogo di rifugio e pace, una lampada gialla brillava debolmente tra le ombre.

“Ma che cosa c’è, John!”, disse il guardiano che li fece entrare. “Che problema hai?”

“Niente, padre; solo che questa signora non conosceva la strada e i ragazzi la importunavano. Chi volevate incontrare, signora?”

“La signorina Dorrit. È qui?”

Il giovane mostrò maggiore interesse. “Sì, è qui. Come si chiama?”

‘Signora Clennam.’

“La madre del signor Clennam?”, chiese il giovane uomo.

Si strinse le labbra e esitò. “Sì. È meglio che sappia che è sua madre.”

“Vedi,” disse il giovane, “la famiglia del Maresciallo, che attualmente vive in campagna, le ha concesso una delle stanze della sua casa affinché la potesse utilizzare quando desiderava. Non pensi che sarebbe meglio che tu salissi lassù e lasciassi che io porti qui Miss Dorrit?”

Esprimette il suo assenso, e lui aprì una porta e la condusse su per una scala laterale fino a un’abitazione situata al piano di sopra. Le mostrò una stanza che stava diventando sempre più buia, poi la lasciò sola. Dalla stanza si poteva vedere il cortile della prigione, dove i detenuti camminavano avanti e indietro, sporgendosi dalle finestre per comunicare con gli amici che stavano per andarsene; in quel modo cercavano di rendere meno pesante la loro detenzione in quella serata estiva. L’aria era densa e calda; l’ambiente stesso risultava opprimente; dall’esterno provenivano suoni liberi, come frammenti confusi di ricordi legati a quelle situazioni, che risuonavano nella sua mente come dolorosi ricordi. Lei stava in piedi davanti alla finestra, confusa, osservando quel cortile della prigione, come se si trovasse dentro la propria prigione, ma diversa da quella. All’improvviso, due parole dolci e sorprese la fecero sobbalzare: Little Dorrit era davanti a lei.

“È possibile, Signora Clennam, che siate guarita così felicemente da, ”

La piccola Dorrit si fermò: sul viso di chi le si rivolgeva non c’era né felicità né salute.

“Questo non è un recupero; non è forza. Non so nemmeno cosa sia.” Con un gesto agitato della mano, mise da parte tutto ciò. “Hai ancora con te un pacchetto che dovevi consegnare a Arthur, se non fosse stato ritirato prima che questo posto chiudesse, stasera, ”

“Sì, davvero.”

“Lo riprendo io.”

La piccola Dorrit la prese dal suo petto e la mise nella mano di lui, che rimase tesa dopo averla ricevuta.

“Hai idea di cosa contenga?”

Spaventata dal fatto che lei fosse lì, con quella nuova capacità di muoversi, che, come lei stessa aveva detto, non era forza, e che sembrava qualcosa di irreale, come se un dipinto o una statua si fossero animati. Little Dorrit rispose: “No”.

“Leggili.”

Little Dorrit prese il pacchetto dalla mano ancora tesa e ruppe il sigillo. Mrs Clennam le diede poi il pacchetto interno indirizzato a lei stessa, tenendo per sé l’altro. L’ombra del muro e degli edifici della prigione, che rendevano la stanza cupa già a mattino, rendeva l’ambiente troppo buio per leggere; il crepuscolo, infatti, si intensificava rapidamente, tranne che nella finestra. Lì, dove un po’ del luminoso cielo estivo poteva filtrare all’interno, Little Dorrit si fermò a leggere. Dopo alcune esclamazioni di stupore e terrore, continuò la lettura in silenzio. Quando finì, guardò intorno, e la sua vecchia padrona le fece un inchino.

‘You know, now, what I have done.’

‘I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry, and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have read,’ said Little Dorrit tremulously.

‘I will restore to you what I have withheld from you. Forgive me. Can you forgive me?’

‘I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.’

‘I have more yet to ask.’

‘Not in that posture,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘It is unnatural to see your grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.’ With that she raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her earnestly.

‘The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows out of it), the great supplication that I address to your merciful and gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare me until I am dead?’

‘I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘that I can scarcely give you a steady answer. If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr Clennam no good—’

‘I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?’

‘I will.’

‘GOD bless you!’

She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three grateful words, was at once fervent and broken—broken by emotion as unfamiliar to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs.

‘You will wonder, perhaps,’ she said in a stronger tone, ‘that I can better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son of my enemy who wronged me.—For she did wrong me! She not only sinned grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur’s father was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread, and that she made me. I was the scourge of both, and that is referable to her. You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?’

‘No thought,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘can be quite a stranger to my heart, that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied upon for being kind and generous and good.’

‘I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person from whom I would conceal this, while I am in it. I kept over him as a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father, seeing the weakness of his father yearning to unbend to him; and forcing it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage and hardship. I have seen him, with his mother’s face, looking up at me in awe from his little books, and trying to soften me with his mother’s ways that hardened me.’

The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice.

‘For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that child grow up; not to be pious in a chosen way (his mother’s influence lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he might—so frail we are, and so do the corrupt affections of the flesh war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done considerately and with deference. These have been his relations towards me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the motives with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter to endure than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his face, and utterly perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning and swallowed by an earthquake.’

Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so, when she added:

‘Even now, I see you shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.’

Little Dorrit could not gainsay it. She tried not to show it, but she recoiled with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry upon it, in its own plain nature.

“Ora sai cosa ho fatto.”

“Credo di sì, temo di sì; anche se la mia mente è così confusa, così piena di tristezza e di cose per cui provare compassione, non è riuscita a comprendere tutto ciò che ho letto,” disse Little Dorrit con voce tremante.

“Vi restituirò ciò che vi ho nascosto. Perdonatemi. Riuscite a perdonarmi?”

“Posso farlo, e Dio sa che lo faccio! Non baciare il mio vestito e non inginocchiarti davanti a me; sei troppo vecchio per inginocchiarti davanti a me. Ti perdono liberamente, senza bisogno di tutto ciò.”

Ho ancora altre domande da porre.

“Non in quella posizione,” disse Little Dorrit. “È innaturale vedere i tuoi capelli grigi più bassi dei miei. Per favore, alzati; lascia che ti aiuti.” Così fece, aiutandolo ad alzarsi, e rimase lì, un po’ intimidita da lui, ma lo guardava con sincera premura.

“La grande preghiera che vi rivolgo (ne esiste un’altra che ne deriva), la supplica sincera che indirizzo al vostro cuore misericordioso e gentile, è che non riveliate questa cosa a Arthur finché non sarò morto. Se, dopo aver avuto il tempo di riflettere, pensate che possa essergli utile saperla mentre sono ancora in vita, allora diteglielo. Ma non lo penserete; e in tal caso, mi prometterete di risparmiarmi fino alla mia morte?”

“Mi dispiace molto, e ciò che ho letto ha davvero confuso i miei pensieri,” rispose Little Dorrit, “che quasi non riesco a darvi una risposta chiara. Se fossi assolutamente certa che conoscerlo non farebbe del bene al signor Clennam, ”

“So che sei legata a lui e che lo considererai sempre per primo. È giusto che sia lui la tua priorità. Lo chiedo solo questo. Ma, dopo averci pensato bene, se ancora ritieni di potermi sopportare per il breve tempo in cui rimarrò su questa terra, lo farai?”

“Lo farò.”

“Che Dio ti benedica!”

Stava nell’ombra, quindi per Little Dorrit, alla luce, era solo una figura velata; ma il suono della sua voce, mentre pronunciava quelle tre parole di gratitudine, era al contempo appassionato e spezzato, spezzato dall’emozione, così sconosciuta ai suoi occhi gelati quanto l’azione fosse impossibile per i suoi membri paralizzati.

“Forse vi sorprenderà,” disse lei con tono più deciso, “che io riesca a sopportare meglio l’idea di essere conosciuta da colui che mi ha fatto del male, piuttosto che dal figlio del mio nemico che mi ha offeso. Perché lei mi ha davvero fatto del male! Non solo ha commesso gravi peccati contro il Signore, ma mi ha anche ingiustamente trattata. Quello che era il padre di Arthur per me, lei lo è diventata. Dal giorno del nostro matrimonio, sono stata la sua rovina. E questo è tutto colpa sua. Voi amate Arthur (vedo arrossirvi il viso. Possa essere l’alba di giorni più felici per entrambi!), e sicuramente avrete già pensato che lui sia altrettanto misericordioso e gentile quanto voi. Allora perché non affidarmi a lui, proprio come mi sono affidata a voi? Non l’avete mai pensato?”

“Nessun pensiero,” disse Little Dorrit, “può essere del tutto estraneo al mio cuore, purché derivi dalla consapevolezza che il signor Clennam sarà sempre lì, pronto a dimostrarsi gentile, generoso e buono.”

‘Non ne dubito. Tuttavia, tra tutta la gente del mondo, Arthur è l’unica persona a cui vorrei nascondere questa verità, finché la possiedo. L’ho protetto come un bambino, fin dai primi giorni della sua memoria; sono stato severo con lui, sapendo che i peccati dei genitori ricadono sui loro figli, e che fin dalla nascita portava su di sé un segno di collera. Sono stato presente quando suo padre, pieno di debolezza, cercava di cedere davanti a lui; ho impedito che ciò accadesse, affinché quel bambino potesse liberarsi attraverso sofferenze e difficoltà. L’ho visto, con il viso di sua madre, guardarmi con timore dai suoi libri piccoli, cercando di addolcirmi con i modi di sua madre, ma quei modi, in realtà, mi avevano reso ancora più duro.’

La diminuzione dell’entità della sua “assistente” la fece fermare per un momento nel flusso di parole che pronunciava con una voce cupa e ricordativa.

‘Per il suo bene. Non per soddisfare la mia rabbia o il mio dolore. Cosa ero io, e quale valore avevo prima della maledizione del Cielo! Ho visto quel bambino crescere. Non certo per diventare particolarmente pio (l’influenza di sua madre era troppo forte su di lui), ma comunque giusto e onesto, e obbediente verso di me. Non mi ha mai amato, come una volta avevo sperato che potesse fare. Siamo così fragili, e i desideri corrotti della carne combattono sempre contro le nostre responsabilità. Ma mi ha sempre rispettato e si è sempre comportato con doverosità verso di me. Lo fa ancora oggi. Nel suo cuore c’è un vuoto che non ha mai conosciuto il vero significato dell’amore; si è allontanato da me, percorrendo la sua strada. Ma anche questo l’ha fatto con rispetto e considerazione. Questa è stata la sua relazione verso di me. La tua, invece, è stata molto più superficiale, e durata molto meno tempo. Quando sedevi nella mia stanza a lavorare, avevi paura di me. Ma pensavi che ti stessi facendo un favore. Ora sai la verità: ti ho fatto del male. Il tuo fraintendimento riguardo ai motivi e alle intenzioni che mi hanno spinto ad agire è ancora più sopportabile del suo. Per nessuna ricompensa terrena, permetterei mai che, anche se in modo cieco, mi privasse della posizione che ho avuto nella sua vita. Che mi trasformassi completamente in qualcosa che disprezzerebbe. Lascia che lo faccia, se proprio deve accadere. Ma che non accada mentre sono ancora viva. Non voglio mai sentirmi morire davanti ai suoi occhi, scomparire completamente da lui. Come se fossi stata distrutta dal fulmine o inghiottita da un terremoto.’

La sua orgoglio era molto forte in lei; il )dolore derivante da esso e dalle sue vecchie passioni era particolarmente intenso quando si esprimeva in quel modo. Lo stesso valeva quando aggiungeva:

“Anche ora, vedo che ti allontani da me, come se fossi stato crudele.”

Little Dorrit non poteva negarlo. Cercava di non mostrarlo, ma provava un terrore profondo di fronte a quel stato d’animo che aveva bruciato con tanta intensità e durato così a lungo. Le si presentava nella sua semplice natura, senza alcuna sofisticheria.

‘I have done,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘what it was given to me to do. I have set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument of severity against sin. Have not mere sinners like myself been commissioned to lay it low in all time?’

‘In all time?’ repeated Little Dorrit.

‘Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance had moved me, could I have found no justification? None in the old days when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the wrath of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked even in blood, and yet found favour?’

‘O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective; but let me implore you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction of suffering in His life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain.’

In the softened light of the window, looking from the scene of her early trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition to the black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine on which she rested were to that figure’s history. It bent its head low again, and said not a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring.

‘Hark!’ cried Mrs Clennam starting, ‘I said I had another petition. It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having time. He refuses to make any abatement, because his threat is, that if he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask in Arthur’s name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur’s sake!’

Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided away into the prison for a few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front court-yard, now all quiet and deserted, gained the street.

It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness than a long twilight. The vista of street and bridge was plain to see, and the sky was serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that rose into the sky had lost its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it. The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over the whole length and breadth of the tranquil firmament, great shoots of light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later covenant of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a glory.

Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit’s side, unmolested. They left the great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were at the gateway, when there was a sudden noise like thunder.

‘What was that! Let us make haste in,’ cried Mrs Clennam.

They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her back.

In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged outward, opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell. Deafened by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them and the placid sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys, which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch deeper.

So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable, they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking. There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word. For upwards of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking attentively at those about her and appearing to understand what they said; but the rigid silence she had so long held was evermore enforced upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue.

Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house, and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now; Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and always wrong in the theories she deduced from them.

“Ho fatto ciò che mi è stato chiesto di fare,” disse Signora Clennam. “Mi sono opposta al male, non al bene. Sono stata uno strumento di severità contro il peccato. Non sono forse anche i semplici peccatori come me stati incaricati di combattere il male in ogni momento?”

“Per tutto il tempo?” ripeté Little Dorrit.

“Anche se il mio errore avesse avuto la meglio su di me, anche se la mia stessa vendetta mi avesse spinto ad agire, non avrei potuto trovare alcuna giustificazione? Nessuna nei tempi antichi, quando l’innocente periva insieme al colpevole. Quando la rabbia di chi odiava l’ingiusto non si placava nemmeno con il %sangue, eppure veniva comunque accolta con favore?”

‘Oh, Signora Clennam, Signora Clennam,’ disse Little Dorrit, ‘i sentimenti di rabbia e le azioni irremissibili non possono essere né conforto né guida per noi. La mia vita è trascorsa in questa povera prigione, e la mia educazione è stata molto carente; ma vi supplico di ricordare i giorni migliori del passato. Lasciatevi guidare soltanto da Colui che guarisce i malati, risuscita i morti, è amico di tutti coloro che soffrono e sono abbandonati, dal Maestro paziente che ha versato lacrime di compassione per le nostre debolezze. Non possiamo sbagliare se mettiamo da parte tutto il resto e facciamo solo ciò che Lo ricorda. Sono certa che nella Sua vita non vi sia vendetta né inflizione di sofferenza. Seguendolo, non possiamo inciampare in alcuna confusione, né cercare altre strade da percorrere.’

Nella luce soffusa della finestra, guardando dalla scena delle sue prime prove fino al cielo luminoso, lei non era in maggiore opposizione alla figura oscura nell’ombra di quanto la vita e le dottrine su cui si appoggiava lo fossero rispetto alla storia di quella figura. Questa abbassò di nuovo la testa e non disse una parola. Rimase così, fino a quando il primo campanello d’allarme iniziò a suonare.

“Ascoltate!” esclamò Mrs Clennam, “Ho detto che avevo un’altra petizione. È una petizione che non permette ritardi. L’uomo che vi ha portato questo pacco e possiede queste prove è adesso in attesa a casa mia, pronto ad essere corrotto con del denaro. Posso impedire ad Arthur di scoprirlo soltanto comprando quell’uomo. Chiede una somma enorme; più di quanto io possa raccogliere in tempo. Rifiuta di ridurla, perché minaccia che, se non riesce con me, verrà da voi. Verrete con me a dirgli che ne siete già a conoscenza? Cercherete di convincerlo? Venite ad aiutarmi. Non rifiutate ciò che vi chiedo in nome di Arthur, anche se non oso farlo per il suo bene, ”

Little Dorrit si arrese volontariamente. Entrò nella prigione per qualche momento, ne uscì e disse di essere pronta ad andare. Uscirono da un’altra scala, evitando la locanda; entrati nel cortile anteriore, ora silenzioso e deserto, raggiunsero la strada.

Era una di quelle serate estive in cui non esiste oscurità più profonda di quella crepuscolare. La vista della strada e del ponte era chiara e nitida; il cielo era sereno e bellissimo. Le persone stavano sedute o in piedi davanti alle loro case, giocando con i bambini e godendosi la serata; pochi si affrettavano. Mentre attraversavano il ponte, le guglie delle chiese sembravano emergere dalla nebbia che di solito le avvolgeva, avvicinandosi di più. Il fumo che si alzava verso il cielo aveva perso il suo colore grigiostra e assumeva una luce più vivida; le bellezze del tramonto non erano ancora svanite nelle lunghe strisce di nuvole posate serenamente all’orizzonte. Da un centro luminoso, che si estendeva su tutta la vastità del cielo tranquillo, grandi fasci di luce si diffondevano tra le prime stelle, come segni della benedetta alleanza di pace e >speranza che trasformava la “corona di spine” in gloria.

Meno notevole, ora che non era più sola e che faceva più buio, la signora Clennam proseguì senza essere disturbata al fianco di Little Dorrit. Lasciarono la grande strada principale all’incrocio da cui erano entrate e iniziarono a percorrere le silenziose, deserte strade laterali. Erano già arrivate alla porta d’ingresso quando improvvisamente si udì un rumore simile al tuono.

“Che cos’è stato! Dobbiamo affrettarci,” gridò Signora Clennam.

Erano all’ingresso. La piccola Dorrit, con un grido straziante, lo trattenne indietro.

In un istante, l’antica casa apparve davanti a loro; l’uomo vi giaceva fumando alla finestra. Un altro tuono fragoroso: la casa si sollevò, si spalancò in cinquanta punti, crollò e cadde. Accecati dalla polvere, soffocati e storditi dal rumore, si nascosero il viso e rimasero immobili sul posto. La tempesta di polvere, che separava loro dal cielo sereno, per un attimo si aprì, rivelando le stelle. Mentre alzavano lo sguardo, gridando disperatamente per chiedere aiuto, l’enorme cumulo di camini, l’unico ancora in piedi come una torre nel vortice, tremò, si spezzò e crollò sopra le macerie, come se ogni frammento che cadeva avesse lo scopo di seppellire più profondamente quella creatura distrutta.

Coperta di fuliggine a causa delle particelle di rifiuti volanti, era diventata irriconoscibile; corsero indietro, verso la strada, piangendo e urlando. Lì, Signora Clennam si accasciò sulle pietre; da quel momento in poi non mosse più nemmeno un dito, né ebbe la forza di pronunciare una parola. Per oltre tre anni rimase sdraiata su una sedia a rotelle, osservando attentamente coloro che le stavano intorno e dando l’impressione di capire ciò che dicevano; ma il rigido silenzio che aveva mantenuto per tanto tempo continuò ad essere imposto su di lei. A parte il fatto che poteva muovere gli occhi e esprimere vagamente concetti affermativi o negativi con la testa, visse e morì come una statua.

Affery li stava cercando nella prigione e li aveva visti da lontano sul ponte. Si avvicinò per abbracciare la sua vecchia padrona, per aiutarla a entrare in una vicina >casa e per essere fedele a lei. Ora il mistero di quei rumori era stato risolto: Affery, come molte altre persone, aveva sempre avuto ragione sui fatti, ma sbagliava sempre nelle teorie che ne deduceva.

When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been two. Rumour finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr Flintwinch.

The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring pipes of gas, and on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose into its zenith, and aslant of it as it declined, and on a level with it again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling, and carrying away, in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay upon him, crushing him.

Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow, subterranean, suffocated notes, ‘Here I am!’ At the opposite extremity of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable fortitude that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade.

It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty hours’ time, determined for her part that his taking himself off within that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the depths of the earth.

This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to be an Englishman, consorted with the Dutchmen on the quaint banks of the canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge.

Quando la tempesta di polvere si fu placata e la notte estiva tornò tranquilla, molte persone affollarono tutte le vie d’accesso; si formarono gruppi di persone che si aiutavano a vicenda nel scavare tra le rovine. Al momento della sua caduta, c’erano cento persone nella casa. Poi cinquanta. Quindici. Due. Alla fine, la voce popolare fissò il numero su due: lo straniero e il signor Flintwinch.

Gli scavatori lavorarono per tutta la breve notte, utilizzando tubi di gas per illuminare il cammino; quando il sole iniziò a sorgere, continuarono a scavare sempre più in profondità: prima all’altezza del sole nascente, poi obliquamente man mano che esso raggiungeva lo zenit, e infine di nuovo all’altezza del suo tramonto. Il lavoro di scavo, il trasporto dei materiali con carri, carriole e cesti proseguì senza sosta, sia di giorno che di notte; fu però durante la seconda notte che trovarono quel mucchio di rifiuti: l’uomo straniero, prima ancora che la sua testa venisse frantumata in mille pezzi come vetro sotto il potente raggio che lo aveva colpito, era già stato ridotto a un ammasso di detriti.

Tuttavia, non avevano ancora trovato Flintwinch; quindi il lavoro di scavo, rimuovere e trasportare continuava senza sosta, sia di notte che di giorno. Si diceva che l’antica casa avesse un famoso seminterrato (il che era in effetti vero), e che Flintwinch si trovasse in quel momento nel seminterrato, o avesse avuto il tempo di rifugiarsi lì; si pensava anche che fosse al sicuro sotto le sue robuste volte, e addirittura si diceva che si potessero sentire i suoi singhiozzi, suoni cupi, soffocati, che dicevano: “Eccomi qui!”. All’estremità opposta della città si sapeva anche che gli scavatori erano riusciti a stabilire un collegamento con lui attraverso un tubo, e che gli avevano inviato sia zuppa che brandy; Flintwinch, con ammirevole forza d’animo, aveva detto di stare bene, tranne per il collo. Ma il lavoro di scavo continuava senza sosta, fino a quando le rovine non furono completamente scavate e i seminterrati portati alla luce; eppure, né vivo né morto, né in buone condizioni né in cattive, nessun Flintwinch fu trovato.

In quel momento iniziò a diventare evidente che Flintwinch non si trovava lì al momento dell’incidente; e iniziò anche a rendersi conto che doveva essere stato molto impegnato altrove, trasformando dei titoli finanziari in denaro nel minor tempo possibile, e utilizzando il proprio potere per agire a nome della società a scopo personale. Affery, ricordando che quell’uomo aveva detto di voler fornire ulteriori spiegazioni entro ventiquattro ore, decise che la sua fuga in quel lasso di tempo, portandosi via tutto ciò che era riuscito a ottenere, rappresentasse la spiegazione definitiva e soddisfacente delle sue azioni; ma rimase in silenzio, profondamente grata di essersi liberata di lui. Poiché sembrava logico concludere che un uomo che non era mai stato sepolto non potesse essere riesumato, i lavoratori abbandonarono le ricerche una volta terminato il loro compito, senza proseguire nelle indagini nelle profondità della terra.

Molte persone presero questa notizia molto sul serio, continuando a credere che Flintwinch si trovasse da qualche parte tra le formazioni geologiche di Londra. Nemmeno le ripetute informazioni ricevute nel corso del tempo riuscirono a scuotere questa loro convinzione: un uomo anziano, che portava il colletto sotto un orecchio e che era ben noto come inglese, si frequentava con i olandesi lungo le strade caratteristiche dei canali di L’Aia e nelle taverne di Amsterdam, presentandosi con il nome di Mynheer von Flyntevynge.

CHAPTER 32. Going

Arthur continuing to lie very ill in the Marshalsea, and Mr Rugg descrying no break in the legal sky affording a hope of his enlargement, Mr Pancks suffered desperately from self-reproaches. If it had not been for those infallible figures which proved that Arthur, instead of pining in imprisonment, ought to be promenading in a carriage and pair, and that Mr Pancks, instead of being restricted to his clerkly wages, ought to have from three to five thousand pounds of his own at his immediate disposal, that unhappy arithmetician would probably have taken to his bed, and there have made one of the many obscure persons who turned their faces to the wall and died, as a last sacrifice to the late Mr Merdle’s greatness. Solely supported by his unimpugnable calculations, Mr Pancks led an unhappy and restless life; constantly carrying his figures about with him in his hat, and not only going over them himself on every possible occasion, but entreating every human being he could lay hold of to go over them with him, and observe what a clear case it was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard there was scarcely an inhabitant of note to whom Mr Pancks had not imparted his demonstration, and, as figures are catching, a kind of cyphering measles broke out in that locality, under the influence of which the whole Yard was light-headed.

The more restless Mr Pancks grew in his mind, the more impatient he became of the Patriarch. In their later conferences his snorting assumed an irritable sound which boded the Patriarch no good; likewise, Mr Pancks had on several occasions looked harder at the Patriarchal bumps than was quite reconcilable with the fact of his not being a painter, or a peruke-maker in search of the living model.

However, he steamed in and out of his little back Dock according as he was wanted or not wanted in the Patriarchal presence, and business had gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed by Mr Pancks, and cropped by Mr Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr Pancks had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as his share; Mr Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week’s balance, ‘everything had been satisfactory to all parties—all parties—satisfactory, sir, to all parties.’

The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a highly heated condition.

‘Mr Pancks,’ was the Patriarchal remark, ‘you have been remiss, you have been remiss, sir.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ was the short rejoinder.

The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair, and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human kindness.

Wherefore, Mr Pancks said, ‘What do you mean by that?’ and put his hair up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner.

‘I mean, Mr Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don’t squeeze them. You don’t squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.’

‘Don’t I squeeze ‘em?’ retorted Mr Pancks. ‘What else am I made for?’

‘You are made for nothing else, Mr Pancks. You are made to do your duty, but you don’t do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you must squeeze to pay.’ The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this brilliant turn, after Dr Johnson, which he had not in the least expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful portrait, ‘Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.’

‘Oh,’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’

‘Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr Pancks, to squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.’

‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Ain’t that too soon? I squeezed it dry to-day.’

‘Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.’

‘Oh!’ said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good draught of his mixture. ‘Anything more?’

‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr Pancks, with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often to inquire for Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam, who is not just now in circumstances that are by any means calculated to—to be satisfactory to all parties, she goes, Mr Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire for Mr Clennam in jail. In jail.’

‘He’s laid up, you know,’ said Pancks. ‘Perhaps it’s kind.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Mr Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do with that. I can’t allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come out; pay his debts, and come out.’

Although Mr Pancks’s hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled at his proprietor in a most hideous manner.

CAPITOLO 32. ANDARE VIA

Arthur, continuando a giacere molto malato nel Marshalsea, e poiché il signor Rugg non vedeva alcuna possibilità legale che potesse offrire una speranza per la sua liberazione, il signor Pancks soffriva terribilmente a causa dei rimorsi. Se non fosse stato per quelle “figure infallibili” che dimostravano come Arthur, invece di languire in prigione, avrebbe dovuto passeggiare in carrozza con qualcuno; e come il signor Pancks, invece di limitarsi al proprio stipendio da impiegato, avrebbe dovuto disporre di tre o cinque migliaia di sterline a sua disposizione, quell’infelice uomo probabilmente si sarebbe rinchiuso in camera e sarebbe morto, diventando uno dei tanti sconosciuti che hanno voltato le spalle al mondo e sono morti, come ultimo sacrificio alla “grandezza” del defunto signor Merdle. Sostenuto soltanto dalle sue calcoli inconfutabili, il signor Pancks conduceva una vita infelice e agitata; portava sempre con sé quelle cifre nel cappello, e non solo le rivedeva ogni volta che ne aveva l’occasione, ma chiedeva anche a chiunque fosse disposto ad ascoltarlo di esaminarle insieme a lui, per constatare quanto fossero “chiare” e convincenti. Nel Bleeding Heart Yard, quasi nessun abitante importante non avesse ricevuto le sue spiegazioni. E, poiché le idee si diffondono facilmente come i virus, in quella zona scoppiò una sorta di epidemia di “contagio matematico”, che fece sì che tutta la zona ne fosse influenzata.

Più il nervoso Signor Pancks si agitava nella sua mente, più diventava impaziente nei confronti del Patriarca. Nei loro incontri successivi, i suoi sospiri assumevano un tono irritato che non presagiva nulla di buono per il Patriarca; inoltre, in diverse occasioni, il Signor Pancks osservava con troppa attenzione le “protuberanze” del Patriarca, il che era del tutto insolito, considerando che non era un pittore né un costruttore di parrucche alla ricerca di modelli viventi.

Tuttavia, lui entrava e usciva dal suo piccolo negozio a seconda che fosse desiderato o meno nella presenza del Patriarca, e gli affari proseguivano come al solito. Bleeding Heart Yard era stata devastata da Mr Pancks e coltivata da Mr Casby, nelle stagioni abituali; Mr Pancks si era assunto tutto il lavoro duro e tutta la fatica legati a quell’attività come sua parte; Mr Casby, invece, aveva preso tutti i profitti, tutto ciò che rappresentava il “lato etereo” di quell’impresa, insomma, tutto ciò che era più vantaggioso. E, con le parole che quel benevolo uomo solitamente usava nei sabati sera, dopo aver fatto i conti della settimana, diceva: “Tutto è stato soddisfacente per tutte le parti, davvero soddisfacente, signori, per tutte le parti.”

Il molo del rimorchiatore a vapore, Pancks, aveva un tetto di piombo che, arroventato dal sole cocente, poteva riscaldare l’intero imbarcazione. Comunque fosse, una calda sera di sabato, quando il pesante e verde scuro navio lo chiamò, il rimorchiatore uscì immediatamente dal molo in condizioni di estrema calore.

“‘Signor Pancks’,” disse il patriarca, “avete trascurato i vostri doveri, avete davvero trascurato i vostri doveri, signore.”

“Cosa intendi dire con quello?” fu la breve risposta.

Lo Stato Patriarcale, sempre uno stato di calma e compostezza, quella sera era particolarmente sereno al punto da sembrare quasi provocatorio. Tutti gli altri, intrappolati nei vincoli della mortalità, erano in preda all’agitazione; ma il Patriarca rimaneva perfettamente tranquillo. Tutti avevano sete, mentre lui beveva. Intorno a lui aleggiava il profumo di lime o limoni; preparava una bevanda con sherry dorato, che brillava in un grande bicchiere, come se stesse bevendo il sole serale stesso. Questo era già grave, ma non il peggio. Il peggio era che, con i suoi grandi occhi blu, la testa ben curata, i lunghi capelli bianchi e le gambe di colore verde bottiglia distese davanti a sé, terminanti nelle sue comode scarpe con i lacci incrociati all’altezza del tallone, aveva un aspetto radioso, come se, con la sua vasta benevolenza, avesse creato quella bevanda per tutta l’umanità, mentre lui stesso desiderava soltanto il “latte” della gentilezza umana.

Pertanto, Signor Pancks chiese: “Cosa intendi dire con questo?”, e si sistemò i capelli con entrambe le mani, in un modo assai significativo.

‘Voglio dire, Signor Pancks, deve essere più deciso con le persone, molto più deciso, signore. Non deve lasciarle andare facilmente; i suoi documenti non sono all’altezza delle aspettative. Deve essere più severo, altrimenti la nostra collaborazione non potrà continuare a essere soddisfacente come vorrei che fosse per tutte le parti coinvolte. Per tutte le parti.’

“Non do forse il compito di strizzarle?”, ribatté Signor Pancks. “A che altro sono servito, altrimenti?”

“Non siete fatto per nient’altro, Signor Pancks. Siete fatto per adempiere al vostro dovere, ma non lo fate. Vi pagano per esercitare una pressione, e dovete esercitarla per ricevere il vostro compenso.” Il Patriarca si sorprese molto di questa brillante osservazione, che non aveva affatto previsto né intenzionato di fare dopo quelle del Dottor Johnson; rise ad alta voce e ripeté con grande soddisfazione, mentre girava le dita dei pollici e annuiva davanti al proprio ritratto giovane: “Vi pagano per esercitare una pressione, signore. E dovete esercitarla per ricevere il vostro compenso.”

“Ah,” disse Pancks. “C’è altro?”

“Sì, signore, sì, signore. C’è ancora qualcosa. Le sarei molto grato, Signor Pancks, se potesse stringere di nuovo il “Yard” lunedì mattina, appena sveglio.”

“Oh!”, disse Pancks. “Non è un po’ troppo presto? L’ho asciugato bene oggi stesso.”

“Sciocchezze, signore. Lontano dalla verità, molto lontano.”

“Oh!”, disse Pancks, osservandolo mentre beveva con piacere un bel sorso della sua miscela. “Desideri qualcos’altro?”

‘Sì, signore, sì, signore. C’è dell’altro ancora. Non sono affatto soddisfatto, Signor Pancks, di mia figlia; per niente affatto. Oltre a chiamare troppo spesso per informarsi su Signora Clennam, che in questo momento non si trova certo in circostanze tali da poter essere considerate soddisfacenti per tutte le parti interessate, lei va, a chiedere notizie di Mr Clennam in prigione. In prigione.’

“È rimasto a letto, sai,” disse Pancks. “Forse è meglio così.”

“Puf, puf, Signor Pancks. Lei non c’entra nulla in tutto questo, assolutamente nulla. Non posso permetterlo. Lasciate che paghi i suoi debiti e poi esca, esca. Paghi i suoi debiti e poi venga fuori.”

Sebbene i capelli di Signor Pancks fossero dritti come fili di ferro, li spinse nuovamente nella direzione opposta con entrambe le mani e sorrise al suo padrone in un modo davvero orribile.

‘You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr Pancks, that I can’t allow it, can’t allow it,’ said the Patriarch blandly.

‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘You couldn’t mention it yourself?’

‘No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,’ the blundering old booby could not resist the temptation of trying it again, ‘and you must mention it to pay, mention it to pay.’

‘Oh!’ said Pancks. ‘Anything more?’

‘Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr Pancks, that you yourself are too often and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other people’s losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.’

Mr Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable ‘Oh!’ that even the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to look at him. Mr Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then added, ‘Anything more?’

‘Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,’ said the Patriarch, finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, ‘to take a little stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back. If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze on Monday!’

Mr Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr Casby to go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at him over the little green window-blinds. ‘I thought so,’ he observed. ‘I knew where you were bound to. Good!’ He then steamed back to his Dock, put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock, said ‘Good-bye!’ and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight for Mrs Plornish’s end of Bleeding Heart Yard, and arrived there, at the top of the steps, hotter than ever.

At the top of the steps, resisting Mrs Plornish’s invitations to come and sit along with father in Happy Cottage—which to his relief were not so numerous as they would have been on any other night than Saturday, when the connection who so gallantly supported the business with everything but money gave their orders freely—at the top of the steps Mr Pancks remained until he beheld the Patriarch, who always entered the Yard at the other end, slowly advancing, beaming, and surrounded by suitors. Then Mr Pancks descended and bore down upon him, with his utmost pressure of steam on.

The Patriarch, approaching with his usual benignity, was surprised to see Mr Pancks, but supposed him to have been stimulated to an immediate squeeze instead of postponing that operation until Monday. The population of the Yard were astonished at the meeting, for the two powers had never been seen there together, within the memory of the oldest Bleeding Heart. But they were overcome by unutterable amazement when Mr Pancks, going close up to the most venerable of men and halting in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger of his right thumb and forefinger, applied the same to the brim of the broad-brimmed hat, and, with singular smartness and precision, shot it off the polished head as if it had been a large marble.

Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal person, Mr Pancks further astounded and attracted the Bleeding Hearts by saying in an audible voice, ‘Now, you sugary swindler, I mean to have it out with you!’

Mr Pancks and the Patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and door-steps were thronged.

‘What do you pretend to be?’ said Mr Pancks. ‘What’s your moral game? What do you go in for? Benevolence, an’t it? You benevolent!’ Here Mr Pancks, apparently without the intention of hitting him, but merely to relieve his mind and expend his superfluous power in wholesome exercise, aimed a blow at the bumpy head, which the bumpy head ducked to avoid. This singular performance was repeated, to the ever-increasing admiration of the spectators, at the end of every succeeding article of Mr Pancks’s oration.

‘I have discharged myself from your service,’ said Pancks, ‘that I may tell you what you are. You’re one of a lot of impostors that are the worst lot of all the lots to be met with. Speaking as a sufferer by both, I don’t know that I wouldn’t as soon have the Merdle lot as your lot. You’re a driver in disguise, a screwer by deputy, a wringer, and squeezer, and shaver by substitute. You’re a philanthropic sneak. You’re a shabby deceiver!’

(The repetition of the performance at this point was received with a burst of laughter.)

‘Ask these good people who’s the hard man here. They’ll tell you Pancks, I believe.’

This was confirmed with cries of ‘Certainly,’ and ‘Hear!’

‘But I tell you, good people—Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!’ said Pancks. ‘If you want to see the man who would flay you alive—here he is! Don’t look for him in me, at thirty shillings a week, but look for him in Casby, at I don’t know how much a year!’

‘Good!’ cried several voices. ‘Hear Mr Pancks!’

‘Hear Mr Pancks?’ cried that gentleman (after repeating the popular performance). ‘Yes, I should think so! It’s almost time to hear Mr Pancks. Mr Pancks has come down into the Yard to-night on purpose that you should hear him. Pancks is only the Works; but here’s the Winder!’

The audience would have gone over to Mr Pancks, as one man, woman, and child, but for the long, grey, silken locks, and the broad-brimmed hat.

‘Here’s the Stop,’ said Pancks, ‘that sets the tune to be ground. And there is but one tune, and its name is Grind, Grind, Grind! Here’s the Proprietor, and here’s his Grubber. Why, good people, when he comes smoothly spinning through the Yard to-night, like a slow-going benevolent Humming-Top, and when you come about him with your complaints of the Grubber, you don’t know what a cheat the Proprietor is! What do you think of his showing himself to-night, that I may have all the blame on Monday? What do you think of his having had me over the coals this very evening, because I don’t squeeze you enough? What do you think of my being, at the present moment, under special orders to squeeze you dry on Monday?’

“Per favore, dica a mia figlia, il signor Pancks, che non posso permetterlo, assolutamente no,” disse il Patriarca con tono indifferente.

“Ah!” esclamò Pancks. “Non potevi proprio menzionarlo tu stesso?”

“No, signore, no; vi pagano proprio per menzionarlo,” quell’imbecille vecchio non riuscì a resistere alla tentazione di provarci di nuovo, “e dovete assolutamente menzionarlo per ricevere il pagamento, dovete farlo.”

“Ah!” esclamò Pancks. “C’è ancora qualcosa?”

“Sì, signore. A mio parere, Signor Pancks, lei stesso si sofferma troppo spesso e in modo eccessivo su quella direzione. Le consiglio, Signor Pancks, di ignorare sia le proprie perdite che quelle altrui, e di occuparsi soltanto delle proprie faccende.”

Signor Pancks accolse questa raccomandazione con un’esclamazione estremamente brusca, breve e sonora: “Oh!”, tanto che persino il corpulento Patriarca si affrettò a girare i suoi occhi blu verso di lui. Signor Pancks, con un altro sospiro altrettanto intenso, aggiunse poi: “C’è ancora qualcosa?”

“Non adesso, signore, non adesso. Sto andando,” disse il Patriarca, finendo di preparare la sua miscela e alzandosi con un’aria cordiale, “per fare una piccola passeggiata. Forse vi troverò qui quando tornerò. Se no, signore, dovere, dovere. Lunedì, lunedì!”

Mr Pancks, dopo essersi sistemato di nuovo i capelli, osservò il cappello a tesa larga indossato dal Patriarca, con un’espressione di indecisione che si mescolava a un senso di offesa. Era anche più accaldato di prima e respirava più affannosamente. Tuttavia lasciò che Mr Casby se ne andasse senza aggiungere altro, poi lo spiò attraverso le piccole tende verdi della finestra. “Lo immaginavo,” disse. “Sapevo dove saresti andato. Bene!” Poi tornò al suo molo, sistemò tutto con cura, si tolse il cappello, guardò intorno e, dopo aver detto “Addio!”, se ne andò per la sua strada. Si diresse direttamente verso l’angolo di Bleeding Heart Yard appartenente a Mrs Plornish, arrivandovi in cima alle scale, ancora più accaldato che mai.

In cima alle scale, rifiutando le inviti della signora Plornish ad andare a sedersi con suo padre nella “Casetta Felice” – che, per sua fortuna, non erano così numerosi come avrebbero potuto essere in qualsiasi altra notte tranne il sabato, quando quella persona che sosteneva generosamente l’attività con tutto tranne i soldi dava liberamente le sue istruzioni – in cima alle scale, il signor Pancks rimase ad aspettare fino a quando non vide il “Patriarca”, che entrava sempre nel cortile dall’altra estremità, avanzando lentamente, sorridente e circondato da pretendenti. Allora il signor Pancks scese le scale e gli andò incontro, esercitando su di lui tutta la sua pressione.

Il Patriarca, avvicinandosi con la sua solita benevolenza, rimase sorpreso nel vedere Mr Pancks, ma pensò che quest’ultimo fosse stato spinto ad agire immediatamente invece di rinviare l’operazione a lunedì. La gente del quartiere fu stupita da quell’incontro, poiché le due figure non si erano mai viste insieme lì dentro, per quanto ricordassero gli anziani abitanti di quel luogo. Ma rimasero ancora più sbalorditi quando Mr Pancks, avvicinandosi al personaggio più rispettabile tra loro e fermandosi davanti alla giacca verde bottiglia, usò il pollice e l’indice della mano destra per “sparare” il cappello dal capo lucido dell’uomo, con una precisione e agilità straordinarie, come se si fosse trattato di un grosso pezzo di marmo.

Avendo preso questa piccola libertà riguardo a quella figura patriarcale, Signor Pancks sorprese ancora di più e attirò l’attenzione dei “Cuori Sanguinanti” dicendo ad alta voce: “Ora, tu truffatore dolciastro, voglio sistemarti una volta per tutte!”

Signor Pancks e il Patriarca divennero immediatamente al centro dell’attenzione di tutti; finestre vennero spalancate e i gradini delle porte furono affollati.

“Cosa fai finta di essere?”, disse Signor Pancks. “Qual è il tuo gioco morale? A cosa miri? Alla benevolenza, vero? Tu e la tua benevolenza!” Qui, Signor Pancks, apparentemente senza l’intenzione di colpire, ma soltanto per sfogare i suoi pensieri e utilizzare quella forza in eccesso in un’attività “salutare”, mirò al capo irregolare del suo interlocutore, che però si abbassò per evitare il colpo. Questa strana scena si ripeté, suscitando sempre maggiore ammirazione tra gli spettatori, alla fine di ogni nuovo passaggio del discorso di Signor Pancks.

“Mi sono liberato del vostro servizio,” disse Pancks, “per potervi dire chi siete veramente. Siete uno di tanti impostori, tra i peggiori che si possano incontrare. Parlando da persona che ne ha sofferto sia personalmente che professionalmente, non so se preferirei la sorte di Merdle a quella vostra. Siete un truffatore mascherato, un estorsore per conto altrui, un oppressore e un ingannatore. Un ipocrita filantropo, in altre parole. Un miserabile bugiardo!”

(A questo punto, la ripetizione dell’esibizione fu accolta da una serie di risate.)

“Chiedete a queste brave persone chi sia il ‘uomo duro’ di qui. Vi diranno sicuramente che è Pancks, credo.”

“Ciò fu confermato da esclamazioni come ‘Certamente’ e ‘Ascoltate!’”

“Ma vi dico io, gente buona. Casby! Questo esempio di umiltà, questa fonte di amore, questo uomo che sorride sempre. Ecco il vostro guida!” disse Pancks. “Se volete vedere un uomo capace di spellarvi vivi. Ecco qui! Non cercatelo in me, con i miei trenta scellini a settimana, ma cercatelo in Casby. Chissà quanto guadagna all’anno!”

“Bene!”, gridarono diverse voci. “Ascoltate il signor Pancks!”

“Sentite il signor Pancks?”, gridò quel gentiluomo (dopo aver ripetuto quella performance così apprezzata dal pubblico). “Sì, credo proprio di sì! È quasi l’ora di ascoltare il signor Pancks. È sceso nel cortile apposta stasera affinché poteste sentirlo. Pancks è soltanto il direttore delle opere; ma ecco qui il Winder!”

Il pubblico si sarebbe avvicinato a Signor Pancks, considerandolo un uomo, una donna e un bambino, se non fosse stato per quei lunghi capelli grigi setosi e il cappello a tesa larga.

“Ecco il ‘Fermate’,” disse Pancks, “che indica quando iniziare a macinare. E c’è soltanto un ritmo, e si chiama ‘Macina, macina, macina!’ Ecco il Proprietario, e ecco il suo macchinario. Ma ditemi, gente buona: quando lui arriva di notte, girando lentamente nel cortile come una dolce e benefica ruota a molla, e voi venite da me con le vostre lamentele sul macchinario, non vi rendete conto di quanto sia truffatore il Proprietario? Che ne pensate del fatto che si presenti di notte soltanto per far ricadere tutta la colpa su di me lunedì? E che ne pensate del fatto che stasera mi abbia messo in difficoltà solo perché non vi sfrutto a sufficienza? E che ne pensate del fatto che, in questo momento, abbia ricevuto ordini speciali per ‘sfruttarvi completamente’ lunedì?”

The reply was given in a murmur of ‘Shame!’ and ‘Shabby!’

‘Shabby?’ snorted Pancks. ‘Yes, I should think so! The lot that your Casby belongs to, is the shabbiest of all the lots. Setting their Grubbers on, at a wretched pittance, to do what they’re ashamed and afraid to do and pretend not to do, but what they will have done, or give a man no rest! Imposing on you to give their Grubbers nothing but blame, and to give them nothing but credit! Why, the worst-looking cheat in all this town who gets the value of eighteenpence under false pretences, an’t half such a cheat as this sign-post of The Casby’s Head here!’

Cries of ‘That’s true!’ and ‘No more he an’t!’

‘And see what you get of these fellows, besides,’ said Pancks. ‘See what more you get of these precious Humming-Tops, revolving among you with such smoothness that you’ve no idea of the pattern painted on ‘em, or the little window in ‘em. I wish to call your attention to myself for a moment. I an’t an agreeable style of chap, I know that very well.’

The auditory were divided on this point; its more uncompromising members crying, ‘No, you are not,’ and its politer materials, ‘Yes, you are.’

‘I am, in general,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘a dry, uncomfortable, dreary Plodder and Grubber. That’s your humble servant. There’s his full-length portrait, painted by himself and presented to you, warranted a likeness! But what’s a man to be, with such a man as this for his Proprietor? What can be expected of him? Did anybody ever find boiled mutton and caper-sauce growing in a cocoa-nut?’

None of the Bleeding Hearts ever had, it was clear from the alacrity of their response.

‘Well,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘and neither will you find in Grubbers like myself, under Proprietors like this, pleasant qualities. I’ve been a Grubber from a boy. What has my life been? Fag and grind, fag and grind, turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven’t been agreeable to myself, and I haven’t been likely to be agreeable to anybody else. If I was a shilling a week less useful in ten years’ time, this impostor would give me a shilling a week less; if as useful a man could be got at sixpence cheaper, he would be taken in my place at sixpence cheaper. Bargain and sale, bless you! Fixed principles! It’s a mighty fine sign-post, is The Casby’s Head,’ said Mr Pancks, surveying it with anything rather than admiration; ‘but the real name of the House is the Sham’s Arms. Its motto is, Keep the Grubber always at it. Is any gentleman present,’ said Mr Pancks, breaking off and looking round, ‘acquainted with the English Grammar?’

Bleeding Heart Yard was shy of claiming that acquaintance.

‘It’s no matter,’ said Mr Pancks, ‘I merely wish to remark that the task this Proprietor has set me, has been never to leave off conjugating the Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb To keep always at it. Keep thou always at it. Let him keep always at it. Keep we or do we keep always at it. Keep ye or do ye or you keep always at it. Let them keep always at it. Here is your benevolent Patriarch of a Casby, and there is his golden rule. He is uncommonly improving to look at, and I am not at all so. He is as sweet as honey, and I am as dull as ditch-water. He provides the pitch, and I handle it, and it sticks to me. Now,’ said Mr Pancks, closing upon his late Proprietor again, from whom he had withdrawn a little for the better display of him to the Yard; ‘as I am not accustomed to speak in public, and as I have made a rather lengthy speech, all circumstances considered, I shall bring my observations to a close by requesting you to get out of this.’

The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in, that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself.

Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch’s hand, cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch’s head.

Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive, not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring again.

La risposta fu un mormorio di “Che vergogna!” e “Che spregevolezza!”.

“Scadente?” sbuffò Pancks. “Sì, direi proprio di sì! Quel negozio che appartiene al vostro Casby è senz’altro il peggiore di tutti. Loro mandano i loro lavoratori a fare cose di cui si vergognano e hanno paura, fingendo di non farle, ma in realtà le fanno lo stesso. E poi vi costringono ad attribuire loro solo critiche, senza mai riconoscere i loro meriti! Perbacco, il più spregevole truffatore di questa città, che ottiene soltanto diciotto penny ingannando la gente, non è nemmeno lontanamente paragonabile a questo cartello pubblicitario del “Casby’s Head”!”.

Grida di “È vero!” e “Non più lo è!”

“E vedete un po’ cosa ottenete da questi individui,” disse Pancks. “Vedete cos’altro vi danno queste preziose ‘Humming-Tops’, che ruotano intorno a voi con tale fluidità che non riuscite nemmeno a capire quale sia il disegno dipinto su di loro, né quella piccola ‘finestra’ che contengono. Vorrei attirare per un momento la vostra attenzione su di me. So molto bene di non essere un tipo particolarmente gradevole.”

Su questo punto i membri del gruppo uditivo erano divisi: i suoi componenti più intransigenti gridavano “No, non lo sei”, mentre quelli più accomodanti affermavano “Sì, lo sei”.

“In generale,” disse Signor Pancks, “sono una persona noiosa, sgradevole e monotona. Ecco il vostro umile servitore. Ecco il suo ritratto completo, dipinto da lui stesso e presentatovi. Una somiglianza davvero autentica! Ma che cosa si può aspettare da un uomo che ha una persona del genere come proprietario? Qualcuno ha mai trovato manzo bollito con salsa di capperi crescendo all’interno di una noce di cocco?”

Nessuno dei membri del gruppo “Bleeding Hearts” l’aveva mai avuto; era evidente dalla loro prontezza nel rispondere.

“Beh,” disse Signor Pancks, “e nemmeno in posti come questo, sotto proprietari del genere, si possono trovare qualità piacevoli. Sono stato un lavoratore sfruttato fin da ragazzo. Che vita è stata la mia? Lavoro incessante, sempre al servizio di altri. Non sono mai stato gentile con me stesso, e non lo sarò certo con gli altri. Se fossi meno utile anche solo di uno scellino a settimana in dieci anni, questo impostore mi darebbe comunque uno scellino in meno; se ci fosse qualcuno più utile ma disponibile per sei pence in meno, lo assumerebbero al mio posto. Affari e commercio. Che benedetto sistema! Un’insegna davvero efficace, ‘The Casby’s Head’,” disse Signor Pancks, osservandola con scarso entusiasmo; “ma il vero nome di questo locale è ‘The Sham’s Arms’. Il suo motto? ‘Mantenere sempre il lavoratore sfruttato al suo posto, ’ C’è qualche gentiluomo qui presente,” aggiunse, guardandosi intorno, “che conosca la grammatica inglese?”

Bleeding Heart Yard si vergognava di ammettere quella conoscenza.

“Non importa,” disse Mr Pancks, “voglio solo osservare che il compito che questo Proprietario mi ha assegnato consiste semplicemente nel continuare a usare la forma imperativa del verbo ‘To keep always at it’. Continua tu sempre ad farlo, lascia che lui continui sempre ad farlo, noi continuiamo sempre ad farlo. Ora,” aggiunse, tornando nuovamente sull’ex Proprietario da cui si era un po’ allontanato per poterlo mostrare meglio al pubblico presente nel cortile, “poiché non sono abituato a parlare in pubblico e ho detto qualcosa di piuttosto lungo, considerando tutte le circostanze, concluderò chiedendovi di andarvene.”

L’ultimo dei Patriarchi era stato così sopraffatto dall’attacco e aveva bisogno di tanto spazio per comprendere il problema e altrettanto spazio per trovare una soluzione, che non riuscì a pronunciare nemmeno una parola in risposta. Sembrava stesse cercando, con un modo tipicamente patriarcale, di uscire da quella difficile situazione, quando Mr Pancks, ancora una volta e in modo improvviso, premette il “grilletto” del suo cappello, facendolo volare via con la solita abilità. La volta precedente, uno o due dei presenti avevano raccolto cortesemente il cappello e gliel’avevano restituito; ma questa volta Mr Pancks aveva così impressionato il pubblico che il Patriarca dovette girarsi e raccoglierlo da solo.

Veloce come fulmine, Signor Pancks, che per alcuni momenti aveva tenuto la mano destra nella tasca del cappotto, tirò fuori un paio di forbici, si avvicinò da dietro al Patriarca e tagliò via i lunghi capelli che gli cadevano sulle spalle. In un attacco di rabbia e rapidità, Signor Pancks prese il cappello a tesa larga dalle mani del sorpreso Patriarca, lo ridusse a una semplice pentola e se lo mise in testa.

Prima che si manifestassero i terribili risultati di questo atto disperato, lo stesso Signor Pancks rimase sbalordito dallo spavento. Un individuo massiccio, con la testa grossa e gli occhi spalancati, stava fissandolo senza alcuna imponenza o dignità; sembrava essere apparso all’improvviso dalla terra per chiedere cosa fosse accaduto a Casby. Dopo averlo guardato a sua volta in silenziosa meraviglia, Signor Pancks gettò giù le forbici e fuggì in cerca di un nascondiglio, dove potesse ripararsi dalle conseguenze del suo crimine. Ritenne opportuno muoversi il più rapidamente possibile, anche se non lo inseguiva altro che il suono delle risate che risuonavano nel cortile di Bleeding Heart Yard, diffondendosi nell’aria e facendo tremare l’ambiente circostante.

CHAPTER 33. Going!

The changes of a fevered room are slow and fluctuating; but the changes of the fevered world are rapid and irrevocable.

It was Little Dorrit’s lot to wait upon both kinds of change. The Marshalsea walls, during a portion of every day, again embraced her in their shadows as their child, while she thought for Clennam, worked for him, watched him, and only left him, still to devote her utmost love and care to him. Her part in the life outside the gate urged its pressing claims upon her too, and her patience untiringly responded to them. Here was Fanny, proud, fitful, whimsical, further advanced in that disqualified state for going into society which had so much fretted her on the evening of the tortoise-shell knife, resolved always to want comfort, resolved not to be comforted, resolved to be deeply wronged, and resolved that nobody should have the audacity to think her so. Here was her brother, a weak, proud, tipsy, young old man, shaking from head to foot, talking as indistinctly as if some of the money he plumed himself upon had got into his mouth and couldn’t be got out, unable to walk alone in any act of his life, and patronising the sister whom he selfishly loved (he always had that negative merit, ill-starred and ill-launched Tip!) because he suffered her to lead him. Here was Mrs Merdle in gauzy mourning—the original cap whereof had possibly been rent to pieces in a fit of grief, but had certainly yielded to a highly becoming article from the Parisian market—warring with Fanny foot to foot, and breasting her with her desolate bosom every hour in the day. Here was poor Mr Sparkler, not knowing how to keep the peace between them, but humbly inclining to the opinion that they could do no better than agree that they were both remarkably fine women, and that there was no nonsense about either of them—for which gentle recommendation they united in falling upon him frightfully. Then, too, here was Mrs General, got home from foreign parts, sending a Prune and a Prism by post every other day, demanding a new Testimonial by way of recommendation to some vacant appointment or other. Of which remarkable gentlewoman it may be finally observed, that there surely never was a gentlewoman of whose transcendent fitness for any vacant appointment on the face of this earth, so many people were (as the warmth of her Testimonials evinced) so perfectly satisfied—or who was so very unfortunate in having a large circle of ardent and distinguished admirers, who never themselves happened to want her in any capacity.

On the first crash of the eminent Mr Merdle’s decease, many important persons had been unable to determine whether they should cut Mrs Merdle, or comfort her. As it seemed, however, essential to the strength of their own case that they should admit her to have been cruelly deceived, they graciously made the admission, and continued to know her. It followed that Mrs Merdle, as a woman of fashion and good breeding who had been sacrificed to the wiles of a vulgar barbarian (for Mr Merdle was found out from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, the moment he was found out in his pocket), must be actively championed by her order for her order’s sake. She returned this fealty by causing it to be understood that she was even more incensed against the felonious shade of the deceased than anybody else was; thus, on the whole, she came out of her furnace like a wise woman, and did exceedingly well.

Mr Sparkler’s lordship was fortunately one of those shelves on which a gentleman is considered to be put away for life, unless there should be reasons for hoisting him up with the Barnacle crane to a more lucrative height. That patriotic servant accordingly stuck to his colours (the Standard of four Quarterings), and was a perfect Nelson in respect of nailing them to the mast. On the profits of his intrepidity, Mrs Sparkler and Mrs Merdle, inhabiting different floors of the genteel little temple of inconvenience to which the smell of the day before yesterday’s soup and coach-horses was as constant as Death to man, arrayed themselves to fight it out in the lists of Society, sworn rivals. And Little Dorrit, seeing all these things as they developed themselves, could not but wonder, anxiously, into what back corner of the genteel establishment Fanny’s children would be poked by-and-by, and who would take care of those unborn little victims.

Arthur being far too ill to be spoken with on subjects of emotion or anxiety, and his recovery greatly depending on the repose into which his weakness could be hushed, Little Dorrit’s sole reliance during this heavy period was on Mr Meagles. He was still abroad; but she had written to him through his daughter, immediately after first seeing Arthur in the Marshalsea and since, confiding her uneasiness to him on the points on which she was most anxious, but especially on one. To that one, the continued absence of Mr Meagles abroad, instead of his comforting presence in the Marshalsea, was referable.

Without disclosing the precise nature of the documents that had fallen into Rigaud’s hands, Little Dorrit had confided the general outline of that story to Mr Meagles, to whom she had also recounted his fate. The old cautious habits of the scales and scoop at once showed Mr Meagles the importance of recovering the original papers; wherefore he wrote back to Little Dorrit, strongly confirming her in the solicitude she expressed on that head, and adding that he would not come over to England ‘without making some attempt to trace them out.’

By this time Mr Henry Gowan had made up his mind that it would be agreeable to him not to know the Meagleses. He was so considerate as to lay no injunctions on his wife in that particular; but he mentioned to Mr Meagles that personally they did not appear to him to get on together, and that he thought it would be a good thing if—politely, and without any scene, or anything of that sort—they agreed that they were the best fellows in the world, but were best apart. Poor Mr Meagles, who was already sensible that he did not advance his daughter’s happiness by being constantly slighted in her presence, said ‘Good, Henry! You are my Pet’s husband; you have displaced me, in the course of nature; if you wish it, good!’ This arrangement involved the contingent advantage, which perhaps Henry Gowan had not foreseen, that both Mr and Mrs Meagles were more liberal than before to their daughter, when their communication was only with her and her young child: and that his high spirit found itself better provided with money, without being under the degrading necessity of knowing whence it came.

CAPITOLO 33. Andiamo!

I cambiamenti in una stanza febbricitante sono lenti e fluttuanti; ma i cambiamenti nel mondo febbricitante sono rapidi e irreversibili.

To Little Dorrit tovava sopportare entrambi questi tipi di cambiamenti. Le mura di Marshalsea, per una parte della giornata, l’avvolgevano nuovamente nelle loro ombre; lei, come figlia loro, pensava a Clennam, lavorava per lui, lo osservava e non lo lasciava mai, continuando a dedicargli tutta la sua affetto e cura. Anche il suo ruolo nella vita al di fuori di quelle mura esigeva da lei grande impegno, e la sua pazienza rispondeva instancabilmente a tutte queste richieste. C’era Fanny: orgogliosa, capricciosa, fantasiosa; in uno stato ancora più inadatto ad entrare in società di quanto non lo fosse stata la sera in cui aveva perso quella spada con il manico a forma di tartaruga. Decisa sempre a desiderare conforto, ma anche a rifiutarlo, convinta di essere profondamente ingiustiziata, e pronta a far credere a tutti che nessuno avesse il coraggio di pensarlo davvero. C’era suo fratello: un uomo debole, orgoglioso, ubriaco, sempre tremante, che parlava in modo incomprensibile, come se parte del denaro di cui si vanta fosse finito nella sua bocca e non riuscisse più a uscirne. Incapace di fare qualsiasi cosa da solo. Eppure trattava con condiscendenza la sorella che amava in modo egoistico, perché permetteva a lei di guidarlo. C’era poi Mrs Merdle: vestita a lutto, con abiti trasparenti. Il cappello originale probabilmente era stato strappato via in un attacco di dolore, ma ora ne possedeva uno molto elegante acquistato al mercato parigino. Combatteva costantemente contro Fanny, mostrandole il proprio petto desolato ogni momento della giornata. C’era povero Mr Sparkler: non sapeva come mantenere la pace tra loro, ma era convinto che l’unica soluzione fosse riconoscere entrambe come donne davvero eccezionali. Per questo gentile suggerimento, venivano entrambe su di lui con violenza. C’era anche Mrs General: tornata dal viaggio all’estero, inviava regolarmente messaggi ogni due giorni, chiedendo un nuovo “testimoniale” come raccomandazione per qualche incarico vacante. Di questa straordinaria signora si può dire con certezza che nessun’altra donna al mondo fosse così perfettamente adatta a qualsiasi incarico disponibile. Eppure aveva un gran numero di ammiratori appassionati e illustri, che però, proprio loro, non avevano mai bisogno del suo aiuto in alcuna situazione.

Al primo annuncio della morte del rinomato Signor Merdle, molte persone importanti non riuscivano a decidere se dovessero condannare la signora Merdle o consolarla. Tuttavia, poiché sembrava essenziale per la solidità delle loro argomentazioni ammettere che lei fosse stata crudelmente ingannata, acconsentirono gentilmente a farlo e continuarono a frequentarla. Di conseguenza, la signora Merdle, essendo una donna di buona educazione e di gusto che era stata vittima delle arti seducenti di un barbaro volgare (poiché Il Signor Merdle fu smascherato in ogni suo aspetto, dalla testa ai piedi), dovette essere attivamente difesa dal proprio ambiente per il bene stesso di quest’ultimo. Lei ricambiò questa lealtà facendo capire che era ancora più indignata nei confronti di quel criminale defunto di chiunque altro; così, nel complesso, ne uscì come una donna saggia e riuscì a cavarsela molto bene.

Per fortuna, il signor Sparkler apparteneva a quei “ripiani” su cui un gentiluomo viene considerato “conservato per l’eternità”, a meno che non sorgano motivi per sollevarlo con una gru verso posizioni più redditizie. Quel fedele servitore, pertanto, rimase fedele alle sue idee (al “Stendardo dei quattro quartieri”), dimostrando un vero e proprio spirito nelsoniano nel difenderle con determinazione. Grazie ai profitti derivanti dalla sua audacia, la signora Sparkler e la signora Merdle, che abitavano piani diversi di quel piccolo “tempio dell’inconvenienza”, dove l’odore della zuppa del giorno prima e dei cavalli da carro era altrettanto costante quanto la Morte per gli uomini, si prepararono a combattere tra loro nelle competizioni sociali, diventando rivali giurate. E Little Dorrit, osservando tutto ciò che accadeva, non poteva fare a meno di chiedersi con ansia in quale angolo dell’alta società finirebbero un giorno i figli di Fanny, e chi si sarebbe preso cura di quelle piccole vittime ancora non nate.

Arthur era troppo malato per poter essere parlato di argomenti legati a emozioni o ansie; inoltre, la sua guarigione dipendeva in gran parte dal riposo che avrebbe permesso al suo corpo debilitato di recuperare. Durante questo periodo difficile, l’unica persona su cui Little Dorrit poteva contare era il signor Meagles. Lui si trovava ancora all’estero; ma lei gli aveva scritto attraverso sua figlia, subito dopo aver visto Arthur a Marshalsea, confidandogli le sue preoccupazioni riguardo ai problemi che la angosciavano di più, soprattutto uno in particolare. Quel problema era proprio l’assenza continua del signor Meagles all’estero, invece della sua presenza rassicurante a Marshalsea.

Senza rivelare la precisa natura dei documenti che erano finiti nelle mani di Rigaud, Little Dorrit aveva confidato i lineamenti generali di quella storia a Mr Meagles, a cui aveva anche raccontato della sua sorte. Gli antichi e cauti istinti di Mr Meagles gli fecero immediatamente comprendere l’importanza di recuperare quei documenti originali; perciò scrisse a Little Dorrit, confermando con forza la sua preoccupazione al riguardo e aggiungendo che non sarebbe venuto in Inghilterra “senza tentare almeno di trovarli”.

A quell’ora, il signor Henry Gowan aveva già deciso che gli sarebbe stato piacevole non conoscere più la famiglia Meagles. Era così premuroso da non imporre alcuna restrizione alla moglie in questo senso; tuttavia, menzionò al signor Meagles che, a suo parere, i due coniugi non andavano d’accordo e che sarebbe stato meglio – in modo educato, senza scenate o simili – se avessero concordato sul fatto di essere le persone migliori del mondo, ma che fosse meglio stare separati. Povero signor Meagles: già consapevole che il continuo disprezzo subito davanti a sua figlia non contribuiva affatto alla sua felicità, rispose: “Bene, Henry! Sei il marito della mia cara; con il passare del tempo sei diventato tu il mio posto. Se lo desideri, va bene!” Questo accordo comportava un vantaggio inaspettato: forse non previsto da Henry Gowan stesso: i signori Meagles, infatti, divennero più generosi con loro figlia quando comunicavano soltanto con lei e il suo piccolo bambino; inoltre, il signor Gowan poté disporre di più denaro, senza dover subire l’umiliante necessità di conoscere da dove provenisse.

Mr Meagles, at such a period, naturally seized an occupation with great ardour. He knew from his daughter the various towns which Rigaud had been haunting, and the various hotels at which he had been living for some time back. The occupation he set himself was to visit these with all discretion and speed, and, in the event of finding anywhere that he had left a bill unpaid, and a box or parcel behind, to pay such bill, and bring away such box or parcel.

With no other attendant than Mother, Mr Meagles went upon his pilgrimage, and encountered a number of adventures. Not the least of his difficulties was, that he never knew what was said to him, and that he pursued his inquiries among people who never knew what he said to them. Still, with an unshaken confidence that the English tongue was somehow the mother tongue of the whole world, only the people were too stupid to know it, Mr Meagles harangued innkeepers in the most voluble manner, entered into loud explanations of the most complicated sort, and utterly renounced replies in the native language of the respondents, on the ground that they were ‘all bosh.’ Sometimes interpreters were called in; whom Mr Meagles addressed in such idiomatic terms of speech, as instantly to extinguish and shut up—which made the matter worse. On a balance of the account, however, it may be doubted whether he lost much; for, although he found no property, he found so many debts and various associations of discredit with the proper name, which was the only word he made intelligible, that he was almost everywhere overwhelmed with injurious accusations. On no fewer than four occasions the police were called in to receive denunciations of Mr Meagles as a Knight of Industry, a good-for-nothing, and a thief, all of which opprobrious language he bore with the best temper (having no idea what it meant), and was in the most ignominious manner escorted to steam-boats and public carriages, to be got rid of, talking all the while, like a cheerful and fluent Briton as he was, with Mother under his arm.

But, in his own tongue, and in his own head, Mr Meagles was a clear, shrewd, persevering man. When he had ‘worked round,’ as he called it, to Paris in his pilgrimage, and had wholly failed in it so far, he was not disheartened. ‘The nearer to England I follow him, you see, Mother,’ argued Mr Meagles, ‘the nearer I am likely to come to the papers, whether they turn up or no. Because it is only reasonable to conclude that he would deposit them somewhere where they would be safe from people over in England, and where they would yet be accessible to himself, don’t you see?’

At Paris Mr Meagles found a letter from Little Dorrit, lying waiting for him; in which she mentioned that she had been able to talk for a minute or two with Mr Clennam about this man who was no more; and that when she told Mr Clennam that his friend Mr Meagles, who was on his way to see him, had an interest in ascertaining something about the man if he could, he had asked her to tell Mr Meagles that he had been known to Miss Wade, then living in such a street at Calais. ‘Oho!’ said Mr Meagles.

As soon afterwards as might be in those Diligence days, Mr Meagles rang the cracked bell at the cracked gate, and it jarred open, and the peasant-woman stood in the dark doorway, saying, ‘Ice-say! Seer! Who?’ In acknowledgment of whose address, Mr Meagles murmured to himself that there was some sense about these Calais people, who really did know something of what you and themselves were up to; and returned, ‘Miss Wade, my dear.’ He was then shown into the presence of Miss Wade.

‘It’s some time since we met,’ said Mr Meagles, clearing his throat; ‘I hope you have been pretty well, Miss Wade?’

Without hoping that he or anybody else had been pretty well, Miss Wade asked him to what she was indebted for the honour of seeing him again? Mr Meagles, in the meanwhile, glanced all round the room without observing anything in the shape of a box.

‘Why, the truth is, Miss Wade,’ said Mr Meagles, in a comfortable, managing, not to say coaxing voice, ‘it is possible that you may be able to throw a light upon a little something that is at present dark. Any unpleasant bygones between us are bygones, I hope. Can’t be helped now. You recollect my daughter? Time changes so! A mother!’

In his innocence, Mr Meagles could not have struck a worse key-note. He paused for any expression of interest, but paused in vain.

‘That is not the subject you wished to enter on?’ she said, after a cold silence.

‘No, no,’ returned Mr Meagles. ‘No. I thought your good nature might—’

‘I thought you knew,’ she interrupted, with a smile, ‘that my good nature is not to be calculated upon?’

‘Don’t say so,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘you do yourself an injustice. However, to come to the point.’ For he was sensible of having gained nothing by approaching it in a roundabout way. ‘I have heard from my friend Clennam, who, you will be sorry to hear, has been and still is very ill—’

He paused again, and again she was silent.

‘—that you had some knowledge of one Blandois, lately killed in London by a violent accident. Now, don’t mistake me! I know it was a slight knowledge,’ said Mr Meagles, dexterously forestalling an angry interruption which he saw about to break. ‘I am fully aware of that. It was a slight knowledge, I know. But the question is,’ Mr Meagles’s voice here became comfortable again, ‘did he, on his way to England last time, leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers or other in some receptacle or other—any papers—with you: begging you to allow him to leave them here for a short time, until he wanted them?’

‘The question is?’ she repeated. ‘Whose question is?’

‘Mine,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘And not only mine but Clennam’s question, and other people’s question. Now, I am sure,’ continued Mr Meagles, whose heart was overflowing with Pet, ‘that you can’t have any unkind feeling towards my daughter; it’s impossible. Well! It’s her question, too; being one in which a particular friend of hers is nearly interested. So here I am, frankly to say that is the question, and to ask, Now, did he?’

Il signor Meagles, in una situazione del genere, naturalmente si dedicò con grande impegno a un’attività precisa. Sua figlia gli aveva raccontato delle varie città che Rigaud aveva visitato e degli hotel in cui aveva soggiornato per un certo periodo. L’obiettivo che si prefisse fu quindi quello di recarsi in tutti questi luoghi con la massima discrezione e rapidità, al fine di pagare eventuali conti non saldati o recuperare qualsiasi oggetto avesse potuto dimenticare.

Senza alcun altro accompagnatore se non sua madre, il signor Meagles intraprese il suo pellegrinaggio e incontrò numerose avventure. Uno dei problemi più grandi che dovette affrontare fu il fatto che non riusciva mai a capire ciò che gli veniva detto, e cercava di ottenere informazioni da persone che, a loro volta, non comprendevano le sue domande. Nonostante ciò, con la ferma convinzione che la lingua inglese fosse in qualche modo la lingua madre di tutto il mondo – sebbene le persone fossero troppo stupide per rendersene conto – il signor Meagles continuava a parlare con gli osti in modo molto eloquente, fornendo spiegazioni dettagliate su argomenti complessi, e rifiutava categoricamente di rispondere nella lingua locale delle persone che gli rivolgevano domande, sostenendo che fossero tutte sciocchezze. A volte chiamava degli interpreti, ma questi lo ascoltavano con espressioni di totale disprezzo, il che peggiorava ancora la situazione. Tuttavia, a ben pensarci, è difficile dire se abbia perso davvero qualcosa: poiché, sebbene non trovasse alcuna proprietà, scoprì molte debiti e varie accuse infamanti legate al suo nome – l’unica parola che riusciva a pronunciare in modo comprensibile – tanto che ovunque andasse veniva assalito da accuse offensive. In quattro occasioni diverse fu chiamata la polizia, che lo denunciò come “Cavaliere dell’Industria”, buono a nulla e ladro; lui, però, sopportava tutto questo con grande calma (non capendo nemmeno il significato di quelle accuse) e veniva scortato in modo umiliante fino ai treni o alle carrozze pubbliche, continuando intanto a parlare come un vero britannico, felice e disinvolto, con sua madre al suo fianco.

Ma, nella sua lingua e nella sua mente, il signor Meagles era un uomo chiaro, astuto e perseverante. Quando aveva “proceduto con cautela”, come lui stesso diceva, nel suo viaggio verso Parigi, pur fallendo completamente in quel tentativo, non si era scoraggiato. “Più mi avvicino a Inghilterra seguendolo, vedete, mamma,” argomentava il signor Meagles, “maggiore è la probabilità che riesca a trovare quei documenti, che siano o meno nascosti da qualche parte. Dopotutto, è logico pensare che li abbia depositati in un luogo sicuro, lontano dalle persone in Inghilterra, ma comunque accessibile a lui stesso, non credete?”

A Parigi, il signor Meagles trovò una lettera di Little Dorrit che lo aspettava; in essa lei scriveva di aver avuto l’opportunità di parlare per un minuto o due con il signor Clennam riguardo a quell’uomo che ormai non c’era più; e che quando aveva detto al signor Clennam che il suo amico, il signor Meagles, che stava per andarlo a trovare, desiderava sapere qualcosa su quell’uomo, se possibile, lui le aveva chiesto di riferire al signor Meagles che quell’uomo era stato conosciuto dalla signorina Wade, che all’epoca viveva in una certa strada a Calais. “Oh!” esclamò il signor Meagles.

Poco dopo, in quei giorni di fretta e agitazione, il signor Meagles suonò la campanella rotta presso il cancello stinto; la porta si aprì con un cigolio, e una donna contadina apparve nell’oscurità del vano d’ingresso, chiedendo: “Chi è? Veggente! Chi sta cercando?” Rispondendo a quella domanda, il signor Meagles pensò tra sé che quelle persone di Calais avevano davvero un certo senso della realtà; sapevano davvero qualcosa di ciò che lui e gli altri stavano facendo. Poi entrò e disse: “La signorina Wade, mia cara.” Fu così che venne introdotto nella stanza della signorina Wade.

“È passato un po’ di tempo da quando ci siamo visti,” disse il signor Meagles, schiarendosi la voce; “Spero che lei stia bene, signorina Wade.”

Senza sperare che lui o qualcun altro stesse bene, la signorina Wade gli chiese per quale motivo le fosse stato concesso l’onore di rivederlo. Nel frattempo, il signor Meagles guardò intorno nella stanza senza notare nulla che assomigliasse a una scatola.

“Beh, la verità è questa, signorina Wade,” disse il signor Meagles con una voce tranquilla, autoritaria, per non dire suadente, “è possibile che lei possa gettare luce su qualcosa che al momento rimane oscuro. Qualsiasi dissidio passato tra di noi è ormai superato, spero. Non si può più fare nulla al riguardo. Si ricorda mia figlia? Il tempo cambia davvero tanto. Una madre, ”

Nella sua innocenza, il signor Meagles non avrebbe potuto scegliere un tono peggiore. Aspettò che qualcuno mostrasse interesse, ma invano.

“Non è questo l’argomento di cui volevi parlare, vero?”, disse lei, dopo un lungo e freddo silenzio.

“No, no,” rispose il signor Meagles. “No. Pensavo che la tua buona >natura potesse, ”

“Pensavo che lo sapessi,” interruppe lei sorridendo, “che la mia buona >natura non è qualcosa su cui si possa fare affidamento, ”

“Non dite così,” disse il signor Meagles; “vi fate un torto. Comunque, veniamo al punto.” Perché si rendeva conto di non aver ottenuto nulla cercando di affrontare la questione in modo indiretto. “Ho sentito dal mio amico Clennam, che, purtroppo, è stato e ancora è molto malato, ”

Si fermò di nuovo, e lei rimase in silenzio ancora una volta.

“–Che voi aveste qualche informazione su un certo Blandois, recentemente ucciso a Londra in un incidente violento. Ora, non fraintendetemi! So che si trattava di informazioni molto limitate,” disse il signor Meagles, anticipando abilmente una possibile interruzione arrabbiata. “Ne sono pienamente consapevole. Erano informazioni molto limitate, lo so. Ma la domanda è questa: durante il suo viaggio in Inghilterra l’ultima volta, ha forse lasciato con voi una scatola di documenti, o un mazzo di fogli, o qualche altra cosa del genere. Qualsiasi documento che potesse aver bisogno di lasciare qui per poco tempo, fino a quando non ne avrebbe più avuto bisogno?”

“La domanda è,?” ripeté. “Di chi è questa domanda?”

“Mia,” disse il signor Meagles. “E non solo mia, ma anche la domanda di Clennam, e quella di altre persone. Ora, sono sicuro,” continuò il signor Meagles, il cui cuore era pieno d’affetto per Pet, “che lei non possa provare alcun sentimento negativo verso mia figlia; è impossibile. Beh. È anche la sua domanda; una domanda che riguarda molto da vicino un’amica particolare di lei. Quindi eccomi qui, a dire francamente: questa è la domanda. E ora le chiedo: Lui l’ha fatto?”

‘Upon my word,’ she returned, ‘I seem to be a mark for everybody who knew anything of a man I once in my life hired, and paid, and dismissed, to aim their questions at!’

‘Now, don’t,’ remonstrated Mr Meagles, ‘don’t! Don’t take offence, because it’s the plainest question in the world, and might be asked of any one. The documents I refer to were not his own, were wrongfully obtained, might at some time or other be troublesome to an innocent person to have in keeping, and are sought by the people to whom they really belong. He passed through Calais going to London, and there were reasons why he should not take them with him then, why he should wish to be able to put his hand upon them readily, and why he should distrust leaving them with people of his own sort. Did he leave them here? I declare if I knew how to avoid giving you offence, I would take any pains to do it. I put the question personally, but there’s nothing personal in it. I might put it to any one; I have put it already to many people. Did he leave them here? Did he leave anything here?’

‘No.’

‘Then unfortunately, Miss Wade, you know nothing about them?’

‘I know nothing about them. I have now answered your unaccountable question. He did not leave them here, and I know nothing about them.’

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles rising. ‘I am sorry for it; that’s over; and I hope there is not much harm done.—Tattycoram well, Miss Wade?’

‘Harriet well? O yes!’

‘I have put my foot in it again,’ said Mr Meagles, thus corrected. ‘I can’t keep my foot out of it here, it seems. Perhaps, if I had thought twice about it, I might never have given her the jingling name. But, when one means to be good-natured and sportive with young people, one doesn’t think twice. Her old friend leaves a kind word for her, Miss Wade, if you should think proper to deliver it.’

She said nothing as to that; and Mr Meagles, taking his honest face out of the dull room, where it shone like a sun, took it to the Hotel where he had left Mrs Meagles, and where he made the Report: ‘Beaten, Mother; no effects!’ He took it next to the London Steam Packet, which sailed in the night; and next to the Marshalsea.

The faithful John was on duty when Father and Mother Meagles presented themselves at the wicket towards nightfall. Miss Dorrit was not there then, he said; but she had been there in the morning, and invariably came in the evening. Mr Clennam was slowly mending; and Maggy and Mrs Plornish and Mr Baptist took care of him by turns. Miss Dorrit was sure to come back that evening before the bell rang. There was the room the Marshal had lent her, up-stairs, in which they could wait for her, if they pleased. Mistrustful that it might be hazardous to Arthur to see him without preparation, Mr Meagles accepted the offer; and they were left shut up in the room, looking down through its barred window into the jail.

The cramped area of the prison had such an effect on Mrs Meagles that she began to weep, and such an effect on Mr Meagles that he began to gasp for air. He was walking up and down the room, panting, and making himself worse by laboriously fanning himself with her handkerchief, when he turned towards the opening door.

‘Eh? Good gracious!’ said Mr Meagles, ‘this is not Miss Dorrit! Why, Mother, look! Tattycoram!’

No other. And in Tattycoram’s arms was an iron box some two feet square. Such a box had Affery Flintwinch seen, in the first of her dreams, going out of the old house in the dead of the night under Double’s arm. This, Tattycoram put on the ground at her old master’s feet: this, Tattycoram fell on her knees by, and beat her hands upon, crying half in exultation and half in despair, half in laughter and half in tears, ‘Pardon, dear Master; take me back, dear Mistress; here it is!’

‘Tatty!’ exclaimed Mr Meagles.

‘What you wanted!’ said Tattycoram. ‘Here it is! I was put in the next room not to see you. I heard you ask her about it, I heard her say she hadn’t got it, I was there when he left it, and I took it at bedtime and brought it away. Here it is!’

‘Why, my girl,’ cried Mr Meagles, more breathless than before, ‘how did you come over?’

‘I came in the boat with you. I was sitting wrapped up at the other end. When you took a coach at the wharf, I took another coach and followed you here. She never would have given it up after what you had said to her about its being wanted; she would sooner have sunk it in the sea, or burnt it. But, here it is!’

The glow and rapture that the girl was in, with her ‘Here it is!’

‘She never wanted it to be left, I must say that for her; but he left it, and I knew well that after what you said, and after her denying it, she never would have given it up. But here it is! Dear Master, dear Mistress, take me back again, and give me back the dear old name! Let this intercede for me. Here it is!’

Father and Mother Meagles never deserved their names better than when they took the headstrong foundling-girl into their protection again.

‘Oh! I have been so wretched,’ cried Tattycoram, weeping much more, ‘always so unhappy, and so repentant! I was afraid of her from the first time I saw her. I knew she had got a power over me through understanding what was bad in me so well. It was a madness in me, and she could raise it whenever she liked. I used to think, when I got into that state, that people were all against me because of my first beginning; and the kinder they were to me, the worse fault I found in them. I made it out that they triumphed above me, and that they wanted to make me envy them, when I know—when I even knew then—that they never thought of such a thing. And my beautiful young mistress not so happy as she ought to have been, and I gone away from her! Such a brute and a wretch as she must think me! But you’ll say a word to her for me, and ask her to be as forgiving as you two are? For I am not so bad as I was,’ pleaded Tattycoram; ‘I am bad enough, but not so bad as I was, indeed. I have had Miss Wade before me all this time, as if it was my own self grown ripe—turning everything the wrong way, and twisting all good into evil. I have had her before me all this time, finding no pleasure in anything but keeping me as miserable, suspicious, and tormenting as herself. Not that she had much to do, to do that,’ cried Tattycoram, in a closing great burst of distress, ‘for I was as bad as bad could be. I only mean to say, that, after what I have gone through, I hope I shall never be quite so bad again, and that I shall get better by very slow degrees. I’ll try very hard. I won’t stop at five-and-twenty, sir, I’ll count five-and-twenty hundred, five-and-twenty thousand!’

“Per la mia parola,” rispose lei, “sembra che io sia diventata un bersaglio per chiunque sappia qualcosa di quell’uomo che una volta nella mia vita assunsi, pagai e poi licenziai. E ora tutti rivolgono le loro domande a me!”

“Ora, per favore, no,” rimproverò il signor Meagles, “per favore! Non offendetevi, perché è la domanda più semplice del mondo e potrebbe essere posta a chiunque. I documenti di cui parlo non erano suoi; sono stati ottenuti in modo illegittimo e, forse in un futuro, potrebbero creare problemi a una persona innocente che li possedesse. Sono cercati dalle persone a cui appartengono veramente. Lui è passato per Calais diretto a Londra; c’erano motivi per cui non avrebbe dovuto portarli con sé in quel momento, motivi per cui avrebbe voluto poterli recuperare facilmente. E motivi per cui non si fidava di lasciarli in mano a persone del suo stesso ambiente. Li ha lasciati qui? Vi assicuro che, se solo sapessi come evitare di offendervi, farei di tutto per farlo. Pongo questa domanda personalmente, ma non c’è nulla di personale in essa; potrei porla a chiunque. L’ho già fatta molte volte. Li ha lasciati qui? Ha lasciato qualcos’altro qui?”

‘No.’

“Purtroppo, allora, signorina Wade, lei non sa nulla al loro riguardo, ”

“Non so nulla di loro. Ora ho risposto alla tua domanda insensata. Lui non li ha lasciati qui, e io non so nulla di loro.”

“Ecco!” disse il signor Meagles alzandosi. “Mi dispiace molto; è finito. Spero che non sia stato fatto troppo danno. Tattycoram, stai bene? E tu, miss Wade?”

“Harriet sta bene? Sì!”

“Ho di nuovo combinato un guaio,” disse il signor Meagles, correggendo così la sua frase. “Sembra che non riesca proprio a tenermi fuori da queste situazioni. Forse, se ci avessi pensato due volte, non le avrei mai dato quel nome ridicolo. Ma quando si cerca di essere gentili e cordiali con i giovani, non ci si ferma a riflettere. La sua vecchia amica leaves ha lasciato un messaggio gentile per lei, la signorina Wade. Se ritenete opportuno, potreste trasmetterglielo.”

Non disse nulla al riguardo; e il signor Meagles, uscendo dal quel ambiente triste dove il suo viso onesto brillava come il sole, lo portò all’hotel dove aveva lasciato la signora Meagles e dove fece il suo rapporto: “Sconfitta, mamma, nessun risultato!” Lo mise poi accanto al vapore di Londra che salpava quella notte, e anche accanto al Marshalsea.

Il fedele John era di servizio quando padre e madre Meagles si presentarono vicino al cancello verso il tramonto. Miss Dorrit non c’era in quel momento, disse; ma era stata lì la mattina precedente e arrivava sempre la sera. Il signor Clennam stava lentamente migliorando; Maggy, la signora Plornish e il signor Baptist si alternavano nel prendersi cura di lui. Miss Dorrit sarebbe sicuramente tornata quella sera, prima che suonasse la campana. C’era la stanza che il maggiore le aveva prestato, al piano di sopra; lì potevano aspettarla, se lo desideravano. Preoccupati che fosse pericoloso per Arthur vederlo senza alcuna preparazione, i Meagles accettarono l’offerta; e così rimasero chiusi nella stanza, a guardare giù attraverso la finestra sbarrata verso il carcere.

L’angusto spazio della prigione ebbe un tale effetto su la signora Meagles che iniziò a piangere, e un tale effetto sul signor Meagles che cominciò a respirare affannosamente. Camminava avanti e indietro nella stanza, ansimando, e peggiorava le cose cercando disperatamente di rinfrescarsi con il suo fazzoletto. Quando poi si voltò verso la porta d’ingresso.

“Eh? Mio Dio!” esclamò il signor Meagles, “questa non è la signorina Dorrit! Ma guarda, mamma. Tattycoram!”

Nessun altro. E tra le braccia di Tattycoram c’era una scatola di ferro, larga circa due piedi. Affery Flintwinch aveva già visto una scatola del genere, nel primo dei suoi >sogni, mentre usciva dalla vecchia casa, a notte fonda, sostenuta dal braccio di Double. Tattycoram posò la scatola ai piedi del suo vecchio padrone; poi si inginocchiò davanti ad essa, battendoci sopra le mani, piangendo a metà per esultanza e a metà per disperazione, a metà ridendo e a metà singhiozzando: “Perdonatemi, caro padrone; riprendetemi con voi, cara padrona. Ecco qui!”

“Orribile!”, esclamò il signor Meagles.

“Quello che volevi!” disse Tattycoram. “Eccolo qui! Mi hanno messo nella stanza accanto per non vederti. Ho sentito te chiederglielo, ho sentito lei dire di non averlo, ero lì quando lui lo ha lasciato, e l’ho preso prima di andare a letto e me lo sono portato via. Ecco qui!”

“Ma mia cara,” esclamò il signor Meagles, ancora più senza fiato di prima, “come hai fatto ad arrivare qui?”

“Sono entrato nel barco con te. Ero seduto all’altra estremità, avvolto nei miei vestiti. Quando tu hai preso la carrozza al molo, ne ho presa un’altra e ti ho seguito fino a qui. Dopo quello che le avevi detto riguardo al fatto che qualcuno la cercasse, lei non l’avrebbe mai data via; avrebbe preferito gettarla in mare o bruciarla. Ma eccola qua!”

Il bagliore e l’estasi che provava la ragazza, mentre esclamava “Eccolo qui!”

“Devo dire che lei non voleva affatto che venisse lasciato; ma lui lo ha lasciato, e io sapevo benissimo che, dopo quello che hai detto e dopo che lei lo aveva negato, lei non l’avrebbe mai dato via. Ma eccolo qui! Caro Signore, cara Signora, riprendetemi con voi e ridatemi quel caro vecchio nome! Lasciate che questo interceda per me. Ecco qui!”

I genitori Meagles non meritavano mai di più i loro nomi di quando presero di nuovo sotto la loro protezione quella ragazza ribelle e indipendente.

“Oh! Sono stata così infelice,” gridò Tattycoram, piangendo ancora di più, “sempre così sfortunata e piena di rimorso. Avevo paura di lei fin dal primo momento in cui l’ho vista. Sapevo che aveva un potere su di me, perché capiva così bene ciò che c’era di sbagliato in me. Era una sorta di follia in me. Lei riusciva a farla emergere ogni volta che voleva. Quando mi trovavo in quello stato, pensavo che tutti fossero contro di me a causa delle mie origini. E più gentili erano con me, più colpe immaginavo avessero. Pensavo che trionfassero su di me e volessero farmi invidiare loro. Ma io sapevo. Anzi, anche allora sapevo già che non pensavano affatto a queste cose. E la mia bella padroncina, non era felice come avrebbe dovuto essere. E io l’ho lasciata. Deve sicuramente pensare di me come a una bestia, a una miserabile. Ma potreste parlare con lei per me? Chiederle di essere così comprensiva come voi due. Perché non sono più così cattiva come prima,” supplicò Tattycoram. “Sono abbastanza cattiva, ma davvero non più come prima. Da tutto questo tempo, Miss Wade è stata sempre accanto a me. Come se fosse la mia stessa essenza che si era trasformata in qualcosa di negativo. Distorceva tutto ciò che era buono, trasformandolo in male. Non che avesse davvero molto da fare per riuscirci, ” gridò ancora Tattycoram, nel culmine del suo dolore. “Perché ero già abbastanza cattiva. Voglio solo dire che, dopo tutto quello che ho passato, spero di non essere mai più così terribile. E che possa migliorare poco a poco. Ci proverò con tutte le mie forze. Non mi fermerò a cinquantadue. Signore, conterò fino a cinquantaduecentomila, fino a cinquecentomila!”

Another opening of the door, and Tattycoram subsided, and Little Dorrit came in, and Mr Meagles with pride and joy produced the box, and her gentle face was lighted up with grateful happiness and joy. The secret was safe now! She could keep her own part of it from him; he should never know of her loss; in time to come he should know all that was of import to himself; but he should never know what concerned her only. That was all passed, all forgiven, all forgotten.

‘Now, my dear Miss Dorrit,’ said Mr Meagles; ‘I am a man of business—or at least was—and I am going to take my measures promptly, in that character. Had I better see Arthur to-night?’

‘I think not to-night. I will go to his room and ascertain how he is. But I think it will be better not to see him to-night.’

‘I am much of your opinion, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘and therefore I have not been any nearer to him than this dismal room. Then I shall probably not see him for some little time to come. But I’ll explain what I mean when you come back.’

She left the room. Mr Meagles, looking through the bars of the window, saw her pass out of the Lodge below him into the prison-yard. He said gently, ‘Tattycoram, come to me a moment, my good girl.’

She went up to the window.

‘You see that young lady who was here just now—that little, quiet, fragile figure passing along there, Tatty? Look. The people stand out of the way to let her go by. The men—see the poor, shabby fellows—pull off their hats to her quite politely, and now she glides in at that doorway. See her, Tattycoram?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I have heard tell, Tatty, that she was once regularly called the child of this place. She was born here, and lived here many years. I can’t breathe here. A doleful place to be born and bred in, Tattycoram?’

‘Yes indeed, sir!’

‘If she had constantly thought of herself, and settled with herself that everybody visited this place upon her, turned it against her, and cast it at her, she would have led an irritable and probably an useless existence. Yet I have heard tell, Tattycoram, that her young life has been one of active resignation, goodness, and noble service. Shall I tell you what I consider those eyes of hers, that were here just now, to have always looked at, to get that expression?’

‘Yes, if you please, sir.’

‘Duty, Tattycoram. Begin it early, and do it well; and there is no antecedent to it, in any origin or station, that will tell against us with the Almighty, or with ourselves.’

They remained at the window, Mother joining them and pitying the prisoners, until she was seen coming back. She was soon in the room, and recommended that Arthur, whom she had left calm and composed, should not be visited that night.

‘Good!’ said Mr Meagles, cheerily. ‘I have not a doubt that’s best. I shall trust my remembrances then, my sweet nurse, in your hands, and I well know they couldn’t be in better. I am off again to-morrow morning.’

Little Dorrit, surprised, asked him where?

‘My dear,’ said Mr Meagles, ‘I can’t live without breathing. This place has taken my breath away, and I shall never get it back again until Arthur is out of this place.’

‘How is that a reason for going off again to-morrow morning?’

‘You shall understand,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘To-night we three will put up at a City Hotel. To-morrow morning, Mother and Tattycoram will go down to Twickenham, where Mrs Tickit, sitting attended by Dr Buchan in the parlour-window, will think them a couple of ghosts; and I shall go abroad again for Doyce. We must have Dan here. Now, I tell you, my love, it’s of no use writing and planning and conditionally speculating upon this and that and the other, at uncertain intervals and distances; we must have Doyce here. I devote myself at daybreak to-morrow morning, to bringing Doyce here. It’s nothing to me to go and find him. I’m an old traveller, and all foreign languages and customs are alike to me—I never understand anything about any of ‘em. Therefore I can’t be put to any inconvenience. Go at once I must, it stands to reason; because I can’t live without breathing freely; and I can’t breathe freely until Arthur is out of this Marshalsea. I am stifled at the present moment, and have scarcely breath enough to say this much, and to carry this precious box down-stairs for you.’

They got into the street as the bell began to ring, Mr Meagles carrying the box. Little Dorrit had no conveyance there: which rather surprised him. He called a coach for her and she got into it, and he placed the box beside her when she was seated. In her joy and gratitude she kissed his hand.

‘I don’t like that, my dear,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘It goes against my feeling of what’s right, that you should do homage to me—at the Marshalsea Gate.’

She bent forward, and kissed his cheek.

‘You remind me of the days,’ said Mr Meagles, suddenly drooping—‘but she’s very fond of him, and hides his faults, and thinks that no one sees them—and he certainly is well connected and of a very good family!’

It was the only comfort he had in the loss of his daughter, and if he made the most of it, who could blame him?

Un’altra apertura della porta. Tattycoram scomparve, e Little Dorrit entrò. Il signor Meagles, con orgoglio e gioia, tirò fuori la scatola; il suo viso gentile si illuminò di felicità e gratitudine. Ora il segreto era al sicuro! Poteva nascondergli la propria parte del piano; lui non avrebbe mai saputo della sua perdita. In futuro gli avrebbe rivelato tutto ciò che era importante per lui. Ma non avrebbe mai saputo nulla di ciò che riguardava soltanto lei. Tutto era ormai passato, tutto era stato perdonato, tutto era stato dimenticato.

“Ora, mia cara signorina Dorrit,” disse il signor Meagles; “sono un uomo d’affari, o almeno lo ero, e intendo prendere subito le necessarie misure in questo ruolo. Dovrei incontrare Arthur stasera?”

“Penso che non sia meglio farlo di notte. Andrò nella sua stanza per vedere come sta. Ma credo che sia ancora meglio non vederlo stasera.”

“Condivido in pieno il tuo punto di vista, carissima,” disse il signor Meagles, “e per questo non sono mai stato più vicino a lui di quanto non lo sia in questa triste stanza. Probabilmente non lo rivedrò per un po’. Ma ti spiegherò cosa intendo quando tornerai.”

Uscì dalla stanza. Il signor Meagles, guardando attraverso le sbarre della finestra, la vide uscire dal padiglione sottostante e entrare nel cortile della prigione. Disse dolcemente: “Tattycoram, vieni da me un momento, mia cara ragazza.”

Si avvicinò alla finestra.

“Vedi quella giovane signora che è stata qui poco fa. Quella piccola, silenziosa, fragile figura che è appena passata di lì, Tatty? Guarda: la gente si sposta per lasciarla passare. Gli uomini, vedi quei poveretti in abiti logori, le tolgono educatamente il cappello. E ora lei entra da quella porta. La vedi, Tattycoram?”

“Sì, signore.”

“Ho sentito dire, Tatty, che un tempo veniva spesso chiamata la ‘ragazza’ di questo posto. È nata qui e ha vissuto qui per molti anni. Non riesco nemmeno a respirare in questo luogo. Un posto triste davvero, dove nascere e crescere, Tattycoram, ”

“Sì, senhor!”

“Se avesse sempre pensato solo a se stessa, convincendosi che tutti visitassero quel luogo per lei, che lo usassero contro di lei e lo lanciassero su di lei, avrebbe condotto una vita irascibile e probabilmente inutile. Eppure, Tattycoram, ho sentito dire che la sua giovane vita è stata caratterizzata da un’attiva resignazione, bontà e nobili azioni. Devo raccontarti cosa penso di quegli occhi suoi, occhi che fino ad ora hanno sempre guardato in quel modo, con quell’espressione, ”

“Sì, certamente, signore.”

“Dovere, Tattycoram. Inizia presto e fallo bene; non esiste alcun precedente, né in origine né in condizione sociale, che possa danneggiarci davanti all’Onnipotente o tra di noi.”

Rimasero alla finestra; la madre si unì a loro, provando compassione per i prigionieri, fino a quando non fu vista tornare. Presto fu di nuovo nella stanza e consigliò che Arthur, che aveva lasciato calmo e composto, non venisse visitato quella notte.

“Bene!” disse il signor Meagles, allegramente. “Non ho alcun >dubbio che sia la cosa migliore. Allora affiderò i miei ricordi, mia cara infermiera, nelle tue mani. So bene che non potrebbero essere in migliori mani. Domani mattina me ne andrò di nuovo.”

La piccola Dorrit, sorpresa, gli chiese dove.

“Mia cara,” disse il signor Meagles, “non posso vivere senza respirare. Questo posto mi ha tolto il respiro, e non lo riavrò mai indietro finché Arthur non se ne sarà andato da qui.”

“Come può essere questo un motivo per partire di nuovo domani mattina?”

“Capirai,” disse il signor Meagles. “Stasera noi tre ci fermeremo in un hotel della città. Domani mattina, mamma e Tattycoram andranno a Twickenham, dove la signora Tickit, assistita dal dottor Buchan nella sala da pranzo, penserà che siano due fantasmi. E io tornerò all’estero per cercare Doyce. Dobbiamo assolutamente avere Doyce qui con noi. Ora, te lo dico chiaro, mia cara: non serve scrivere, pianificare o fare supposizioni su questo e quest’altro; dobbiamo assolutamente avere Doyce qui. Domani mattina, all’alba, mi dedicherò interamente a portarlo qui. Trovarlo per me non è affatto un problema. Sono un vecchio viaggiatore: tutte le lingue straniere e i costumi mi sembrano uguali. Non capisco mai nulla di loro. Quindi non posso incontrare alcuna difficoltà. Devo andare subito, è logico. Non posso vivere senza respirare liberamente. E non potrò respirare liberamente finché Arthur non sarà fuori da Marshalsea. In questo momento mi sento soffocare. A malapena ho abbastanza fiato per dire tutto questo, e per portarti giù questa preziosa scatola.”

Appena iniziò a suonare la campana, uscirono in strada; il signor Meagles portava con sé la scatola. La piccola Dorrit non aveva alcun mezzo di trasporto a disposizione: il che lo sorprese un po’. Chiamò una carrozza per lei e lei vi salì; lui posizionò la scatola accanto a lei dopo che si fu seduta. Nella sua gioia e gratitudine, gli baciò la mano.

“Non mi piace affatto, cara,” disse il signor Meagles. “Contraddice la mia idea di ciò che è giusto. Che tu debba rendere omaggio a me, alla Marshalsea Gate.”

Si chinò in avanti e gli baciò la guancia.

“Mi ricordi quei tempi,” disse il signor Meagles, improvvisamente abbattuto; “ma lei lo ama molto, nasconde i suoi difetti e pensa che nessuno li noti. E inoltre lui ha sicuramente ottimi contatti sociali e proviene da una famiglia molto rispettabile!”

Era l’unico conforto che aveva nella perdita di sua figlia; se ne approfittava al massimo, chi poteva biasimarlo?

CHAPTER 34. Gone

On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees.

Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother’s knee but hers had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies, on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.

When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that the light was strong upon them.

Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.

‘This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce’s letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it will soon be over now.’

‘Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!’

‘You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to—and to see,’ said Little Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, ‘how deeply you mean it, that I cannot say Don’t.’

He lifted her hand to his lips.

‘You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little Dorrit?’

‘Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.’

‘Very often?’

‘Rather often,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly.

‘Every day?’

‘I think,’ said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, ‘that I have been here at least twice every day.’

He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his breast.

‘Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again, and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten what we said together, when you came back?’

‘O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been—You feel quite strong to-day, don’t you?’

‘Quite strong.’

The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.

‘Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have got?’

‘I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good for Little Dorrit.’

‘I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?’

‘Never!’

‘You are quite sure you will not take half of it?’

‘Never, dear Little Dorrit!’

As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.

‘You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband’s income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.’

Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. ‘I had hoped it might not be so bad,’ he said: ‘but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing the connection between her husband and the defaulter.’

‘Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!’

‘Had he property in the same hands?’

‘Yes! And it’s all gone.—How much do you think my own great fortune is?’

As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him, she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had rested.

‘I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite sure you will not share my fortune with me now?’

Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its fellow-hand.

‘Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last! I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!’

CAPITOLO 34. Scomparso

In una giornata serena di autunno, il prigioniero di Marshalsea, debole ma in via di guarigione, sedeva ad ascoltare una voce che gli leggeva ad alta voce. In una giornata serena di autunno: quando i campi dorati erano stati mietuti e arati di nuovo, quando i frutti dell’estate si erano maturati e poi appassiti, quando le piante di luppolo avevano perso il loro verde rigoglioso a causa dei raccolti, quando le mele negli orti assumevano un colore rossastro e i frutti dell’ontano diventavano cremisi tra le foglie ingiallite. Già nelle foreste si potevano intravedere i primi segni dell’imminente inverno: attraverso aperture nei rami, il paesaggio appariva nitido e chiaro, privo del calore appannante dell’estate. Così, dalla riva del mare non si vedeva più l’oceano addormentato nel caldo; i suoi mille occhi scintillanti erano tutti aperti, e tutta la sua vastità sembrava vibrare di vita gioiosa: dalle fresche spiagge alle piccole vele all’orizzonte, che si allontanavano come foglie autunnali cadute dagli alberi.

Immutabile e desolata, quella prigione osservava con indifferenza tutte le stagioni, il suo volto rigido e segnato dalla povertà e dall’angoscia non rifletteva alcuna traccia di bellezza. Che fiorisse pure ciò che voleva: i suoi mattoni e le sue sbarre producevano sempre lo stesso, sterile risultato. Eppure, ascoltando quella voce che gli leggeva, Clennam riusciva a percepire tutto ciò che la grande Natura stava realizzando, tutte quelle dolci canti che lei cantava all’uomo. Nella sua giovinezza, nessun’altra madre gli aveva mai offerto promesse di speranza, fantasie gioiose, o l’immagine dei frutti della tenerezza e dell’umiltà nascosti nei semi dell’immaginazione; nessun altro albero gli aveva offerto riparo dai venti distruttivi, con radici forti che nascevano già da piccoli ghiaccioli. Ma nelle parole di quella voce c’erano ricordi di quei sentimenti antichi, e l’eco di ogni sussurro gentile e amorevole che aveva mai sentito nella sua vita.

Quando la voce si fermò, si coprì gli occhi con la mano, mormorando che la luce era troppo intensa.

Little Dorrit posò il libro da parte e, dopo un po’, si alzò silenziosamente per oscurare la finestra. Maggy sedeva al suo posto, occupata a lavorare a maglia. La luce si attenuò; Little Dorrit avvicinò la sua sedia al fianco di lui.

“Tutto questo finirà presto, caro signor Clennam. Non solo le lettere del signor Doyce a voi sono piene di amicizia e incoraggiamento, ma anche il signor Rugg dice che le sue lettere a lui sono piene di consigli utili, e che tutti (ora che la rabbia è un po’ passata) sono molto premurosi e parlano così bene di voi, che tutto finirà presto.”

“Carina ragazza. Cuore mio. Angelo buono!”

“Mi lodate troppo. Eppure è davvero un piacere immenso per me ascoltarvi parlare con tanta emozione, e vedere, vedere quanto sia sincero ciò che dite,” disse Little Dorrit, alzando lo sguardo verso di lui. “Per questo non riesco a dire ‘Non fatelo’.”

Le prese la mano e se la portò alle labbra.

“Sei stata qui molte, molte volte, quando io non ti vedevo, piccola Dorrit, ”

“Sì, a volte sono stato qui anche senza entrare nella stanza.”

“Molto spesso?”

“Abbastanza spesso,” disse timidamente la piccola Dorrit.

“Ogni giorno?”

“Penso,” disse Little Dorrit dopo aver esitato, “che io sia stata qui almeno due volte al giorno.”

Avrebbe potuto lasciare andare quella piccola mano dopo averla baciata con fervore ancora una volta; ma lei, rimanendo lì dolcemente, sembrava voler essere trattenuta. Lui la prese tra le sue due mani e lei si posò delicatamente sul suo petto.

“Carissima Piccola Dorrit, non è solo la mia prigione che presto finirà. Questo sacrificio da parte tua deve cessare. Dobbiamo imparare di separarci di nuovo e di prendere strade diverse, lontane l’una dall’altra. Non hai dimenticato ciò che abbiamo detto insieme, quando sei tornata, vero?”

“Oppure no, non l’ho dimenticato. Ma qualcosa è cambiato. Oggi ti senti davvero molto in forza, vero?”

“Abbastanza forte.”

La mano che teneva si avvicinò un po’ di più al suo viso.

“Sei davvero abbastanza forte per capire quanto grande sia la fortuna che ho avuto?”

“Sarò molto felice di saperlo. Nessuna fortuna può essere troppo grande o bella per Little Dorrit.”

“Ho aspettato con ansia il momento di dirtelo. Ho desiderato tantissimo farlo. Sei sicuro che non ti arrabbierai?”

“Mai!”

“Sei davvero sicuro di non volerne prendere metà?”

“Mai, cara piccola Dorrit!”

Mentre lo guardava in silenzio, c’era qualcosa nel suo viso affettuoso che lui non riusciva del tutto a comprendere: qualcosa che avrebbe potuto trasformarsi in lacrime in un istante, eppure era anche felice e orgoglioso.

“Vi pentirete di sentire ciò che devo dirvi su Fanny. Povera Fanny. Ha perso tutto. Non le è rimasto nulla se non il reddito di suo marito. Tutto ciò che papà le aveva dato al momento del matrimonio è andato perduto, proprio come i vostri soldi. Erano nelle stesse mani, e ora sono spariti entrambi.”

Arthur fu più scioccato che sorpreso nell’udirlo. “Speravo che non fosse così grave,” disse, “ma temevo una perdita pesante, conoscendo il legame tra suo marito e colui che aveva commesso l’errore.”

“Sì. È tutto finito. Mi dispiace molto per Fanny; davvero molto, molto dispiaciuto per povera Fanny. E anche per mio povero fratello!”

“Avrebbe avuto la proprietà nelle stesse mani?”

“Sì! E tutto è sparito. Quanto credi che valga la mia enorme fortuna?”

Mentre Arthur la guardava con espressione interrogativa, provando un nuovo senso di preoccupazione, lei ritirò la mano e posò il viso nel punto in cui era stata appoggiata.

“Non ho nulla al mondo. Sono povero esattamente come quando vivevo qui. Quando papà è venuto in Inghilterra, ha affidato tutto ciò che aveva nelle stesse mani. E ora tutto è andato perduto. Oh mio carissimo e migliore. Sei davvero sicuro di non voler condividere la mia fortuna con me adesso?”

Rinchiusa tra le sue braccia, stretta al suo cuore, con le sue lacrime virili sulla sua guancia, lei prese quella piccola mano e la posò intorno al suo collo, stringendola forte nella propria.

‘Mai separarci, mio carissimo Arthur, mai più, fino alla fine!
Prima non ero mai stata ricca, prima non ero mai stata orgogliosa, prima non ero mai stata felice. Ora sono ricca perché ti ho trovato, sono orgogliosa di essere tua, sono felice di stare con te in questa prigione. E sarei ancora più felice di tornarci insieme, se fosse la volontà di DIO. Ti conforterei e ti servirei con tutto il mio amore e la mia verità. Sono tua ovunque. Ti amo profondamente! Preferirei trascorrere tutta la mia vita qui con te, lavorando ogni giorno per il nostro sostentamento, piuttosto che godere della più grande fortuna possibile o essere la dama più onorata del mondo. Oh, se solo mio povero padre potesse sapere quanto sia finalmente felice il mio cuore, in questa stanza dove ha sofferto per tanti anni!’

Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that, after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.’s Aunt opportunely coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours afterwards, she went out?

Flora’s eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits. Mr F.’s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon’s head, and had got it at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.’s Aunt, publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal’s official residence, had been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to time.

‘Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,’ said Flora, ‘that to propose an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur—cannot overcome it more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam—one last remark I might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the humble place of conversation.’

Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned that she was quite at Flora’s disposition. Flora accordingly led the way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.’s Aunt stalking across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over, with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.

When the ‘three kidney ones,’ which were to be a blind to the conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps, Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.

‘If Fancy’s fair dreams,’ she began, ‘have ever pictured that when Arthur—cannot overcome it pray excuse me—was restored to freedom even a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I heartily wish well to both.’

Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.

‘Call it not kindness,’ returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, ‘for you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people’s yet I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity that Arthur will know that I didn’t desert him in his misfortunes but that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing it.’

Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great advantage.

‘Over and above which,’ said Flora, ‘I earnestly beg you as the dearest thing that ever was if you’ll still excuse the familiarity from one who moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don’t know after all whether it wasn’t all nonsense between us though pleasant at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not my character nor ill-will though many faults.’

Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted the trust.

Naturalmente, Maggy aveva già fissato la scena fin dall’inizio e, ovviamente, piangeva disperatamente da molto tempo. Ora era così felice che, dopo aver abbracciato con tutte le sue forze sua madre, corse giù per le scale come una bambina eccitata, alla ricerca di qualcuno a cui poter condividere la sua gioia. Chi avrebbe incontrato Maggy, se non Flora e zia del signor F., che entrarono proprio in quel momento? E chi altro, di conseguenza, avrebbe trovato ad aspettarla Little Dorrit, quando, circa due o tre ore dopo, uscì di casa?

Gli occhi di Flora erano un po’ rossi e sembrava piuttosto giù di morale.
La zia del signor F. era così rigida che sembrava impossibile piegarla, a meno di utilizzare una forza meccanica estrema. Il suo cappello era storto all’indietro in modo assurdo; il suo reticolo di pizzo era rigido come se fosse stato pietrificato dallo sguardo della Gorgona, e proprio in quel momento lo aveva indossato. Con queste caratteristiche imponenti, la zia del signor F., seduta pubblicamente sulle scale della residenza ufficiale del maresciallo, era stata, per le due o tre ore in questione, un vero “beneficio” per gli abitanti più giovani del quartiere, i cui scherzi e battute l’avevano spesso fatta arrossire di rabbia, soprattutto quando li respingeva con il suo ombrello.

“Con profonda consapevolezza, signorina Dorrit,” disse Flora, “so bene che proporre di spostare la conversazione in un luogo così lontano dalla posizione sociale della persona interessata, e dove essa è tanto corteggiata dalle migliori cerchie sociali, potrebbe sembrare una intrusione. Anche se si trattasse soltanto di un negozietto molto modesto, al di sotto del vostro rango attuale, o di un ambiente poco elegante. Ma per amor di Arthur. Non c’è modo di evitare che questa proposta appaia inappropriata, ora più che mai. Un’ultima osservazione, forse. Un’ultima spiegazione che potrei offrire. Forse la vostra buona natura potrebbe perdonarmi, sotto il pretesto di alcune circostanze particolari, ”

Interpretando correttamente questo discorso piuttosto oscuro, Little Dorrit rispose che era completamente a disposizione di Flora. Flora la guidò quindi attraverso la strada verso il negozio di torte in questione: la zia del signor F. la seguiva da vicino, mettendosi deliberatamente sulla strada degli altri veicoli, con una perseveranza degna di uno scopo più nobile.

Quando quelle “tre cose a forma di rene”, destinate a rimanere in silenzio durante la conversazione, furono servite davanti a loro su tre piccoli vassoi di latta, ciascuna decorata con un foro in cima nel quale l’uomo civile versava salsa calda da una lattina dotata di beccuccio, come se stesse alimentando tre lampade, Flora tirò fuori il suo fazzoletto da tasca.

“Se i bei sogni di Fancy,” iniziò, “hanno mai immaginato che quando Arthur, beh, scusate se non riesco a trovare le parole giuste, fosse stato restituito alla libertà, anche una persona così poco attraente come quella attuale, e con problemi renali così gravi da essere paragonabile a un pezzetto di noce moscata tritata, potrebbe comunque essere accettata se offerta dalla mano dell’amore vero. Tuttavia, queste visioni sono ormai svanite per sempre, e tutto è rimasto come prima. So che tra loro esistono sentimenti teneri, quindi desidero sinceramente il meglio per entrambi, senza trovare alcun difetto in nessuno dei due. Anche se è doloroso ammettere che, a causa del passare del tempo, sono diventata molto meno snella di prima e ho il viso terribilmente arrossito con il minimo sforzo, soprattutto dopo aver mangiato. So bene quando questo si manifesta con eruzioni cutanee. Forse sarebbe potuto succedere, ma non è successo. Grazie all’intervento dei genitori e alla mia stessa apatia mentale. Fino a quando il misterioso indizio non è stato scoperto da Mr F. Comunque, non vorrei mai essere ingiusta con nessuno dei due. Desidero davvero il meglio per entrambi.”

La piccola Dorrit le prese la mano e le ringraziò per tutta la sua vecchia gentilezza.

“Non chiamatelo gentilezza,” rispose Flora, dandole un bacio sincero, “perché tu sei sempre stata la cosa più bella e cara che esista. Anche dal punto di vista economico, sei stata una vera risorsa per me. Sei davvero come la coscienza stessa. Però devo aggiungere che sei molto più piacevole da avere di quanto lo sia mai stata la mia coscienza per me. Anche se non spero che tu sia più oppressa dalle responsabilità degli altri, ho sempre trovato molto più facile metterti a disagio che rassicurarti. E ovviamente ne traggo grande piacere. Ma sto divagando. Spero di poter esprimere ancora una cosa prima che arrivi la scena finale. Ed è che confido davvero, per il bene dei vecchi tempi e della vecchia sincerità, che Arthur sappia che non l’ho abbandonato nei suoi momenti di sfortuna. Anzi, sono sempre tornata da lui per chiedere se potevo fare qualcosa per aiutarlo. Sono anche stata nel negozio di torte, dove mi hanno gentilmente portato qualcosa di caldo dall’hotel. E ho trascorso ore intere a tenergli compagnia, senza che lui se ne accorgesse, ”

Ora Flora aveva davvero le lacrime negli occhi, e questo le era di grande aiuto.

“Oltre a tutto ciò,” disse Flora, “vi supplico sinceramente, come della cosa più preziosa che esista al mondo, di perdonare questa familiarità da parte di qualcuno che vive in ambienti molto diversi dai vostri. Permettetemi di far capire ad Arthur che, in realtà, non so se tutto ciò che è accaduto tra noi non sia stato soltanto un nonsenso. Anche se all’epoca sembrava piacevole e anche se il signor F. ha cercato di cambiare le cose. Tuttavia, ora che quel “incantesimo” è spezzato, nulla può più accadere senza ricominciare tutto da capo. E varie circostanze hanno impedito che ciò avvenisse. Forse la ragione principale è stata proprio il fatto che non era destinato ad accadere. Non voglio dire che, se fosse stato desiderabile per Arthur e fosse avvenuto in modo naturale fin dall’inizio, io non ne sarei stata felice. Sono una persona dal carattere vivace. E a casa, mio padre è senza dubbio l’esempio più esasperante del suo sesso. Non è affatto migliorato da quando è stato “distrutto” dall’“Incendiario”. Non ho mai visto nulla di simile in tutta la mia vita. Ma l’invidia non fa parte del mio carattere, né provo cattive intenzioni. Anche se ho molti difetti, ”

Senza essere riuscita a seguire da vicino la signora Finching in questo labirinto, Little Dorrit ne comprese lo scopo e accettò con sincerità quella fiducia.

‘The withered chaplet my dear,’ said Flora, with great enjoyment, ‘is then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside down upon its what’s-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for ever say Adieu!’

Mr F.’s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her first assumption of that public position on the Marshal’s steps, took the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe to the relict of her late nephew.

‘Bring him for’ard, and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’

Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that they were going home to dinner. Mr F.’s Aunt persisted in replying, ‘Bring him for’ard and I’ll chuck him out o’ winder!’ Having reiterated this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.’s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until such time as ‘he’ should have been ‘brought for’ard,’ and the chucking portion of his destiny accomplished.

In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she had not seen Mr F.’s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that she would find it necessary to remain there ‘hours perhaps,’ until the inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with the kindest feeling on both sides.

Mr F.’s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour, declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very pressing in his proposals that Mr F.’s Aunt should be removed. A conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of the window, and demanding to have him ‘brought for’ard’ for the purpose originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably consistent female intended by ‘him,’ Arthur Clennam. This, however, is mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr F.’s Aunt’s mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was brought forward, will never be positively known.

The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.

One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.

‘Dear Arthur,’ said her delighted voice outside the door, ‘I have some one here. May I bring some one in?’

He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered ‘Yes,’ and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a sun-browned and jolly father.

‘Now I am all right,’ said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. ‘Now it’s over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me before.’

‘I did,’ said Arthur; ‘but Amy told me—’

‘Little Dorrit. Never any other name.’ (It was she who whispered it.)

‘—But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.’

‘And now you see me, my boy,’ said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand stoutly; ‘and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation. The fact is, I was here—came straight to you from the Allongers and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this day,—but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start off again to catch Doyce.’

‘Poor Doyce!’ sighed Arthur.

‘Don’t call him names that he don’t deserve,’ said Mr Meagles. ‘He’s not poor; he’s doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don’t want things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s off his legs; but where they do want things done and find a man to do ‘em, that man’s on his legs. You won’t have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell you, Dan has done without ‘em!’

‘What a load you take from my mind!’ cried Arthur. ‘What happiness you give me!’

‘Happiness?’ retorted Mr Meagles. ‘Don’t talk about happiness till you see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He’s no public offender, bless you, now! He’s medalled and ribboned, and starred and crossed, and I don’t-know-what all’d, like a born nobleman. But we mustn’t talk about that over here.’

“Quel mazzolino appassito, mio caro, ”, disse Flora con grande gioia, “allora è morto; la colonna è crollata e la piramide sta in piedi capovolta, su quella che si possa chiamare vertigine, debolezza o follia. Ora devo ritirarmi in solitudine e guardare le ceneri di quei piaceri passati. E per concludere, mi permetto l’ultima libertà: pagherò io stessa il dolce che è stato il pretesto umile del nostro incontro. Addio!”

La zia del signor F., che aveva mangiato la sua torta con grande solennità e che da quando aveva assunto quella posizione pubblica ai piedi del maresciallo aveva in mente qualche grave piano per causare danno, colse l’occasione per rivolgere il seguente messaggio profetico al rimanente di suo nipote defunto.

“Portatelo qui, e lo butto fuori dalla finestra!”

Flora cercò invano di consolare quella donna gentile spiegandole che stavano andando a casa a cena. La zia del signor F. insistette nel rispondere: “Portatelo qui e lo caccio via!” Dopo aver ripetuto questa richiesta innumerevoli volte, fissando con ostinazione Little Dorrit, la zia del signor F. incrociò le braccia e si sedette nell’angolo del negozietto; rifiutò categoricamente di muoversi fino a quando “lui” non fosse stato portato lì e il suo destino non si fosse compiuto.

In queste circostanze, Flora confidò a Little Dorrit che da settimane non vedeva più la zia del signor F. così piena di vita e carattere; che avrebbe trovato necessario rimanere lì “forse per ore”, fino a quando quella rigida e intransigente vecchia signora non si fosse ammorbidita un po’; e che, comunque, avrebbe potuto cavarsela benissimo da sola. Si separarono quindi in modo molto cordiale, con sentimenti di grande affetto da entrambe le parti.

La zia del signor F., ostinatamente riluttante ad andarsene, e Flora, che aveva bisogno di riposare e rifornirsi, inviarono un messaggero all’hotel per richiedere il bicchiere già menzionato; questo venne prontamente riempito. Con l’aiuto del suo contenuto, di un giornale e di qualche boccone della “crema” disponibile, Flora riuscì a trascorrere il resto della giornata in perfetto umore, sebbene occasionalmente imbarazzata dalle conseguenze di una vana voce che circolava tra i creduloni del quartiere: si diceva infatti che una vecchia signora si fosse venduta al negozio di torte per farsi riparare il viso, e ora sedesse nel salone del negozio rifiutandosi di adempiere al contratto stipulato. Questa voce attirò molti giovani di entrambi i sessi; quando iniziò a calare la sera, causò così tante interruzioni nelle attività commerciali che il commerciante divenne molto insistente nel chiedere che la zia del signor F. se ne andasse. Fu quindi portata un veicolo davanti alla porta; con l’aiuto sia del commerciante che di Flora, questa straordinaria donna riuscì infine ad entrare, anche se prima ancora fece capolino dalla finestra chiedendo che lui venisse “portato dentro” per lo scopo inizialmente menzionato. Poiché in quel momento si notò che lanciava sguardi minacciosi verso il Marshalsea, si è ipotizzato che quell’uomo di cui parlava fosse il signor Arthur Clennam. Tuttavia, questa non è altro che una speculazione; chi fosse la persona che avrebbe dovuto essere portata davanti alla zia del signor F. per soddisfare i suoi desideri, e che invece non fu mai presentata, rimarrà per sempre un mistero.

I giorni dell’autunno proseguirono, e Little Dorrit non tornò mai più a Marshalsea; se ne andò senza vederlo. No, no, no.

Una mattina, mentre Arthur ascoltava i passi leggeri che ogni giorno, al mattino, salivano verso il suo cuore, portando con sé la luce celeste di un nuovo amore nella stanza dove l’antico amore aveva tanto lavorato e dimostrato tanta fedeltà; una mattina, mentre ascoltava, la sentì arrivare, non da sola.

“Caro Arthur,” disse la sua voce felice fuori dalla porta, “ho qualcuno qui. Posso farlo entrare?”

Aveva pensato, osservando le orme, che ci fossero due persone con lei. Rispose: “Sì”, e allora lei entrò insieme al signor Meagles. Il signor Meagles, abbronzato e sorridente, aprì le braccia e strinse Arthur a sé, come un padre felice e allegro.

“Ora sto bene,” disse il signor Meagles dopo un minuto o due. “È finito tutto. Arthur, caro mio, confessa subito che ti aspettavi che arrivassi prima.”

“L’ho fatto,” disse Arthur; “ma Amy mi ha detto, ”

“Little Dorrit. Mai nessun altro nome.” Fu lei a sussurrarlo.

“–Ma la mia piccola Dorrit mi ha detto che, senza chiedere alcuna spiegazione in più, non dovevo aspettarti fino a quando non ti avessi visto di persona.”

“E ora mi vedi, mio ragazzo,” disse il signor Meagles, stringendogli la mano con forza; “e ora avrai tutte le spiegazioni che desideri. La verità è che ero qui, sono venuto direttamente da te, dopo aver incontrato gli Allongers e i Marshongers. Altrimenti mi vergognerei di guardarti in faccia oggi. Ma in quel momento non eri in condizioni adatte per ricevermi, quindi ho dovuto ripartire subito per inseguire Doyce.”

“Povero Doyce!”, sospirò Arthur.

“Non chiamatelo con nomi che non merita,” disse il signor Meagles. “Non è povero; se la cava abbastanza bene. Doyce è un ragazzo meraviglioso. Vi assicuro che sta presentando le sue ragioni in modo davvero efficace. Lì dove nessuno vuole che qualcosa venga fatto e trova comunque qualcuno per farlo, quella persona finisce nei guai; ma lì dove invece c’è bisogno di qualcuno che agisca, quella persona ha successo. Non avrete più bisogno di rivolgervi all’Ufficio delle Circonlocuzioni. Dan se la sta cavando benissimo senza di loro!”

“Che sollievo mi togli dai pensieri!” esclamò Arthur. “Quanta felicità mi doni!”

“Felicità?” ribatté il signor Meagles. “Non parlate di felicità finché non vedete Dan. Vi assicuro che Dan sta dirigendo i lavori e svolgendo compiti laggiù, cose che vi farebbero drizzare i capelli in piedi se le vedeste. Ora non è più un criminale pubblico. Ha medaglie, nastri, decorazioni di ogni tipo, proprio come un nobile nato. Ma qui non dobbiamo parlare di queste cose.”

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, egad!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, ‘he must hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They won’t do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the Manger—won’t give her children such distinctions herself, and won’t allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no, Dan!’ said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. ‘That won’t do here!’

‘If you had brought me (except for Doyce’s sake) twice what I have lost,’ cried Arthur, ‘you would not have given me the pleasure that you give me in this news.’

‘Why, of course, of course,’ assented Mr Meagles. ‘Of course I know that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women’s nightcaps a great deal too big for ‘em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of incoherent races. You know ‘em! Well! He was coming straight to me, and I was going to him, and so we came back together.’

‘Doyce in England!’ exclaimed Arthur.

‘There!’ said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. ‘I am the worst man in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don’t know what I should have done if I had been in the diplomatic line—right, perhaps! The long and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight. And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my plain answer is—here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!’

Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and said the rest for himself.

‘There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,’ said Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on the palm of his hand, ‘and they’re soon disposed of. First, not a word more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations. I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly. Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that, after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did, and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as partners. That’s thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam, I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you; your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to detain you here one half-hour longer.’

There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.

‘I made a remark a little while ago,’ said Daniel Doyce then, ‘which I am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning? Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct from these walls and from this room?’

‘You do,’ returned Arthur. ‘It has been our cherished purpose.’

‘Very well!’ said Doyce. ‘Then, if this young lady will do me the honour of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul’s Churchyard, I dare say I know what we want to get there.’

Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles lingered behind to say a word to his friend.

‘I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she’s a soft-hearted woman. She’s best at the Cottage, and I’ll stay there and keep her company.’

With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the world was there a room so full of quiet joy!

‘My dear love,’ said Arthur. ‘Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be gone directly.’

‘I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to burn something for me.’

‘What?’

‘Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.’

‘Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?’

‘It is anything you like best, my own,’ she answered, laughing with glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, ‘if you will only humour me when the fire burns up.’

So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone, in Little Dorrit’s eyes. ‘Is it bright enough now?’ said Arthur. ‘Quite bright enough now,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘Does the charm want any words to be said?’ asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. ‘You can say (if you don’t mind) “I love you!”’ answered Little Dorrit. So he said it, and the paper burned away.

“Perché no?”

“Oh, perbacco!” disse il signor Meagles scuotendo la testa molto seriamente. “Deve nascondere tutte quelle cose sotto chiave quando viene qui. Qui non vanno bene. In questo particolare, Britannia è davvero una ‘Britannia nel mangiatoio’. Non concederà ai suoi figli simili onori da sola, e non permetterà che vengano visti quando altri paesi li conferiscono. No, no, Dan!” ripeté il signor Meagles scuotendo di nuovo la testa. “Qui non va affatto bene, ”

“Se mi aveste dato il doppio di ciò che ho perso (a parte per pietà verso Doyce),” gridò Arthur, “non mi avreste procurato la gioia che queste notizie mi hanno portato.”

“Certo, certo,” convenne il signor Meagles. “Naturalmente lo so, mio caro amico. E per questo l’ho detto subito all’inizio. Ora, tornando a Doyce. L’ho catturato. Mi sono scontrato con lui in mezzo a una folla di quei maledetti cani marroni, vestiti con quelle stupide cuffie da notte troppo grandi per loro, che si autodefinivano Arabi e altre razze assurde. Tu li conosci bene! Beh. Stava venendo dritto verso di me, e io stavo andando verso di lui. Così ci siamo incontrati.”

“Doyce in Inghilterra!”, esclamò Arthur.

“Eccolo!” disse il signor Meagles, aprendo le braccia. “Sono davvero l’uomo peggiore del mondo per gestire una situazione del genere. Non so proprio cosa avrei dovuto fare se fossi stato nel campo diplomatico. Forse avrei agito meglio! In breve, Arthur, entrambi siamo stati in Inghilterra in queste due settimane. E se mi chiedi dove sia Doyce in questo momento, beh, la mia risposta è semplice: è qui! Finalmente posso respirare di nuovo!”

Doyce entrò di corsa da dietro la porta, afferrò Arthur per entrambe le mani e il resto lo disse da solo.

“Ci sono soltanto tre aspetti principali da considerare nella questione, mio caro Clennam,” disse Doyce, iniziando a delinearli uno per uno con il pollice, sulla palma della propria mano. “Primo: non voglio più sentire una parola da te riguardo al passato. Ci è stato un errore nei tuoi calcoli. So di cosa si tratta. Quell’errore influisce sull’intera struttura, e la conseguenza è il fallimento. Ma ne trarrai profitto e riuscirai a evitarlo la prossima volta. Anche io stesso ho commesso errori simili in passato. Ogni fallimento insegna qualcosa, se si è disposti ad imparare; e tu sei troppo intelligente per non trarre lezioni da questo errore. Questo è il primo punto.”
“Secondo: mi dispiace che tu abbia preso la cosa così sul serio e ti sia rimproverato così severamente. Stavo viaggiando verso casa, giorno e notte, per risolvere tutto con l’aiuto del nostro amico, quando ci siamo incontrati come lui stesso ti ha detto.”
“Terzo: abbiamo concordato entrambi che, dopo quanto hai passato, dopo le tue preoccupazioni e la tua malattia, sarebbe stato molto bello riuscire a sistemare tutto senza che tu lo sapessi. Poi venire da te e dirti che tutte le cose sono andate per il meglio, che l’affare ha più bisogno di te che mai, e che ci aspetta una nuova e promettente opportunità come partner. Questo è il terzo punto.”
“Ma sappiamo entrambi che possono sempre verificarsi imprevisti. Quindi ho lasciato spazio per eventuali modifiche. Mio caro Clennam, ti affido completamente a te. Hai tutto il potere di essere altrettanto utile per me quanto io lo sono stato o lo sono ancora per te. Il tuo vecchio posto ti aspetta. Non c’è nulla che possa trattenerti qui un minuto in più.”

C’era silenzio, che non fu interrotto fino a quando Arthur non rimase per un po’ davanti alla finestra, con le spalle rivolte verso di loro, e fino a quando la sua futura moglie non andò da lui e gli rimase accanto.

“Ho fatto un commento poco fa,” disse allora Daniel Doyce, “e sono incline a ritenere che fosse sbagliato. Ho detto che non c’era nulla che potesse trattenervi qui, Clennam, per un altro quarto d’ora. Mi sbaglio se penso che preferiate non andarvene fino alla mattina di domani? So, anche senza essere molto perspicace, dove vorreste andare, partendo direttamente da queste mura e da questa stanza?”

“Lo farai,” rispose Arthur. “È sempre stato il nostro scopo più importante.”

“Molto bene!”, disse Doyce. “Allora, se questa giovane signorina mi farà l’onore di considerarmi come un padre per ventiquattro ore e verrà con me ora verso il cimitero di Saint Paul’s Churchyard, credo di sapere cosa vogliamo fare lì.”

Poco dopo, Little Dorrit e lui uscirono insieme, mentre il signor Meagles rimase indietro per dire una parola al suo amico.

“Credo che, Arthur, tu non vorrai che io e tua madre siamo presenti stamattina, quindi ci allontaneremo. Potrebbe far pensare a tua madre di Pet. È una donna dal cuore tenero. Le conviene stare nella Casetta, e io rimarrò lì per farle compagnia.”

Con questo si separarono per quella volta. Il giorno finì, e anche la notte; arrivò la mattina, e Little Dorrit, vestita semplicemente come al solito e senza nessuno con sé se non Maggy, entrò nella prigione sotto il sole splendente. Quella povera stanza, quella mattina, era una stanza felice. Dove al mondo esisteva un ambiente così pieno di serena gioia?

“Mia cara Loveamore”, disse Arthur. “Perché Maggy accende il fuoco? Partiremo subito.”

“Le ho chiesto di farlo. Mi è venuta questa strana idea. Voglio che tu bruci qualcosa per me.”

“Cosa?”

“Solo questo foglio di carta piegato. Se lo metterai nel fuoco con le tue stesse mani, proprio così com’è, la mia fantasia sarà soddisfatta.”

“ superstiziosa, cara piccola Dorrit? È forse un amuleto?”

“È qualsiasi cosa tu preferisca, il mio,” rispose lei ridendo, con gli occhi che brillavano, e si alzò in punta di piedi per baciarlo. “Se solo vorrai prenderti gioco di me quando il fuoco divamperà, ”

Erano lì davanti al fuoco, in attesa: Clennam con il braccio intorno alla sua vita, e il fuoco che brillava, proprio come spesso aveva brillato nello stesso posto, negli occhi di Little Dorrit. “Ora è abbastanza luminoso?” chiese Arthur. “Sì, ora è davvero abbastanza luminoso,” rispose Little Dorrit. “Per eseguire la magia servono delle parole?” domandò ancora Arthur, mentre teneva il foglio sopra la fiamma. “Puoi dire (se non ti dispiace) ‘Ti amo!’” disse Little Dorrit. Così fece, e il foglio bruciò completamente.

They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face, familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her hand stretched out, saying, ‘Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live very happy, dear!’

Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George’s Church, and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal character. And there was Little Dorrit’s old friend who had given her the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should come back to them to be married, after all.

And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way.

Little Dorrit’s old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman’s surplice, and all the witnesses looked on with special interest. ‘For, you see,’ said Little Dorrit’s old friend, ‘this young lady is one of our curiosities, and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor, with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she’s now a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.’

They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in the autumn morning sun’s bright rays, and then went down.

Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down to give a mother’s care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny’s neglected children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.

Passarono molto silenziosamente lungo il cortile; poiché non c’era nessuno lì, sebbene molte teste spiassero di nascosto dalle finestre. Solo un volto, familiare da tempo, si trovava nella Casa del Club. Quando si avvicinarono entrambi e dissero molte parole gentili, Little Dorrit si girò ancora una volta, tendendo la mano, e disse: “Addio, caro John! Spero che tu viva molto felice, tesoro!”

Poi salirono i gradini della vicina chiesa di San Giorgio e si avvicinarono all’altare, dove Daniel Doyce li aspettava nel suo ruolo paterno. Lì c’era anche l’antica amica di Little Dorrit, che le aveva dato il registro dei matrimoni da usare come cuscino; era piena di ammirazione per il fatto che lei fosse tornata da loro per sposarsi, dopotutto.

E si sposarono, con il sole che brillava su di loro attraverso la figura dipinta del nostro Salvatore sulla finestra. Entrarono proprio nella stessa stanza dove Little Dorrit aveva dormito dopo la sua festa, per firmare il registro dei matrimoni. Lì, Mr Pancks – destinato a diventare il principale impiegato di Doyce e Clennam, e in seguito socio nella azienda – osservò con attenzione la cerimonia: Flora, sostenuta con grazia da un braccio da Maggy, mentre John Chivery e altri assistenti erano presenti per l’occasione. Non si notava alcun segno di ritiro in se stessa da parte di Flora, nonostante le sue recenti dichiarazioni; al contrario, sembrava davvero elegante e godette appieno delle cerimonie, anche se con un certo nervosismo.

L’antica amica di Little Dorrit teneva lo stilo mentre firmava il suo nome; l’impiegato si fermò per togliere la veste sacra al buon prete, e tutti i testimoni osservavano con particolare interesse. “Perché, vedete,” disse l’antica amica di Little Dorrit, “questa giovane signorina è una delle nostre ‘curiosità’. Ed ora ha raggiunto il terzo volume dei nostri registri. La sua nascita è registrata nel primo volume; lei dormiva proprio su questo pavimento, con la sua bella testolina appoggiata al secondo volume. E ora sta scrivendo il suo nome come sposa nel terzo volume.”

Tutti si fecero da parte quando la cerimonia di firma fu terminata; Little Dorrit e suo marito uscirono dalla chiesa da soli. Si fermarono per un momento sui gradini del portico, ammirando il nuovo aspetto della strada sotto i luminosi raggi del sole autunnale, poi scesero.

Videro la vita diventare semplice e felice. Decisero di dedicarsi con amore e cura ai figli trascurati di Fanny, così come ai propri, permettendo a quella signora di tornare per sempre nella società mondana. Per alcuni anni furono una tenera infermiera e amica per Tip; lei non si lamentò mai delle richieste eccessive che lui le faceva in cambio dei beni che avrebbe potuto darle, se solo li avesse avuti. Con affetto, accettò tutto ciò e chiuse gli occhi sul passato doloroso. Entrarono così nella vita quotidiana, insieme e felici; mentre camminavano tra il sole e l’ombra, coloro che erano rumorosi, avidi, arroganti o vanitosi continuavano a fare il loro solito clamore.