Anybody may pass, any day, in the thronged thoroughfares of the
metropolis, some meagre, wrinkled, yellow old man (who might be supposed to have
dropped from the stars, if there were any star in the Heavens dull enough to be
suspected of casting off so feeble a spark), creeping along with a scared air,
as though bewildered and a little frightened by the noise and bustle. This old
man is always a little old man. If he were ever a big old man, he has shrunk
into a little old man; if he were always a little old man, he has dwindled into
a less old man. His coat is a colour, and cut, that never was the mode anywhere,
at any period. Clearly, it was not made for him, or for any individual mortal.
Some wholesale contractor measured Fate for five thousand coats of such quality,
and Fate has lent this old coat to this old man, as one of a long unfinished
line of many old men. It has always large dull metal buttons, similar to no
other buttons. This old man wears a hat, a thumbed and napless and yet an
obdurate hat, which has never adapted itself to the shape of his poor head. His
coarse shirt and his coarse neckcloth have no more individuality than his coat
and hat; they have the same character of not being his--of not being anybody's.
Yet this old man wears these clothes with a certain unaccustomed air of being
dressed and elaborated for the public ways; as though he passed the greater part
of his time in a nightcap and gown. And so, like the country mouse in the second
year of a famine, come to see the town mouse, and timidly threading his way to
the town-mouse's lodging through a city of cats, this old man passes in the
streets.
Sometimes, on holidays towards evening, he will be seen to walk with a
slightly increased infirmity, and his old eyes will glimmer with a moist and
marshy light. Then the little old man is drunk. A very small measure will
overset him; he may be bowled off his unsteady legs with a half-pint pot. Some
pitying acquaintance-- chance acquaintance very often--has warmed up his
weakness with a treat of beer, and the consequence will be the lapse of a longer
time than usual before he shall pass again. For the little old man is going home
to the Workhouse; and on his good behaviour they do not let him out often
(though methinks they might, considering the few years he has before him to go
out in, under the sun); and on his bad behaviour they shut him up closer than
ever in a grove of two score and nineteen more old men, every one of whom smells
of all the others.
Mrs Plornish's father,--a poor little reedy piping old gentleman, like a
worn-out bird; who had been in what he called the music- binding business, and
met with great misfortunes, and who had seldom been able to make his way, or to
see it or to pay it, or to do anything at all with it but find it no
thoroughfare,--had retired of his own accord to the Workhouse which was
appointed by law to be the Good Samaritan of his district (without the twopence,
which was bad political economy), on the settlement of that execution which had
carried Mr Plornish to the Marshalsea College. Previous to his son-in-law's
difficulties coming to that head, Old Nandy (he was always so called in his
legal Retreat, but he was Old Mr Nandy among the Bleeding Hearts) had sat in a
corner of the Plornish fireside, and taken his bite and sup out of the Plornish
cupboard. He still hoped to resume that domestic position when Fortune should
smile upon his son-in-law; in the meantime, while she preserved an immovable
countenance, he was, and resolved to remain, one of these little old men in a
grove of little old men with a community of flavour.
But no poverty in him, and no coat on him that never was the mode, and no Old
Men's Ward for his dwelling-place, could quench his daughter's admiration. Mrs
Plornish was as proud of her father's talents as she could possibly have been if
they had made him Lord Chancellor. She had as firm a belief in the sweetness and
propriety of his manners as she could possibly have had if he had been Lord
Chamberlain. The poor little old man knew some pale and vapid little songs, long
out of date, about Chloe, and Phyllis, and Strephon being wounded by the son of
Venus; and for Mrs Plornish there was no such music at the Opera as the small
internal flutterings and chirpings wherein he would discharge himself of these
ditties, like a weak, little, broken barrel-organ, ground by a baby. On his
'days out,' those flecks of light in his flat vista of pollard old men,' it was
at once Mrs Plornish's delight and sorrow, when he was strong with meat, and had
taken his full halfpenny-worth of porter, to say, 'Sing us a song, Father.' Then
he would give them Chloe, and if he were in pretty good spirits, Phyllis
also--Strephon he had hardly been up to since he went into retirement--and then
would Mrs Plornish declare she did believe there never was such a singer as
Father, and wipe her eyes.
If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the noble
Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be presented and
promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish could not have handed him
with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart Yard. 'Here's Father,' she would
say, presenting him to a neighbour. 'Father will soon be home with us for good,
now. Ain't Father looking well? Father's a sweeter singer than ever; you'd never
have forgotten it, if you'd aheard him just now.'
As to Mr Plornish, he had married these articles of belief in marrying Mr
Nandy's daughter, and only wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman
had not made a fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his
musical genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. 'For why,'
argued Mr Plornish, 'why go a-binding music when you've got it in yourself?
That's where it is, I consider.'
Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain
sumptuous way--an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring audience
to witness that he really could not help being more free with this old fellow
than they might have expected, on account of his simplicity and poverty--was
mightily good to him. Old Nandy had been several times to the Marshalsea
College, communicating with his son-in-law during his short durance there; and
had happily acquired to himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much
improved, the patronage of the Father of that national institution.
Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man held
of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats and teas for
him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying district where the
tenantry were in a primitive state.
It seemed as if there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but
that the old man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously
faithful. When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner.
He had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his decayed
condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he could hold up
his head at all, poor creature. 'In the Workhouse, sir, the Union; no privacy,
no visitors, no station, no respect, no speciality. Most deplorable!'
It was Old Nandy's birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about its
being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old men should not
be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding Heart Yard, and had
his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and gave them Phyllis. He had
hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in to see how they all were.
'Miss Dorrit,' said Mrs Plornish, 'here's Father! Ain't he looking nice? And
such voice he's in!'
Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him this
long time.
'No, they're rather hard on poor Father,' said Mrs Plornish with a
lengthening face, 'and don't let him have half as much change and fresh air as
would benefit him. But he'll soon be home for good, now. Won't you, Father?'
'Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.'
Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably made,
word for word the same, on all such opportunities.
It was couched in the following terms:
'John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there's a ounce of wittles or drink of any
sort in this present roof, you're fully welcome to your share on it. While
there's a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present roof, you're
fully welcome to your share on it.
If so be as there should be nothing in this present roof, you should be as
welcome to your share on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is
what I mean and so I don't deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out
is to entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?'
To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had
composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish's father
pipingly replied:
'I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is the
same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as it's not to
take it out of your children's mouths, which take it is, and call it by what
name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though may they come, and too
soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!'
Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner of
her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again by telling
Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his respects, unless she
knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable.
Her answer was, 'I am going straight home, and if he will come with me I
shall be so glad to take care of him--so glad,' said Little Dorrit, always
thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, 'of his company.'
'There, Father!' cried Mrs Plornish. 'Ain't you a gay young man to be going
for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your neck- handkerchief into a
regular good bow, for you're a regular beau yourself, Father, if ever there was
one.'
With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a loving
hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and her strong child
tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old father as he toddled away
with his arm under Little Dorrit's.
They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron Bridge and
sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the water and talked
about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he would do if he had a ship
full of gold coming home to him (his plan was to take a noble lodging for the
Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens, and live there all the rest of their
lives, attended on by the waiter), and it was a special birthday of the old man.
They were within five minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her
own street, they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.
'Why, good gracious me, Amy!' cried that young lady starting. 'You never mean
it!'
'Mean what, Fanny dear?'
'Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,' returned the young lady
with burning indignation, 'but I don't think even I could have believed this, of
even you!'
'Fanny!' cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.
'Oh! Don't Fanny me, you mean little thing, don't! The idea of coming along
the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!' (firing off the
last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun). 'O Fanny!'
'I tell you not to Fanny me, for I'll not submit to it! I never knew such a
thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to disgrace us on all
occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!'
'Does it disgrace anybody,' said Little Dorrit, very gently, 'to take care of
this poor old man?'
'Yes, miss,' returned her sister, 'and you ought to know it does. And you do
know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The principal pleasure of
your life is to remind your family of their misfortunes. And the next great
pleasure of your existence is to keep low company. But, however, if you have no
sense of decency, I have. You'll please to allow me to go on the other side of
the way, unmolested.'
With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old disgrace, who
had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for Little Dorrit had let his
arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and who had been hustled and cursed by
impatient passengers for stopping the way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy,
and said, 'I hope nothing's wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope
there's nothing the matter in the honoured family?'
'No, no,' returned Little Dorrit. 'No, thank you. Give me your arm again, Mr
Nandy. We shall soon be there now.'
So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the Lodge and
found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened that the Father of
the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at the moment when they were
coming out of it, entering the prison arm in arm. As the spectacle of their
approach met his view, he displayed the utmost agitation and despondency of
mind; and--altogether regardless of Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood
with his hat in his hand, as he always did in that gracious presence--turned
about, and hurried in at his own doorway and up the staircase.
Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under her
protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little Dorrit
hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny following her, and
flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came into the room almost
together; and the Father sat down in his chair, buried his face in his hands,
and uttered a groan.
'Of course,' said Fanny. 'Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope you
believe me, Miss?'
'What is it, father?' cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. 'Have I made you
unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!'
'You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you'--Fanny paused for a sufficiently
strong expression--'you Common-minded little Amy! You complete prison-child!'
He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed out,
raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger daughter, 'Amy,
I know that you are innocent in intention. But you have cut me to the soul.'
'Innocent in intention!' the implacable Fanny struck in. 'Stuff in intention!
Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!'
'Father!' cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. 'I am very sorry. Pray
forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!'
'How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!' cried Fanny. 'You know
how it is. I have told you already, so don't fly in the face of Providence by
attempting to deny it!'
'Hush! Amy,' said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several times
across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand that dropped
across his knee, 'I have done what I could to keep you select here; I have done
what I could to retain you a position here. I may have succeeded; I may not. You
may know it; you may not. I give no opinion. I have endured everything here but
humiliation. That I have happily been spared--until this day.'
Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his pocket-
handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground beside him, with
her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him remorsefully. Coming out of his fit
of grief, he clenched his pocket-handkerchief once more.
'Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all my
troubles there has been that--Spirit in myself, and that-- that submission to
it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has spared
me--ha--humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly felt it.'
'Of course! How could it be otherwise?' exclaimed the irrepressible Fanny.
'Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!' (air-gun again).
'But, dear father,' cried Little Dorrit, 'I don't justify myself for having
wounded your dear heart--no! Heaven knows I don't!' She clasped her hands in
quite an agony of distress. 'I do nothing but beg and pray you to be comforted
and overlook it. But if I had not known that you were kind to the old man
yourself, and took much notice of him, and were always glad to see him, I would
not have come here with him, father, I would not, indeed. What I have been so
unhappy as to do, I have done in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to
your eyes, dear love!' said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, 'for
anything the world could give me, or anything it could take away.'
Fanny, with a partly angry and partly repentant sob, began to cry herself,
and to say--as this young lady always said when she was half in passion and half
out of it, half spiteful with herself and half spiteful with everybody
else--that she wished she were dead.
The Father of the Marshalsea in the meantime took his younger daughter to his
breast, and patted her head. 'There, there! Say no more, Amy, say no more, my
child. I will forget it as soon as I can. I,' with hysterical cheerfulness, 'I--
shall soon be able to dismiss it. It is perfectly true, my dear, that I am
always glad to see my old pensioner--as such, as such-- and that I
do--ha--extend as much protection and kindness to the-- hum--the bruised reed--I
trust I may so call him without impropriety--as in my circumstances, I can. It
is quite true that this is the case, my dear child. At the same time, I preserve
in doing this, if I may--ha--if I may use the expression--Spirit. Becoming
Spirit. And there are some things which are,' he stopped to sob, 'irreconcilable
with that, and wound that--wound it deeply.
It is not that I have seen my good Amy attentive, and--ha-- condescending to
my old pensioner--it is not that that hurts me. It is, if I am to close the
painful subject by being explicit, that I have seen my child, my own child, my
own daughter, coming into this College out of the public streets--smiling!
smiling!--arm in arm with--O my God, a livery!'
This reference to the coat of no cut and no time, the unfortunate gentleman
gasped forth, in a scarcely audible voice, and with his clenched
pocket-handkerchief raised in the air. His excited feelings might have found
some further painful utterance, but for a knock at the door, which had been
already twice repeated, and to which Fanny (still wishing herself dead, and
indeed now going so far as to add, buried) cried 'Come in!'
'Ah, Young John!' said the Father, in an altered and calmed voice. 'What is
it, Young John?'
'A letter for you, sir, being left in the Lodge just this minute, and a
message with it, I thought, happening to be there myself, sir, I would bring it
to your room.' The speaker's attention was much distracted by the piteous
spectacle of Little Dorrit at her father's feet, with her head turned away.
'Indeed, John? Thank you.'
'The letter is from Mr Clennam, sir--it's the answer--and the message was,
sir, that Mr Clennam also sent his compliments, and word that he would do
himself the pleasure of calling this afternoon, hoping to see you, and
likewise,' attention more distracted than before, 'Miss Amy.'
'Oh!' As the Father glanced into the letter (there was a bank-note in it), he
reddened a little, and patted Amy on the head afresh. 'Thank you, Young John.
Quite right. Much obliged to you for your attention. No one waiting?'
'No, sir, no one waiting.'
'Thank you, John. How is your mother, Young John?'
'Thank you, sir, she's not quite as well as we could wish--in fact, we none
of us are, except father--but she's pretty well, sir.' 'Say we sent our
remembrances, will you? Say kind remembrances, if you please, Young John.'
'Thank you, sir, I will.' And Mr Chivery junior went his way, having
spontaneously composed on the spot an entirely new epitaph for himself, to the
effect that Here lay the body of John Chivery, Who, Having at such a date,
Beheld the idol of his life, In grief and tears, And feeling unable to bear the
harrowing spectacle, Immediately repaired to the abode of his inconsolable
parents, And terminated his existence by his own rash act.
'There, there, Amy!' said the Father, when Young John had closed the door,
'let us say no more about it.' The last few minutes had improved his spirits
remarkably, and he was quite lightsome. 'Where is my old pensioner all this
while? We must not leave him by himself any longer, or he will begin to suppose
he is not welcome, and that would pain me. Will you fetch him, my child, or
shall I?'
'If you wouldn't mind, father,' said Little Dorrit, trying to bring her
sobbing to a close.
'Certainly I will go, my dear. I forgot; your eyes are rather red.
There! Cheer up, Amy. Don't be uneasy about me. I am quite myself again, my
love, quite myself. Go to your room, Amy, and make yourself look comfortable and
pleasant to receive Mr Clennam.'
'I would rather stay in my own room, Father,' returned Little Dorrit, finding
it more difficult than before to regain her composure. 'I would far rather not
see Mr Clennam.'
'Oh, fie, fie, my dear, that's folly. Mr Clennam is a very gentlemanly
man--very gentlemanly. A little reserved at times; but I will say extremely
gentlemanly. I couldn't think of your not being here to receive Mr Clennam, my
dear, especially this afternoon. So go and freshen yourself up, Amy; go and
freshen yourself up, like a good girl.'
Thus directed, Little Dorrit dutifully rose and obeyed: only pausing for a
moment as she went out of the room, to give her sister a kiss of reconciliation.
Upon which, that young lady, feeling much harassed in her mind, and having for
the time worn out the wish with which she generally relieved it, conceived and
executed the brilliant idea of wishing Old Nandy dead, rather than that he
should come bothering there like a disgusting, tiresome, wicked wretch, and
making mischief between two sisters.
The Father of the Marshalsea, even humming a tune, and wearing his black
velvet cap a little on one side, so much improved were his spirits, went down
into the yard, and found his old pensioner standing there hat in hand just
within the gate, as he had stood all this time. 'Come, Nandy!' said he, with
great suavity. 'Come up-stairs, Nandy; you know the way; why don't you come
up-stairs?' He went the length, on this occasion, of giving him his hand and
saying, 'How are you, Nandy? Are you pretty well?' To which that vocalist
returned, 'I thank you, honoured sir, I am all the better for seeing your
honour.' As they went along the yard, the Father of the Marshalsea presented him
to a Collegian of recent date. 'An old acquaintance of mine, sir, an old
pensioner.' And then said, 'Be covered, my good Nandy; put your hat on,' with
great consideration.
His patronage did not stop here; for he charged Maggy to get the tea ready,
and instructed her to buy certain tea-cakes, fresh butter, eggs, cold ham, and
shrimps: to purchase which collation he gave her a bank-note for ten pounds,
laying strict injunctions on her to be careful of the change. These preparations
were in an advanced stage of progress, and his daughter Amy had come back with
her work, when Clennam presented himself; whom he most graciously received, and
besought to join their meal.
'Amy, my love, you know Mr Clennam even better than I have the happiness of
doing. Fanny, my dear, you are acquainted with Mr Clennam.' Fanny acknowledged
him haughtily; the position she tacitly took up in all such cases being that
there was a vast conspiracy to insult the family by not understanding it, or
sufficiently deferring to it, and here was one of the conspirators.
'This, Mr Clennam, you must know, is an old pensioner of mine, Old Nandy, a
very faithful old man.' (He always spoke of him as an object of great antiquity,
but he was two or three years younger than himself.) 'Let me see. You know
Plornish, I think? I think my daughter Amy has mentioned to me that you know
poor Plornish?'
'O yes!' said Arthur Clennam.
'Well, sir, this is Mrs Plornish's father.'
'Indeed? I am glad to see him.'
'You would be more glad if you knew his many good qualities, Mr Clennam.'
'I hope I shall come to know them through knowing him,' said Arthur, secretly
pitying the bowed and submissive figure.
'It is a holiday with him, and he comes to see his old friends, who are
always glad to see him,' observed the Father of the Marshalsea.
Then he added behind his hand, ('Union, poor old fellow. Out for the day.')
By this time Maggy, quietly assisted by her Little Mother, had spread the
board, and the repast was ready. It being hot weather and the prison very close,
the window was as wide open as it could be pushed. 'If Maggy will spread that
newspaper on the window- sill, my dear,' remarked the Father complacently and in
a half whisper to Little Dorrit, 'my old pensioner can have his tea there, while
we are having ours.'
So, with a gulf between him and the good company of about a foot in width,
standard measure, Mrs Plornish's father was handsomely regaled. Clennam had
never seen anything like his magnanimous protection by that other Father, he of
the Marshalsea; and was lost in the contemplation of its many wonders.
The most striking of these was perhaps the relishing manner in which he
remarked on the pensioner's infirmities and failings, as if he were a gracious
Keeper making a running commentary on the decline of the harmless animal he
exhibited.
'Not ready for more ham yet, Nandy? Why, how slow you are! (His last teeth,'
he explained to the company, 'are going, poor old boy.')
At another time, he said, 'No shrimps, Nandy?' and on his not instantly
replying, observed, ('His hearing is becoming very defective. He'll be deaf
directly.')
At another time he asked him, 'Do you walk much, Nandy, about the yard within
the walls of that place of yours?'
'No, sir; no. I haven't any great liking for that.'
'No, to be sure,' he assented. 'Very natural.' Then he privately informed the
circle ('Legs going.')
Once he asked the pensioner, in that general clemency which asked him
anything to keep him afloat, how old his younger grandchild was?
'John Edward,' said the pensioner, slowly laying down his knife and fork to
consider. 'How old, sir? Let me think now.'
The Father of the Marshalsea tapped his forehead ('Memory weak.')
'John Edward, sir? Well, I really forget. I couldn't say at this minute, sir,
whether it's two and two months, or whether it's two and five months. It's one
or the other.'
'Don't distress yourself by worrying your mind about it,' he returned, with
infinite forbearance. ('Faculties evidently decaying--old man rusts in the life
he leads!')
The more of these discoveries that he persuaded himself he made in the
pensioner, the better he appeared to like him; and when he got out of his chair
after tea to bid the pensioner good-bye, on his intimating that he feared,
honoured sir, his time was running out, he made himself look as erect and strong
as possible.
'We don't call this a shilling, Nandy, you know,' he said, putting one in his
hand. 'We call it tobacco.'
'Honoured sir, I thank you. It shall buy tobacco. My thanks and duty to Miss
Amy and Miss Fanny. I wish you good night, Mr Clennam.'
'And mind you don't forget us, you know, Nandy,' said the Father. 'You must
come again, mind, whenever you have an afternoon. You must not come out without
seeing us, or we shall be jealous. Good night, Nandy. Be very careful how you
descend the stairs, Nandy; they are rather uneven and worn.' With that he stood
on the landing, watching the old man down: and when he came into the room again,
said, with a solemn satisfaction on him, 'A melancholy sight that, Mr Clennam,
though one has the consolation of knowing that he doesn't feel it himself. The
poor old fellow is a dismal wreck. Spirit broken and gone--pulverised--crushed
out of him, sir, completely!'
As Clennam had a purpose in remaining, he said what he could responsive to
these sentiments, and stood at the window with their enunciator, while Maggy and
her Little Mother washed the tea- service and cleared it away. He noticed that
his companion stood at the window with the air of an affable and accessible
Sovereign, and that, when any of his people in the yard below looked up, his
recognition of their salutes just stopped short of a blessing.
When Little Dorrit had her work on the table, and Maggy hers on the bedstead,
Fanny fell to tying her bonnet as a preliminary to her departure. Arthur, still
having his purpose, still remained. At this time the door opened, without any
notice, and Mr Tip came in. He kissed Amy as she started up to meet him, nodded
to Fanny, nodded to his father, gloomed on the visitor without further
recognition, and sat down.
'Tip, dear,' said Little Dorrit, mildly, shocked by this, 'don't you see--'
'Yes, I see, Amy. If you refer to the presence of any visitor you have
here--I say, if you refer to that,' answered Tip, jerking his head with emphasis
towards his shoulder nearest Clennam, 'I see!'
'Is that all you say?'
'That's all I say. And I suppose,' added the lofty young man, after a
moment's pause, 'that visitor will understand me, when I say that's all I say.
In short, I suppose the visitor will understand that he hasn't used me like a
gentleman.'
'I do not understand that,' observed the obnoxious personage referred to with
tranquillity.
'No? Why, then, to make it clearer to you, sir, I beg to let you know that
when I address what I call a properly-worded appeal, and an urgent appeal, and a
delicate appeal, to an individual, for a small temporary accommodation, easily
within his power--easily within his power, mind!--and when that individual
writes back word to me that he begs to be excused, I consider that he doesn't
treat me like a gentleman.'
The Father of the Marshalsea, who had surveyed his son in silence, no sooner
heard this sentiment, than he began in angry voice:--
'How dare you--' But his son stopped him.
'Now, don't ask me how I dare, father, because that's bosh. As to the fact of
the line of conduct I choose to adopt towards the individual present, you ought
to be proud of my showing a proper spirit.'
'I should think so!' cried Fanny.
'A proper spirit?' said the Father. 'Yes, a proper spirit; a becoming spirit.
Is it come to this that my son teaches me--ME-- spirit!'
'Now, don't let us bother about it, father, or have any row on the subject. I
have fully made up my mind that the individual present has not treated me like a
gentleman. And there's an end of it.'
'But there is not an end of it, sir,' returned the Father. 'But there shall
not be an end of it. You have made up your mind? You have made up your mind?'
'Yes, I have. What's the good of keeping on like that?'
'Because,' returned the Father, in a great heat, 'you had no right to make up
your mind to what is monstrous, to what is--ha--immoral, to what
is--hum--parricidal. No, Mr Clennam, I beg, sir. Don't ask me to desist; there
is a--hum--a general principle involved here, which rises even above
considerations of--ha--hospitality. I object to the assertion made by my son.
I--ha--I personally repel it.'
'Why, what is it to you, father?' returned the son, over his shoulder.
'What is it to me, sir? I have a--hum--a spirit, sir, that will not endure
it. I,' he took out his pocket-handkerchief again and dabbed his face. 'I am
outraged and insulted by it. Let me suppose the case that I myself may at a
certain time--ha--or times, have made a--hum--an appeal, and a properly-worded
appeal, and a delicate appeal, and an urgent appeal to some individual for a
small temporary accommodation. Let me suppose that that accommodation could have
been easily extended, and was not extended, and that that individual informed me
that he begged to be excused. Am I to be told by my own son, that I therefore
received treatment not due to a gentleman, and that I--ha--I submitted to it?'
His daughter Amy gently tried to calm him, but he would not on any account be
calmed. He said his spirit was up, and wouldn't endure this.
Was he to be told that, he wished to know again, by his own son on his own
hearth, to his own face? Was that humiliation to be put upon him by his own
blood?
'You are putting it on yourself, father, and getting into all this injury of
your own accord!' said the young gentleman morosely. 'What I have made up my
mind about has nothing to do with you. What I said had nothing to do with you.
Why need you go trying on other people's hats?'
'I reply it has everything to do with me,' returned the Father. 'I point out
to you, sir, with indignation, that--hum--the--ha-- delicacy and peculiarity of
your father's position should strike you dumb, sir, if nothing else should, in
laying down such--ha-- such unnatural principles. Besides; if you are not
filial, sir, if you discard that duty, you are at least--hum--not a Christian?
Are you--ha--an Atheist? And is it Christian, let me ask you, to stigmatise and
denounce an individual for begging to be excused this time, when the same
individual may--ha--respond with the required accommodation next time? Is it the
part of a Christian not to--hum--not to try him again?' He had worked himself
into quite a religious glow and fervour.
'I see precious well,' said Mr Tip, rising, 'that I shall get no sensible or
fair argument here to-night, and so the best thing I can do is to cut. Good
night, Amy. Don't be vexed. I am very sorry it happens here, and you here, upon
my soul I am; but I can't altogether part with my spirit, even for your sake,
old girl.'
With those words he put on his hat and went out, accompanied by Miss Fanny;
who did not consider it spirited on her part to take leave of Clennam with any
less opposing demonstration than a stare, importing that she had always known
him for one of the large body of conspirators.
When they were gone, the Father of the Marshalsea was at first inclined to
sink into despondency again, and would have done so, but that a gentleman
opportunely came up within a minute or two to attend him to the Snuggery. It was
the gentleman Clennam had seen on the night of his own accidental detention
there, who had that impalpable grievance about the misappropriated Fund on which
the Marshal was supposed to batten. He presented himself as deputation to escort
the Father to the Chair, it being an occasion on which he had promised to
preside over the assembled Collegians in the enjoyment of a little Harmony.
'Such, you see, Mr Clennam,' said the Father, 'are the incongruities of my
position here. But a public duty! No man, I am sure, would more readily
recognise a public duty than yourself.'
Clennam besought him not to delay a moment. 'Amy, my dear, if you can
persuade Mr Clennam to stay longer, I can leave the honours of our poor apology
for an establishment with confidence in your hands, and perhaps you may do
something towards erasing from Mr Clennam's mind the--ha--untoward and
unpleasant circumstance which has occurred since tea-time.'
Clennam assured him that it had made no impression on his mind, and therefore
required no erasure.
'My dear sir,' said the Father, with a removal of his black cap and a grasp
of Clennam's hand, combining to express the safe receipt of his note and
enclosure that afternoon, 'Heaven ever bless you!'
So, at last, Clennam's purpose in remaining was attained, and he could speak
to Little Dorrit with nobody by. Maggy counted as nobody, and she was by.
|