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Hard Times
By
Charles Dickens
Contents
Chapter 1 - The One Thing Needful<=
/span>
Chapter 2 - Murdering The Innocent=
s
Chapter 6 - Sleary’s Horsema=
nship
Chapter 10 - Stephen Blackpool
Chapter 14 - The Great Manufacture=
r
Chapter 15 - Father And Daughter=
span>
Chapter 1 - Effects In The Bank
Chapter 2 - Mr. James Harthouse
Chapter 9 - Hearing The Last Of It=
Chapter 10 - Mrs. Sparsit’s
Staircase
Chapter 1 - Another Thing Needful<=
/span>
‘NOW, what I want is, Facts.
Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in lif=
e.
Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the min=
ds
of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to
them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is
the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!̵=
7;
The scene was a plain, bare,
monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker’s square forefinger
emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on t=
he
schoolmaster’s sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s
square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his e=
yes
found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The
emphasis was helped by the speaker’s mouth, which was wide, thin, and
hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s voice, which was
inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker=
217;s
hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to
keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the cr=
ust
of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts
stored inside. The speaker’s obstinate carriage, square coat, square
legs, square shoulders, - nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by t=
he
throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was, - all
helped the emphasis.
‘In this life, we want nothi=
ng
but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!’
The speaker, and the schoolmaster,=
and
the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their e=
yes
the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, read=
y to
have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the
brim.
THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of
realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the
principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be
talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sir - peremptorily
Thomas - Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and the
multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure =
any
parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere
question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get some
other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or Augustus
Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind (all supposititious,
non-existent persons), but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind - no, sir!
In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always
mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance,=
or
to the public in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words &=
#8216;boys
and girls,’ for ‘sir,’ Thomas Gradgrind now presented Tho=
mas
Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full =
of
facts.
Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at =
them
from the cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to t=
he
muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the regions of
childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, charged
with a grim mechanical substitute for the tender young imaginations that we=
re
to be stormed away.
‘Girl number twenty,’ =
said
Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing with his square forefinger, ‘I don=
8217;t
know that girl. Who is that girl?’
‘Sissy Jupe, sir,’
explained number twenty, blushing, standing up, and curtseying.
‘Sissy is not a name,’
said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Don’t call yourself Sissy. Call yourself
Cecilia.’
‘It’s father as calls =
me
Sissy, sir,’ returned the young girl in a trembling voice, and with
another curtsey.
‘Then he has no business to =
do
it,’ said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Tell him he mustn’t. Cecilia Ju=
pe.
Let me see. What is your father?’
‘He belongs to the horse-rid=
ing,
if you please, sir.’
Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved o=
ff
the objectionable calling with his hand.
‘We don’t want to know
anything about that, here. You mustn’t tell us about that, here. Your
father breaks horses, don’t he?’
‘If you please, sir, when th=
ey
can get any to break, they do break horses in the ring, sir.’
‘You mustn’t tell us a=
bout
the ring, here. Very well, then. Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He
doctors sick horses, I dare say?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Very well, then. He is a
veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me your definition of=
a
horse.’
(Sissy Jupe thrown into the greate=
st
alarm by this demand.)
‘Girl number twenty unable to
define a horse!’ said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the
little pitchers. ‘Girl number twenty possessed of no facts, in refere=
nce
to one of the commonest of animals! Some boy’s definition of a horse.
Bitzer, yours.’
The square finger, moving here and
there, lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the
same ray of sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the
intensely white-washed room, irradiated Sissy. For, the boys and girls sat =
on
the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies, divided up the centre=
by
a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on the sunny sid=
e,
came in for the beginning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corne=
r of
a row on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But, whereas
the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that she seemed to receive a dee=
per
and more lustrous colour from the sun, when it shone upon her, the boy was =
so
light-eyed and light-haired that the self-same rays appeared to draw out of=
him
what little colour he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have been =
eyes,
but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing them into immediate
contrast with something paler than themselves, expressed their form. His
short-cropped hair might have been a mere continuation of the sandy freckle=
s on
his forehead and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natur=
al
tinge, that he looked as though, if he were cut, he would bleed white.
‘Bitzer,’ said Thomas
Gradgrind. ‘Your definition of a horse.’
‘Quadruped. Graminivorous. F=
orty
teeth, namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sh=
eds
coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but
requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth.’ Thus (a=
nd
much more) Bitzer.
‘Now girl number twenty,R=
17;
said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘You know what a horse is.’
She curtseyed again, and would have
blushed deeper, if she could have blushed deeper than she had blushed all t=
his
time. Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with both eyes at
once, and so catching the light upon his quivering ends of lashes that they
looked like the antennae of busy insects, put his knuckles to his freckled
forehead, and sat down again.
The third gentleman now stepped fo=
rth.
A mighty man at cutting and drying, he was; a government officer; in his way
(and in most other people’s too), a professed pugilist; always in
training, always with a system to force down the general throat like a bolu=
s,
always to be heard of at the bar of his little Public-office, ready to fight
all England. To continue in fistic phraseology, he had a genius for coming =
up
to the scratch, wherever and whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly
customer. He would go in and damage any subject whatever with his right, fo=
llow
up with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore his opponent (he always fou=
ght
All England) to the ropes, and fall upon him neatly. He was certain to knock
the wind out of common sense, and render that unlucky adversary deaf to the
call of time. And he had it in charge from high authority to bring about the
great public-office Millennium, when Commissioners should reign upon earth.=
‘Very well,’ said this
gentleman, briskly smiling, and folding his arms. ‘That’s a hor=
se.
Now, let me ask you girls and boys, Would you paper a room with representat=
ions
of horses?’
After a pause, one half of the
children cried in chorus, ‘Yes, sir!’ Upon which the other half,
seeing in the gentleman’s face that Yes was wrong, cried out in choru=
s, ‘No,
sir!’ - as the custom is, in these examinations.
‘Of course, No. Why wouldn=
8217;t
you?’
A pause. One corpulent slow boy, w=
ith
a wheezy manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn’t
paper a room at all, but would paint it.
‘You must paper it,’ s=
aid
the gentleman, rather warmly.
‘You must paper it,’ s=
aid
Thomas Gradgrind, ‘whether you like it or not. Don’t tell us you
wouldn’t paper it. What do you mean, boy?’
‘I’ll explain to you,
then,’ said the gentleman, after another and a dismal pause, ‘w=
hy
you wouldn’t paper a room with representations of horses. Do you ever=
see
horses walking up and down the sides of rooms in reality - in fact? Do you?=
’
‘Yes, sir!’ from one h=
alf.
‘No, sir!’ from the other.
‘Of course no,’ said t=
he
gentleman, with an indignant look at the wrong half. ‘Why, then, you =
are
not to see anywhere, what you don’t see in fact; you are not to have
anywhere, what you don’t have in fact. What is called Taste, is only
another name for Fact.’ Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation.
‘This is a new principle, a
discovery, a great discovery,’ said the gentleman. ‘Now, I̵=
7;ll
try you again. Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would you use a car=
pet
having a representation of flowers upon it?’
There being a general conviction by
this time that ‘No, sir!’ was always the right answer to this
gentleman, the chorus of NO was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers s=
aid
Yes: among them Sissy Jupe.
‘Girl number twenty,’ =
said
the gentleman, smiling in the calm strength of knowledge.
Sissy blushed, and stood up.
‘So you would carpet your ro=
om -
or your husband’s room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband -
with representations of flowers, would you?’ said the gentleman. R=
16;Why
would you?’
‘If you please, sir, I am ve=
ry
fond of flowers,’ returned the girl.
‘And is that why you would p=
ut
tables and chairs upon them, and have people walking over them with heavy
boots?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt them,
sir. They wouldn’t crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be
the pictures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy - R=
16;
‘Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn=
8217;t
fancy,’ cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his
point. ‘That’s it! You are never to fancy.’
‘You are not, Cecilia Jupe,&=
#8217;
Thomas Gradgrind solemnly repeated, ‘to do anything of that kind.R=
17;
‘Fact, fact, fact!’ sa=
id
the gentleman. And ‘Fact, fact, fact!’ repeated Thomas Gradgrin=
d.
‘You are to be in all things
regulated and governed,’ said the gentleman, ‘by fact. We hope =
to
have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who =
will
force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must
discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are =
not
to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in
fact. You don’t walk upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to w=
alk
upon flowers in carpets. You don’t find that foreign birds and
butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to p=
aint
foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never meet with
quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not have quadrupeds represented
upon walls. You must use,’ said the gentleman, ‘for all these
purposes, combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematic=
al
figures which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new
discovery. This is fact. This is taste.’
The girl curtseyed, and sat down. =
She
was very young, and she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-f=
act
prospect the world afforded.
‘Now, if Mr. M’Choakum=
child,’
said the gentleman, ‘will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr.
Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe his mode of proced=
ure.’
Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. =
8216;Mr.
M’Choakumchild, we only wait for you.’ So, Mr. M’Choakumc=
hild
began in his best manner. He and some one hundred and forty other
schoolmasters, had been lately turned at the same time, in the same factory=
, on
the same principles, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through =
an
immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-breaking questio=
ns.
Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography, astronomy, geograph=
y,
and general cosmography, the sciences of compound proportion, algebra,
land-surveying and levelling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were al=
l at
the ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her
Majesty’s most Honourable Privy Council’s Schedule B, and had t=
aken
the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics and physical science, Fren=
ch,
German, Latin, and Greek. He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the =
world
(whatever they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the
names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions, manners, and
customs of all the countries, and all their boundaries and bearings on the =
two
and thirty points of the compass. Ah, rather overdone, M’Choakumchild=
. If
he had only learnt a little less, how infinitely better he might have taught
much more!
He went to work in this preparatory
lesson, not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vess=
els ranged
before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M̵=
7;Choakumchild.
When from thy boiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim full by-and-by, =
dost
thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking wit=
hin
- or sometimes only maim him and distort him!
MR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from=
the
school, in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his school, and he
intended it to be a model. He intended every child in it to be a model - ju=
st
as the young Gradgrinds were all models.
There were five young Gradgrinds, =
and
they were models every one. They had been lectured at, from their tenderest
years; coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon as they could run alone, =
they
had been made to run to the lecture-room. The first object with which they =
had
an association, or of which they had a remembrance, was a large black board
with a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figures on it.
Not that they knew, by name or nat=
ure,
anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only use the word to express a monste=
r in
a lecturing castle, with Heaven knows how many heads manipulated into one,
taking childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statistical dens by t=
he
hair.
No little Gradgrind had ever seen a
face in the moon; it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly. No
little Gradgrind had ever learnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, little
star; how I wonder what you are! No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder =
on
the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five years old dissected the G=
reat
Bear like a Professor Owen, and driven Charles’s Wain like a locomoti=
ve
engine-driver. No little Gradgrind had ever associated a cow in a field with
that famous cow with the crumpled horn who tossed the dog who worried the c=
at
who killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more famous cow who
swallowed Tom Thumb: it had never heard of those celebrities, and had only =
been
introduced to a cow as a graminivorous ruminating quadruped with several
stomachs.
To his matter-of-fact home, which =
was
called Stone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had virtually reti=
red
from the wholesale hardware trade before he built Stone Lodge, and was now
looking about for a suitable opportunity of making an arithmetical figure in
Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor within a mile or two of a gr=
eat
town - called Coketown in the present faithful guide-book.
A very regular feature on the face=
of
the country, Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or shaded o=
ff
that uncompromising fact in the landscape. A great square house, with a hea=
vy
portico darkening the principal windows, as its master’s heavy brows
overshadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced, and proved house. S=
ix
windows on this side of the door, six on that side; a total of twelve in th=
is
wing, a total of twelve in the other wing; four-and-twenty carried over to =
the
back wings. A lawn and garden and an infant avenue, all ruled straight like=
a
botanical account- book. Gas and ventilation, drainage and water-service, a=
ll
of the primest quality. Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top to bot=
tom;
mechanical lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and brooms;
everything that heart could desire.
Everything? Well, I suppose so. The
little Gradgrinds had cabinets in various departments of science too. They =
had
a little conchological cabinet, and a little metallurgical cabinet, and a
little mineralogical cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and label=
led,
and the bits of stone and ore looked as though they might have been broken =
from
the parent substances by those tremendously hard instruments their own name=
s;
and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter Piper, who had never found his =
way
into their nursery, If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than th=
is,
what was it for good gracious goodness’ sake, that the greedy little
Gradgrinds grasped it!
Their father walked on in a hopeful
and satisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his manne=
r;
but he would probably have described himself (if he had been put, like Sissy
Jupe, upon a definition) as ‘an eminently practical’ father. He=
had
a particular pride in the phrase eminently practical, which was considered =
to
have a special application to him. Whatsoever the public meeting held in
Coketown, and whatsoever the subject of such meeting, some Coketowner was s=
ure
to seize the occasion of alluding to his eminently practical friend Gradgri=
nd.
This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He knew it to be his du=
e,
but his due was acceptable.
He had reached the neutral ground =
upon
the outskirts of the town, which was neither town nor country, and yet was
either spoiled, when his ears were invaded by the sound of music. The clash=
ing
and banging band attached to the horse-riding establishment, which had there
set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in full bray. A flag, floating fr=
om
the summit of the temple, proclaimed to mankind that it was ‘Sleary=
8217;s
Horse-riding’ which claimed their suffrages. Sleary himself, a stout
modern statue with a money-box at its elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of
early Gothic architecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, as some v=
ery
long and very narrow strips of printed bill announced, was then inaugurating
the entertainments with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act. Among =
the
other pleasing but always strictly moral wonders which must be seen to be
believed, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to ‘elucidate the diverting
accomplishments of his highly trained performing dog Merrylegs.’ He w=
as
also to exhibit ‘his astounding feat of throwing seventy-five
hundred-weight in rapid succession backhanded over his head, thus forming a
fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before attempted in this or=
any
other country, and which having elicited such rapturous plaudits from
enthusiastic throngs it cannot be withdrawn.’ The same Signor Jupe wa=
s to
‘enliven the varied performances at frequent intervals with his chaste
Shaksperean quips and retorts.’ Lastly, he was to wind them up by
appearing in his favourite character of Mr. William Button, of Tooley Stree=
t,
in ‘the highly novel and laughable hippo- comedietta of The Tailor=
217;s
Journey to Brentford.’
Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of t=
hese
trivialities of course, but passed on as a practical man ought to pass on,
either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts, or consigning them to =
the
House of Correction. But, the turning of the road took him by the back of t=
he
booth, and at the back of the booth a number of children were congregated i=
n a
number of stealthy attitudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of =
the
place.
This brought him to a stop. ‘=
;Now,
to think of these vagabonds,’ said he, ‘attracting the young ra=
bble
from a model school.’
A space of stunted grass and dry
rubbish being between him and the young rabble, he took his eyeglass out of=
his
waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name, and might order off.
Phenomenon almost incredible though distinctly seen, what did he then behold
but his own metallurgical Louisa, peeping with all her might through a hole=
in
a deal board, and his own mathematical Thomas abasing himself on the ground=
to
catch but a hoof of the graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act!
Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind
crossed to the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his hand upon
each erring child, and said:
‘Louisa!! Thomas!!’
Both rose, red and disconcerted. B=
ut,
Louisa looked at her father with more boldness than Thomas did. Indeed, Tho=
mas
did not look at him, but gave himself up to be taken home like a machine.
‘In the name of wonder,
idleness, and folly!’ said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by a hand=
; ‘what
do you do here?’
‘Wanted to see what it was l=
ike,’
returned Louisa, shortly.
‘What it was like?’
‘Yes, father.’
There was an air of jaded sullenne=
ss
in them both, and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling through the
dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with nothing to rest upon, a
fire with nothing to burn, a starved imagination keeping life in itself som=
ehow,
which brightened its expression. Not with the brightness natural to cheerful
youth, but with uncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which had something pai=
nful
in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face groping its way.
She was a child now, of fifteen or
sixteen; but at no distant day would seem to become a woman all at once. Her
father thought so as he looked at her. She was pretty. Would have been
self-willed (he thought in his eminently practical way) but for her
bringing-up.
‘Thomas, though I have the f=
act
before me, I find it difficult to believe that you, with your education and
resources, should have brought your sister to a scene like this.’
‘I brought him, father,̵=
7;
said Louisa, quickly. ‘I asked him to come.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. I am
very sorry indeed to hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you
worse, Louisa.’
She looked at her father again, bu=
t no
tear fell down her cheek.
‘You! Thomas and you, to whom
the circle of the sciences is open; Thomas and you, who may be said to be
replete with facts; Thomas and you, who have been trained to mathematical
exactness; Thomas and you, here!’ cried Mr. Gradgrind. ‘In this
degraded position! I am amazed.’
‘I was tired, father. I have
been tired a long time,’ said Louisa.
‘Tired? Of what?’ asked
the astonished father.
‘I don’t know of what =
- of
everything, I think.’
‘Say not another word,’
returned Mr. Gradgrind. ‘You are childish. I will hear no more.’=
; He
did not speak again until they had walked some half-a-mile in silence, when=
he
gravely broke out with: ‘What would your best friends say, Louisa? Do=
you
attach no value to their good opinion? What would Mr. Bounderby say?’=
At
the mention of this name, his daughter stole a look at him, remarkable for =
its
intense and searching character. He saw nothing of it, for before he looked=
at
her, she had again cast down her eyes!
‘What,’ he repeated
presently, ‘would Mr. Bounderby say?’ All the way to Stone Lodg=
e,
as with grave indignation he led the two delinquents home, he repeated at
intervals ‘What would Mr. Bounderby say?’ - as if Mr. Bounderby=
had
been Mrs. Grundy.
NOT being Mrs. Grundy, who was Mr.
Bounderby?
Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near bei=
ng
Mr. Gradgrind’s bosom friend, as a man perfectly devoid of sentiment =
can
approach that spiritual relationship towards another man perfectly devoid of
sentiment. So near was Mr. Bounderby - or, if the reader should prefer it, =
so
far off.
He was a rich man: banker, merchan=
t,
manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud man, with a stare, and a metallic
laugh. A man made out of a coarse material, which seemed to have been stret=
ched
to make so much of him. A man with a great puffed head and forehead, swelled
veins in his temples, and such a strained skin to his face that it seemed to
hold his eyes open, and lift his eyebrows up. A man with a pervading appear=
ance
on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready to start. A man who could
never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made man. A man who was always
proclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his old
ignorance and his old poverty. A man who was the Bully of humility.
A year or two younger than his
eminently practical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older; his seven or eight =
and
forty might have had the seven or eight added to it again, without surprisi=
ng
anybody. He had not much hair. One might have fancied he had talked it off;=
and
that what was left, all standing up in disorder, was in that condition from
being constantly blown about by his windy boastfulness.
In the formal drawing-room of Stone
Lodge, standing on the hearthrug, warming himself before the fire, Mr.
Bounderby delivered some observations to Mrs. Gradgrind on the circumstance=
of
its being his birthday. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a c=
ool
spring afternoon, though the sun shone; partly because the shade of Stone L=
odge
was always haunted by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because he thus took=
up
a commanding position, from which to subdue Mrs. Gradgrind.
‘I hadn’t a shoe to my
foot. As to a stocking, I didn’t know such a thing by name. I passed =
the
day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That’s the way I spent my
tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to me, for I was born in a ditch.&=
#8217;
Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, wh=
ite,
pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bodily; who
was always taking physic without any effect, and who, whenever she showed a
symptom of coming to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty piece of =
fact
tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch?
‘No! As wet as a sop. A foot=
of
water in it,’ said Mr. Bounderby.
‘Enough to give a baby cold,=
’
Mrs. Gradgrind considered.
‘Cold? I was born with
inflammation of the lungs, and of everything else, I believe, that was capa=
ble
of inflammation,’ returned Mr. Bounderby. ‘For years, ma’=
am,
I was one of the most miserable little wretches ever seen. I was so sickly,
that I was always moaning and groaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that you
wouldn’t have touched me with a pair of tongs.’
Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at t=
he
tongs, as the most appropriate thing her imbecility could think of doing.
‘How I fought through it, I =
don’t
know,’ said Bounderby. ‘I was determined, I suppose. I have bee=
n a
determined character in later life, and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mr=
s.
Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank for my being here, but myself.’=
;
Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly h=
oped
that his mother -
‘My mother? Bolted, ma’=
;am!’
said Bounderby.
Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual,
collapsed and gave it up.
‘My mother left me to my
grandmother,’ said Bounderby; ‘and, according to the best of my
remembrance, my grandmother was the wickedest and the worst old woman that =
ever
lived. If I got a little pair of shoes by any chance, she would take ‘=
;em
off and sell ‘em for drink. Why, I have known that grandmother of mine
lie in her bed and drink her four-teen glasses of liquor before breakfast!&=
#8217;
Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and
giving no other sign of vitality, looked (as she always did) like an
indifferently executed transparency of a small female figure, without enough
light behind it.
‘She kept a chandler’s
shop,’ pursued Bounderby, ‘and kept me in an egg-box. That was =
the
cot of my infancy; an old egg-box. As soon as I was big enough to run away,=
of
course I ran away. Then I became a young vagabond; and instead of one old w=
oman
knocking me about and starving me, everybody of all ages knocked me about a=
nd
starved me. They were right; they had no business to do anything else. I wa=
s a
nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that very well.’
His pride in having at any time of=
his
life achieved such a great social distinction as to be a nuisance, an
incumbrance, and a pest, was only to be satisfied by three sonorous repetit=
ions
of the boast.
‘I was to pull through it, I
suppose, Mrs. Gradgrind. Whether I was to do it or not, ma’am, I did =
it.
I pulled through it, though nobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond, errand-bo=
y,
vagabond, labourer, porter, clerk, chief manager, small partner, Josiah Bou=
nderby
of Coketown. Those are the antecedents, and the culmination. Josiah Bounder=
by
of Coketown learnt his letters from the outsides of the shops, Mrs. Gradgri=
nd,
and was first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate, from studying the
steeple clock of St. Giles’s Church, London, under the direction of a
drunken cripple, who was a convicted thief, and an incorrigible vagrant. Te=
ll
Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, of your district schools and your model schoo=
ls,
and your training schools, and your whole kettle-of-fish of schools; and Jo=
siah
Bounderby of Coketown, tells you plainly, all right, all correct - he hadn&=
#8217;t
such advantages - but let us have hard-headed, solid-fisted people - the
education that made him won’t do for everybody, he knows well - such =
and
such his education was, however, and you may force him to swallow boiling f=
at,
but you shall never force him to suppress the facts of his life.’
Being heated when he arrived at th=
is
climax, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown stopped. He stopped just as his eminen=
tly
practical friend, still accompanied by the two young culprits, entered the
room. His eminently practical friend, on seeing him, stopped also, and gave
Louisa a reproachful look that plainly said, ‘Behold your Bounderby!&=
#8217;
‘Well!’ blustered Mr.
Bounderby, ‘what’s the matter? What is young Thomas in the dumps
about?’
He spoke of young Thomas, but he
looked at Louisa.
‘We were peeping at the circ=
us,’
muttered Louisa, haughtily, without lifting up her eyes, ‘and father
caught us.’
‘And, Mrs. Gradgrind,’
said her husband in a lofty manner, ‘I should as soon have expected to
find my children reading poetry.’
‘Dear me,’ whimpered M=
rs.
Gradgrind. ‘How can you, Louisa and Thomas! I wonder at you. I declare
you’re enough to make one regret ever having had a family at all. I h=
ave
a great mind to say I wish I hadn’t. Then what would you have done, I
should like to know?’
Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favoura=
bly
impressed by these cogent remarks. He frowned impatiently.
‘As if, with my head in its
present throbbing state, you couldn’t go and look at the shells and
minerals and things provided for you, instead of circuses!’ said Mrs.
Gradgrind. ‘You know, as well as I do, no young people have circus
masters, or keep circuses in cabinets, or attend lectures about circuses. W=
hat
can you possibly want to know of circuses then? I am sure you have enough to
do, if that’s what you want. With my head in its present state, I cou=
ldn’t
remember the mere names of half the facts you have got to attend to.’=
‘That’s the reason!=
217;
pouted Louisa.
‘Don’t tell me that=
217;s
the reason, because it can’t be nothing of the sort,’ said Mrs.
Gradgrind. ‘Go and be somethingological directly.’ Mrs. Gradgri=
nd
was not a scientific character, and usually dismissed her children to their
studies with this general injunction to choose their pursuit.
In truth, Mrs. Gradgrind’s s=
tock
of facts in general was woefully defective; but Mr. Gradgrind in raising he=
r to
her high matrimonial position, had been influenced by two reasons. Firstly,=
she
was most satisfactory as a question of figures; and, secondly, she had R=
16;no
nonsense’ about her. By nonsense he meant fancy; and truly it is prob=
able
she was as free from any alloy of that nature, as any human being not arriv=
ed
at the perfection of an absolute idiot, ever was.
The simple circumstance of being l=
eft
alone with her husband and Mr. Bounderby, was sufficient to stun this admir=
able
lady again without collision between herself and any other fact. So, she on=
ce
more died away, and nobody minded her.
‘Bounderby,’ said Mr. =
Gradgrind,
drawing a chair to the fireside, ‘you are always so interested in my
young people - particularly in Louisa - that I make no apology for saying to
you, I am very much vexed by this discovery. I have systematically devoted
myself (as you know) to the education of the reason of my family. The reaso=
n is
(as you know) the only faculty to which education should be addressed. R=
16;And
yet, Bounderby, it would appear from this unexpected circumstance of to-day,
though in itself a trifling one, as if something had crept into Thomas̵=
7;s
and Louisa’s minds which is - or rather, which is not - I don’t
know that I can express myself better than by saying - which has never been
intended to be developed, and in which their reason has no part.’
‘There certainly is no reaso=
n in
looking with interest at a parcel of vagabonds,’ returned Bounderby. =
‘When
I was a vagabond myself, nobody looked with any interest at me; I know that=
.’
‘Then comes the question; sa=
id
the eminently practical father, with his eyes on the fire, ‘in what h=
as
this vulgar curiosity its rise?’
‘I’ll tell you in what=
. In
idle imagination.’
‘I hope not,’ said the
eminently practical; ‘I confess, however, that the misgiving has cros=
sed
me on my way home.’
‘In idle imagination, Gradgr=
ind,’
repeated Bounderby. ‘A very bad thing for anybody, but a cursed bad t=
hing
for a girl like Louisa. I should ask Mrs. Gradgrind’s pardon for stro=
ng
expressions, but that she knows very well I am not a refined character. Who=
ever
expects refinement in me will be disappointed. I hadn’t a refined
bringing up.’
‘Whether,’ said Gradgr=
ind,
pondering with his hands in his pockets, and his cavernous eyes on the fire=
, ‘whether
any instructor or servant can have suggested anything? Whether Louisa or Th=
omas
can have been reading anything? Whether, in spite of all precautions, any i=
dle
story-book can have got into the house? Because, in minds that have been
practically formed by rule and line, from the cradle upwards, this is so
curious, so incomprehensible.’
‘Stop a bit!’ cried
Bounderby, who all this time had been standing, as before, on the hearth,
bursting at the very furniture of the room with explosive humility. ‘=
You
have one of those strollers’ children in the school.’
‘Cecilia Jupe, by name,̵=
7;
said Mr. Gradgrind, with something of a stricken look at his friend.
‘Now, stop a bit!’ cri=
ed
Bounderby again. ‘How did she come there?’
‘Why, the fact is, I saw the
girl myself, for the first time, only just now. She specially applied here =
at
the house to be admitted, as not regularly belonging to our town, and - yes,
you are right, Bounderby, you are right.’
‘Now, stop a bit!’ cri=
ed
Bounderby, once more. ‘Louisa saw her when she came?’
‘Louisa certainly did see he=
r,
for she mentioned the application to me. But Louisa saw her, I have no doub=
t,
in Mrs. Gradgrind’s presence.’
‘Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind,’
said Bounderby, ‘what passed?’
‘Oh, my poor health!’
returned Mrs. Gradgrind. ‘The girl wanted to come to the school, and =
Mr.
Gradgrind wanted girls to come to the school, and Louisa and Thomas both sa=
id that
the girl wanted to come, and that Mr. Gradgrind wanted girls to come, and h=
ow
was it possible to contradict them when such was the fact!’
‘Now I tell you what, Gradgr=
ind!’
said Mr. Bounderby. ‘Turn this girl to the right about, and thereR=
17;s
an end of it.’
‘I am much of your opinion.&=
#8217;
‘Do it at once,’ said
Bounderby, ‘has always been my motto from a child. When I thought I w=
ould
run away from my egg-box and my grandmother, I did it at once. Do you the s=
ame.
Do this at once!’
‘Are you walking?’ ask=
ed
his friend. ‘I have the father’s address. Perhaps you would not
mind walking to town with me?’
‘Not the least in the world,=
’
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘as long as you do it at once!’
So, Mr. Bounderby threw on his hat=
-
he always threw it on, as expressing a man who had been far too busily empl=
oyed
in making himself, to acquire any fashion of wearing his hat - and with his
hands in his pockets, sauntered out into the hall. ‘I never wear glov=
es,’
it was his custom to say. ‘I didn’t climb up the ladder in them=
. -
Shouldn’t be so high up, if I had.’
Being left to saunter in the hall a
minute or two while Mr. Gradgrind went up-stairs for the address, he opened=
the
door of the children’s study and looked into that serene floor-clothed
apartment, which, notwithstanding its book-cases and its cabinets and its
variety of learned and philosophical appliances, had much of the genial asp=
ect
of a room devoted to hair-cutting. Louisa languidly leaned upon the window
looking out, without looking at anything, while young Thomas stood sniffing
revengefully at the fire. Adam Smith and Malthus, two younger Gradgrinds, w=
ere
out at lecture in custody; and little Jane, after manufacturing a good deal=
of
moist pipe-clay on her face with slate-pencil and tears, had fallen asleep =
over
vulgar fractions.
‘It’s all right now,
Louisa: it’s all right, young Thomas,’ said Mr. Bounderby; R=
16;you
won’t do so any more. I’ll answer for it’s being all over
with father. Well, Louisa, that’s worth a kiss, isn’t it?’=
;
‘You can take one, Mr.
Bounderby,’ returned Louisa, when she had coldly paused, and slowly
walked across the room, and ungraciously raised her cheek towards him, with=
her
face turned away.
‘Always my pet; ain’t =
you,
Louisa?’ said Mr. Bounderby. ‘Good-bye, Louisa!’
He went his way, but she stood on =
the
same spot, rubbing the cheek he had kissed, with her handkerchief, until it=
was
burning red. She was still doing this, five minutes afterwards.
‘What are you about, Loo?=
217;
her brother sulkily remonstrated. ‘You’ll rub a hole in your fa=
ce.’
‘You may cut the piece out w=
ith
your penknife if you like, Tom. I wouldn’t cry!’
COKETOWN, to which Messrs. Bounder=
by
and Gradgrind now walked, was a triumph of fact; it had no greater taint of
fancy in it than Mrs. Gradgrind herself. Let us strike the key-note, Coketo=
wn,
before pursuing our tune.
It was a town of red brick, or of
brick that would have been red if the smoke and ashes had allowed it; but as
matters stood, it was a town of unnatural red and black like the painted fa=
ce
of a savage. It was a town of machinery and tall chimneys, out of which
interminable serpents of smoke trailed themselves for ever and ever, and ne=
ver
got uncoiled. It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with
ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there wa=
s a
rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-en=
gine
worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of
melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very like one
another, and many small streets still more like one another, inhabited by
people equally like one another, who all went in and out at the same hours,
with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do the same work, and to wh=
om
every day was the same as yesterday and to-morrow, and every year the
counterpart of the last and the next.
These attributes of Coketown were =
in
the main inseparable from the work by which it was sustained; against them =
were
to be set off, comforts of life which found their way all over the world, a=
nd
elegancies of life which made, we will not ask how much of the fine lady, w=
ho
could scarcely bear to hear the place mentioned. The rest of its features w=
ere
voluntary, and they were these.
You saw nothing in Coketown but wh=
at
was severely workful. If the members of a religious persuasion built a chap=
el
there - as the members of eighteen religious persuasions had done - they ma=
de
it a pious warehouse of red brick, with sometimes (but this is only in high=
ly
ornamental examples) a bell in a birdcage on the top of it. The solitary
exception was the New Church; a stuccoed edifice with a square steeple over=
the
door, terminating in four short pinnacles like florid wooden legs. All the
public inscriptions in the town were painted alike, in severe characters of
black and white. The jail might have been the infirmary, the infirmary might
have been the jail, the town-hall might have been either, or both, or anyth=
ing
else, for anything that appeared to the contrary in the graces of their con=
struction.
Fact, fact, fact, everywhere in the material aspect of the town; fact, fact,
fact, everywhere in the immaterial. The M’Choakumchild school was all
fact, and the school of design was all fact, and the relations between mast=
er
and man were all fact, and everything was fact between the lying-in hospital
and the cemetery, and what you couldn’t state in figures, or show to =
be
purchaseable in the cheapest market and saleable in the dearest, was not, a=
nd
never should be, world without end, Amen.
A town so sacred to fact, and so
triumphant in its assertion, of course got on well? Why no, not quite well.=
No?
Dear me!
No. Coketown did not come out of i=
ts
own furnaces, in all respects like gold that had stood the fire. First, the
perplexing mystery of the place was, Who belonged to the eighteen
denominations? Because, whoever did, the labouring people did not. It was v=
ery
strange to walk through the streets on a Sunday morning, and note how few of
them the barbarous jangling of bells that was driving the sick and nervous =
mad,
called away from their own quarter, from their own close rooms, from the
corners of their own streets, where they lounged listlessly, gazing at all =
the
church and chapel going, as at a thing with which they had no manner of
concern. Nor was it merely the stranger who noticed this, because there was=
a
native organization in Coketown itself, whose members were to be heard of in
the House of Commons every session, indignantly petitioning for acts of
parliament that should make these people religious by main force. Then came=
the
Teetotal Society, who complained that these same people would get drunk, and
showed in tabular statements that they did get drunk, and proved at tea par=
ties
that no inducement, human or Divine (except a medal), would induce them to
forego their custom of getting drunk. Then came the chemist and druggist, w=
ith
other tabular statements, showing that when they didn’t get drunk, th=
ey
took opium. Then came the experienced chaplain of the jail, with more tabul=
ar
statements, outdoing all the previous tabular statements, and showing that =
the
same people would resort to low haunts, hidden from the public eye, where t=
hey
heard low singing and saw low dancing, and mayhap joined in it; and where A.
B., aged twenty-four next birthday, and committed for eighteen months’
solitary, had himself said (not that he had ever shown himself particularly
worthy of belief) his ruin began, as he was perfectly sure and confident th=
at
otherwise he would have been a tip-top moral specimen. Then came Mr. Gradgr=
ind
and Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present moment walking through
Coketown, and both eminently practical, who could, on occasion, furnish more
tabular statements derived from their own personal experience, and illustra=
ted
by cases they had known and seen, from which it clearly appeared - in short=
, it
was the only clear thing in the case - that these same people were a bad lot
altogether, gentlemen; that do what you would for them they were never than=
kful
for it, gentlemen; that they were restless, gentlemen; that they never knew
what they wanted; that they lived upon the best, and bought fresh butter; a=
nd
insisted on Mocha coffee, and rejected all but prime parts of meat, and yet
were eternally dissatisfied and unmanageable. In short, it was the moral of=
the
old nursery fable:
There was an old woman, and what do
you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; Victuals and drink
were the whole of her diet, And yet this old woman would NEVER be quiet.
Is it possible, I wonder, that the=
re
was any analogy between the case of the Coketown population and the case of=
the
little Gradgrinds? Surely, none of us in our sober senses and acquainted wi=
th
figures, are to be told at this time of day, that one of the foremost eleme=
nts
in the existence of the Coketown working-people had been for scores of year=
s,
deliberately set at nought? That there was any Fancy in them demanding to be
brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on in convulsions? That
exactly in the ratio as they worked long and monotonously, the craving grew
within them for some physical relief - some relaxation, encouraging good hu=
mour
and good spirits, and giving them a vent - some recognized holiday, though =
it
were but for an honest dance to a stirring band of music - some occasional
light pie in which even M’Choakumchild had no finger - which craving =
must
and would be satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go wrong, until=
the
laws of the Creation were repealed?
‘This man lives at Pod’=
;s
End, and I don’t quite know Pod’s End,’ said Mr. Gradgrin=
d. ‘Which
is it, Bounderby?’
Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere
down town, but knew no more respecting it. So they stopped for a moment,
looking about.
Almost as they did so, there came
running round the corner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened
look, a girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognized. ‘Halloa!’ said he. =
‘Stop!
Where are you going! Stop!’ Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitat=
ing,
and made him a curtsey. ‘Why are you tearing about the streets,’
said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘in this improper manner?’
‘I was - I was run after, si=
r,’
the girl panted, ‘and I wanted to get away.’
‘Run after?’ repeated =
Mr.
Gradgrind. ‘Who would run after you?’
The question was unexpectedly and
suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the
corner with such blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage on the
pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr. Gradgrind’s waistcoat
and rebounded into the road.
‘What do you mean, boy?̵=
7;
said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘What are you doing? How dare you dash against -
everybody - in this manner?’ Bitzer picked up his cap, which the
concussion had knocked off; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded
that it was an accident.
‘Was this boy running after =
you,
Jupe?’ asked Mr. Gradgrind.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the g=
irl
reluctantly.
‘No, I wasn’t, sir!=
217;
cried Bitzer. ‘Not till she run away from me. But the horse-riders ne=
ver
mind what they say, sir; they’re famous for it. You know the horse-ri=
ders
are famous for never minding what they say,’ addressing Sissy. ‘=
;It’s
as well known in the town as - please, sir, as the multiplication table isn=
’t
known to the horse-riders.’ Bitzer tried Mr. Bounderby with this.
‘He frightened me so,’
said the girl, ‘with his cruel faces!’
‘Oh!’ cried Bitzer. =
8216;Oh!
An’t you one of the rest! An=
’t
you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know
how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran
away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she =
was
asked. You wouldn’t have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn&=
#8217;t
been a horse-rider?’
‘Her calling seems to be pre=
tty
well known among ‘em,’ observed Mr. Bounderby. ‘You’=
;d
have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week.’
‘Truly, I think so,’
returned his friend. ‘Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home.
Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any mo=
re,
boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understa=
nd
what I mean. Go along.’
The boy stopped in his rapid blink=
ing,
knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated.=
‘Now, girl,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘take this gentleman and me to your father’s; we are
going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?’
‘Gin,’ said Mr. Bounde=
rby.
‘Dear, no, sir! It’s t=
he
nine oils.’
‘The what?’ cried Mr.
Bounderby.
‘The nine oils, sir, to rub
father with.’
‘Then,’ said Mr.
Bounderby, with a loud short laugh, ‘what the devil do you rub your f=
ather
with nine oils for?’
‘It’s what our people
aways use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring,’ replied the gir=
l,
looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. =
216;They
bruise themselves very bad sometimes.’
‘Serve ‘em right,̵=
7;
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘for being idle.’ She glanced up at his fac=
e,
with mingled astonishment and dread.
‘By George!’ said Mr.
Bounderby, ‘when I was four or five years younger than you, I had wor=
se
bruises upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed o=
ff.
I didn’t get ‘em by posture-making, but by being banged about.
There was no rope- dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground and was larr=
uped
with the rope.’
Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough,=
was
by no means so rough a man as Mr. Bounderby. His character was not unkind, =
all
things considered; it might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only
made some round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He s=
aid,
in what he meant for a reassuring tone, as they turned down a narrow road, =
‘And
this is Pod’s End; is it, Jupe?’
‘This is it, sir, and - if y=
ou
wouldn’t mind, sir - this is the house.’
She stopped, at twilight, at the d=
oor
of a mean little public- house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as
shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and had
gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end of it.
‘It’s only crossing the
bar, sir, and up the stairs, if you wouldn’t mind, and waiting there =
for
a moment till I get a candle. If you should hear a dog, sir, it’s only
Merrylegs, and he only barks.’
‘Merrylegs and nine oils, eh=
!’
said Mr. Bounderby, entering last with his metallic laugh. ‘Pretty we=
ll
this, for a self-made man!’
THE name of the public-house was t=
he
Pegasus’s Arms. The Pegasus’s legs might have been more to the
purpose; but, underneath the winged horse upon the sign-board, the Pegasus&=
#8217;s
Arms was inscribed in Roman letters. Beneath that inscription again, in a
flowing scroll, the painter had touched off the lines:
Good malt makes good beer, Walk in,
and they’ll draw it here; Good wine makes good brandy, Give us a call,
and you’ll find it handy.
Framed and glazed upon the wall be=
hind
the dingy little bar, was another Pegasus - a theatrical one - with real ga=
uze
let in for his wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and his ethereal
harness made of red silk.
As it had grown too dusky without,=
to
see the sign, and as it had not grown light enough within to see the pictur=
e,
Mr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby received no offence from these idealities. =
They
followed the girl up some steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, and
stopped in the dark while she went on for a candle. They expected every mom=
ent
to hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly trained performing dog had not
barked when the girl and the candle appeared together.
‘Father is not in our room, =
sir,’
she said, with a face of great surprise. ‘If you wouldn’t mind
walking in, I’ll find him directly.’ They walked in; and Sissy,=
having
set two chairs for them, sped away with a quick light step. It was a mean,
shabbily furnished room, with a bed in it. The white night-cap, embellished
with two peacock’s feathers and a pigtail bolt upright, in which Sign=
or
Jupe had that very afternoon enlivened the varied performances with his cha=
ste
Shaksperean quips and retorts, hung upon a nail; but no other portion of his
wardrobe, or other token of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen anywher=
e.
As to Merrylegs, that respectable ancestor of the highly trained animal who
went aboard the ark, might have been accidentally shut out of it, for any s=
ign
of a dog that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pegasus’s Arms.
They heard the doors of rooms abov=
e,
opening and shutting as Sissy went from one to another in quest of her fath=
er;
and presently they heard voices expressing surprise. She came bounding down
again in a great hurry, opened a battered and mangy old hair trunk, found it
empty, and looked round with her hands clasped and her face full of terror.=
‘Father must have gone down =
to
the Booth, sir. I don’t know why he should go there, but he must be
there; I’ll bring him in a minute!’ She was gone directly, with=
out
her bonnet; with her long, dark, childish hair streaming behind her.
‘What does she mean!’ =
said
Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Back in a minute? It’s more than a mile off.=
217;
Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a
young man appeared at the door, and introducing himself with the words, =
216;By
your leaves, gentlemen!’ walked in with his hands in his pockets. His=
face,
close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair,
brushed into a roll all round his head, and parted up the centre. His legs =
were
very robust, but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His
chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. He was
dressed in a Newmarket coat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round =
his
neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses’ provender, and
sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur, compounded of the st=
able
and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could =
have
told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the d=
ay
as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act =
as
the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performa=
nce,
a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his
infant son: being carried upside down over his father’s shoulder, by =
one
foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his
father’s hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild
huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls,
wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared
into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal
part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a
precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf,
turfy.
‘By your leaves, gentlemen,&=
#8217;
said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. ‘It was you, I
believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!’
‘It was,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind. ‘His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can’t wai=
t;
therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you.’
‘You see, my friend,’ =
Mr.
Bounderby put in, ‘we are the kind of people who know the value of ti=
me,
and you are the kind of people who don’t know the value of time.̵=
7;
‘I have not,’ retorted=
Mr.
Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, ‘the honour of knowi=
ng
you, - but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can=
of
mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right.’=
‘And when you have made it, =
you
can keep it too, I should think,’ said Cupid.
‘Kidderminster, stow that!=
8217;
said Mr. Childers. (Master Kidderminster was Cupid’s mortal name.)
‘What does he come here chee=
king
us for, then?’ cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible
temperament. ‘If you want to cheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and
take it out.’
‘Kidderminster,’ said =
Mr.
Childers, raising his voice, ‘stow that! - Sir,’ to Mr. Gradgri=
nd, ‘I
was addressing myself to you. You may or you may not be aware (for perhaps =
you
have not been much in the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very ofte=
n,
lately.’
‘Has - what has he missed?=
8217;
asked Mr. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance.
‘Missed his tip.’
‘Offered at the Garters four
times last night, and never done ‘em once,’ said Master
Kidderminster. ‘Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in =
his
ponging.’
‘Didn’t do what he oug=
ht
to do. Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling,’ Mr. Childers
interpreted.
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Gradgri=
nd, ‘that
is tip, is it?’
‘In a general way that’=
;s
missing his tip,’ Mr. E. W. B. Childers answered.
‘Nine oils, Merrylegs, missi=
ng
tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!’ ejaculated Bounderby, with =
his
laugh of laughs. ‘Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised
himself!’
‘Lower yourself, then,’
retorted Cupid. ‘Oh Lord! if you’ve raised yourself so high as =
all
that comes to, let yourself down a bit.’
‘This is a very obtrusive la=
d!’
said Mr. Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him.
‘We’d have had a young
gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming,’ retorted Mas=
ter
Kidderminster, nothing abashed. ‘It’s a pity you don’t ha=
ve a
bespeak, being so particular. You’re on the Tight-Jeff, ain’t y=
ou?’
‘What does this unmannerly b=
oy
mean,’ asked Mr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, R=
16;by
Tight-Jeff?’
‘There! Get out, get out!=
217;
said Mr. Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the
prairie manner. ‘Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don’t much signif=
y:
it’s only tight-rope and slack- rope. You were going to give me a mes=
sage
for Jupe?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Then,’ continued Mr.
Childers, quickly, ‘my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you k=
now
much of him?’
‘I never saw the man in my l=
ife.’
‘I doubt if you ever will see
him now. It’s pretty plain to me, he’s off.’
‘Do you mean that he has
deserted his daughter?’
‘Ay! I mean,’ said Mr.
Childers, with a nod, ‘that he has cut. He was goosed last night, he =
was
goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. He has lately got in the
way of being always goosed, and he can’t stand it.’
‘Why has he been - so very m=
uch
- Goosed?’ asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with
great solemnity and reluctance.
‘His joints are turning stif=
f,
and he is getting used up,’ said Childers. ‘He has his points a=
s a
Cackler still, but he can’t get a living out of them.’
‘A Cackler!’ Bounderby
repeated. ‘Here we go again!’
‘A speaker, if the gentleman
likes it better,’ said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing=
the
interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his l=
ong
hair - which all shook at once. ‘Now, it’s a remarkable fact, s=
ir,
that it cut that man deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being
goosed, than to go through with it.’
‘Good!’ interrupted Mr.
Bounderby. ‘This is good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, t=
hat
he runs away from her! This is devilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I’ll tell =
you
what, young man. I haven’t always occupied my present station of life=
. I
know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother=
-
ran away from me.’
E. W. B. Childers replied pointedl=
y,
that he was not at all astonished to hear it.
‘Very well,’ said
Bounderby. ‘I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do=
I
excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call
her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the
world, except my drunken grandmother. There’s no family pride about m=
e,
there’s no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a
spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any f=
ear
or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jo=
nes
of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that=
8217;s
what he is, in English.’
‘It’s all the same to =
me
what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French,̵=
7;
retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. ‘I am telling your frie=
nd
what’s the fact; if you don’t like to hear it, you can avail
yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mou=
th
in your own building at least,’ remonstrated E. W. B. with stern iron=
y. ‘Don’t
give it mouth in this building, till you’re called upon. You have got
some building of your own I dare say, now?’
‘Perhaps so,’ replied =
Mr. Bounderby,
rattling his money and laughing.
‘Then give it mouth in your =
own
building, will you, if you please?’ said Childers. ‘Because this
isn’t a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!R=
17;
Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to =
foot
again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgr=
ind.
‘Jupe sent his daughter out =
on
an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his =
hat
over his eyes, and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She wi=
ll
never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her.’
‘Pray,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘why will she never believe it of him?’
‘Because those two were one.
Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote
upon her,’ said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty
trunk. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manne=
r;
with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very
knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all=
the
male members of Sleary’s company, and was understood to express, that
they were always on horseback.
‘Poor Sissy! He had better h=
ave
apprenticed her,’ said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he
looked up from the empty box. ‘Now, he leaves her without anything to
take to.’
‘It is creditable to you, who
have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion,’ returned Mr.
Gradgrind, approvingly.
‘I never apprenticed? I was
apprenticed when I was seven year old.’
‘Oh! Indeed?’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion=
. ‘I
was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to - R=
16;
‘Idleness,’ Mr. Bounde=
rby
put in with a loud laugh. ‘No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!’
‘Her father always had it in=
his
head,’ resumed Childers, feigning unconsciousness of Mr. Bounderby=
217;s
existence, ‘that she was to be taught the deuce-and-all of education.=
How
it got into his head, I can’t say; I can only say that it never got o=
ut.
He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, here - and a bit of writing
for her, there - and a bit of ciphering for her, somewhere else - these sev=
en
years.’
Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of =
his
hands out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good
deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first he had so=
ught
to conciliate that gentleman, for the sake of the deserted girl.
‘When Sissy got into the sch=
ool
here,’ he pursued, ‘her father was as pleased as Punch. I could=
n’t
altogether make out why, myself, as we were not stationary here, being but
comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, however, he had this move in his mind=
-
he was always half-cracked - and then considered her provided for. If you
should happen to have looked in to-night, for the purpose of telling him th=
at
you were going to do her any little service,’ said Mr. Childers, stro=
king
his face again, and repeating his look, ‘it would be very fortunate a=
nd
well-timed; very fortunate and well- timed.’
‘On the contrary,’ ret=
urned
Mr. Gradgrind. ‘I came to tell him that her connections made her not =
an
object for the school, and that she must not attend any more. Still, if her
father really has left her, without any connivance on her part - Bounderby,=
let
me have a word with you.’
Upon this, Mr. Childers politely
betook himself, with his equestrian walk, to the landing outside the door, =
and
there stood stroking his face, and softly whistling. While thus engaged, he
overheard such phrases in Mr. Bounderby’s voice as ‘No. I say n=
o. I
advise you not. I say by no means.’ While, from Mr. Gradgrind, he hea=
rd
in his much lower tone the words, ‘But even as an example to Louisa, =
of
what this pursuit which has been the subject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to
and ends in. Think of it, Bounderby, in that point of view.’
Meanwhile, the various members of
Sleary’s company gradually gathered together from the upper regions,
where they were quartered, and, from standing about, talking in low voices =
to
one another and to Mr. Childers, gradually insinuated themselves and him in=
to
the room. There were two or three handsome young women among them, with the=
ir
two or three husbands, and their two or three mothers, and their eight or n=
ine
little children, who did the fairy business when required. The father of on=
e of
the families was in the habit of balancing the father of another of the
families on the top of a great pole; the father of a third family often mad=
e a
pyramid of both those fathers, with Master Kidderminster for the apex, and
himself for the base; all the fathers could dance upon rolling casks, stand
upon bottles, catch knives and balls, twirl hand-basins, ride upon anything,
jump over everything, and stick at nothing. All the mothers could (and did)
dance, upon the slack wire and the tight-rope, and perform rapid acts on
bare-backed steeds; none of them were at all particular in respect of showi=
ng
their legs; and one of them, alone in a Greek chariot, drove six in hand in=
to
every town they came to. They all assumed to be mighty rakish and knowing, =
they
were not very tidy in their private dresses, they were not at all orderly in
their domestic arrangements, and the combined literature of the whole compa=
ny
would have produced but a poor letter on any subject. Yet there was a
remarkable gentleness and childishness about these people, a special inapti=
tude
for any kind of sharp practice, and an untiring readiness to help and pity =
one
another, deserving often of as much respect, and always of as much generous
construction, as the every- day virtues of any class of people in the world=
.
Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary: a
stout man as already mentioned, with one fixed eye, and one loose eye, a vo=
ice
(if it can be called so) like the efforts of a broken old pair of bellows, a
flabby surface, and a muddled head which was never sober and never drunk.
‘Thquire!’ said Mr.
Sleary, who was troubled with asthma, and whose breath came far too thick a=
nd
heavy for the letter s, ‘Your thervant! Thith ith a bad piethe of
bithnith, thith ith. You’ve heard of my Clown and hith dog being
thuppothed to have morrithed?’
He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who
answered ‘Yes.’
‘Well, Thquire,’ he
returned, taking off his hat, and rubbing the lining with his
pocket-handkerchief, which he kept inside for the purpose. ‘Ith it yo=
ur
intenthion to do anything for the poor girl, Thquire?’
‘I shall have something to
propose to her when she comes back,’ said Mr. Gradgrind.
‘Glad to hear it, Thquire. N=
ot
that I want to get rid of the child, any more than I want to thtand in her =
way.
I’m willing to take her prentith, though at her age ith late. My voit=
he
ith a little huthky, Thquire, and not eathy heard by them ath don’t k=
now
me; but if you’d been chilled and heated, heated and chilled, chilled=
and
heated in the ring when you wath young, ath often ath I have been, your voi=
the
wouldn’t have lathted out, Thquire, no more than mine.’
‘I dare say not,’ said=
Mr.
Gradgrind.
‘What thall it be, Thquire,
while you wait? Thall it be Therry? Give it a name, Thquire!’ said Mr.
Sleary, with hospitable ease.
‘Nothing for me, I thank you=
,’
said Mr. Gradgrind.
‘Don’t thay nothing,
Thquire. What doth your friend thay? If you haven’t took your feed ye=
t,
have a glath of bitterth.’
Here his daughter Josephine - a pr=
etty
fair-haired girl of eighteen, who had been tied on a horse at two years old,
and had made a will at twelve, which she always carried about with her,
expressive of her dying desire to be drawn to the grave by the two piebald
ponies - cried, ‘Father, hush! she has come back!’ Then came Si=
ssy
Jupe, running into the room as she had run out of it. And when she saw them=
all
assembled, and saw their looks, and saw no father there, she broke into a m=
ost
deplorable cry, and took refuge on the bosom of the most accomplished
tight-rope lady (herself in the family-way), who knelt down on the floor to
nurse her, and to weep over her.
‘Ith an internal thame, upon=
my
thoul it ith,’ said Sleary.
‘O my dear father, my good k=
ind
father, where are you gone? You are gone to try to do me some good, I know!=
You
are gone away for my sake, I am sure! And how miserable and helpless you wi=
ll
be without me, poor, poor father, until you come back!’ It was so
pathetic to hear her saying many things of this kind, with her face turned
upward, and her arms stretched out as if she were trying to stop his depart=
ing
shadow and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growing
impatient) took the case in hand.
‘Now, good people all,’
said he, ‘this is wanton waste of time. Let the girl understand the f=
act.
Let her take it from me, if you like, who have been run away from, myself.
Here, what’s your name! Your father has absconded - deserted you - and
you mustn’t expect to see him again as long as you live.’
They cared so little for plain Fac=
t,
these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject,
that instead of being impressed by the speaker’s strong common sense,
they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered ‘Shame!’
and the women ‘Brute!’ and Sleary, in some haste, communicated =
the
following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby.
‘I tell you what, Thquire. To
thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort, and d=
rop
it. They’re a very good natur’d people, my people, but theyR=
17;re
accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don’t act upon=
my
advithe, I’m damned if I don’t believe they’ll pith you o=
ut o’
winder.’
Mr. Bounderby being restrained by =
this
mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical
exposition of the subject.
‘It is of no moment,’ =
said
he, ‘whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the
contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his retur=
n.
That, I believe, is agreed on all hands.’
‘Thath agreed, Thquire. Thic=
k to
that!’ From Sleary.
‘Well then. I, who came here=
to
inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at=
the
school any more, in consequence of there being practical objections, into w=
hich
I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so empl=
oyed,
am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing=
to
take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for you. The only
condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is, that you decide n=
ow,
at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompan=
y me
now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends=
who
are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case.’=
‘At the thame time,’ s=
aid
Sleary, ‘I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the
banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be prentitht, you k=
now
the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe=
lap
you’re a lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth’=
phine
would be a thithter to you. I don’t pretend to be of the angel breed
myself, and I don’t thay but what, when you mith’d your tip, yo=
u’d
find me cut up rough, and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay,
Thquire, ith, that good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a in=
jury
yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don’t expect I th=
all
begin otherwithe at my time of life, with a rider. I never wath much of a
Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay.’
The latter part of this speech was
addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his
head, and then remarked:
‘The only observation I will
make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision, is, that it is
highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your fa=
ther
himself (from what I understand) appears, on your behalf, to have known and
felt that much.’
The last words had a visible effect
upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Em=
ma
Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceiv=
ed
the force of the change, and drew a long breath together, that plainly said=
, ‘she
will go!’
‘Be sure you know your own m=
ind,
Jupe,’ Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her; ‘I say no more. Be sure you
know your own mind!’
‘When father comes back,R=
17;
cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute’s silence, &=
#8216;how
will he ever find me if I go away!’
‘You may be quite at ease,=
8217;
said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: R=
16;you
may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I
apprehend, must find out Mr. - ‘
‘Thleary. Thath my name,
Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth paythe ith =
way.’
‘Must find out Mr. Sleary, w=
ho
would then let him know where you went. I should have no power of keeping y=
ou
against his wish, and he would have no difficulty, at any time, in finding =
Mr.
Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am well known.’
‘Well known,’ assented=
Mr.
Sleary, rolling his loose eye. ‘You’re one of the thort, Thquir=
e,
that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But never mind =
that
at prethent.’
There was another silence; and then
she exclaimed, sobbing with her hands before her face, ‘Oh, give me my
clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go away before I break my heart!=
217;
The women sadly bestirred themselv=
es
to get the clothes together - it was soon done, for they were not many - an=
d to
pack them in a basket which had often travelled with them. Sissy sat all the
time upon the ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Gradgrind a=
nd
his friend Bounderby stood near the door, ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary
stood in the middle of the room, with the male members of the company about
him, exactly as he would have stood in the centre of the ring during his
daughter Josephine’s performance. He wanted nothing but his whip.
The basket packed in silence, they
brought her bonnet to her, and smoothed her disordered hair, and put it on.
Then they pressed about her, and bent over her in very natural attitudes,
kissing and embracing her: and brought the children to take leave of her; a=
nd
were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women altogether.
‘Now, Jupe,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind. ‘If you are quite determined, come!’
But she had to take her farewell of
the male part of the company yet, and every one of them had to unfold his a=
rms
(for they all assumed the professional attitude when they found themselves =
near
Sleary), and give her a parting kiss - Master Kidderminster excepted, in wh=
ose
young nature there was an original flavour of the misanthrope, who was also
known to have harboured matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sl=
eary
was reserved until the last. Opening his arms wide he took her by both her =
hands,
and would have sprung her up and down, after the riding-master manner of
congratulating young ladies on their dismounting from a rapid act; but there
was no rebound in Sissy, and she only stood before him crying.
‘Good-bye, my dear!’ s=
aid
Sleary. ‘You’ll make your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor
folkth will ever trouble you, I’ll pound it. I with your father hadn&=
#8217;t
taken hith dog with him; ith a ill- conwenienth to have the dog out of the
billth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn’t have performed without h=
ith
mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!’
With that he regarded her attentiv=
ely
with his fixed eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed her, sh=
ook
his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse.
‘There the ith, Thquire,R=
17;
he said, sweeping her with a professional glance as if she were being adjus=
ted
in her seat, ‘and the’ll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!=
’
‘Good-bye, Cecilia!’ &=
#8216;Good-bye,
Sissy!’ ‘God bless you, dear!’ In a variety of voices from
all the room.
But the riding-master eye had obse=
rved
the bottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with ‘=
;Leave
the bottle, my dear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe to you now. =
Give
it to me!’
‘No, no!’ she said, in
another burst of tears. ‘Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till =
he
comes back! He will want it when he comes back. He had never thought of goi=
ng
away, when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him, if you please!’=
‘Tho be it, my dear. (You th=
ee
how it ith, Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordth to you ith thith,
Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be obedient to the Thquire, and fo=
rget
uth. But if, when you’re grown up and married and well off, you come =
upon
any horthe-riding ever, don’t be hard upon it, don’t be croth w=
ith
it, give it a Bethpeak if you can, and think you might do wurth. People mut=
ht
be amuthed, Thquire, thomehow,’ continued Sleary, rendered more pursy
than ever, by so much talking; ‘they can’t be alwayth a working,
nor yet they can’t be alwayth a learning. Make the betht of uth; not =
the
wurtht. I’ve got my living out of the horthe-riding all my life, I kn=
ow;
but I conthider that I lay down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay=
to
you, Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!’
The Sleary philosophy was propound=
ed
as they went downstairs and the fixed eye of Philosophy - and its rolling e=
ye,
too - soon lost the three figures and the basket in the darkness of the str=
eet.
MR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an
elderly lady presided over his establishment, in consideration of a certain
annual stipend. Mrs. Sparsit was this lady’s name; and she was a
prominent figure in attendance on Mr. Bounderby’s car, as it rolled a=
long
in triumph with the Bully of humility inside.
For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen
different days, but was highly connected. She had a great aunt living in th=
ese
very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the
relict, had been by the mother’s side what Mrs. Sparsit still called =
‘a
Powler.’ Strangers of limited information and dull apprehension were
sometimes observed not to know what a Powler was, and even to appear uncert=
ain
whether it might be a business, or a political party, or a profession of fa=
ith.
The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the
Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far
back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves - which t=
hey
had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew
monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors’ Court.
The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the
mother’s side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father’s
side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordin=
ate
appetite for butcher’s meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refus=
ed
to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a period w=
hen
Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly
supported on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentionin=
g.
He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came =
into
it, and spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at
twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he d=
id
not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after the honeymo=
on,
in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he,
fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, p=
artly
to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, went out at a salary.
And here she was now, in her elderly days, with the Coriolanian style of no=
se
and the dense black eyebrows which had captivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bound=
erby’s
tea as he took his breakfast.
If Bounderby had been a Conqueror,=
and
Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he took about as a feature in his
state-processions, he could not have made a greater flourish with her than =
he
habitually did. Just as it belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate his o=
wn
extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt Mrs. Sparsit’s. In the meas=
ure
that he would not allow his own youth to have been attended by a single
favourable circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit’s juvenile career
with every possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all
over that lady’s path. ‘And yet, sir,’ he would say, R=
16;how
does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her=
a
hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah
Bounderby of Coketown!’
Nay, he made this foil of his so v=
ery
widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasio=
ns
with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes=
of
Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to
sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, mode=
st
enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a
rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the
Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An
Englishman’s house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the
Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator =
of
this kind brought into his peroration,
‘Princes and lords may flour=
ish
or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made,’
- it was, for certain, more or less
understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ said =
Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morni=
ng.’
‘Why, ma’am,’ he
returned, ‘I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind’s whim;’ Tom
Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking - as if somebody were
always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wo=
uldn’t;
‘Tom Gradgrind’s whim, ma’am, of bringing up the
tumbling-girl.’
‘The girl is now waiting to
know,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘whether she is to go straight to the
school, or up to the Lodge.’
‘She must wait, ma’am,=
’
answered Bounderby, ‘till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind =
down
here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two
longer, of course she can, ma’am.’
‘Of course she can if you wi=
sh
it, Mr. Bounderby.’
‘I told him I would give her=
a
shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he
decided to let her have any association with Louisa.’
‘Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very
thoughtful of you!’ Mrs. Sparsit’s Coriolanian nose underwent a
slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she =
took
a sip of tea.
‘It’s tolerably clear =
to
me,’ said Bounderby, ‘that the little puss can get small good o=
ut
of such companionship.’
‘Are you speaking of young M=
iss
Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I’m
speaking of Louisa.’
‘Your observation being limi=
ted
to "little puss,"‘ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘and there being
two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by th=
at
expression.’
‘Louisa,’ repeated Mr.
Bounderby. ‘Louisa, Louisa.’
‘You are quite another fathe=
r to
Louisa, sir.’ Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent h=
er
again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her
classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods.
‘If you had said I was anoth=
er
father to Tom - young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind - you might =
have
been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to
have him under my wing, ma’am.’
‘Indeed? Rather young for th=
at,
is he not, sir?’ Mrs. Spirit’s ‘sir,’ in addressing=
Mr.
Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for hersel=
f in
the use, than honouring him.
‘I’m not going to take=
him
at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then,’ said
Bounderby. ‘By the Lord Harry, he’ll have enough of it, first a=
nd
last! He’d open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of
learning my young maw was, at his time of life.’ Which, by the by, he
probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. ‘But it’=
;s
extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking=
to
any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this
morning about tumblers. Why, what do you know about tumblers? At the time w=
hen,
to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend=
to
me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were
coming out of the Italian Opera, ma’am, in white satin and jewels, a
blaze of splendour, when I hadn’t a penny to buy a link to light you.=
’
‘I certainly, sir,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful, ‘was familiar
with the Italian Opera at a very early age.’
‘Egad, ma’am, so was I=
,’
said Bounderby, ‘ - with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavemen=
t of
its Arcade used to make, I assure you. People like you, ma’am, accust=
omed
from infancy to lie on Down feathers, have no idea how hard a paving-stone =
is,
without trying it. No, no, it’s of no use my talking to you about
tumblers. I should speak of foreign dancers, and the West End of London, and
May Fair, and lords and ladies and honourables.’
‘I trust, sir,’ rejoin=
ed
Mrs. Sparsit, with decent resignation, ‘it is not necessary that you
should do anything of that kind. I hope I have learnt how to accommodate my=
self
to the changes of life. If I have acquired an interest in hearing of your
instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, I claim no m=
erit
for that, since I believe it is a general sentiment.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ s=
aid
her patron, ‘perhaps some people may be pleased to say that they do l=
ike
to hear, in his own unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown, has
gone through. But you must confess that you were born in the lap of luxury,
yourself. Come, ma’am, you know you were born in the lap of luxury.=
8217;
‘I do not, sir,’ retur=
ned
Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her head, ‘deny it.’
Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up
from table, and stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she was su=
ch
an enhancement of his position.
‘And you were in crack socie=
ty. Devilish
high society,’ he said, warming his legs.
‘It is true, sir,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the very opposite of
his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it.
‘You were in the tiptop fash=
ion,
and all the rest of it,’ said Mr. Bounderby.
‘Yes, sir,’ returned M=
rs.
Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon her. ‘It is unquestiona=
bly
true.’
Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at =
the
knees, literally embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed al=
oud.
Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received the former with a
shake of the hand, and the latter with a kiss.
‘Can Jupe be sent here,
Bounderby?’ asked Mr. Gradgrind.
Certainly. So Jupe was sent there.=
On
coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Gradgrind,=
and
also to Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observ=
ing
this, the blustrous Bounderby had the following remarks to make:
‘Now, I tell you what, my gi=
rl.
The name of that lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as
mistress of this house, and she is a highly connected lady. Consequently, if
ever you come again into any room in this house, you will make a short stay=
in
it if you don’t behave towards that lady in your most respectful mann=
er.
Now, I don’t care a button what you do to me, because I don’t
affect to be anybody. So far from having high connections I have no connect=
ions
at all, and I come of the scum of the earth. But towards that lady, I do ca=
re
what you do; and you shall do what is deferential and respectful, or you sh=
all
not come here.’
‘I hope, Bounderby,’ s=
aid
Mr. Gradgrind, in a conciliatory voice, ‘that this was merely an
oversight.’
‘My friend Tom Gradgrind
suggests, Mrs. Sparsit,’ said Bounderby, ‘that this was merely =
an
oversight. Very likely. However, as you are aware, ma’am, I don’=
;t
allow of even oversights towards you.’
‘You are very good indeed, s=
ir,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head with her State humility. ‘It =
is
not worth speaking of.’
Sissy, who all this time had been =
faintly
excusing herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by the master of
the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently at him, and Louisa s=
tood
coldly by, with her eyes upon the ground, while he proceeded thus:
‘Jupe, I have made up my min=
d to
take you into my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the school, =
to
employ you about Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. I have explained=
to
Miss Louisa - this is Miss Louisa - the miserable but natural end of your l=
ate
career; and you are to expressly understand that the whole of that subject =
is
past, and is not to be referred to any more. From this time you begin your
history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know.’
‘Yes, sir, very,’ she
answered, curtseying.
‘I shall have the satisfacti=
on
of causing you to be strictly educated; and you will be a living proof to a=
ll
who come into communication with you, of the advantages of the training you
will receive. You will be reclaimed and formed. You have been in the habit =
now
of reading to your father, and those people I found you among, I dare say?&=
#8217;
said Mr. Gradgrind, beckoning her nearer to him before he said so, and drop=
ping
his voice.
‘Only to father and Merryleg=
s,
sir. At least I mean to father, when Merrylegs was always there.’
‘Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe,= ’ said Mr. Gradgrind, with a passing frown. ‘I don’t ask about hi= m. I understand you to have been in the habit of reading to your father?’<= o:p>
‘O, yes, sir, thousands of
times. They were the happiest - O, of all the happy times we had together, =
sir!’
It was only now when her sorrow br=
oke
out, that Louisa looked at her.
‘And what,’ asked Mr.
Gradgrind, in a still lower voice, ‘did you read to your father, Jupe=
?’
‘About the Fairies, sir, and=
the
Dwarf, and the Hunchback, and the Genies,’ she sobbed out; ‘and
about - ‘
‘Hush!’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘that is enough. Never breathe a word of such destructive
nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall
observe it with interest.’
‘Well,’ returned Mr.
Bounderby, ‘I have given you my opinion already, and I shouldn’=
t do
as you do. But, very well, very well. Since you are bent upon it, very well=
!’
So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter
took Cecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa never
spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went about his daily pursuit=
s.
And Mrs. Sparsit got behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of that
retreat, all the evening.
LET us strike the key-note again,
before pursuing the tune.
When she was half a dozen years
younger, Louisa had been overheard to begin a conversation with her brother=
one
day, by saying ‘Tom, I wonder’ - upon which Mr. Gradgrind, who =
was
the person overhearing, stepped forth into the light and said, ‘Louis=
a,
never wonder!’
Herein lay the spring of the
mechanical art and mystery of educating the reason without stooping to the
cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never wonder. By means of
addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division, settle everything some=
how,
and never wonder. Bring to me, says M’Choakumchild, yonder baby just =
able
to walk, and I will engage that it shall never wonder.
Now, besides very many babies just
able to walk, there happened to be in Coketown a considerable population of
babies who had been walking against time towards the infinite world, twenty,
thirty, forty, fifty years and more. These portentous infants being alarming
creatures to stalk about in any human society, the eighteen denominations
incessantly scratched one another’s faces and pulled one another̵=
7;s
hair by way of agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement - wh=
ich
they never did; a surprising circumstance, when the happy adaptation of the
means to the end is considered. Still, although they differed in every other
particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially inconceivable), they =
were
pretty well united on the point that these unlucky infants were never to
wonder. Body number one, said they must take everything on trust. Body numb=
er
two, said they must take everything on political economy. Body number three,
wrote leaden little books for them, showing how the good grown-up baby
invariably got to the Savings-bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got
transported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of being droll (when =
it
was very melancholy indeed), made the shallowest pretences of concealing
pitfalls of knowledge, into which it was the duty of these babies to be
smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that they were never to
wonder.
There was a library in Coketown, to
which general access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his mind abo=
ut
what the people read in this library: a point whereon little rivers of tabu=
lar
statements periodically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular statements,
which no diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a
disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers
persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, h=
uman
hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and
sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after
fifteen hours’ work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women,
more or less like themselves, and about children, more or less like their o=
wn.
They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the
whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever
working, in print and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never cou=
ld
make out how it yielded this unaccountable product.
‘I am sick of my life, Loo. =
I,
hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you,’ said the unnatu=
ral
young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight.
‘You don’t hate Sissy,
Tom?’
‘I hate to be obliged to call
her Jupe. And she hates me,’ said Tom, moodily.
‘No, she does not, Tom, I am
sure!’
‘She must,’ said Tom. =
‘She
must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They’ll bother her
head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she’s gett=
ing
as pale as wax, and as heavy as - I am.’
Young Thomas expressed these
sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the
back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by
the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they
dropped upon the hearth.
‘As to me,’ said Tom,
tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, ‘I am a
Donkey, that’s what I am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid =
than
one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one.R=
17;
‘Not me, I hope, Tom?’=
‘No, Loo; I wouldn’t h=
urt
you. I made an exception of you at first. I don’t know what this - jo=
lly
old - Jaundiced Jail,’ Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complime=
ntary
and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind f=
or a
moment by the strong alliteration of this one, ‘would be without you.=
’
‘Indeed, Tom? Do you really =
and
truly say so?’
‘Why, of course I do. What=
8217;s
the use of talking about it!’ returned Tom, chafing his face on his
coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spi=
rit.
‘Because, Tom,’ said h=
is
sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, ‘as I get older, a=
nd
nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it=
is
for me that I can’t reconcile you to home better than I am able to do=
. I
don’t know what other girls know. I can’t play to you, or sing =
to
you. I can’t talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see =
any
amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a
relief to you to talk about, when you are tired.’
‘Well, no more do I. I am as=
bad
as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you’re not. If fat=
her
was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why=
, it
stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am,’ said Tom, desperate=
ly.
‘It’s a great pity,=
217;
said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark
corner: ‘it’s a great pity, Tom. It’s very unfortunate for
both of us.’
‘Oh! You,’ said Tom; &=
#8216;you
are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don=
8217;t
miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have - you can brighten e=
ven
this place - and you can always lead me as you like.’
‘You are a dear brother, Tom;
and while you think I can do such things, I don’t so much mind knowing
better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it.’ She =
came
and kissed him, and went back into her corner again.
‘I wish I could collect all =
the
Facts we hear so much about,’ said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth,=
‘and
all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could =
put
a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together!
However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I’ll have my revenge.&=
#8217;
‘Your revenge, Tom?’
‘I mean, I’ll enjoy my=
self
a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I’ll
recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up.’
‘But don’t disappoint
yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a g=
reat
deal rougher, and not half so kind.’
‘Oh!’ said Tom, laughi=
ng; ‘I
don’t mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old
Bounderby!’
Their shadows were defined upon the
wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on
the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a
dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination - if such treason could have been t=
here
- might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowe=
ring
association with their future.
‘What is your great mode of
smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?’
‘Oh!’ said Tom, ‘=
;if
it is a secret, it’s not far off. It’s you. You are his little =
pet,
you are his favourite; he’ll do anything for you. When he says to me =
what
I don’t like, I shall say to him, "My sister Loo will be hurt and
disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you wo=
uld
be easier with me than this." That’ll bring him about, or nothing
will.’
After waiting for some answering
remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and
twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled =
his
head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked:
‘Have you gone to sleep, Loo=
?’
‘No, Tom. I am looking at the
fire.’
‘You seem to find more to lo=
ok
at in it than ever I could find,’ said Tom. ‘Another of the
advantages, I suppose, of being a girl.’
‘Tom,’ enquired his
sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she aske=
d in
the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, ‘do you look
forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby’s?̵=
7;
‘Why, there’s one thin=
g to
be said of it,’ returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing
up; ‘it will be getting away from home.’
‘There is one thing to be sa=
id
of it,’ Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; ‘it will be
getting away from home. Yes.’
‘Not but what I shall be very
unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you
know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me
some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. D=
on’t
you see?’
‘Yes, Tom.’
The answer was so long in coming,
though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back =
of
her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of
view, and see what he could make of it.
‘Except that it is a fire,=
8217;
said Tom, ‘it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else look=
s.
What do you see in it? Not a circus?’
‘I don’t see anything =
in
it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been
wondering about you and me, grown up.’
‘Wondering again!’ said
Tom.
‘I have such unmanageable thoughts,’ returned his sister, ‘that they will wonder.’<= o:p>
‘Then I beg of you, Louisa,&=
#8217;
said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, ‘to=
do
nothing of that description, for goodness’ sake, you inconsiderate gi=
rl,
or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is
really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy
brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has,
should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father =
has
expressly said that she is not to do it.’
Louisa denied Tom’s
participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive
answer, ‘Louisa, don’t tell me, in my state of health; for unle=
ss
you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you c=
ould
have done it.’
‘I was encouraged by nothing,
mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and
whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would b=
e,
and how little I could hope to do in it.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mrs.
Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. ‘Nonsense! Don’t stand th=
ere
and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if=
it
was ever to reach your father’s ears I should never hear the last of =
it.
After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you =
have
attended, and the experiments you have seen! After I have heard you myself,
when the whole of my right side has been benumbed, going on with your master
about combustion, and calcination, and calorification, and I may say every =
kind
of ation that could drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talking in
this absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish,’ whimpered Mrs.
Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging her strongest point before
succumbing under these mere shadows of facts, ‘yes, I really do wish =
that
I had never had a family, and then you would have known what it was to do
without me!’
SISSY JUPE had not an easy time of=
it,
between Mr. M’Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not without st=
rong
impulses, in the first months of her probation, to run away. It hailed facts
all day long so very hard, and life in general was opened to her as such a
closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she would have run away, but f=
or
only one restraint.
It is lamentable to think of; but =
this
restraint was the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed in
defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any table of probabiliti=
es
that any Actuary would have drawn up from the premises. The girl believed t=
hat
her father had not deserted her; she lived in the hope that he would come b=
ack,
and in the faith that he would be made the happier by her remaining where s=
he
was.
The wretched ignorance with which =
Jupe
clung to this consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of knowing, on a
sound arithmetical basis, that her father was an unnatural vagabond, filled=
Mr.
Gradgrind with pity. Yet, what was to be done? M’Choakumchild reported
that she had a very dense head for figures; that, once possessed with a gen=
eral
idea of the globe, she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact
measurements; that she was extremely slow in the acquisition of dates, unle=
ss
some pitiful incident happened to be connected therewith; that she would bu=
rst
into tears on being required (by the mental process) immediately to name the
cost of two hundred and forty-seven muslin caps at fourteen-pence halfpenny;
that she was as low down, in the school, as low could be; that after eight
weeks of induction into the elements of Political Economy, she had only
yesterday been set right by a prattler three feet high, for returning to the
question, ‘What is the first principle of this science?’ the ab=
surd
answer, ‘To do unto others as I would that they should do unto me.=
217;
Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his
head, that all this was very bad; that it showed the necessity of infinite
grinding at the mill of knowledge, as per system, schedule, blue book, repo=
rt,
and tabular statements A to Z; and that Jupe ‘must be kept to it.R=
17;
So Jupe was kept to it, and became low-spirited, but no wiser.
‘It would be a fine thing to=
be
you, Miss Louisa!’ she said, one night, when Louisa had endeavoured to
make her perplexities for next day something clearer to her.
‘Do you think so?’
‘I should know so much, Miss
Louisa. All that is difficult to me now, would be so easy then.’
‘You might not be the better=
for
it, Sissy.’
Sissy submitted, after a little
hesitation, ‘I should not be the worse, Miss Louisa.’ To which =
Miss
Louisa answered, ‘I don’t know that.’
There had been so little communica=
tion
between these two - both because life at Stone Lodge went monotonously round
like a piece of machinery which discouraged human interference, and because=
of
the prohibition relative to Sissy’s past career - that they were still
almost strangers. Sissy, with her dark eyes wonderingly directed to Louisa&=
#8217;s
face, was uncertain whether to say more or to remain silent.
‘You are more useful to my
mother, and more pleasant with her than I can ever be,’ Louisa resume=
d. ‘You
are pleasanter to yourself, than I am to myself.’
‘But, if you please, Miss
Louisa,’ Sissy pleaded, ‘I am - O so stupid!’
Louisa, with a brighter laugh than
usual, told her she would be wiser by-and-by.
‘You don’t know,’
said Sissy, half crying, ‘what a stupid girl I am. All through school
hours I make mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. M’Choakumchild call me up, over a=
nd
over again, regularly to make mistakes. I can’t help them. They seem =
to
come natural to me.’
‘Mr. and Mrs. M’Choaku=
mchild
never make any mistakes themselves, I suppose, Sissy?’
‘O no!’ she eagerly
returned. ‘They know everything.’
‘Tell me some of your mistak=
es.’
‘I am almost ashamed,’
said Sissy, with reluctance. ‘But to-day, for instance, Mr. M’C=
hoakumchild
was explaining to us about Natural Prosperity.’
‘National, I think it must h=
ave
been,’ observed Louisa.
‘Yes, it was. - But isn̵=
7;t
it the same?’ she timidly asked.
‘You had better say, Nationa=
l,
as he said so,’ returned Louisa, with her dry reserve.
‘National Prosperity. And he
said, Now, this schoolroom is a Nation. And in this nation, there are fifty
millions of money. Isn’t this a prosperous nation? Girl number twenty,
isn’t this a prosperous nation, and a’n’t you in a thrivi=
ng
state?’
‘What did you say?’ as=
ked
Louisa.
‘Miss Louisa, I said I didn&=
#8217;t
know. I thought I couldn’t know whether it was a prosperous nation or
not, and whether I was in a thriving state or not, unless I knew who had got
the money, and whether any of it was mine. But that had nothing to do with =
it.
It was not in the figures at all,’ said Sissy, wiping her eyes.
‘That was a great mistake of
yours,’ observed Louisa.
‘Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it
was, now. Then Mr. M’Choakumchild said he would try me again. And he
said, This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it there are a million of
inhabitants, and only five-and-twenty are starved to death in the streets, =
in
the course of a year. What is your remark on that proportion? And my remark=
was
- for I couldn’t think of a better one - that I thought it must be ju=
st
as hard upon those who were starved, whether the others were a million, or a
million million. And that was wrong, too.’
‘Of course it was.’
‘Then Mr. M’Choakumchi=
ld
said he would try me once more. And he said, Here are the stutterings - =
216;
‘Statistics,’ said Lou=
isa.
‘Yes, Miss Louisa - they alw=
ays
remind me of stutterings, and that’s another of my mistakes - of
accidents upon the sea. And I find (Mr. M’Choakumchild said) that in a
given time a hundred thousand persons went to sea on long voyages, and only
five hundred of them were drowned or burnt to death. What is the percentage?
And I said, Miss;’ here Sissy fairly sobbed as confessing with extreme
contrition to her greatest error; ‘I said it was nothing.’
‘Nothing, Sissy?’
‘Nothing, Miss - to the
relations and friends of the people who were killed. I shall never learn,=
8217;
said Sissy. ‘And the worst of all is, that although my poor father wi=
shed
me so much to learn, and although I am so anxious to learn, because he wish=
ed
me to, I am afraid I don’t like it.’
Louisa stood looking at the pretty
modest head, as it drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to
glance at her face. Then she asked:
‘Did your father know so much
himself, that he wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?’
Sissy hesitated before replying, a=
nd
so plainly showed her sense that they were entering on forbidden ground, th=
at
Louisa added, ‘No one hears us; and if any one did, I am sure no harm
could be found in such an innocent question.’
‘No, Miss Louisa,’
answered Sissy, upon this encouragement, shaking her head; ‘father kn=
ows
very little indeed. It’s as much as he can do to write; and it’s
more than people in general can do to read his writing. Though it’s p=
lain
to me.’
‘Your mother!’
‘Father says she was quite a
scholar. She died when I was born. She was;’ Sissy made the terrible
communication nervously; ‘she was a dancer.’
‘Did your father love her?=
8217;
Louisa asked these questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest peculi=
ar
to her; an interest gone astray like a banished creature, and hiding in
solitary places.
‘O yes! As dearly as he loves
me. Father loved me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him when=
I
was quite a baby. We have never been asunder from that time.’
‘Yet he leaves you now, Siss=
y?’
‘Only for my good. Nobody
understands him as I do; nobody knows him as I do. When he left me for my g=
ood
- he never would have left me for his own - I know he was almost broken-hea=
rted
with the trial. He will not be happy for a single minute, till he comes bac=
k.’
‘Tell me more about him,R= 17; said Louisa, ‘I will never ask you again. Where did you live?’<= o:p>
‘We travelled about the coun=
try,
and had no fixed place to live in. Father’s a;’ Sissy whispered=
the
awful word, ‘a clown.’
‘To make the people laugh?=
8217;
said Louisa, with a nod of intelligence.
‘Yes. But they wouldn’t
laugh sometimes, and then father cried. Lately, they very often wouldn̵=
7;t
laugh, and he used to come home despairing. Father’s not like most. T=
hose
who didn’t know him as well as I do, and didn’t love him as dea=
rly
as I do, might believe he was not quite right. Sometimes they played tricks
upon him; but they never knew how he felt them, and shrunk up, when he was
alone with me. He was far, far timider than they thought!’
‘And you were his comfort
through everything?’
She nodded, with the tears rolling
down her face. ‘I hope so, and father said I was. It was because he g=
rew
so scared and trembling, and because he felt himself to be a poor, weak,
ignorant, helpless man (those used to be his words), that he wanted me so m=
uch
to know a great deal, and be different from him. I used to read to him to c=
heer
his courage, and he was very fond of that. They were wrong books - I am nev=
er to
speak of them here - but we didn’t know there was any harm in them.=
8217;
‘And he liked them?’ s=
aid
Louisa, with a searching gaze on Sissy all this time.
‘O very much! They kept him,
many times, from what did him real harm. And often and often of a night, he=
used
to forget all his troubles in wondering whether the Sultan would let the la=
dy
go on with the story, or would have her head cut off before it was finished=
.’
‘And your father was always
kind? To the last?’ asked Louisa contravening the great principle, and
wondering very much.
‘Always, always!’ retu=
rned
Sissy, clasping her hands. ‘Kinder and kinder than I can tell. He was
angry only one night, and that was not to me, but Merrylegs. Merrylegs;R=
17;
she whispered the awful fact; ‘is his performing dog.’
‘Why was he angry with the d=
og?’
Louisa demanded.
‘Father, soon after they came home from performing, told Merrylegs to jump up on the backs of the two cha= irs and stand across them - which is one of his tricks. He looked at father, and didn’t do it at once. Everything of father’s had gone wrong that night, and he hadn’t pleased the public at all. He cried out that the very dog knew he was failing, and had no compassion on him. Then he beat the dog, and I was frightened, and said, "Father, father! Pray don’t hurt the creature who is so fond of you! O Heaven forgive you, father, stop!" And he stopped, and the dog was bloody, and father lay down cry= ing on the floor with the dog in his arms, and the dog licked his face.’<= o:p>
Louisa saw that she was sobbing; a=
nd
going to her, kissed her, took her hand, and sat down beside her.
‘Finish by telling me how yo=
ur
father left you, Sissy. Now that I have asked you so much, tell me the end.=
The
blame, if there is any blame, is mine, not yours.’
‘Dear Miss Louisa,’ sa=
id
Sissy, covering her eyes, and sobbing yet; ‘I came home from the scho=
ol
that afternoon, and found poor father just come home too, from the booth. A=
nd
he sat rocking himself over the fire, as if he was in pain. And I said,
"Have you hurt yourself, father?" (as he did sometimes, like they=
all
did), and he said, "A little, my darling." And when I came to sto=
op
down and look up at his face, I saw that he was crying. The more I spoke to
him, the more he hid his face; and at first he shook all over, and said not=
hing
but "My darling;" and "My love!"‘
Here Tom came lounging in, and sta=
red
at the two with a coolness not particularly savouring of interest in anythi=
ng
but himself, and not much of that at present.
‘I am asking Sissy a few
questions, Tom,’ observed his sister. ‘You have no occasion to =
go
away; but don’t interrupt us for a moment, Tom dear.’
‘Oh! very well!’ retur=
ned
Tom. ‘Only father has brought old Bounderby home, and I want you to c=
ome
into the drawing-room. Because if you come, there’s a good chance of =
old
Bounderby’s asking me to dinner; and if you don’t, there’s
none.’
‘I’ll come directly.=
8217;
‘I’ll wait for you,=
217;
said Tom, ‘to make sure.’
Sissy resumed in a lower voice. =
8216;At
last poor father said that he had given no satisfaction again, and never did
give any satisfaction now, and that he was a shame and disgrace, and I shou=
ld
have done better without him all along. I said all the affectionate things =
to
him that came into my heart, and presently he was quiet and I sat down by h=
im,
and told him all about the school and everything that had been said and done
there. When I had no more left to tell, he put his arms round my neck, and
kissed me a great many times. Then he asked me to fetch some of the stuff he
used, for the little hurt he had had, and to get it at the best place, which
was at the other end of town from there; and then, after kissing me again, =
he
let me go. When I had gone down-stairs, I turned back that I might be a lit=
tle
bit more company to him yet, and looked in at the door, and said, "Fat=
her
dear, shall I take Merrylegs?" Father shook his head and said, "N=
o,
Sissy, no; take nothing that’s known to be mine, my darling;" an=
d I
left him sitting by the fire. Then the thought must have come upon him, poo=
r,
poor father! of going away to try something for my sake; for when I came ba=
ck,
he was gone.’
‘I say! Look sharp for old
Bounderby, Loo!’ Tom remonstrated.
‘There’s no more to te=
ll,
Miss Louisa. I keep the nine oils ready for him, and I know he will come ba=
ck.
Every letter that I see in Mr. Gradgrind’s hand takes my breath away =
and
blinds my eyes, for I think it comes from father, or from Mr. Sleary about
father. Mr. Sleary promised to write as soon as ever father should be heard=
of,
and I trust to him to keep his word.’
‘Do look sharp for old
Bounderby, Loo!’ said Tom, with an impatient whistle. ‘He’=
;ll
be off if you don’t look sharp!’
After this, whenever Sissy dropped=
a
curtsey to Mr. Gradgrind in the presence of his family, and said in a falte=
ring
way, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, for being troublesome - but - have you =
had
any letter yet about me?’ Louisa would suspend the occupation of the
moment, whatever it was, and look for the reply as earnestly as Sissy did. =
And
when Mr. Gradgrind regularly answered, ‘No, Jupe, nothing of the sort=
,’
the trembling of Sissy’s lip would be repeated in Louisa’s face,
and her eyes would follow Sissy with compassion to the door. Mr. Gradgrind
usually improved these occasions by remarking, when she was gone, that if J=
upe
had been properly trained from an early age she would have remonstrated to
herself on sound principles the baselessness of these fantastic hopes. Yet =
it
did seem (though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) as if fantastic hope
could take as strong a hold as Fact.
This observation must be limited
exclusively to his daughter. As to Tom, he was becoming that not unpreceden=
ted
triumph of calculation which is usually at work on number one. As to Mrs.
Gradgrind, if she said anything on the subject, she would come a little way=
out
of her wrappers, like a feminine dormouse, and say:
‘Good gracious bless me, how=
my
poor head is vexed and worried by that girl Jupe’s so perseveringly
asking, over and over again, about her tiresome letters! Upon my word and
honour I seem to be fated, and destined, and ordained, to live in the midst=
of
things that I am never to hear the last of. It really is a most extraordina=
ry
circumstance that it appears as if I never was to hear the last of anything=
!’
At about this point, Mr. Gradgrind=
’s
eye would fall upon her; and under the influence of that wintry piece of fa=
ct,
she would become torpid again.
I ENTERTAIN a weak idea that the
English people are as hard-worked as any people upon whom the sun shines. I
acknowledge to this ridiculous idiosyncrasy, as a reason why I would give t=
hem
a little more play.
In the hardest working part of
Coketown; in the innermost fortifications of that ugly citadel, where Nature
was as strongly bricked out as killing airs and gases were bricked in; at t=
he
heart of the labyrinth of narrow courts upon courts, and close streets upon
streets, which had come into existence piecemeal, every piece in a violent
hurry for some one man’s purpose, and the whole an unnatural family,
shouldering, and trampling, and pressing one another to death; in the last
close nook of this great exhausted receiver, where the chimneys, for want of
air to make a draught, were built in an immense variety of stunted and croo=
ked
shapes, as though every house put out a sign of the kind of people who migh=
t be
expected to be born in it; among the multitude of Coketown, generically cal=
led ‘the
Hands,’ - a race who would have found more favour with some people, if
Providence had seen fit to make them only hands, or, like the lower creatur=
es
of the seashore, only hands and stomachs - lived a certain Stephen Blackpoo=
l,
forty years of age.
Stephen looked older, but he had h=
ad a
hard life. It is said that every life has its roses and thorns; there seeme=
d,
however, to have been a misadventure or mistake in Stephen’s case,
whereby somebody else had become possessed of his roses, and he had become
possessed of the same somebody else’s thorns in addition to his own. =
He
had known, to use his words, a peck of trouble. He was usually called Old
Stephen, in a kind of rough homage to the fact.
A rather stooping man, with a knit=
ted
brow, a pondering expression of face, and a hard-looking head sufficiently
capacious, on which his iron-grey hair lay long and thin, Old Stephen might
have passed for a particularly intelligent man in his condition. Yet he was
not. He took no place among those remarkable ‘Hands,’ who, piec=
ing
together their broken intervals of leisure through many years, had mastered
difficult sciences, and acquired a knowledge of most unlikely things. He he=
ld
no station among the Hands who could make speeches and carry on debates.
Thousands of his compeers could talk much better than he, at any time. He w=
as a
good power-loom weaver, and a man of perfect integrity. What more he was, or
what else he had in him, if anything, let him show for himself.
The lights in the great factories,
which looked, when they were illuminated, like Fairy palaces - or the
travellers by express- train said so - were all extinguished; and the bells=
had
rung for knocking off for the night, and had ceased again; and the Hands, m=
en
and women, boy and girl, were clattering home. Old Stephen was standing in =
the
street, with the old sensation upon him which the stoppage of the machinery
always produced - the sensation of its having worked and stopped in his own=
head.
‘Yet I don’t see Racha=
el,
still!’ said he.
It was a wet night, and many group=
s of
young women passed him, with their shawls drawn over their bare heads and h=
eld
close under their chins to keep the rain out. He knew Rachael well, for a
glance at any one of these groups was sufficient to show him that she was n=
ot
there. At last, there were no more to come; and then he turned away, saying=
in
a tone of disappointment, ‘Why, then, ha’ missed her!’
But, he had not gone the length of
three streets, when he saw another of the shawled figures in advance of him=
, at
which he looked so keenly that perhaps its mere shadow indistinctly reflect=
ed
on the wet pavement - if he could have seen it without the figure itself mo=
ving
along from lamp to lamp, brightening and fading as it went - would have been
enough to tell him who was there. Making his pace at once much quicker and =
much
softer, he darted on until he was very near this figure, then fell into his
former walk, and called ‘Rachael!’
She turned, being then in the brig=
htness
of a lamp; and raising her hood a little, showed a quiet oval face, dark and
rather delicate, irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes, and further set =
off
by the perfect order of her shining black hair. It was not a face in its fi=
rst
bloom; she was a woman five and thirty years of age.
‘Ah, lad! ‘Tis thou?=
8217;
When she had said this, with a smile which would have been quite expressed,
though nothing of her had been seen but her pleasant eyes, she replaced her
hood again, and they went on together.
‘I thought thou wast ahind m=
e,
Rachael?’
‘No.’
‘Early t’night, lass?&=
#8217;
‘‘Times I’m a li=
ttle
early, Stephen! ‘times a little late. I’m never to be counted o=
n,
going home.’
‘Nor going t’other way,
neither, ‘t seems to me, Rachael?’
‘No, Stephen.’
He looked at her with some
disappointment in his face, but with a respectful and patient conviction th=
at
she must be right in whatever she did. The expression was not lost upon her;
she laid her hand lightly on his arm a moment as if to thank him for it.
‘We are such true friends, l=
ad,
and such old friends, and getting to be such old folk, now.’
‘No, Rachael, thou’rt =
as
young as ever thou wast.’
‘One of us would be puzzled =
how
to get old, Stephen, without ‘t other getting so too, both being aliv=
e,’
she answered, laughing; ‘but, anyways, we’re such old friends, =
and
t’ hide a word of honest truth fro’ one another would be a sin =
and
a pity. ‘Tis better not to walk too much together. ‘Times, yes!=
‘Twould
be hard, indeed, if ‘twas not to be at all,’ she said, with a
cheerfulness she sought to communicate to him.
‘‘Tis hard, anyways,
Rachael.’
‘Try to think not; and ̵=
6;twill
seem better.’
‘I’ve tried a long tim=
e,
and ‘ta’nt got better. But thou’rt right; ‘t might =
mak
fok talk, even of thee. Thou hast been that to me, Rachael, through so many
year: thou hast done me so much good, and heartened of me in that cheering =
way,
that thy word is a law to me. Ah, lass, and a bright good law! Better than =
some
real ones.’
‘Never fret about them, Step=
hen,’
she answered quickly, and not without an anxious glance at his face. ‘=
;Let
the laws be.’
‘Yes,’ he said, with a
slow nod or two. ‘Let ‘em be. Let everything be. Let all sorts
alone. ‘Tis a muddle, and that’s aw.’
‘Always a muddle?’ said
Rachael, with another gentle touch upon his arm, as if to recall him out of=
the
thoughtfulness, in which he was biting the long ends of his loose neckerchi=
ef
as he walked along. The touch had its instantaneous effect. He let them fal=
l,
turned a smiling face upon her, and said, as he broke into a good-humoured =
laugh,
‘Ay, Rachael, lass, awlus a muddle. That’s where I stick. I com=
e to
the muddle many times and agen, and I never get beyond it.’
They had walked some distance, and were near their own homes. The woman’s was the first reached. It was = in one of the many small streets for which the favourite undertaker (who turne= d a handsome sum out of the one poor ghastly pomp of the neighbourhood) kept a black ladder, in order that those who had done their daily groping up and d= own the narrow stairs might slide out of this working world by the windows. She stopped at the corner, and putting her hand in his, wished him good night.<= o:p>
‘Good night, dear lass; good
night!’
She went, with her neat figure and=
her
sober womanly step, down the dark street, and he stood looking after her un=
til
she turned into one of the small houses. There was not a flutter of her coa=
rse
shawl, perhaps, but had its interest in this man’s eyes; not a tone of
her voice but had its echo in his innermost heart.
When she was lost to his view, he
pursued his homeward way, glancing up sometimes at the sky, where the clouds
were sailing fast and wildly. But, they were broken now, and the rain had
ceased, and the moon shone, - looking down the high chimneys of Coketown on=
the
deep furnaces below, and casting Titanic shadows of the steam-engines at re=
st,
upon the walls where they were lodged. The man seemed to have brightened wi=
th
the night, as he went on.
His home, in such another street as
the first, saving that it was narrower, was over a little shop. How it came=
to
pass that any people found it worth their while to sell or buy the wretched
little toys, mixed up in its window with cheap newspapers and pork (there w=
as a
leg to be raffled for to-morrow-night), matters not here. He took his end of
candle from a shelf, lighted it at another end of candle on the counter,
without disturbing the mistress of the shop who was asleep in her little ro=
om,
and went upstairs into his lodging.
It was a room, not unacquainted wi=
th
the black ladder under various tenants; but as neat, at present, as such a =
room
could be. A few books and writings were on an old bureau in a corner, the
furniture was decent and sufficient, and, though the atmosphere was tainted,
the room was clean.
Going to the hearth to set the can=
dle
down upon a round three- legged table standing there, he stumbled against
something. As he recoiled, looking down at it, it raised itself up into the
form of a woman in a sitting attitude.
‘Heaven’s mercy, woman=
!’
he cried, falling farther off from the figure. ‘Hast thou come back
again!’
Such a woman! A disabled, drunken
creature, barely able to preserve her sitting posture by steadying herself =
with
one begrimed hand on the floor, while the other was so purposeless in tryin=
g to
push away her tangled hair from her face, that it only blinded her the more
with the dirt upon it. A creature so foul to look at, in her tatters, stains
and splashes, but so much fouler than that in her moral infamy, that it was=
a
shameful thing even to see her.
After an impatient oath or two, an=
d some
stupid clawing of herself with the hand not necessary to her support, she g=
ot
her hair away from her eyes sufficiently to obtain a sight of him. Then she=
sat
swaying her body to and fro, and making gestures with her unnerved arm, whi=
ch
seemed intended as the accompaniment to a fit of laughter, though her face =
was
stolid and drowsy.
‘Eigh, lad? What, yo’r
there?’ Some hoarse sounds meant for this, came mockingly out of her =
at
last; and her head dropped forward on her breast.
‘Back agen?’ she
screeched, after some minutes, as if he had that moment said it. ‘Yes!
And back agen. Back agen ever and ever so often. Back? Yes, back. Why not?&=
#8217;
Roused by the unmeaning violence w=
ith
which she cried it out, she scrambled up, and stood supporting herself with=
her
shoulders against the wall; dangling in one hand by the string, a dunghill-
fragment of a bonnet, and trying to look scornfully at him.
‘I’ll sell thee off ag= ain, and I’ll sell thee off again, and I’ll sell thee off a score of times!’ she cried, with something between a furious menace and an eff= ort at a defiant dance. ‘Come awa’ from th’ bed!’ He was sitting on the side of it, with his face hidden in his hands. ‘Come a= wa! from ‘t. ‘Tis mine, and I’ve a right to t’!’<= o:p>
As she staggered to it, he avoided=
her
with a shudder, and passed - his face still hidden - to the opposite end of=
the
room. She threw herself upon the bed heavily, and soon was snoring hard. He
sunk into a chair, and moved but once all that night. It was to throw a
covering over her; as if his hands were not enough to hide her, even in the
darkness.
THE Fairy palaces burst into illumination, before pale morning showed the monstrous serpents of smoke trailing themselves over Coketown. A clattering of clogs upon the pavement;= a rapid ringing of bells; and all the melancholy mad elephants, polished and oiled up for the day’s monotony, were at their heavy exercise again.<= o:p>
Stephen bent over his loom, quiet,
watchful, and steady. A special contrast, as every man was in the forest of
looms where Stephen worked, to the crashing, smashing, tearing piece of
mechanism at which he laboured. Never fear, good people of an anxious turn =
of
mind, that Art will consign Nature to oblivion. Set anywhere, side by side,=
the
work of GOD and the work of man; and the former, even though it be a troop =
of
Hands of very small account, will gain in dignity from the comparison.
So many hundred Hands in this Mill=
; so
many hundred horse Steam Power. It is known, to the force of a single pound
weight, what the engine will do; but, not all the calculators of the Nation=
al
Debt can tell me the capacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for
patriotism or discontent, for the decomposition of virtue into vice, or the
reverse, at any single moment in the soul of one of these its quiet servant=
s,
with the composed faces and the regulated actions. There is no mystery in i=
t;
there is an unfathomable mystery in the meanest of them, for ever. - Suppos=
ing
we were to reverse our arithmetic for material objects, and to govern these
awful unknown quantities by other means!
The day grew strong, and showed it=
self
outside, even against the flaming lights within. The lights were turned out,
and the work went on. The rain fell, and the Smoke-serpents, submissive to =
the
curse of all that tribe, trailed themselves upon the earth. In the waste-ya=
rd
outside, the steam from the escape pipe, the litter of barrels and old iron,
the shining heaps of coals, the ashes everywhere, were shrouded in a veil of
mist and rain.
The work went on, until the noon-b=
ell
rang. More clattering upon the pavements. The looms, and wheels, and Hands =
all
out of gear for an hour.
Stephen came out of the hot mill i=
nto
the damp wind and cold wet streets, haggard and worn. He turned from his own
class and his own quarter, taking nothing but a little bread as he walked
along, towards the hill on which his principal employer lived, in a red hou=
se
with black outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street door, up t=
wo
white steps, BOUNDERBY (in letters very like himself) upon a brazen plate, =
and
a round brazen door-handle underneath it, like a brazen full-stop.
Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So
Stephen had expected. Would his servant say that one of the Hands begged le=
ave
to speak to him? Message in return, requiring name of such Hand. Stephen
Blackpool. There was nothing troublesome against Stephen Blackpool; yes, he
might come in.
Stephen Blackpool in the parlour. =
Mr.
Bounderby (whom he just knew by sight), at lunch on chop and sherry. Mrs.
Sparsit netting at the fireside, in a side-saddle attitude, with one foot i=
n a
cotton stirrup. It was a part, at once of Mrs. Sparsit’s dignity and
service, not to lunch. She supervised the meal officially, but implied that=
in
her own stately person she considered lunch a weakness.
‘Now, Stephen,’ said M=
r.
Bounderby, ‘what’s the matter with you?’
Stephen made a bow. Not a servile =
one
- these Hands will never do that! Lord bless you, sir, you’ll never c=
atch
them at that, if they have been with you twenty years! - and, as a complime=
ntary
toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat.
‘Now, you know,’ said =
Mr.
Bounderby, taking some sherry, ‘we have never had any difficulty with
you, and you have never been one of the unreasonable ones. You don’t
expect to be set up in a coach and six, and to be fed on turtle soup and
venison, with a gold spoon, as a good many of ‘em do!’ Mr.
Bounderby always represented this to be the sole, immediate, and direct obj=
ect
of any Hand who was not entirely satisfied; ‘and therefore I know alr=
eady
that you have not come here to make a complaint. Now, you know, I am certai=
n of
that, beforehand.’
‘No, sir, sure I ha’ n=
ot
coom for nowt o’ th’ kind.’
Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably
surprised, notwithstanding his previous strong conviction. ‘Very well=
,’
he returned. ‘You’re a steady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now,
let me hear what it’s all about. As it’s not that, let me hear =
what
it is. What have you got to say? Out with it, lad!’
Stephen happened to glance towards
Mrs. Sparsit. ‘I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it,’ said t=
hat
self-sacrificing lady, making a feint of taking her foot out of the stirrup=
.
Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holdi=
ng a
mouthful of chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting out his le=
ft
hand. Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowing his mouthful of chop, he sa=
id
to Stephen:
‘Now you know, this good lad=
y is
a born lady, a high lady. You are not to suppose because she keeps my house=
for
me, that she hasn’t been very high up the tree - ah, up at the top of=
the
tree! Now, if you have got anything to say that can’t be said before a
born lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have got to say can be
said before a born lady, this lady will stay where she is.’
‘Sir, I hope I never had now=
t to
say, not fitten for a born lady to year, sin’ I were born mysen’=
;,’
was the reply, accompanied with a slight flush.
‘Very well,’ said Mr.
Bounderby, pushing away his plate, and leaning back. ‘Fire away!̵=
7;
‘I ha’ coom,’
Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment’s
consideration, ‘to ask yo yor advice. I need ‘t overmuch. I were
married on Eas’r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a
young lass - pretty enow - wi’ good accounts of herseln. Well! She we=
nt
bad - soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her.=
217;
‘I have heard all this befor=
e,’
said Mr. Bounderby. ‘She took to drinking, left off working, sold the
furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry.’
‘I were patient wi’ he=
r.’
(‘The more fool you, I think=
,’
said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.)
‘I were very patient wi̵=
7;
her. I tried to wean her fra ‘t ower and ower agen. I tried this, I t=
ried
that, I tried t’other. I ha’ gone home, many’s the time, =
and
found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to b=
less
herseln lying on bare ground. I ha’ dun ‘t not once, not twice -
twenty time!’
Every line in his face deepened as=
he
said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergon=
e.
‘From bad to worse, from wor=
se
to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She
coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t’ hinder he=
r? I
ha’ walked the streets nights long, ere ever I’d go home. I ha&=
#8217;
gone t’ th’ brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha’ no
more on’t. I ha’ bore that much, that I were owd when I were yo=
ung.’
Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along
with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her hea=
d,
as much as to say, ‘The great know trouble as well as the small. Plea=
se
to turn your humble eye in My direction.’
‘I ha’ paid her to keep
awa’ fra’ me. These five year I ha’ paid her. I ha’
gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha’ lived hard and sad, but n=
ot
ashamed and fearfo’ a’ the minnits o’ my life. Last night=
, I
went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!’
In the strength of his misfortune,=
and
the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In
another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time - his usual stoop upon
him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expressi=
on
on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling
something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested=
on
his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very
earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a
little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused.
‘I was acquainted with all t=
his,
you know,’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘except the last clause, long ag=
o.
It’s a bad job; that’s what it is. You had better have been
satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it’s too la=
te
to say that.’
‘Was it an unequal marriage,
sir, in point of years?’ asked Mrs. Sparsit.
‘You hear what this lady ask=
s.
Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?=
217;
said Mr. Bounderby.
‘Not e’en so. I were
one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut.’
‘Indeed, sir?’ said Mr=
s.
Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. ‘I inferred, from its bei=
ng
so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of ye=
ars.’
Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at =
the
good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He
fortified himself with a little more sherry.
‘Well? Why don’t you go
on?’ he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool.
‘I ha’ coom to ask yo,
sir, how I am to be ridded o’ this woman.’ Stephen infused a yet
deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit
uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock.
‘What do you mean?’ sa=
id
Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. ‘Wh=
at
are you talking about? You took her for better for worse.’
‘I mun’ be ridden o=
217;
her. I cannot bear ‘t nommore. I ha’ lived under ‘t so lo=
ng,
for that I ha’ had’n the pity and comforting words o’ th&=
#8217;
best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha’ gone batte=
ring
mad.’
‘He wishes to be free, to ma=
rry
the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir,’ observed Mrs. Sparsit in =
an
undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.
‘I do. The lady says what=
217;s
right. I do. I were a coming to ‘t. I ha’ read i’ th̵=
7;
papers that great folk (fair faw ‘em a’! I wishes ‘em no
hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they =
can
be set free fro’ their misfortnet marriages, an’ marry ower age=
n.
When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has room=
s o’
one kind an’ another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live
asunders. We fok ha’ only one room, and we can’t. When that won=
’t
do, they ha’ gowd an’ other cash, an’ they can say "=
This
for yo’ an’ that for me," an’ they can go their sepa=
rate
ways. We can’t. Spite o’ all that, they can be set free for sma=
ller
wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o’ this woman, and I want tR=
17;
know how?’
‘No how,’ returned Mr.
Bounderby.
‘If I do her any hurt, sir,
there’s a law to punish me?’
‘Of course there is.’<= o:p>
‘If I flee from her, there=
8217;s
a law to punish me?’
‘Of course there is.’<= o:p>
‘If I marry t’oother d=
ear
lass, there’s a law to punish me?’
‘Of course there is.’<= o:p>
‘If I was to live wi’ =
her
an’ not marry her - saying such a thing could be, which it never coul=
d or
would, an’ her so good - there’s a law to punish me, in every
innocent child belonging to me?’
‘Of course there is.’<= o:p>
‘Now, a’ God’s n=
ame,’
said Stephen Blackpool, ‘show me the law to help me!’
‘Hem! There’s a sancti=
ty
in this relation of life,’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘and - and - it =
must
be kept up.’
‘No no, dunnot say that, sir=
. ‘Tan’t
kep’ up that way. Not that way. ‘Tis kep’ down that way. =
I’m
a weaver, I were in a fact’ry when a chilt, but I ha’ gotten ee=
n to
see wi’ and eern to year wi’. I read in th’ papers every =
‘Sizes,
every Sessions - and you read too - I know it! - with dismay - how th’
supposed unpossibility o’ ever getting unchained from one another, at=
any
price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common
married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha’ this, rig=
ht
understood. Mine’s a grievous case, an’ I want - if yo will be =
so
good - t’ know the law that helps me.’
‘Now, I tell you what!’
said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘There is such a
law.’
Stephen, subsiding into his quiet
manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod.
‘But it’s not for you =
at
all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money.’
‘How much might that be?R=
17;
Stephen calmly asked.
‘Why, you’d have to go=
to
Doctors’ Commons with a suit, and you’d have to go to a court of
Common Law with a suit, and you’d have to go to the House of Lords wi=
th a
suit, and you’d have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to mar=
ry
again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I
suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound,’ said Mr. Bounderby=
. ‘Perhaps
twice the money.’
‘There’s no other law?=
’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Why then, sir,’ said
Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that right hand of his, as if he
gave everything to the four winds, ‘‘tis a muddle. ‘Tis j=
ust
a muddle a’toogether, an’ the sooner I am dead, the better.R=
17;
(Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the
impiety of the people.)
‘Pooh, pooh! Don’t you
talk nonsense, my good fellow,’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘about thin=
gs
you don’t understand; and don’t you call the Institutions of yo=
ur
country a muddle, or you’ll get yourself into a real muddle one of th=
ese
fine mornings. The institutions of your country are not your piece-work, and
the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind your piece-work. You didn=
217;t
take your wife for fast and for loose; but for better for worse. If she has
turned out worse - why, all we have got to say is, she might have turned out
better.’
‘‘Tis a muddle,’
said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door. ‘‘Tis a=
’
a muddle!’
‘Now, I’ll tell you wh=
at!’
Mr. Bounderby resumed, as a valedictory address. ‘With what I shall c=
all
your unhallowed opinions, you have been quite shocking this lady: who, as I
have already told you, is a born lady, and who, as I have not already told =
you,
has had her own marriage misfortunes to the tune of tens of thousands of po=
unds
- tens of Thousands of Pounds!’ (he repeated it with great relish). &=
#8216;Now,
you have always been a steady Hand hitherto; but my opinion is, and so I te=
ll
you plainly, that you are turning into the wrong road. You have been listen=
ing
to some mischievous stranger or other - they’re always about - and the
best thing you can do is, to come out of that. Now you know;’ here his
countenance expressed marvellous acuteness; ‘I can see as far into a
grindstone as another man; farther than a good many, perhaps, because I had=
my
nose well kept to it when I was young. I see traces of the turtle soup, and
venison, and gold spoon in this. Yes, I do!’ cried Mr. Bounderby, sha=
king
his head with obstinate cunning. ‘By the Lord Harry, I do!’
With a very different shake of the
head and deep sigh, Stephen said, ‘Thank you, sir, I wish you good da=
y.’
So he left Mr. Bounderby swelling at his own portrait on the wall, as if he
were going to explode himself into it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on wi=
th
her foot in her stirrup, looking quite cast down by the popular vices.
OLD STEPHEN descended the two white
steps, shutting the black door with the brazen door-plate, by the aid of the
brazen full-stop, to which he gave a parting polish with the sleeve of his
coat, observing that his hot hand clouded it. He crossed the street with his
eyes bent upon the ground, and thus was walking sorrowfully away, when he f=
elt
a touch upon his arm.
It was not the touch he needed mos=
t at
such a moment - the touch that could calm the wild waters of his soul, as t=
he
uplifted hand of the sublimest love and patience could abate the raging of =
the
sea - yet it was a woman’s hand too. It was an old woman, tall and
shapely still, though withered by time, on whom his eyes fell when he stopp=
ed
and turned. She was very cleanly and plainly dressed, had country mud upon =
her
shoes, and was newly come from a journey. The flutter of her manner, in the
unwonted noise of the streets; the spare shawl, carried unfolded on her arm;
the heavy umbrella, and little basket; the loose long-fingered gloves, to w=
hich
her hands were unused; all bespoke an old woman from the country, in her pl=
ain
holiday clothes, come into Coketown on an expedition of rare occurrence.
Remarking this at a glance, with the quick observation of his class, Stephen
Blackpool bent his attentive face - his face, which, like the faces of many=
of
his order, by dint of long working with eyes and hands in the midst of a
prodigious noise, had acquired the concentrated look with which we are fami=
liar
in the countenances of the deaf - the better to hear what she asked him.
‘Pray, sir,’ said the =
old
woman, ‘didn’t I see you come out of that gentleman’s hou=
se?’
pointing back to Mr. Bounderby’s. ‘I believe it was you, unless=
I
have had the bad luck to mistake the person in following?’
‘Yes, missus,’ returned
Stephen, ‘it were me.’
‘Have you - you’ll exc=
use
an old woman’s curiosity - have you seen the gentleman?’
‘Yes, missus.’
‘And how did he look, sir? W=
as
he portly, bold, outspoken, and hearty?’ As she straightened her own
figure, and held up her head in adapting her action to her words, the idea
crossed Stephen that he had seen this old woman before, and had not quite l=
iked
her.
‘O yes,’ he returned,
observing her more attentively, ‘he were all that.’
‘And healthy,’ said the
old woman, ‘as the fresh wind?’
‘Yes,’ returned Stephe= n. ‘He were ett’n and drinking - as large and as loud as a Hummobee.’<= o:p>
‘Thank you!’ said the =
old
woman, with infinite content. ‘Thank you!’
He certainly never had seen this o=
ld
woman before. Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if he had m=
ore
than once dreamed of some old woman like her.
She walked along at his side, and,
gently accommodating himself to her humour, he said Coketown was a busy pla=
ce,
was it not? To which she answered ‘Eigh sure! Dreadful busy!’ T=
hen
he said, she came from the country, he saw? To which she answered in the
affirmative.
‘By Parliamentary, this morn=
ing.
I came forty mile by Parliamentary this morning, and I’m going back t=
he
same forty mile this afternoon. I walked nine mile to the station this morn=
ing,
and if I find nobody on the road to give me a lift, I shall walk the nine m=
ile
back to-night. That’s pretty well, sir, at my age!’ said the ch=
atty
old woman, her eye brightening with exultation.
‘‘Deed ‘tis. Don=
’t
do’t too often, missus.’
‘No, no. Once a year,’=
she
answered, shaking her head. ‘I spend my savings so, once every year. I
come regular, to tramp about the streets, and see the gentlemen.’
‘Only to see ‘em?̵=
7;
returned Stephen.
‘That’s enough for me,=
’
she replied, with great earnestness and interest of manner. ‘I ask no
more! I have been standing about, on this side of the way, to see that
gentleman,’ turning her head back towards Mr. Bounderby’s again=
, ‘come
out. But, he’s late this year, and I have not seen him. You came out
instead. Now, if I am obliged to go back without a glimpse of him - I only =
want
a glimpse - well! I have seen you, and you have seen him, and I must make t=
hat
do.’ Saying this, she looked at Stephen as if to fix his features in =
her
mind, and her eye was not so bright as it had been.
With a large allowance for differe=
nce
of tastes, and with all submission to the patricians of Coketown, this seem=
ed
so extraordinary a source of interest to take so much trouble about, that it
perplexed him. But they were passing the church now, and as his eye caught =
the
clock, he quickened his pace.
He was going to his work? the old
woman said, quickening hers, too, quite easily. Yes, time was nearly out. On
his telling her where he worked, the old woman became a more singular old w=
oman
than before.
‘An’t you happy?’
she asked him.
‘Why - there’s awmost
nobbody but has their troubles, missus.’ He answered evasively, becau=
se
the old woman appeared to take it for granted that he would be very happy
indeed, and he had not the heart to disappoint her. He knew that there was
trouble enough in the world; and if the old woman had lived so long, and co=
uld
count upon his having so little, why so much the better for her, and none t=
he
worse for him.
‘Ay, ay! You have your troub=
les
at home, you mean?’ she said.
‘Times. Just now and then,=
8217;
he answered, slightly.
‘But, working under such a
gentleman, they don’t follow you to the Factory?’
No, no; they didn’t follow h=
im
there, said Stephen. All correct there. Everything accordant there. (He did=
not
go so far as to say, for her pleasure, that there was a sort of Divine Right
there; but, I have heard claims almost as magnificent of late years.)
They were now in the black by-road
near the place, and the Hands were crowding in. The bell was ringing, and t=
he
Serpent was a Serpent of many coils, and the Elephant was getting ready. The
strange old woman was delighted with the very bell. It was the beautifullest
bell she had ever heard, she said, and sounded grand!
She asked him, when he stopped
good-naturedly to shake hands with her before going in, how long he had wor=
ked
there?
‘A dozen year,’ he told
her.
‘I must kiss the hand,’=
; said
she, ‘that has worked in this fine factory for a dozen year!’ A=
nd
she lifted it, though he would have prevented her, and put it to her lips. =
What
harmony, besides her age and her simplicity, surrounded her, he did not kno=
w,
but even in this fantastic action there was a something neither out of time=
nor
place: a something which it seemed as if nobody else could have made as
serious, or done with such a natural and touching air.
He had been at his loom full half =
an
hour, thinking about this old woman, when, having occasion to move round the
loom for its adjustment, he glanced through a window which was in his corne=
r,
and saw her still looking up at the pile of building, lost in admiration.
Heedless of the smoke and mud and wet, and of her two long journeys, she was
gazing at it, as if the heavy thrum that issued from its many stories were
proud music to her.
She was gone by and by, and the day
went after her, and the lights sprung up again, and the Express whirled in =
full
sight of the Fairy Palace over the arches near: little felt amid the jarrin=
g of
the machinery, and scarcely heard above its crash and rattle. Long before t=
hen
his thoughts had gone back to the dreary room above the little shop, and to=
the
shameful figure heavy on the bed, but heavier on his heart.
Machinery slackened; throbbing fee=
bly
like a fainting pulse; stopped. The bell again; the glare of light and heat
dispelled; the factories, looming heavy in the black wet night - their tall
chimneys rising up into the air like competing Towers of Babel.
He had spoken to Rachael only last
night, it was true, and had walked with her a little way; but he had his new
misfortune on him, in which no one else could give him a moment’s rel=
ief,
and, for the sake of it, and because he knew himself to want that softening=
of
his anger which no voice but hers could effect, he felt he might so far
disregard what she had said as to wait for her again. He waited, but she had
eluded him. She was gone. On no other night in the year could he so ill have
spared her patient face.
O! Better to have no home in which=
to
lay his head, than to have a home and dread to go to it, through such a cau=
se.
He ate and drank, for he was exhausted - but he little knew or cared what; =
and
he wandered about in the chill rain, thinking and thinking, and brooding and
brooding.
No word of a new marriage had ever
passed between them; but Rachael had taken great pity on him years ago, and=
to
her alone he had opened his closed heart all this time, on the subject of h=
is
miseries; and he knew very well that if he were free to ask her, she would =
take
him. He thought of the home he might at that moment have been seeking with
pleasure and pride; of the different man he might have been that night; of =
the
lightness then in his now heavy- laden breast; of the then restored honour,
self-respect, and tranquillity all torn to pieces. He thought of the waste =
of
the best part of his life, of the change it made in his character for the w=
orse
every day, of the dreadful nature of his existence, bound hand and foot, to=
a
dead woman, and tormented by a demon in her shape. He thought of Rachael, h=
ow
young when they were first brought together in these circumstances, how mat=
ure
now, how soon to grow old. He thought of the number of girls and women she =
had
seen marry, how many homes with children in them she had seen grow up around
her, how she had contentedly pursued her own lone quiet path - for him - and
how he had sometimes seen a shade of melancholy on her blessed face, that s=
mote
him with remorse and despair. He set the picture of her up, beside the infa=
mous
image of last night; and thought, Could it be, that the whole earthly cours=
e of
one so gentle, good, and self-denying, was subjugate to such a wretch as th=
at!
Filled with these thoughts - so fi=
lled
that he had an unwholesome sense of growing larger, of being placed in some=
new
and diseased relation towards the objects among which he passed, of seeing =
the
iris round every misty light turn red - he went home for shelter.
A CANDLE faintly burned in the win=
dow,
to which the black ladder had often been raised for the sliding away of all
that was most precious in this world to a striving wife and a brood of hung=
ry
babies; and Stephen added to his other thoughts the stern reflection, that =
of
all the casualties of this existence upon earth, not one was dealt out with=
so
unequal a hand as Death. The inequality of Birth was nothing to it. For, say
that the child of a King and the child of a Weaver were born to-night in the
same moment, what was that disparity, to the death of any human creature who
was serviceable to, or beloved by, another, while this abandoned woman lived
on!
From the outside of his home he
gloomily passed to the inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footst=
ep.
He went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room.
Quiet and peace were there. Rachael
was there, sitting by the bed.
She turned her head, and the light=
of
her face shone in upon the
She turned again towards the bed, =
and
satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful=
voice.
‘I am glad you have come at
last, Stephen. You are very late.’
‘I ha’ been walking up=
an’
down.’
‘I thought so. But ‘tis
too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen=
.’
The wind? True. It was blowing har=
d.
Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been =
out
in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing!
‘I have been here once befor=
e,
to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some =
one
here that needed looking to, she said. And ‘deed she was right. All
wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised.’
He slowly moved to a chair and sat
down, drooping his head before her.
‘I came to do what little I
could, Stephen; first, for that she worked with me when we were girls both,=
and
for that you courted her and married her when I was her friend - ‘
He laid his furrowed forehead on h=
is
hand, with a low groan.
‘And next, for that I know y=
our
heart, and am right sure and certain that ‘tis far too merciful to let
her die, or even so much as suffer, for want of aid. Thou knowest who said,
"Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone at her!&quo=
t;
There have been plenty to do that. Thou art not the man to cast the last st=
one,
Stephen, when she is brought so low.’
‘O Rachael, Rachael!’<= o:p>
‘Thou hast been a cruel
sufferer, Heaven reward thee!’ she said, in compassionate accents. =
8216;I
am thy poor friend, with all my heart and mind.’
The wounds of which she had spoken,
seemed to be about the neck of the self-made outcast. She dressed them now,
still without showing her. She steeped a piece of linen in a basin, into wh=
ich
she poured some liquid from a bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon t=
he
sore. The three-legged table had been drawn close to the bedside, and on it=
there
were two bottles. This was one.
It was not so far off, but that
Stephen, following her hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on =
it
in large letters. He turned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horror seemed to =
fall
upon him.
‘I will stay here, Stephen,&=
#8217;
said Rachael, quietly resuming her seat, ‘till the bells go Three. =
8216;Tis
to be done again at three, and then she may be left till morning.’
‘But thy rest agen to-morrow=
’s
work, my dear.’
‘I slept sound last night. I=
can
wake many nights, when I am put to it. ‘Tis thou who art in need of r=
est
- so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there, while I watch. Thou
hadst no sleep last night, I can well believe. To-morrow’s work is far
harder for thee than for me.’
He heard the thundering and surgin=
g out
of doors, and it seemed to him as if his late angry mood were going about
trying to get at him. She had cast it out; she would keep it out; he truste=
d to
her to defend him from himself.
‘She don’t know me,
Stephen; she just drowsily mutters and stares. I have spoken to her times a=
nd
again, but she don’t notice! ‘Tis as well so. When she comes to=
her
right mind once more, I shall have done what I can, and she never the wiser=
.’
‘How long, Rachael, is ̵=
6;t
looked for, that she’ll be so?’
‘Doctor said she would haply
come to her mind to-morrow.’
His eyes fell again on the bottle,=
and
a tremble passed over him, causing him to shiver in every limb. She thought=
he
was chilled with the wet. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it was not that=
. He
had had a fright.’
‘A fright?’
‘Ay, ay! coming in. When I w=
ere
walking. When I were thinking. When I - ‘ It seized him again; and he
stood up, holding by the mantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank cold hair down
with a hand that shook as if it were palsied.
‘Stephen!’
She was coming to him, but he
stretched out his arm to stop her.
‘No! Don’t, please; do=
n’t.
Let me see thee setten by the bed. Let me see thee, a’ so good, and so
forgiving. Let me see thee as I see thee when I coom in. I can never see th=
ee
better than so. Never, never, never!’
He had a violent fit of trembling,=
and
then sunk into his chair. After a time he controlled himself, and, resting =
with
an elbow on one knee, and his head upon that hand, could look towards Racha=
el.
Seen across the dim candle with his moistened eyes, she looked as if she ha=
d a
glory shining round her head. He could have believed she had. He did believe
it, as the noise without shook the window, rattled at the door below, and w=
ent
about the house clamouring and lamenting.
‘When she gets better, Steph=
en, ‘tis
to be hoped she’ll leave thee to thyself again, and do thee no more h=
urt.
Anyways we will hope so now. And now I shall keep silence, for I want thee =
to
sleep.’
He closed his eyes, more to please=
her
than to rest his weary head; but, by slow degrees as he listened to the gre=
at
noise of the wind, he ceased to hear it, or it changed into the working of =
his
loom, or even into the voices of the day (his own included) saying what had
been really said. Even this imperfect consciousness faded away at last, and=
he
dreamed a long, troubled dream.
He thought that he, and some one on
whom his heart had long been set - but she was not Rachael, and that surpri=
sed
him, even in the midst of his imaginary happiness - stood in the church bei=
ng
married. While the ceremony was performing, and while he recognized among t=
he
witnesses some whom he knew to be living, and many whom he knew to be dead,
darkness came on, succeeded by the shining of a tremendous light. It broke =
from
one line in the table of commandments at the altar, and illuminated the
building with the words. They were sounded through the church, too, as if t=
here
were voices in the fiery letters. Upon this, the whole appearance before him
and around him changed, and nothing was left as it had been, but himself and
the clergyman. They stood in the daylight before a crowd so vast, that if a=
ll
the people in the world could have been brought together into one space, th=
ey
could not have looked, he thought, more numerous; and they all abhorred him,
and there was not one pitying or friendly eye among the millions that were
fastened on his face. He stood on a raised stage, under his own loom; and,
looking up at the shape the loom took, and hearing the burial service
distinctly read, he knew that he was there to suffer death. In an instant w=
hat
he stood on fell below him, and he was gone.
- Out of what mystery he came back=
to
his usual life, and to places that he knew, he was unable to consider; but =
he
was back in those places by some means, and with this condemnation upon him,
that he was never, in this world or the next, through all the unimaginable =
ages
of eternity, to look on Rachael’s face or hear her voice. Wandering to
and fro, unceasingly, without hope, and in search of he knew not what (he o=
nly
knew that he was doomed to seek it), he was the subject of a nameless, horr=
ible
dread, a mortal fear of one particular shape which everything took. Whatsoe=
ver
he looked at, grew into that form sooner or later. The object of his misera=
ble
existence was to prevent its recognition by any one among the various peopl=
e he
encountered. Hopeless labour! If he led them out of rooms where it was, if =
he
shut up drawers and closets where it stood, if he drew the curious from pla=
ces
where he knew it to be secreted, and got them out into the streets, the very
chimneys of the mills assumed that shape, and round them was the printed wo=
rd.
The wind was blowing again, the ra=
in
was beating on the house-tops, and the larger spaces through which he had
strayed contracted to the four walls of his room. Saving that the fire had =
died
out, it was as his eyes had closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have fallen i=
nto
a doze, in the chair by the bed. She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly st=
ill.
The table stood in the same place, close by the bedside, and on it, in its =
real
proportions and appearance, was the shape so often repeated.
He thought he saw the curtain move=
. He
looked again, and he was sure it moved. He saw a hand come forth and grope
about a little. Then the curtain moved more perceptibly, and the woman in t=
he
bed put it back, and sat up.
With her woful eyes, so haggard and
wild, so heavy and large, she looked all round the room, and passed the cor=
ner
where he slept in his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, and she put =
her
hand over them as a shade, while she looked into it. Again they went all ro=
und
the room, scarcely heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. =
He
thought, as she once more shaded them - not so much looking at him, as look=
ing
for him with a brutish instinct that he was there - that no single trace was
left in those debauched features, or in the mind that went along with them,=
of
the woman he had married eighteen years before. But that he had seen her co=
me
to this by inches, he never could have believed her to be the same.
All this time, as if a spell were =
on
him, he was motionless and powerless, except to watch her.
Stupidly dozing, or communing with=
her
incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little while with her hands at =
her
ears, and her head resting on them. Presently, she resumed her staring round
the room. And now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with t=
he
bottles on it.
Straightway she turned her eyes ba=
ck
to his corner, with the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously =
and
softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat=
for
a while considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she
laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in
it, and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth.
Dream or reality, he had no voice,=
nor
had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet com=
e,
wake, Rachael, wake!
She thought of that, too. She look=
ed
at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The
draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the w=
hole
world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rac=
hael
started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seize=
d her
by the hair; but Rachael had the cup.
Stephen broke out of his chair. =
8216;Rachael,
am I wakin’ or dreamin’ this dreadfo’ night?’
‘‘Tis all well, Stephe=
n. I
have been asleep, myself. ‘Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells.=
217;
The wind brought the sounds of the
church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen loo=
ked
at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red m=
arks
of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and
hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now.
‘I thought it must be near
three,’ she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and
steeping the linen as before. ‘I am thankful I stayed! ‘Tis done
now, when I have put this on. There! And now she’s quiet again. The f=
ew
drops in the basin I’ll pour away, for ‘tis bad stuff to leave
about, though ever so little of it.’ As she spoke, she drained the ba=
sin
into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth.
She had nothing to do, then, but to
cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain.
‘Thou’lt let me walk w=
i’
thee at this hour, Rachael?’
‘No, Stephen. ‘Tis but=
a
minute, and I’m home.’
‘Thou’rt not fearfo=
217;;’
he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the door; ‘to leave me
alone wi’ her!’
As she looked at him, saying, R=
16;Stephen?’
he went down on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an en=
d of
her shawl to his lips.
‘Thou art an Angel. Bless th=
ee,
bless thee!’
‘I am, as I have told thee,
Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like me. Between them, and a worki=
ng
woman fu’ of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister is am=
ong
them, but she is changed.’
She raised her eyes for a moment as
she said the words; and then they fell again, in all their gentleness and
mildness, on his face.
‘Thou changest me from bad to
good. Thou mak’st me humbly wishfo’ to be more like thee, and
fearfo’ to lose thee when this life is ower, and a’ the muddle
cleared awa’. Thou’rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my s=
oul
alive!’
She looked at him, on his knee at =
her
feet, with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof on her lips died aw=
ay
when she saw the working of his face.
‘I coom home desp’rate= . I coom home wi’out a hope, and mad wi’ thinking that when I said = a word o’ complaint I was reckoned a unreasonable Hand. I told thee I had ha= d a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I never hurt a livin’ creetur; but happenin’ so suddenly upon ‘t, I thowt, "How = can I say what I might ha’ done to myseln, or her, or both!"‘<= o:p>
She put her two hands on his mouth,
with a face of terror, to stop him from saying more. He caught them in his
unoccupied hand, and holding them, and still clasping the border of her sha=
wl,
said hurriedly:
‘But I see thee, Rachael, se=
tten
by the bed. I ha’ seen thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep I h=
a’
known thee still to be there. Evermore I will see thee there. I nevermore w=
ill
see her or think o’ her, but thou shalt be beside her. I nevermore wi=
ll
see or think o’ anything that angers me, but thou, so much better than
me, shalt be by th’ side on’t. And so I will try t’ look =
t’
th’ time, and so I will try t’ trust t’ th’ time, w=
hen
thou and me at last shall walk together far awa’, beyond the deep gul=
f,
in th’ country where thy little sister is.’
He kissed the border of her shawl
again, and let her go. She bade him good night in a broken voice, and went =
out
into the street.
The wind blew from the quarter whe=
re
the day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky
before it, and the rain had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the st=
ars
were bright. He stood bare-headed in the road, watching her quick
disappearance. As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in the window,=
so
was Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of =
his
life.
TIME went on in Coketown like its =
own
machinery: so much material wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powe=
rs
worn out, so much money made. But, less inexorable than iron, steal, and br=
ass,
it brought its varying seasons even into that wilderness of smoke and brick,
and made the only stand that ever was made in the place against its direful
uniformity.
‘Louisa is becoming,’ =
said
Mr. Gradgrind, ‘almost a young woman.’
Time, with his innumerable
horse-power, worked away, not minding what anybody said, and presently turn=
ed
out young Thomas a foot taller than when his father had last taken particul=
ar
notice of him.
‘Thomas is becoming,’ =
said
Mr. Gradgrind, ‘almost a young man.’
Time passed Thomas on in the mill,
while his father was thinking about it, and there he stood in a long-tailed
coat and a stiff shirt-collar.
‘Really,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘the period has arrived when Thomas ought to go to Bounder=
by.’
Time, sticking to him, passed him =
on
into Bounderby’s Bank, made him an inmate of Bounderby’s house,
necessitated the purchase of his first razor, and exercised him diligently =
in
his calculations relative to number one.
The same great manufacturer, always
with an immense variety of work on hand, in every stage of development, pas=
sed
Sissy onward in his mill, and worked her up into a very pretty article inde=
ed.
‘I fear, Jupe,’ said M=
r.
Gradgrind, ‘that your continuance at the school any longer would be
useless.’
‘I am afraid it would, sir,&=
#8217;
Sissy answered with a curtsey.
‘I cannot disguise from you,
Jupe,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, knitting his brow, ‘that the result =
of
your probation there has disappointed me; has greatly disappointed me. You =
have
not acquired, under Mr. and Mrs. M’Choakumchild, anything like that
amount of exact knowledge which I looked for. You are extremely deficient in
your facts. Your acquaintance with figures is very limited. You are altoget=
her
backward, and below the mark.’
‘I am sorry, sir,’ she
returned; ‘but I know it is quite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir.=
8217;
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Gradgr=
ind,
‘yes, I believe you have tried hard; I have observed you, and I can f=
ind
no fault in that respect.’
‘Thank you, sir. I have thou=
ght
sometimes;’ Sissy very timid here; ‘that perhaps I tried to lea=
rn
too much, and that if I had asked to be allowed to try a little less, I mig=
ht
have - ‘
‘No, Jupe, no,’ said M=
r.
Gradgrind, shaking his head in his profoundest and most eminently practical
way. ‘No. The course you pursued, you pursued according to the system=
-
the system - and there is no more to be said about it. I can only suppose t=
hat
the circumstances of your early life were too unfavourable to the developme=
nt
of your reasoning powers, and that we began too late. Still, as I have said
already, I am disappointed.’
‘I wish I could have made a
better acknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had=
no
claim upon you, and of your protection of her.’
‘Don’t shed tears,R=
17;
said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Don’t shed tears. I don’t complain of
you. You are an affectionate, earnest, good young woman - and - and we must
make that do.’
‘Thank you, sir, very much,&=
#8217;
said Sissy, with a grateful curtsey.
‘You are useful to Mrs.
Gradgrind, and (in a generally pervading way) you are serviceable in the fa=
mily
also; so I understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed, so I have observed mys=
elf.
I therefore hope,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘that you can make yours=
elf
happy in those relations.’
‘I should have nothing to wi=
sh,
sir, if - ‘
‘I understand you,’ sa=
id
Mr. Gradgrind; ‘you still refer to your father. I have heard from Miss
Louisa that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your training in the
science of arriving at exact results had been more successful, you would ha=
ve
been wiser on these points. I will say no more.’
He really liked Sissy too well to =
have
a contempt for her; otherwise he held her calculating powers in such very
slight estimation that he must have fallen upon that conclusion. Somehow or
other, he had become possessed by an idea that there was something in this =
girl
which could hardly be set forth in a tabular form. Her capacity of definiti=
on
might be easily stated at a very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at
nothing; yet he was not sure that if he had been required, for example, to =
tick
her off into columns in a parliamentary return, he would have quite known h=
ow
to divide her.
In some stages of his manufacture =
of
the human fabric, the processes of Time are very rapid. Young Thomas and Si=
ssy
being both at such a stage of their working up, these changes were effected=
in
a year or two; while Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary in his course,=
and
underwent no alteration.
Except one, which was apart from h=
is
necessary progress through the mill. Time hustled him into a little noisy a=
nd
rather dirty machinery, in a by-comer, and made him Member of Parliament for
Coketown: one of the respected members for ounce weights and measures, one =
of
the representatives of the multiplication table, one of the deaf honourable
gentlemen, dumb honourable gentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lame
honourable gentlemen, dead honourable gentlemen, to every other considerati=
on.
Else wherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years
after our Master?
All this while, Louisa had been
passing on, so quiet and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright
ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate, and became extinct, that from
the period when her father had said she was almost a young woman - which se=
emed
but yesterday - she had scarcely attracted his notice again, when he found =
her
quite a young woman.
‘Quite a young woman,’
said Mr. Gradgrind, musing. ‘Dear me!’
Soon after this discovery, he beca=
me
more thoughtful than usual for several days, and seemed much engrossed by o=
ne subject.
On a certain night, when he was going out, and Louisa came to bid him good-=
bye
before his departure - as he was not to be home until late and she would not
see him again until the morning - he held her in his arms, looking at her in
his kindest manner, and said:
‘My dear Louisa, you are a
woman!’
She answered with the old, quick,
searching look of the night when she was found at the Circus; then cast down
her eyes. ‘Yes, father.’
‘My dear,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘I must speak with you alone and seriously. Come to me in =
my
room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘Your hands are rather cold,
Louisa. Are you not well?’
‘Quite well, father.’<= o:p>
‘And cheerful?’
She looked at him again, and smile=
d in
her peculiar manner. ‘I am as cheerful, father, as I usually am, or
usually have been.’
‘That’s well,’ s=
aid
Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her and went away; and Louisa returned to the
serene apartment of the haircutting character, and leaning her elbow on her
hand, looked again at the short-lived sparks that so soon subsided into ash=
es.
‘Are you there, Loo?’ =
said
her brother, looking in at the door. He was quite a young gentleman of plea=
sure
now, and not quite a prepossessing one.
‘Dear Tom,’ she answer=
ed,
rising and embracing him, ‘how long it is since you have been to see =
me!’
‘Why, I have been otherwise
engaged, Loo, in the evenings; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been
keeping me at it rather. But I touch him up with you when he comes it too
strong, and so we preserve an understanding. I say! Has father said anything
particular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?’
‘No, Tom. But he told me
to-night that he wished to do so in the morning.’
‘Ah! That’s what I mea=
n,’
said Tom. ‘Do you know where he is to- night?’ - with a very de=
ep
expression.
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll tell you. H=
e’s
with old Bounderby. They are having a regular confab together up at the Ban=
k.
Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I’ll tell you again. To keep Mrs.
Sparsit’s ears as far off as possible, I expect.’
With her hand upon her brotherR=
17;s
shoulder, Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at her
face with greater interest than usual, and, encircling her waist with his a=
rm,
drew her coaxingly to him.
‘You are very fond of me, an=
’t
you, Loo?’
‘Indeed I am, Tom, though yo=
u do
let such long intervals go by without coming to see me.’
‘Well, sister of mine,’
said Tom, ‘when you say that, you are near my thoughts. We might be so
much oftener together - mightn’t we? Always together, almost - mightn=
’t
we? It would do me a great deal of good if you were to make up your mind to=
I
know what, Loo. It would be a splendid thing for me. It would be uncommonly
jolly!’
Her thoughtfulness baffled his cun=
ning
scrutiny. He could make nothing of her face. He pressed her in his arm, and
kissed her cheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked at the fire.
‘I say, Loo! I thought IR=
17;d
come, and just hint to you what was going on: though I supposed you’d
most likely guess, even if you didn’t know. I can’t stay, becau=
se I’m
engaged to some fellows to- night. You won’t forget how fond you are =
of
me?’
‘No, dear Tom, I won’t
forget.’
‘That’s a capital girl=
,’
said Tom. ‘Good-bye, Loo.’
She gave him an affectionate
good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown
could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfas=
tly
towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly,=
as
glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone
and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house,=
and
then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old
Time, that greatest and longest- established Spinner of all, would weave fr=
om
the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret
place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes.
ALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take
after Blue Beard, his room was quite a blue chamber in its abundance of blue
books. Whatever they could prove (which is usually anything you like), they
proved there, in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of new
recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most complicated social questions =
were
cast up, got into exact totals, and finally settled - if those concerned co=
uld
only have been brought to know it. As if an astronomical observatory should=
be
made without any windows, and the astronomer within should arrange the star=
ry
universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr. Gradgrind, in his Observatory
(and there are many like it), had no need to cast an eye upon the teeming
myriads of human beings around him, but could settle all their destinies on=
a
slate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirty little bit of sponge.
To this Observatory, then: a stern
room, with a deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every second wi=
th a
beat like a rap upon a coffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointed morning=
. A
window looked towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her father’=
;s
table, she saw the high chimneys and the long tracts of smoke looming in the
heavy distance gloomily.
‘My dear Louisa,’ said=
her
father, ‘I prepared you last night to give me your serious attention =
in
the conversation we are now going to have together. You have been so well
trained, and you do, I am happy to say, so much justice to the education you
have received, that I have perfect confidence in your good sense. You are n=
ot
impulsive, you are not romantic, you are accustomed to view everything from=
the
strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation. From that ground alo=
ne,
I know you will view and consider what I am going to communicate.’
He waited, as if he would have been
glad that she said something. But she said never a word.
‘Louisa, my dear, you are the
subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me.’
Again he waited, and again she
answered not one word. This so far surprised him, as to induce him gently to
repeat, ‘a proposal of marriage, my dear.’ To which she returne=
d,
without any visible emotion whatever:
‘I hear you, father. I am
attending, I assure you.’
‘Well!’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, breaking into a smile, after being for the moment at a loss, =
216;you
are even more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are n=
ot
unprepared for the announcement I have it in charge to make?’
‘I cannot say that, father,
until I hear it. Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you. I =
wish
to hear you state it to me, father.’
Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind w=
as
not so collected at this moment as his daughter was. He took a paper-knife =
in
his hand, turned it over, laid it down, took it up again, and even then had=
to
look along the blade of it, considering how to go on.
‘What you say, my dear Louis=
a,
is perfectly reasonable. I have undertaken then to let you know that - in
short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he has long watched your
progress with particular interest and pleasure, and has long hoped that the
time might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage.
That time, to which he has so long, and certainly with great constancy, loo=
ked
forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of marriage to me,
and has entreated me to make it known to you, and to express his hope that =
you
will take it into your favourable consideration.’
Silence between them. The deadly
statistical clock very hollow. The distant smoke very black and heavy.
‘Father,’ said Louisa,=
‘do
you think I love Mr. Bounderby?’
Mr. Gradgrind was extremely
discomfited by this unexpected question. ‘Well, my child,’ he
returned, ‘I - really - cannot take upon myself to say.’
‘Father,’ pursued Loui=
sa
in exactly the same voice as before, ‘do you ask me to love Mr.
Bounderby?’
‘My dear Louisa, no. No. I a=
sk
nothing.’
‘Father,’ she still
pursued, ‘does Mr. Bounderby ask me to love him?’
‘Really, my dear,’ said
Mr. Gradgrind, ‘it is difficult to answer your question - ‘
‘Difficult to answer it, Yes=
or
No, father?
‘Certainly, my dear. Because=
;’
here was something to demonstrate, and it set him up again; ‘because =
the
reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the sense in which we use the
expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not =
do
himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful, fantastic, or (I=
am
using synonymous terms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow=
up
under his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so far forget what is d=
ue
to your good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such grou=
nd.
Therefore, perhaps the expression itself - I merely suggest this to you, my
dear - may be a little misplaced.’
‘What would you advise me to=
use
in its stead, father?’
‘Why, my dear Louisa,’
said Mr. Gradgrind, completely recovered by this time, ‘I would advise
you (since you ask me) to consider this question, as you have been accustom=
ed
to consider every other question, simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignor=
ant
and the giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant fancies, and other
absurdities that have no existence, properly viewed - really no existence -=
but
it is no compliment to you to say, that you know better. Now, what are the
Facts of this case? You are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of =
age;
Mr. Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty. There is some dispar=
ity
in your respective years, but in your means and positions there is none; on=
the
contrary, there is a great suitability. Then the question arises, Is this o=
ne
disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to such a marriage? In considering
this question, it is not unimportant to take into account the statistics of
marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in England and Wales. I fi=
nd,
on reference to the figures, that a large proportion of these marriages are
contracted between parties of very unequal ages, and that the elder of these
contracting parties is, in rather more than three-fourths of these instance=
s,
the bridegroom. It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this law,
that among the natives of the British possessions in India, also in a consi=
derable
part of China, and among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computa=
tion
yet furnished us by travellers, yield similar results. The disparity I have
mentioned, therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and (virtually) all but
disappears.’
‘What do you recommend, fath=
er,’
asked Louisa, her reserved composure not in the least affected by these
gratifying results, ‘that I should substitute for the term I used just
now? For the misplaced expression?’
‘Louisa,’ returned her
father, ‘it appears to me that nothing can be plainer. Confining your=
self
rigidly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is: Does Mr.
Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The sole remaining question th=
en
is: Shall I marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than that?’
‘Shall I marry him?’
repeated Louisa, with great deliberation.
‘Precisely. And it is
satisfactory to me, as your father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not
come to the consideration of that question with the previous habits of mind,
and habits of life, that belong to many young women.’
‘No, father,’ she
returned, ‘I do not.’
‘I now leave you to judge for
yourself,’ said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘I have stated the case, as such
cases are usually stated among practical minds; I have stated it, as the ca=
se of
your mother and myself was stated in its time. The rest, my dear Louisa, is=
for
you to decide.’
From the beginning, she had sat
looking at him fixedly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his
deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might have seen one wavering
moment in her, when she was impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and =
give
him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see it, he must have
overleaped at a bound the artificial barriers he had for many years been
erecting, between himself and all those subtle essences of humanity which w=
ill
elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be sound=
ed
shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and too high f=
or
such a leap. With his unbending, utilitarian, matter-of-fact face, he harde=
ned
her again; and the moment shot away into the plumbless depths of the past, =
to
mingle with all the lost opportunities that are drowned there.
Removing her eyes from him, she sa=
t so
long looking silently towards the town, that he said, at length: ‘Are=
you
consulting the chimneys of the Coketown works, Louisa?’
‘There seems to be nothing t=
here
but languid and monotonous smoke. Yet when the night comes, Fire bursts out,
father!’ she answered, turning quickly.
‘Of course I know that, Loui=
sa.
I do not see the application of the remark.’ To do him justice he did
not, at all.
She passed it away with a slight
motion of her hand, and concentrating her attention upon him again, said, &=
#8216;Father,
I have often thought that life is very short.’ - This was so distinct=
ly
one of his subjects that he interposed.
‘It is short, no doubt, my d=
ear.
Still, the average duration of human life is proved to have increased of la=
te
years. The calculations of various life assurance and annuity offices, among
other figures which cannot go wrong, have established the fact.’
‘I speak of my own life, fat=
her.’
‘O indeed? Still,’ said
Mr. Gradgrind, ‘I need not point out to you, Louisa, that it is gover=
ned
by the laws which govern lives in the aggregate.’
‘While it lasts, I would wis=
h to
do the little I can, and the little I am fit for. What does it matter?̵=
7;
Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a l=
oss
to understand the last four words; replying, ‘How, matter? What matte=
r,
my dear?’
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ she w=
ent
on in a steady, straight way, without regarding this, ‘asks me to mar=
ry
him. The question I have to ask myself is, shall I marry him? That is so,
father, is it not? You have told me so, father. Have you not?’
‘Certainly, my dear.’<= o:p>
‘Let it be so. Since Mr.
Bounderby likes to take me thus, I am satisfied to accept his proposal. Tell
him, father, as soon as you please, that this was my answer. Repeat it, word
for word, if you can, because I should wish him to know what I said.’=
‘It is quite right, my dear,=
’
retorted her father approvingly, ‘to be exact. I will observe your ve=
ry
proper request. Have you any wish in reference to the period of your marria=
ge,
my child?’
‘None, father. What does it
matter!’
Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a
little nearer to her, and taken her hand. But, her repetition of these words
seemed to strike with some little discord on his ear. He paused to look at =
her,
and, still holding her hand, said:
‘Louisa, I have not consider=
ed
it essential to ask you one question, because the possibility implied in it
appeared to me to be too remote. But perhaps I ought to do so. You have nev=
er
entertained in secret any other proposal?’
‘Father,’ she returned,
almost scornfully, ‘what other proposal can have been made to me? Whom
have I seen? Where have I been? What are my heart’s experiences?̵=
7;
‘My dear Louisa,’ retu=
rned
Mr. Gradgrind, reassured and satisfied. ‘You correct me justly. I mer=
ely
wished to discharge my duty.’
‘What do I know, father,R=
17;
said Louisa in her quiet manner, ‘of tastes and fancies; of aspiratio=
ns
and affections; of all that part of my nature in which such light things mi=
ght
have been nourished? What escape have I had from problems that could be
demonstrated, and realities that could be grasped?’ As she said it, s=
he
unconsciously closed her hand, as if upon a solid object, and slowly opened=
it
as though she were releasing dust or ash.
‘My dear,’ assented her
eminently practical parent, ‘quite true, quite true.’
‘Why, father,’ she
pursued, ‘what a strange question to ask me! The baby-preference that
even I have heard of as common among children, has never had its innocent
resting-place in my breast. You have been so careful of me, that I never ha=
d a
child’s heart. You have trained me so well, that I never dreamed a ch=
ild’s
dream. You have dealt so wisely with me, father, from my cradle to this hou=
r,
that I never had a child’s belief or a child’s fear.’
Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by h=
is
success, and by this testimony to it. ‘My dear Louisa,’ said he=
, ‘you
abundantly repay my care. Kiss me, my dear girl.’
So, his daughter kissed him. Detai=
ning
her in his embrace, he said, ‘I may assure you now, my favourite chil=
d,
that I am made happy by the sound decision at which you have arrived. Mr.
Bounderby is a very remarkable man; and what little disparity can be said to
exist between you - if any - is more than counterbalanced by the tone your =
mind
has acquired. It has always been my object so to educate you, as that you
might, while still in your early youth, be (if I may so express myself) alm=
ost
any age. Kiss me once more, Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother.=
217;
Accordingly, they went down to the
drawing-room, where the esteemed lady with no nonsense about her, was recum=
bent
as usual, while Sissy worked beside her. She gave some feeble signs of
returning animation when they entered, and presently the faint transparency=
was
presented in a sitting attitude.
‘Mrs. Gradgrind,’ said=
her
husband, who had waited for the achievement of this feat with some impatien=
ce, ‘allow
me to present to you Mrs. Bounderby.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Gradgr=
ind,
‘so you have settled it! Well, I’m sure I hope your health may =
be
good, Louisa; for if your head begins to split as soon as you are married,
which was the case with mine, I cannot consider that you are to be envied,
though I have no doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I give =
you
joy, my dear - and I hope you may now turn all your ological studies to good
account, I am sure I do! I must give you a kiss of congratulation, Louisa; =
but
don’t touch my right shoulder, for there’s something running do=
wn
it all day long. And now you see,’ whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting
her shawls after the affectionate ceremony, ‘I shall be worrying myse=
lf,
morning, noon, and night, to know what I am to call him!’
‘Mrs. Gradgrind,’ said=
her
husband, solemnly, ‘what do you mean?’
‘Whatever I am to call him, =
Mr.
Gradgrind, when he is married to Louisa! I must call him something. It̵=
7;s
impossible,’ said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politeness =
and
injury, ‘to be constantly addressing him and never giving him a name.=
I
cannot call him Josiah, for the name is insupportable to me. You yourself
wouldn’t hear of Joe, you very well know. Am I to call my own son-
in-law, Mister! Not, I believe, unless the time has arrived when, as an
invalid, I am to be trampled upon by my relations. Then, what am I to call =
him!’
Nobody present having any suggesti=
on
to offer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this life for=
the
time being, after delivering the following codicil to her remarks already
executed:
‘As to the wedding, all I as=
k,
Louisa, is, - and I ask it with a fluttering in my chest, which actually
extends to the soles of my feet, - that it may take place soon. Otherwise, I
know it is one of those subjects I shall never hear the last of.’
When Mr. Gradgrind had presented M=
rs.
Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and looked, in wonder, in pi=
ty,
in sorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had
known it, and seen it, without looking at her. From that moment she was
impassive, proud and cold - held Sissy at a distance - changed to her
altogether.
MR. BOUNDERBY’S first
disquietude on hearing of his happiness, was occasioned by the necessity of
imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit. He could not make up his mind how to do that,=
or
what the consequences of the step might be. Whether she would instantly dep=
art,
bag and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would positively refuse to budge from=
the
premises; whether she would be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing;
whether she would break her heart, or break the looking- glass; Mr. Bounder=
by
could not all foresee. However, as it must be done, he had no choice but to=
do
it; so, after attempting several letters, and failing in them all, he resol=
ved
to do it by word of mouth.
On his way home, on the evening he=
set
aside for this momentous purpose, he took the precaution of stepping into a
chemist’s shop and buying a bottle of the very strongest smelling-sal=
ts. ‘By
George!’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘if she takes it in the fainting w=
ay,
I’ll have the skin off her nose, at all events!’ But, in spite =
of
being thus forearmed, he entered his own house with anything but a courageo=
us
air; and appeared before the object of his misgivings, like a dog who was
conscious of coming direct from the pantry.
‘Good evening, Mr. Bounderby=
!’
‘Good evening, ma’am, =
good
evening.’ He drew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew back hers, as w=
ho
should say, ‘Your fireside, sir. I freely admit it. It is for you to
occupy it all, if you think proper.’
‘Don’t go to the North
Pole, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bounderby.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said
Mrs. Sparsit, and returned, though short of her former position.
Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, =
as,
with the points of a stiff, sharp pair of scissors, she picked out holes for
some inscrutable ornamental purpose, in a piece of cambric. An operation wh=
ich,
taken in connexion with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, suggested wi=
th
some liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough little
bird. She was so steadfastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she
looked up from her work; when she did so Mr. Bounderby bespoke her attention
with a hitch of his head.
‘Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am,&=
#8217;
said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets, and assuring himself =
with
his right hand that the cork of the little bottle was ready for use, ‘=
;I
have no occasion to say to you, that you are not only a lady born and bred,=
but
a devilish sensible woman.’
‘Sir,’ returned the la=
dy, ‘this
is indeed not the first time that you have honoured me with similar express=
ions
of your good opinion.’
‘Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am,&=
#8217;
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘I am going to astonish you.’
‘Yes, sir?’ returned M=
rs.
Sparsit, interrogatively, and in the most tranquil manner possible. She
generally wore mittens, and she now laid down her work, and smoothed those
mittens.
‘I am going, ma’am,=
217;
said Bounderby, ‘to marry Tom Gradgrind’s daughter.’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned M=
rs.
Sparsit. ‘I hope you may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed I hope y=
ou
may be happy, sir!’ And she said it with such great condescension as =
well
as with such great compassion for him, that Bounderby, - far more disconcer=
ted
than if she had thrown her workbox at the mirror, or swooned on the hearthr=
ug,
- corked up the smelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought, ‘Now
confound this woman, who could have even guessed that she would take it in =
this
way!’
‘I wish with all my heart, s=
ir,’
said Mrs. Sparsit, in a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a
moment, to have established a right to pity him ever afterwards; ‘that
you may be in all respects very happy.’
‘Well, ma’am,’
returned Bounderby, with some resentment in his tone: which was clearly
lowered, though in spite of himself, ‘I am obliged to you. I hope I s=
hall
be.’
‘Do you, sir!’ said Mr=
s.
Sparsit, with great affability. ‘But naturally you do; of course you =
do.’
A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounde=
rby’s
part, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work and occasionally ga=
ve a
small cough, which sounded like the cough of conscious strength and
forbearance.
‘Well, ma’am,’
resumed Bounderby, ‘under these circumstances, I imagine it would not=
be
agreeable to a character like yours to remain here, though you would be very
welcome here.’
‘Oh, dear no, sir, I could o=
n no
account think of that!’ Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her hig=
hly
superior manner, and a little changed the small cough - coughing now, as if=
the
spirit of prophecy rose within her, but had better be coughed down.
‘However, ma’am,’
said Bounderby, ‘there are apartments at the Bank, where a born and b=
red
lady, as keeper of the place, would be rather a catch than otherwise; and if
the same terms - ‘
‘I beg your pardon, sir. You
were so good as to promise that you would always substitute the phrase, ann=
ual
compliment.’
‘Well, ma’am, annual
compliment. If the same annual compliment would be acceptable there, why, I=
see
nothing to part us, unless you do.’
‘Sir,’ returned Mrs.
Sparsit. ‘The proposal is like yourself, and if the position I shall
assume at the Bank is one that I could occupy without descending lower in t=
he
social scale - ‘
‘Why, of course it is,’
said Bounderby. ‘If it was not, ma’am, you don’t suppose =
that
I should offer it to a lady who has moved in the society you have moved in.=
Not
that I care for such society, you know! But you do.’
‘Mr. Bounderby, you are very
considerate.’
‘You’ll have your own
private apartments, and you’ll have your coals and your candles, and =
all
the rest of it, and you’ll have your maid to attend upon you, and you=
’ll
have your light porter to protect you, and you’ll be what I take the
liberty of considering precious comfortable,’ said Bounderby.
‘Sir,’ rejoined Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘say no more. In yielding up my trust here, I shall not be f=
reed
from the necessity of eating the bread of dependence:’ she might have
said the sweetbread, for that delicate article in a savoury brown sauce was=
her
favourite supper: ‘and I would rather receive it from your hand, than
from any other. Therefore, sir, I accept your offer gratefully, and with ma=
ny
sincere acknowledgments for past favours. And I hope, sir,’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, concluding in an impressively compassionate manner, ‘I fondly
hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you desire, and deserve!’
Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from th=
at
position any more. It was in vain for Bounderby to bluster or to assert him=
self
in any of his explosive ways; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved to have compassion =
on
him, as a Victim. She was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, the more
polite, the more obliging, the more cheerful, the more hopeful, the more
exemplary altogether, she; the forlorner Sacrifice and Victim, he. She had =
that
tenderness for his melancholy fate, that his great red countenance used to
break out into cold perspirations when she looked at him.
Meanwhile the marriage was appoint=
ed
to be solemnized in eight weeks’ time, and Mr. Bounderby went every
evening to Stone Lodge as an accepted wooer. Love was made on these occasio=
ns
in the form of bracelets; and, on all occasions during the period of betrot=
hal,
took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses were made, jewellery was made, cakes a=
nd
gloves were made, settlements were made, and an extensive assortment of Fac=
ts
did appropriate honour to the contract. The business was all Fact, from fir=
st
to last. The Hours did not go through any of those rosy performances, which
foolish poets have ascribed to them at such times; neither did the clocks go
any faster, or any slower, than at other seasons. The deadly statistical re=
corder
in the Gradgrind observatory knocked every second on the head as it was bor=
n,
and buried it with his accustomed regularity.
So the day came, as all other days
come to people who will only stick to reason; and when it came, there were
married in the church of the florid wooden legs - that popular order of
architecture - Josiah Bounderby Esquire of Coketown, to Louisa eldest daugh=
ter
of Thomas Gradgrind Esquire of Stone Lodge, M.P. for that borough. And when
they were united in holy matrimony, they went home to breakfast at Stone Lo=
dge
aforesaid.
There was an improving party assem=
bled
on the auspicious occasion, who knew what everything they had to eat and dr=
ink
was made of, and how it was imported or exported, and in what quantities, a=
nd
in what bottoms, whether native or foreign, and all about it. The bridesmai=
ds,
down to little Jane Gradgrind, were, in an intellectual point of view, fit
helpmates for the calculating boy; and there was no nonsense about any of t=
he
company.
After breakfast, the bridegroom ad=
dressed
them in the following terms:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am
Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. Since you have done my wife and myself the ho=
nour
of drinking our healths and happiness, I suppose I must acknowledge the sam=
e;
though, as you all know me, and know what I am, and what my extraction was,=
you
won’t expect a speech from a man who, when he sees a Post, says
"that’s a Post," and when he sees a Pump, says "that=
8217;s
a Pump," and is not to be got to call a Post a Pump, or a Pump a Post,=
or
either of them a Toothpick. If you want a speech this morning, my friend and
father-in-law, Tom Gradgrind, is a Member of Parliament, and you know where=
to
get it. I am not your man. However, if I feel a little independent when I l=
ook
around this table to-day, and reflect how little I thought of marrying Tom
Gradgrind’s daughter when I was a ragged street-boy, who never washed=
his
face unless it was at a pump, and that not oftener than once a fortnight, I
hope I may be excused. So, I hope you like my feeling independent; if you d=
on’t,
I can’t help it. I do feel independent. Now I have mentioned, and you
have mentioned, that I am this day married to Tom Gradgrind’s daughte=
r. I
am very glad to be so. It has long been my wish to be so. I have watched her
bringing-up, and I believe she is worthy of me. At the same time - not to
deceive you - I believe I am worthy of her. So, I thank you, on both our pa=
rts,
for the good-will you have shown towards us; and the best wish I can give t=
he
unmarried part of the present company, is this: I hope every bachelor may f=
ind
as good a wife as I have found. And I hope every spinster may find as good a
husband as my wife has found.’
Shortly after which oration, as th=
ey
were going on a nuptial trip to Lyons, in order that Mr. Bounderby might ta=
ke the
opportunity of seeing how the Hands got on in those parts, and whether they,
too, required to be fed with gold spoons; the happy pair departed for the
railroad. The bride, in passing down-stairs, dressed for her journey, found=
Tom
waiting for her - flushed, either with his feelings, or the vinous part of =
the
breakfast.
‘What a game girl you are, t=
o be
such a first-rate sister, Loo!’ whispered Tom.
She clung to him as she should have
clung to some far better nature that day, and was a little shaken in her
reserved composure for the first time.
‘Old Bounderby’s quite
ready,’ said Tom. ‘Time’s up. Good-bye! I shall be on the
look-out for you, when you come back. I say, my dear Loo! AN’T it
uncommonly jolly now!’
END OF THE FIRST BOOK
A SUNNY midsummer day. There was s=
uch
a thing sometimes, even in Coketown.
Seen from a distance in such weath= er, Coketown lay shrouded in a haze of its own, which appeared impervious to the sun’s rays. You only knew the town was there, because you knew there could have been no such sulky blotch upon the prospect without a town. A bl= ur of soot and smoke, now confusedly tending this way, now that way, now aspir= ing to the vault of Heaven, now murkily creeping along the earth, as the wind r= ose and fell, or changed its quarter: a dense formless jumble, with sheets of c= ross light in it, that showed nothing but masses of darkness:- Coketown in the distance was suggestive of itself, though not a brick of it could be seen.<= o:p>
The wonder was, it was there at al=
l.
It had been ruined so often, that it was amazing how it had borne so many
shocks. Surely there never was such fragile china-ware as that of which the
millers of Coketown were made. Handle them never so lightly, and they fell =
to
pieces with such ease that you might suspect them of having been flawed bef=
ore.
They were ruined, when they were required to send labouring children to sch=
ool;
they were ruined when inspectors were appointed to look into their works; t=
hey
were ruined, when such inspectors considered it doubtful whether they were
quite justified in chopping people up with their machinery; they were utter=
ly
undone, when it was hinted that perhaps they need not always make quite so =
much
smoke. Besides Mr. Bounderby’s gold spoon which was generally receive=
d in
Coketown, another prevalent fiction was very popular there. It took the for=
m of
a threat. Whenever a Coketowner felt he was ill-used - that is to say, when=
ever
he was not left entirely alone, and it was proposed to hold him accountable=
for
the consequences of any of his acts - he was sure to come out with the awful
menace, that he would ‘sooner pitch his property into the Atlantic.=
8217;
This had terrified the Home Secretary within an inch of his life, on several
occasions.
However, the Coketowners were so
patriotic after all, that they never had pitched their property into the
Atlantic yet, but, on the contrary, had been kind enough to take mighty good
care of it. So there it was, in the haze yonder; and it increased and multi=
plied.
The streets were hot and dusty on =
the
summer day, and the sun was so bright that it even shone through the heavy
vapour drooping over Coketown, and could not be looked at steadily. Stokers
emerged from low underground doorways into factory yards, and sat on steps,=
and
posts, and palings, wiping their swarthy visages, and contemplating coals. =
The
whole town seemed to be frying in oil. There was a stifling smell of hot oil
everywhere. The steam- engines shone with it, the dresses of the Hands were=
soiled
with it, the mills throughout their many stories oozed and trickled it. The
atmosphere of those Fairy palaces was like the breath of the simoom: and th=
eir
inhabitants, wasting with heat, toiled languidly in the desert. But no
temperature made the melancholy mad elephants more mad or more sane. Their
wearisome heads went up and down at the same rate, in hot weather and cold,=
wet
weather and dry, fair weather and foul. The measured motion of their shadow=
s on
the walls, was the substitute Coketown had to show for the shadows of rustl=
ing
woods; while, for the summer hum of insects, it could offer, all the year
round, from the dawn of Monday to the night of Saturday, the whirr of shafts
and wheels.
Drowsily they whirred all through =
this
sunny day, making the passenger more sleepy and more hot as he passed the
humming walls of the mills. Sun-blinds, and sprinklings of water, a little
cooled the main streets and the shops; but the mills, and the courts and
alleys, baked at a fierce heat. Down upon the river that was black and thick
with dye, some Coketown boys who were at large - a rare sight there - rowed=
a
crazy boat, which made a spumous track upon the water as it jogged along, w=
hile
every dip of an oar stirred up vile smells. But the sun itself, however ben=
eficent,
generally, was less kind to Coketown than hard frost, and rarely looked
intently into any of its closer regions without engendering more death than
life. So does the eye of Heaven itself become an evil eye, when incapable or
sordid hands are interposed between it and the things it looks upon to bles=
s.
Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon
apartment at the Bank, on the shadier side of the frying street. Office-hou=
rs
were over: and at that period of the day, in warm weather, she usually
embellished with her genteel presence, a managerial board-room over the pub=
lic
office. Her own private sitting-room was a story higher, at the window of w=
hich
post of observation she was ready, every morning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, a=
s he
came across the road, with the sympathizing recognition appropriate to a
Victim. He had been married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit had never released=
him
from her determined pity a moment.
The Bank offered no violence to the
wholesome monotony of the town. It was another red brick house, with black
outside shutters, green inside blinds, a black street-door up two white ste=
ps,
a brazen door-plate, and a brazen door-handle full stop. It was a size larg=
er
than Mr. Bounderby’s house, as other houses were from a size to
half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all other particulars, it was strictly accor=
ding
to pattern.
Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by
coming in the evening-tide among the desks and writing implements, she shed=
a
feminine, not to say also aristocratic, grace upon the office. Seated, with=
her
needlework or netting apparatus, at the window, she had a self- laudatory s=
ense
of correcting, by her ladylike deportment, the rude business aspect of the
place. With this impression of her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Spa=
rsit
considered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. The townspeople who, in t=
heir
passing and repassing, saw her there, regarded her as the Bank Dragon keepi=
ng
watch over the treasures of the mine.
What those treasures were, Mrs.
Sparsit knew as little as they did. Gold and silver coin, precious paper,
secrets that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon vague persons
(generally, however, people whom she disliked), were the chief items in her
ideal catalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew that after office- hours, s=
he reigned
supreme over all the office furniture, and over a locked-up iron room with
three locks, against the door of which strong chamber the light porter laid=
his
head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at cockcrow. Further, =
she
was lady paramount over certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off =
from
communication with the predatory world; and over the relics of the current =
day’s
work, consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and
scraps of paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever be
deciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried. Lastly, she was guardian over a
little armoury of cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengeful order above o=
ne
of the official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradition never t=
o be
separated from a place of business claiming to be wealthy - a row of
fire-buckets - vessels calculated to be of no physical utility on any occas=
ion,
but observed to exercise a fine moral influence, almost equal to bullion, on
most beholders.
A deaf serving-woman and the light
porter completed Mrs. Sparsit’s empire. The deaf serving-woman was
rumoured to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone about among the low=
er
orders of Coketown, that she would be murdered some night when the Bank was=
shut,
for the sake of her money. It was generally considered, indeed, that she had
been due some time, and ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her
life, and her situation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity that occasioned m=
uch
offence and disappointment.
Mrs. Sparsit’s tea was just =
set
for her on a pert little table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude, whi=
ch
she insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the stern,
leathern-topped, long board-table that bestrode the middle of the room. The
light porter placed the tea-tray on it, knuckling his forehead as a form of
homage.
‘Thank you, Bitzer,’ s=
aid
Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Thank you, ma’am,R=
17;
returned the light porter. He was a very light porter indeed; as light as in
the days when he blinkingly defined a horse, for girl number twenty.
‘All is shut up, Bitzer?R=
17;
said Mrs. Sparsit.
‘All is shut up, ma’am=
.’
‘And what,’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, pouring out her tea, ‘is the news of the day? Anything?̵=
7;
‘Well, ma’am, I can=
217;t
say that I have heard anything particular. Our people are a bad lot, maR=
17;am;
but that is no news, unfortunately.’
‘What are the restless wretc=
hes
doing now?’ asked Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Merely going on in the old =
way,
ma’am. Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to stand by one another.=
8217;
‘It is much to be regretted,=
’
said Mrs. Sparsit, making her nose more Roman and her eyebrows more Coriola=
nian
in the strength of her severity, ‘that the united masters allow of any
such class- combinations.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ sa=
id
Bitzer.
‘Being united themselves, th=
ey
ought one and all to set their faces against employing any man who is united
with any other man,’ said Mrs. Sparsit.
‘They have done that, maR=
17;am,’
returned Bitzer; ‘but it rather fell through, ma’am.’
‘I do not pretend to underst=
and
these things,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, ‘my lot having =
been
signally cast in a widely different sphere; and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, b=
eing
also quite out of the pale of any such dissensions. I only know that these
people must be conquered, and that it’s high time it was done, once f=
or
all.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’
returned Bitzer, with a demonstration of great respect for Mrs. SparsitR=
17;s
oracular authority. ‘You couldn’t put it clearer, I am sure, ma=
’am.’
As this was his usual hour for hav=
ing
a little confidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already caught =
her
eye and seen that she was going to ask him something, he made a pretence of
arranging the rulers, inkstands, and so forth, while that lady went on with=
her
tea, glancing through the open window, down into the street.
‘Has it been a busy day, Bit=
zer?’
asked Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Not a very busy day, my lad=
y.
About an average day.’ He now and then slided into my lady, instead o=
f ma’am,
as an involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit’s personal dignity a=
nd
claims to reverence.
‘The clerks,’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, carefully brushing an imperceptible crumb of bread and butter from=
her
left-hand mitten, ‘are trustworthy, punctual, and industrious, of cou=
rse?’
‘Yes, ma’am, pretty fa=
ir,
ma’am. With the usual exception.’
He held the respectable office of
general spy and informer in the establishment, for which volunteer service =
he
received a present at Christmas, over and above his weekly wage. He had gro=
wn
into an extremely clear-headed, cautious, prudent young man, who was safe to
rise in the world. His mind was so exactly regulated, that he had no affect=
ions
or passions. All his proceedings were the result of the nicest and coldest
calculation; and it was not without cause that Mrs. Sparsit habitually obse=
rved
of him, that he was a young man of the steadiest principle she had ever kno=
wn.
Having satisfied himself, on his father’s death, that his mother had a
right of settlement in Coketown, this excellent young economist had asserted
that right for her with such a steadfast adherence to the principle of the
case, that she had been shut up in the workhouse ever since. It must be
admitted that he allowed her half a pound of tea a year, which was weak in =
him:
first, because all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauperise the
recipient, and secondly, because his only reasonable transaction in that
commodity would have been to buy it for as little as he could possibly give,
and sell it for as much as he could possibly get; it having been clearly
ascertained by philosophers that in this is comprised the whole duty of man=
-
not a part of man’s duty, but the whole.
‘Pretty fair, ma’am. W=
ith
the usual exception, ma’am,’ repeated Bitzer.
‘Ah - h!’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, shaking her head over her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp.
‘Mr. Thomas, ma’am, I
doubt Mr. Thomas very much, ma’am, I don’t like his ways at all=
.’
‘Bitzer,’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, ‘do you recollect my having said
anything to you respecting names?’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’=
;am.
It’s quite true that you did object to names being used, and theyR=
17;re
always best avoided.’
‘Please to remember that I h=
ave
a charge here,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. ‘I ho=
ld a
trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. Bounde=
rby
and myself might have deemed it years ago, that he would ever become my pat=
ron,
making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From=
Mr.
Bounderby I have received every acknowledgment of my social station, and ev=
ery
recognition of my family descent, that I could possibly expect. More, far m=
ore.
Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not consider,=
I
will not consider, I cannot consider,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, with a most
extensive stock on hand of honour and morality, ‘that I should be
scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that=
are
unfortunately - most unfortunately - no doubt of that - connected with his.=
’
Bitzer knuckled his forehead again,
and again begged pardon.
‘No, Bitzer,’ continued
Mrs. Sparsit, ‘say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas,
and you must excuse me.’
‘With the usual exception, m=
a’am,’
said Bitzer, trying back, ‘of an individual.’
‘Ah - h!’ Mrs. Sparsit
repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the l=
ong
gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been
interrupted.
‘An individual, ma’am,=
’
said Bitzer, ‘has never been what he ought to have been, since he fir=
st
came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth=
his
salt, ma’am. He wouldn’t get it either, if he hadn’t a fr=
iend
and relation at court, ma’am!’
‘Ah - h!’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head.
‘I only hope, ma’am,=
8217;
pursued Bitzer, ‘that his friend and relation may not supply him with=
the
means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma’am, we know out of whose pocket t=
hat
money comes.’
‘Ah - h!’ sighed Mrs.
Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head.
‘He is to be pitied, ma̵=
7;am.
The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma’am,’ said
Bitzer.
‘Yes, Bitzer,’ said Mr=
s.
Sparsit. ‘I have always pitied the delusion, always.’
‘As to an individual, maR=
17;am,’
said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, ‘he is as improvi=
dent
as any of the people in this town. And you know what their improvidence is,=
ma’am.
No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does.̵=
7;
‘They would do well,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘to take example by you, Bitzer.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. But,
since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma’am. I have put by a litt=
le,
ma’am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma’=
am:
I never touch it. I don’t even go the length of my wages, though they=
’re
not high, ma’am. Why can’t they do as I have done, ma’am?
What one person can do, another can do.’
This, again, was among the fiction=
s of
Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of
sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands d=
idn’t
each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached
them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do.
Why don’t you go and do it?
‘As to their wanting
recreations, ma’am,’ said Bitzer, ‘it’s stuff and
nonsense. I don’t want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I=
don’t
like ‘em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I h=
ave
no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trif=
le
now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood.
Then, why don’t they improve it, ma’am! It’s the first
consideration of a rational creature, and it’s what they pretend to w=
ant.’
‘Pretend indeed!’ said
Mrs. Sparsit.
‘I am sure we are constantly
hearing, ma’am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wive=
s and
families,’ said Bitzer. ‘Why look at me, ma’am! I donR=
17;t
want a wife and family. Why should they?’
‘Because they are improviden=
t,’
said Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Yes, ma’am,’
returned Bitzer, ‘that’s where it is. If they were more provide=
nt
and less perverse, ma’am, what would they do? They would say, "W=
hile
my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family,&q=
uot;
- as the case might be, ma’am - "I have only one to feed, and th=
at’s
the person I most like to feed."‘
‘To be sure,’ assented
Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin.
‘Thank you, ma’am,R=
17;
said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs.
Sparsit’s improving conversation. ‘Would you wish a little more=
hot
water, ma’am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?’=
;
‘Nothing just now, Bitzer.=
8217;
‘Thank you, ma’am. I
shouldn’t wish to disturb you at your meals, ma’am, particularly
tea, knowing your partiality for it,’ said Bitzer, craning a little to
look over into the street from where he stood; ‘but there’s a
gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma’am, and he has =
come
across as if he was going to knock. That is his knock, ma’am, no doub=
t.’
He stepped to the window; and look=
ing
out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, ‘Yes, ma&=
#8217;am.
Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma’am?’
‘I don’t know who it c=
an
be,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens.
‘A stranger, ma’am,
evidently.’
‘What a stranger can want at=
the
Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for wh=
ich
he is too late, I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘but I =
hold
a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink =
from
it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. =
Use
your own discretion, Bitzer.’
Here the visitor, all unconscious =
of
Mrs. Sparsit’s magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that t=
he
light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the
precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it,=
in
a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful,
with the greater dignity.
‘If you please, ma’am,=
the
gentleman would wish to see you,’ said Bitzer, with his light eye at =
Mrs.
Sparsit’s keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by
touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and ent=
ered
the board- room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city wall=
s to
treat with an invading general.
The visitor having strolled to the
window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by
this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himse=
lf
with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of
exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from
excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a
thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and
putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer.
‘I believe, sir,’ quoth
Mrs. Sparsit, ‘you wished to see me.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he
said, turning and removing his hat; ‘pray excuse me.’
‘Humph!’ thought Mrs.
Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. ‘Five and thirty, good-looking, =
good
figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold
eyes.’ All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way - like the
Sultan who put his head in the pail of water - merely in dipping down and
coming up again.
‘Please to be seated, sir,=
8217;
said Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Thank you. Allow me.’=
He
placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the
table. ‘I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage - =
very
heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van - and strolled on, looking a=
bout
me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it’s alway=
s as
black as this?’
‘In general much blacker,=
217;
returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way.
‘Is it possible! Excuse me: =
you
are not a native, I think?’
‘No, sir,’ returned Mr=
s.
Sparsit. ‘It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be - before I
became a widow - to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powle=
r.’
‘Beg your pardon, really!=
217;
said the stranger. ‘Was - ?’
Mrs. Sparsit repeated, ‘A
Powler.’
‘Powler Family,’ said =
the
stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The
stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before.
‘You must be very much bored
here?’ was the inference he drew from the communication.
‘I am the servant of
circumstances, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘and I have long adapted
myself to the governing power of my life.’
‘Very philosophical,’
returned the stranger, ‘and very exemplary and laudable, and - ‘=
; It
seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played =
with
his watch-chain wearily.
‘May I be permitted to ask, =
sir,’
said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘to what I am indebted for the favour of - ‘=
‘Assuredly,’ said the
stranger. ‘Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am the bearer of a
letter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, the banker. Walking through this
extraordinarily black town, while they were getting dinner ready at the hot=
el,
I asked a fellow whom I met; one of the working people; who appeared to have
been taking a shower-bath of something fluffy, which I assume to be the raw
material - ‘
Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head.
‘ - Raw material - where Mr.
Bounderby, the banker, might reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the word
Banker, he directed me to the Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr. Bounder=
by
the Banker does not reside in the edifice in which I have the honour of
offering this explanation?’
‘No, sir,’ returned Mr=
s.
Sparsit, ‘he does not.’
‘Thank you. I had no intenti=
on
of delivering my letter at the present moment, nor have I. But strolling on=
to
the Bank to kill time, and having the good fortune to observe at the window=
,’
towards which he languidly waved his hand, then slightly bowed, ‘a la=
dy
of a very superior and agreeable appearance, I considered that I could not =
do
better than take the liberty of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Ba=
nker
does live. Which I accordingly venture, with all suitable apologies, to do.=
’
The inattention and indolence of h=
is
manner were sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit’s thinking, by a
certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too. Here he was, for
instance, at this moment, all but sitting on the table, and yet lazily bend=
ing
over her, as if he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her charming=
-
in her way.
‘Banks, I know, are always
suspicious, and officially must be,’ said the stranger, whose lightne=
ss
and smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; suggesting matter far more
sensible and humorous than it ever contained - which was perhaps a shrewd
device of the founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have been that g=
reat
man: ‘therefore I may observe that my letter - here it is - is from t=
he
member for this place - Gradgrind - whom I have had the pleasure of knowing=
in
London.’
Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand,
intimated that such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave Mr. Bounde=
rby’s
address, with all needful clues and directions in aid.
‘Thousand thanks,’ said
the stranger. ‘Of course you know the Banker well?’
‘Yes, sir,’ rejoined M=
rs.
Sparsit. ‘In my dependent relation towards him, I have known him ten
years.’
‘Quite an eternity! I think =
he
married Gradgrind’s daughter?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Spars=
it,
suddenly compressing her mouth, ‘he had that - honour.’
‘The lady is quite a
philosopher, I am told?’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Mr=
s.
Sparsit. ‘Is she?’
‘Excuse my impertinent
curiosity,’ pursued the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit’s
eyebrows, with a propitiatory air, ‘but you know the family, and know=
the
world. I am about to know the family, and may have much to do with them. Is=
the
lady so very alarming? Her father gives her such a portentously hard-headed
reputation, that I have a burning desire to know. Is she absolutely
unapproachable? Repellently and stunningly clever? I see, by your meaning
smile, you think not. You have poured balm into my anxious soul. As to age,
now. Forty? Five and thirty?’
Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. =
216;A
chit,’ said she. ‘Not twenty when she was married.’
‘I give you my honour, Mrs.
Powler,’ returned the stranger, detaching himself from the table, =
216;that
I never was so astonished in my life!’
It really did seem to impress him,=
to
the utmost extent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at his
informant for full a quarter of a minute, and appeared to have the surprise=
in
his mind all the time. ‘I assure you, Mrs. Powler,’ he then sai=
d,
much exhausted, ‘that the father’s manner prepared me for a grim
and stony maturity. I am obliged to you, of all things, for correcting so
absurd a mistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Many thanks. Good day!’
He bowed himself out; and Mrs.
Sparsit, hiding in the window curtain, saw him languishing down the street =
on
the shady side of the way, observed of all the town.
‘What do you think of the
gentleman, Bitzer?’ she asked the light porter, when he came to take
away.
‘Spends a deal of money on h=
is
dress, ma’am.’
‘It must be admitted,’
said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘that it’s very tasteful.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’
returned Bitzer, ‘if that’s worth the money.’
‘Besides which, ma’am,=
’
resumed Bitzer, while he was polishing the table, ‘he looks to me as =
if
he gamed.’
‘It’s immoral to game,=
’
said Mrs. Sparsit.
‘It’s ridiculous, ma=
8217;am,’
said Bitzer, ‘because the chances are against the players.’
Whether it was that the heat preve=
nted
Mrs. Sparsit from working, or whether it was that her hand was out, she did=
no
work that night. She sat at the window, when the sun began to sink behind t=
he
smoke; she sat there, when the smoke was burning red, when the colour faded
from it, when darkness seemed to rise slowly out of the ground, and creep
upward, upward, up to the house-tops, up the church steeple, up to the summ=
its
of the factory chimneys, up to the sky. Without a candle in the room, Mrs.
Sparsit sat at the window, with her hands before her, not thinking much of =
the
sounds of evening; the whooping of boys, the barking of dogs, the rumbling =
of
wheels, the steps and voices of passengers, the shrill street cries, the cl=
ogs
upon the pavement when it was their hour for going by, the shutting-up of
shop-shutters. Not until the light porter announced that her nocturnal swee=
tbread
was ready, did Mrs. Sparsit arouse herself from her reverie, and convey her
dense black eyebrows - by that time creased with meditation, as if they nee=
ded
ironing out-up-stairs.
‘O, you Fool!’ said Mr=
s.
Sparsit, when she was alone at her supper. Whom she meant, she did not say;=
but
she could scarcely have meant the sweetbread.
THE Gradgrind party wanted assista=
nce
in cutting the throats of the Graces. They went about recruiting; and where
could they enlist recruits more hopefully, than among the fine gentlemen wh=
o,
having found out everything to be worth nothing, were equally ready for
anything?
Moreover, the healthy spirits who =
had
mounted to this sublime height were attractive to many of the Gradgrind sch=
ool.
They liked fine gentlemen; they pretended that they did not, but they did. =
They
became exhausted in imitation of them; and they yaw-yawed in their speech l=
ike
them; and they served out, with an enervated air, the little mouldy rations=
of
political economy, on which they regaled their disciples. There never before
was seen on earth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thus produced.
Among the fine gentlemen not regul=
arly
belonging to the Gradgrind school, there was one of a good family and a bet=
ter
appearance, with a happy turn of humour which had told immensely with the H=
ouse
of Commons on the occasion of his entertaining it with his (and the Board of
Directors) view of a railway accident, in which the most careful officers e=
ver
known, employed by the most liberal managers ever heard of, assisted by the
finest mechanical contrivances ever devised, the whole in action on the best
line ever constructed, had killed five people and wounded thirty-two, by a
casualty without which the excellence of the whole system would have been
positively incomplete. Among the slain was a cow, and among the scattered
articles unowned, a widow’s cap. And the honourable member had so tic=
kled
the House (which has a delicate sense of humour) by putting the cap on the =
cow,
that it became impatient of any serious reference to the Coroner’s
Inquest, and brought the railway off with Cheers and Laughter.
Now, this gentleman had a younger
brother of still better appearance than himself, who had tried life as a Co=
rnet
of Dragoons, and found it a bore; and had afterwards tried it in the train =
of
an English minister abroad, and found it a bore; and had then strolled to
Jerusalem, and got bored there; and had then gone yachting about the world,=
and
got bored everywhere. To whom this honourable and jocular, member fraternal=
ly
said one day, ‘Jem, there’s a good opening among the hard Fact
fellows, and they want men. I wonder you don’t go in for statistics.&=
#8217;
Jem, rather taken by the novelty of the idea, and very hard up for a change,
was as ready to ‘go in’ for statistics as for anything else. So=
, he
went in. He coached himself up with a blue-book or two; and his brother put=
it
about among the hard Fact fellows, and said, ‘If you want to bring in,
for any place, a handsome dog who can make you a devilish good speech, look
after my brother Jem, for he’s your man.’ After a few dashes in=
the
public meeting way, Mr. Gradgrind and a council of political sages approved=
of
Jem, and it was resolved to send him down to Coketown, to become known there
and in the neighbourhood. Hence the letter Jem had last night shown to Mrs.
Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderby now held in his hand; superscribed, ‘Jos=
iah
Bounderby, Esquire, Banker, Coketown. Specially to introduce James Harthous=
e,
Esquire. Thomas Gradgrind.’
Within an hour of the receipt of t=
his
dispatch and Mr. James Harthouse’s card, Mr. Bounderby put on his hat=
and
went down to the Hotel. There he found Mr. James Harthouse looking out of
window, in a state of mind so disconsolate, that he was already half- dispo=
sed
to ‘go in’ for something else.
‘My name, sir,’ said h=
is
visitor, ‘is Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown.’
Mr. James Harthouse was very happy
indeed (though he scarcely looked so) to have a pleasure he had long expect=
ed.
‘Coketown, sir,’ said
Bounderby, obstinately taking a chair, ‘is not the kind of place you =
have
been accustomed to. Therefore, if you will allow me - or whether you will or
not, for I am a plain man - I’ll tell you something about it before w=
e go
any further.’
Mr. Harthouse would be charmed.
‘Don’t be too sure of
that,’ said Bounderby. ‘I don’t promise it. First of all,=
you
see our smoke. That’s meat and drink to us. It’s the healthiest
thing in the world in all respects, and particularly for the lungs. If you =
are
one of those who want us to consume it, I differ from you. We are not going=
to
wear the bottoms of our boilers out any faster than we wear ‘em out n=
ow,
for all the humbugging sentiment in Great Britain and Ireland.’
By way of ‘going in’ to
the fullest extent, Mr. Harthouse rejoined, ‘Mr. Bounderby, I assure =
you
I am entirely and completely of your way of thinking. On conviction.’=
‘I am glad to hear it,’
said Bounderby. ‘Now, you have heard a lot of talk about the work in =
our
mills, no doubt. You have? Very good. I’ll state the fact of it to yo=
u.
It’s the pleasantest work there is, and it’s the lightest work
there is, and it’s the best- paid work there is. More than that, we
couldn’t improve the mills themselves, unless we laid down Turkey car=
pets
on the floors. Which we’re not a-going to do.’
‘Mr. Bounderby, perfectly ri=
ght.’
‘Lastly,’ said Bounder=
by, ‘as
to our Hands. There’s not a Hand in this town, sir, man, woman, or ch=
ild,
but has one ultimate object in life. That object is, to be fed on turtle so=
up
and venison with a gold spoon. Now, they’re not a-going - none of =
216;em
- ever to be fed on turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon. And now you =
know
the place.’
Mr. Harthouse professed himself in=
the
highest degree instructed and refreshed, by this condensed epitome of the w=
hole
Coketown question.
‘Why, you see,’ replied
Mr. Bounderby, ‘it suits my disposition to have a full understanding =
with
a man, particularly with a public man, when I make his acquaintance. I have
only one thing more to say to you, Mr. Harthouse, before assuring you of the
pleasure with which I shall respond, to the utmost of my poor ability, to my
friend Tom Gradgrind’s letter of introduction. You are a man of famil=
y.
Don’t you deceive yourself by supposing for a moment that I am a man =
of
family. I am a bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of tag, rag, and
bobtail.’
If anything could have exalted Jem=
’s
interest in Mr. Bounderby, it would have been this very circumstance. Or, s=
o he
told him.
‘So now,’ said Bounder=
by, ‘we
may shake hands on equal terms. I say, equal terms, because although I know
what I am, and the exact depth of the gutter I have lifted myself out of,
better than any man does, I am as proud as you are. I am just as proud as y=
ou
are. Having now asserted my independence in a proper manner, I may come to =
how
do you find yourself, and I hope you’re pretty well.’
The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him=
to
understand as they shook hands, for the salubrious air of Coketown. Mr.
Bounderby received the answer with favour.
‘Perhaps you know,’ sa=
id
he, ‘or perhaps you don’t know, I married Tom Gradgrind’s
daughter. If you have nothing better to do than to walk up town with me, I
shall be glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind’s daughter.’
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ said =
Jem,
‘you anticipate my dearest wishes.’
They went out without further
discourse; and Mr. Bounderby piloted the new acquaintance who so strongly
contrasted with him, to the private red brick dwelling, with the black outs=
ide
shutters, the green inside blinds, and the black street door up the two whi=
te
steps. In the drawing-room of which mansion, there presently entered to them
the most remarkable girl Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen. She was so
constrained, and yet so careless; so reserved, and yet so watchful; so cold=
and
proud, and yet so sensitively ashamed of her husband’s braggart humil=
ity
- from which she shrunk as if every example of it were a cut or a blow; tha=
t it
was quite a new sensation to observe her. In face she was no less remarkable
than in manner. Her features were handsome; but their natural play was so l=
ocked
up, that it seemed impossible to guess at their genuine expression. Utterly
indifferent, perfectly self- reliant, never at a loss, and yet never at her
ease, with her figure in company with them there, and her mind apparently q=
uite
alone - it was of no use ‘going in’ yet awhile to comprehend th=
is
girl, for she baffled all penetration.
From the mistress of the house, the
visitor glanced to the house itself. There was no mute sign of a woman in t=
he
room. No graceful little adornment, no fanciful little device, however triv=
ial,
anywhere expressed her influence. Cheerless and comfortless, boastfully and
doggedly rich, there the room stared at its present occupants, unsoftened a=
nd
unrelieved by the least trace of any womanly occupation. As Mr. Bounderby s=
tood
in the midst of his household gods, so those unrelenting divinities occupied
their places around Mr. Bounderby, and they were worthy of one another, and
well matched.
‘This, sir,’ said
Bounderby, ‘is my wife, Mrs. Bounderby: Tom Gradgrind’s eldest
daughter. Loo, Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. Harthouse has joined your father=
217;s
muster-roll. If he is not Torn Gradgrind’s colleague before long, I
believe we shall at least hear of him in connexion with one of our neighbou=
ring
towns. You observe, Mr. Harthouse, that my wife is my junior. I don’t
know what she saw in me to marry me, but she saw something in me, I suppose=
, or
she wouldn’t have married me. She has lots of expensive knowledge, si=
r,
political and otherwise. If you want to cram for anything, I should be trou=
bled
to recommend you to a better adviser than Loo Bounderby.’
To a more agreeable adviser, or one
from whom he would be more likely to learn, Mr. Harthouse could never be
recommended.
‘Come!’ said his host.=
‘If
you’re in the complimentary line, you’ll get on here, for you=
8217;ll
meet with no competition. I have never been in the way of learning complime=
nts
myself, and I don’t profess to understand the art of paying ‘em=
. In
fact, despise ‘em. But, your bringing-up was different from mine; mine
was a real thing, by George! You’re a gentleman, and I don’t
pretend to be one. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, and that’s enou=
gh
for me. However, though I am not influenced by manners and station, Loo
Bounderby may be. She hadn’t my advantages - disadvantages you would =
call
‘em, but I call ‘em advantages - so you’ll not waste your
power, I dare say.’
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ said =
Jem,
turning with a smile to Louisa, ‘is a noble animal in a comparatively
natural state, quite free from the harness in which a conventional hack like
myself works.’
‘You respect Mr. Bounderby v=
ery
much,’ she quietly returned. ‘It is natural that you should.=
217;
He was disgracefully thrown out, f=
or a
gentleman who had seen so much of the world, and thought, ‘Now, how a=
m I
to take this?’
‘You are going to devote
yourself, as I gather from what Mr. Bounderby has said, to the service of y=
our
country. You have made up your mind,’ said Louisa, still standing bef=
ore
him where she had first stopped - in all the singular contrariety of her se=
lf-
possession, and her being obviously very ill at ease - ‘to show the
nation the way out of all its difficulties.’
‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ he
returned, laughing, ‘upon my honour, no. I will make no such pretence=
to
you. I have seen a little, here and there, up and down; I have found it all=
to
be very worthless, as everybody has, and as some confess they have, and som=
e do
not; and I am going in for your respected father’s opinions - really
because I have no choice of opinions, and may as well back them as anything
else.’
‘Have you none of your own?&=
#8217;
asked Louisa.
‘I have not so much as the
slightest predilection left. I assure you I attach not the least importance=
to
any opinions. The result of the varieties of boredom I have undergone, is a
conviction (unless conviction is too industrious a word for the lazy sentim=
ent
I entertain on the subject), that any set of ideas will do just as much goo=
d as
any other set, and just as much harm as any other set. There’s an Eng=
lish
family with a charming Italian motto. What will be, will be. It’s the
only truth going!’
This vicious assumption of honesty=
in
dishonesty - a vice so dangerous, so deadly, and so common - seemed, he
observed, a little to impress her in his favour. He followed up the advanta=
ge,
by saying in his pleasantest manner: a manner to which she might attach as =
much
or as little meaning as she pleased: ‘The side that can prove anythin=
g in
a line of units, tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me=
to
afford the most fun, and to give a man the best chance. I am quite as much
attached to it as if I believed it. I am quite ready to go in for it, to the
same extent as if I believed it. And what more could I possibly do, if I did
believe it!’
‘You are a singular politici=
an,’
said Louisa.
‘Pardon me; I have not even =
that
merit. We are the largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby,=
if
we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed together.’
Mr. Bounderby, who had been in dan=
ger
of bursting in silence, interposed here with a project for postponing the f=
amily
dinner till half-past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime o=
n a
round of visits to the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and =
its
vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a
discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a
considerable accession of boredom.
In the evening, he found the
dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an appropr=
iate
occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavour of the hap’orth of
stewed eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old; and also of=
the
inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed
down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish,
with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least th=
ree
horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a
languid manner, received with ‘charming!’ every now and then; a=
nd
they probably would have decided him to ‘go in’ for Jerusalem a=
gain
to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa.
‘Is there nothing,’ he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; ‘is there nothing that will move that face?’<= o:p>
Yes! By Jupiter, there was somethi=
ng,
and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the d=
oor
opened, and broke into a beaming smile.
A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harth=
ouse
might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at h=
er
impassive face. She put out her hand - a pretty little soft hand; and her
fingers closed upon her brother’s, as if she would have carried them =
to
her lips.
‘Ay, ay?’ thought the =
visitor.
‘This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!’
The whelp was presented, and took =
his
chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited.
‘When I was your age, young =
Tom,’
said Bounderby, ‘I was punctual, or I got no dinner!’
‘When you were my age,’
resumed Tom, ‘you hadn’t a wrong balance to get right, and hadn=
’t
to dress afterwards.’
‘Never mind that now,’
said Bounderby.
‘Well, then,’ grumbled
Tom. ‘Don’t begin with me.’
‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ said
Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under- strain as it went on; ‘your
brother’s face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? O=
r at
some public school, perhaps?’
‘No,’ she resumed, qui=
te
interested, ‘he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at
home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad.=
8217;
‘No such luck, sir,’ s=
aid
Tom.
There was little enough in him to
brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his
manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her
heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. ‘So much the mo=
re
is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for,’ thought Mr.
James Harthouse, turning it over and over. ‘So much the more. So much=
the
more.’
Both in his sister’s presenc=
e,
and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contem=
pt
for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of =
that
independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without respondi=
ng
to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in t=
he
course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when =
he
rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the =
way
by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned=
out
with him to escort him thither.
IT was very remarkable that a young
gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural
restraint, should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It
was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own
guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of gover=
ning
himself; but so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a you=
ng
gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, should be sti=
ll
inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; but suc=
h a
monster, beyond all doubt, was Tom.
‘Do you smoke?’ asked =
Mr.
James Harthouse, when they came to the hotel.
‘I believe you!’ said =
Tom.
He could do no less than ask Tom u=
p;
and Tom could do no less than go up. What with a cooling drink adapted to t=
he
weather, but not so weak as cool; and what with a rarer tobacco than was to=
be
bought in those parts; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy state at his =
end
of the sofa, and more than ever disposed to admire his new friend at the ot=
her
end.
Tom blew his smoke aside, after he=
had
been smoking a little while, and took an observation of his friend. ‘=
He
don’t seem to care about his dress,’ thought Tom, ‘and yet
how capitally he does it. What an easy swell he is!’
Mr. James Harthouse, happening to
catch Tom’s eye, remarked that he drank nothing, and filled his glass
with his own negligent hand.
‘Thank’ee,’ said
Tom. ‘Thank’ee. Well, Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have had about a
dose of old Bounderby to-night.’ Tom said this with one eye shut up
again, and looking over his glass knowingly, at his entertainer.
‘A very good fellow indeed!&=
#8217;
returned Mr. James Harthouse.
‘You think so, don’t y=
ou?’
said Tom. And shut up his eye again.
Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and ri=
sing
from his end of the sofa, and lounging with his back against the chimney-pi=
ece,
so that he stood before the empty fire-grate as he smoked, in front of Tom =
and
looking down at him, observed:
‘What a comical brother-in-l=
aw
you are!’
‘What a comical brother-in-l=
aw
old Bounderby is, I think you mean,’ said Tom.
‘You are a piece of caustic,
Tom,’ retorted Mr. James Harthouse.
There was something so very agreea=
ble
in being so intimate with such a waistcoat; in being called Tom, in such an
intimate way, by such a voice; in being on such off-hand terms so soon, with
such a pair of whiskers; that Tom was uncommonly pleased with himself.
‘Oh! I don’t care for =
old
Bounderby,’ said he, ‘if you mean that. I have always called old
Bounderby by the same name when I have talked about him, and I have always
thought of him in the same way. I am not going to begin to be polite now, a=
bout
old Bounderby. It would be rather late in the day.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ returned James; ‘but take care when his wife is by, you know.’<= o:p>
‘His wife?’ said Tom. =
‘My
sister Loo? O yes!’ And he laughed, and took a little more of the coo=
ling
drink.
James Harthouse continued to loung=
e in
the same place and attitude, smoking his cigar in his own easy way, and loo=
king
pleasantly at the whelp, as if he knew himself to be a kind of agreeable de=
mon
who had only to hover over him, and he must give up his whole soul if requi=
red.
It certainly did seem that the whelp yielded to this influence. He looked at
his companion sneakingly, he looked at him admiringly, he looked at him bol=
dly,
and put up one leg on the sofa.
‘My sister Loo?’ said =
Tom.
‘She never cared for old Bounderby.’
‘That’s the past tense=
, Tom,’
returned Mr. James Harthouse, striking the ash from his cigar with his litt=
le
finger. ‘We are in the present tense, now.’
‘Verb neuter, not to care.
Indicative mood, present tense. First person singular, I do not care; second
person singular, thou dost not care; third person singular, she does not ca=
re,’
returned Tom.
‘Good! Very quaint!’ s=
aid
his friend. ‘Though you don’t mean it.’
‘But I do mean it,’ cr=
ied
Tom. ‘Upon my honour! Why, you won’t tell me, Mr. Harthouse, th=
at
you really suppose my sister Loo does care for old Bounderby.’
‘My dear fellow,’ retu=
rned
the other, ‘what am I bound to suppose, when I find two married people
living in harmony and happiness?’
Tom had by this time got both his =
legs
on the sofa. If his second leg had not been already there when he was calle=
d a
dear fellow, he would have put it up at that great stage of the conversatio=
n.
Feeling it necessary to do something then, he stretched himself out at grea=
ter
length, and, reclining with the back of his head on the end of the sofa, and
smoking with an infinite assumption of negligence, turned his common face, =
and
not too sober eyes, towards the face looking down upon him so carelessly ye=
t so
potently.
‘You know our governor, Mr.
Harthouse,’ said Tom, ‘and therefore, you needn’t be surp=
rised
that Loo married old Bounderby. She never had a lover, and the governor
proposed old Bounderby, and she took him.’
‘Very dutiful in your
interesting sister,’ said Mr. James Harthouse.
‘Yes, but she wouldn’t
have been as dutiful, and it would not have come off as easily,’ retu=
rned
the whelp, ‘if it hadn’t been for me.’
The tempter merely lifted his
eyebrows; but the whelp was obliged to go on.
‘I persuaded her,’ he
said, with an edifying air of superiority. ‘I was stuck into old
Bounderby’s bank (where I never wanted to be), and I knew I should get
into scrapes there, if she put old Bounderby’s pipe out; so I told he=
r my
wishes, and she came into them. She would do anything for me. It was very g=
ame
of her, wasn’t it?’
‘It was charming, Tom!’=
;
‘Not that it was altogether =
so
important to her as it was to me,’ continued Tom coolly, ‘becau=
se
my liberty and comfort, and perhaps my getting on, depended on it; and she =
had
no other lover, and staying at home was like staying in jail - especially w=
hen
I was gone. It wasn’t as if she gave up another lover for old Bounder=
by;
but still it was a good thing in her.’
‘Perfectly delightful. And s=
he
gets on so placidly.’
‘Oh,’ returned Tom, wi=
th
contemptuous patronage, ‘she’s a regular girl. A girl can get on
anywhere. She has settled down to the life, and she don’t mind. It do=
es
just as well as another. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she’s not a
common sort of girl. She can shut herself up within herself, and think - as=
I
have often known her sit and watch the fire - for an hour at a stretch.R=
17;
‘Ay, ay? Has resources of her
own,’ said Harthouse, smoking quietly.
‘Not so much of that as you =
may
suppose,’ returned Tom; ‘for our governor had her crammed with =
all
sorts of dry bones and sawdust. It’s his system.’
‘Formed his daughter on his =
own
model?’ suggested Harthouse.
‘His daughter? Ah! and every=
body
else. Why, he formed Me that way!’ said Tom.
‘Impossible!’
‘He did, though,’ said
Tom, shaking his head. ‘I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I fir=
st
left home and went to old Bounderby’s, I was as flat as a warming-pan,
and knew no more about life, than any oyster does.’
‘Come, Tom! I can hardly bel=
ieve
that. A joke’s a joke.’
‘Upon my soul!’ said t=
he
whelp. ‘I am serious; I am indeed!’ He smoked with great gravity
and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone=
, ‘Oh!
I have picked up a little since. I don’t deny that. But I have done it
myself; no thanks to the governor.’
‘And your intelligent sister=
?’
‘My intelligent sister is ab=
out
where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back
upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I don’t see how she is to
have got over that since. But she don’t mind,’ he sagaciously
added, puffing at his cigar again. ‘Girls can always get on, somehow.=
’
‘Calling at the Bank yesterd=
ay
evening, for Mr. Bounderby’s address, I found an ancient lady there, =
who
seems to entertain great admiration for your sister,’ observed Mr. Ja=
mes
Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smo=
ked
out.
‘Mother Sparsit!’ said
Tom. ‘What! you have seen her already, have you?’
His friend nodded. Tom took his ci= gar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) = with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger.<= o:p>
‘Mother Sparsit’s feel=
ing
for Loo is more than admiration, I should think,’ said Tom. ‘Say
affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when =
he
was a bachelor. Oh no!’
These were the last words spoken by
the whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete
oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being
stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice saying: ‘Come, it’s
late. Be off!’
‘Well!’ he said,
scrambling from the sofa. ‘I must take my leave of you though. I say.
Yours is very good tobacco. But it’s too mild.’
‘Yes, it’s too mild,=
8217;
returned his entertainer.
‘It’s - it’s
ridiculously mild,’ said Tom. ‘Where’s the door! Good nig=
ht!’
‘He had another odd dream of
being taken by a waiter through a mist, which, after giving him some trouble
and difficulty, resolved itself into the main street, in which he stood alo=
ne.
He then walked home pretty easily, though not yet free from an impression of
the presence and influence of his new friend - as if he were lounging somew=
here
in the air, in the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same loo=
k.
The whelp went home, and went to b=
ed.
If he had had any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less o=
f a
whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might =
have
gone down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to=
bed
in it for good and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its filthy
waters.
‘OH, my friends, the
down-trodden operatives of Coketown! Oh, my friends and fellow-countrymen, =
the
slaves of an iron-handed and a grinding despotism! Oh, my friends and
fellow-sufferers, and fellow-workmen, and fellow-men! I tell you that the h=
our
is come, when we must rally round one another as One united power, and crum=
ble
into dust the oppressors that too long have battened upon the plunder of our
families, upon the sweat of our brows, upon the labour of our hands, upon t=
he
strength of our sinews, upon the God- created glorious rights of Humanity, =
and
upon the holy and eternal privileges of Brotherhood!’
‘Good!’ ‘Hear, h=
ear,
hear!’ ‘Hurrah!’ and other cries, arose in many voices fr=
om
various parts of the densely crowded and suffocatingly close Hall, in which=
the
orator, perched on a stage, delivered himself of this and what other froth =
and
fume he had in him. He had declaimed himself into a violent heat, and was as
hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring at the top of his voice under a
flaring gaslight, clenching his fists, knitting his brows, setting his teet=
h,
and pounding with his arms, he had taken so much out of himself by this tim=
e,
that he was brought to a stop, and called for a glass of water.
As he stood there, trying to quench
his fiery face with his drink of water, the comparison between the orator a=
nd
the crowd of attentive faces turned towards him, was extremely to his
disadvantage. Judging him by Nature’s evidence, he was above the mass=
in
very little but the stage on which he stood. In many great respects he was
essentially below them. He was not so honest, he was not so manly, he was n=
ot
so good-humoured; he substituted cunning for their simplicity, and passion =
for
their safe solid sense. An ill-made, high-shouldered man, with lowering bro=
ws,
and his features crushed into an habitually sour expression, he contrasted =
most
unfavourably, even in his mongrel dress, with the great body of his hearers=
in
their plain working clothes. Strange as it always is to consider any assemb=
ly
in the act of submissively resigning itself to the dreariness of some
complacent person, lord or commoner, whom three-fourths of it could, by no
human means, raise out of the slough of inanity to their own intellectual
level, it was particularly strange, and it was even particularly affecting,=
to
see this crowd of earnest faces, whose honesty in the main no competent
observer free from bias could doubt, so agitated by such a leader. Good! He=
ar,
hear! Hurrah! The eagerness both of attention and intention, exhibited in a=
ll
the countenances, made them a most impressive sight. There was no carelessn=
ess,
no languor, no idle curiosity; none of the many shades of indifference to be
seen in all other assemblies, visible for one moment there. That every man =
felt
his condition to be, somehow or other, worse than it might be; that every m=
an
considered it incumbent on him to join the rest, towards the making of it
better; that every man felt his only hope to be in his allying himself to t=
he
comrades by whom he was surrounded; and that in this belief, right or wrong
(unhappily wrong then), the whole of that crowd were gravely, deeply,
faithfully in earnest; must have been as plain to any one who chose to see =
what
was there, as the bare beams of the roof and the whitened brick walls. Nor
could any such spectator fail to know in his own breast, that these men,
through their very delusions, showed great qualities, susceptible of being
turned to the happiest and best account; and that to pretend (on the streng=
th
of sweeping axioms, howsoever cut and dried) that they went astray wholly
without cause, and of their own irrational wills, was to pretend that there
could be smoke without fire, death without birth, harvest without seed,
anything or everything produced from nothing.
The orator having refreshed himsel=
f,
wiped his corrugated forehead from left to right several times with his
handkerchief folded into a pad, and concentrated all his revived forces, in=
a
sneer of great disdain and bitterness.
‘But oh, my friends and brot=
hers!
Oh, men and Englishmen, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! What shall=
we
say of that man - that working-man, that I should find it necessary so to l=
ibel
the glorious name - who, being practically and well acquainted with the
grievances and wrongs of you, the injured pith and marrow of this land, and
having heard you, with a noble and majestic unanimity that will make Tyrants
tremble, resolve for to subscribe to the funds of the United Aggregate
Tribunal, and to abide by the injunctions issued by that body for your bene=
fit,
whatever they may be - what, I ask you, will you say of that working-man, s=
ince
such I must acknowledge him to be, who, at such a time, deserts his post, a=
nd
sells his flag; who, at such a time, turns a traitor and a craven and a rec=
reant,
who, at such a time, is not ashamed to make to you the dastardly and
humiliating avowal that he will hold himself aloof, and will not be one of
those associated in the gallant stand for Freedom and for Right?’
The assembly was divided at this p=
oint.
There were some groans and hisses, but the general sense of honour was much=
too
strong for the condemnation of a man unheard. ‘Be sure you’re
right, Slackbridge!’ ‘Put him up!’ ‘Let’s hear
him!’ Such things were said on many sides. Finally, one strong voice
called out, ‘Is the man heer? If the man’s heer, Slackbridge, l=
et’s
hear the man himseln, ‘stead o’ yo.’ Which was received w=
ith
a round of applause.
Slackbridge, the orator, looked ab=
out
him with a withering smile; and, holding out his right hand at arm’s
length (as the manner of all Slackbridges is), to still the thundering sea,
waited until there was a profound silence.
‘Oh, my friends and fellow-m=
en!’
said Slackbridge then, shaking his head with violent scorn, ‘I do not
wonder that you, the prostrate sons of labour, are incredulous of the exist=
ence
of such a man. But he who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage existed,
and Judas Iscariot existed, and Castlereagh existed, and this man exists!=
8217;
Here, a brief press and confusion =
near
the stage, ended in the man himself standing at the orator’s side bef=
ore
the concourse. He was pale and a little moved in the face - his lips especi=
ally
showed it; but he stood quiet, with his left hand at his chin, waiting to be
heard. There was a chairman to regulate the proceedings, and this functiona=
ry
now took the case into his own hands.
‘My friends,’ said he,=
‘by
virtue o’ my office as your president, I askes o’ our friend
Slackbridge, who may be a little over hetter in this business, to take his
seat, whiles this man Stephen Blackpool is heern. You all know this man Ste=
phen
Blackpool. You know him awlung o’ his misfort’ns, and his good
name.’
With that, the chairman shook him
frankly by the hand, and sat down again. Slackbridge likewise sat down, wip=
ing
his hot forehead - always from left to right, and never the reverse way.
‘My friends,’ Stephen
began, in the midst of a dead calm; ‘I ha’ hed what’s been
spok’n o’ me, and ‘tis lickly that I shan’t mend it.
But I’d liefer you’d hearn the truth concernin myseln, fro my l=
ips
than fro onny other man’s, though I never cud’n speak afore so
monny, wi’out bein moydert and muddled.’
Slackbridge shook his head as if he
would shake it off, in his bitterness.
‘I’m th’ one sin=
gle
Hand in Bounderby’s mill, o’ a’ the men theer, as donR=
17;t
coom in wi’ th’ proposed reg’lations. I canna coom in wi&=
#8217;
‘em. My friends, I doubt their doin’ yo onny good. Licker they&=
#8217;ll
do yo hurt.’
Slackbridge laughed, folded his ar=
ms,
and frowned sarcastically.
‘But ‘t an’t som=
much
for that as I stands out. If that were aw, I’d coom in wi’ th=
8217;
rest. But I ha’ my reasons - mine, yo see - for being hindered; not o=
n’y
now, but awlus - awlus - life long!’
Slackbridge jumped up and stood be=
side
him, gnashing and tearing. ‘Oh, my friends, what but this did I tell =
you?
Oh, my fellow- countrymen, what warning but this did I give you? And how sh=
ows
this recreant conduct in a man on whom unequal laws are known to have fallen
heavy? Oh, you Englishmen, I ask you how does this subornation show in one =
of
yourselves, who is thus consenting to his own undoing and to yours, and to =
your
children’s and your children’s children’s?’
There was some applause, and some
crying of Shame upon the man; but the greater part of the audience were qui=
et.
They looked at Stephen’s worn face, rendered more pathetic by the hom=
ely
emotions it evinced; and, in the kindness of their nature, they were more s=
orry
than indignant.
‘‘Tis this Delegate=
217;s
trade for t’ speak,’ said Stephen, ‘an’ he’s =
paid
for ‘t, an’ he knows his work. Let him keep to ‘t. Let him
give no heed to what I ha had’n to bear. That’s not for him. Th=
at’s
not for nobbody but me.’
There was a propriety, not to say a
dignity in these words, that made the hearers yet more quiet and attentive.=
The
same strong voice called out, ‘Slackbridge, let the man be heern, and
howd thee tongue!’ Then the place was wonderfully still.
‘My brothers,’ said
Stephen, whose low voice was distinctly heard, ‘and my fellow-workmen=
-
for that yo are to me, though not, as I knows on, to this delegate here - I=
ha
but a word to sen, and I could sen nommore if I was to speak till Strike o&=
#8217;
day. I know weel, aw what’s afore me. I know weel that yo aw resolve =
to
ha nommore ado wi’ a man who is not wi’ yo in this matther. I k=
now
weel that if I was a lyin parisht i’ th’ road, yo’d feel =
it
right to pass me by, as a forrenner and stranger. What I ha getn, I mun mak=
th’
best on.’
‘Stephen Blackpool,’ s=
aid
the chairman, rising, ‘think on ‘t agen. Think on ‘t once
agen, lad, afore thou’rt shunned by aw owd friends.’
There was an universal murmur to t=
he
same effect, though no man articulated a word. Every eye was fixed on Steph=
en’s
face. To repent of his determination, would be to take a load from all their
minds. He looked around him, and knew that it was so. Not a grain of anger =
with
them was in his heart; he knew them, far below their surface weaknesses and
misconceptions, as no one but their fellow- labourer could.
‘I ha thowt on ‘t, abo=
ve a
bit, sir. I simply canna coom in. I mun go th’ way as lays afore me. I
mun tak my leave o’ aw heer.’
He made a sort of reverence to the=
m by
holding up his arms, and stood for the moment in that attitude; not speaking
until they slowly dropped at his sides.
‘Monny’s the pleasant =
word
as soom heer has spok’n wi’ me; monny’s the face I see he=
er,
as I first seen when I were yoong and lighter heart’n than now. I ha&=
#8217;
never had no fratch afore, sin ever I were born, wi’ any o’ my
like; Gonnows I ha’ none now that’s o’ my makin’. Y=
o’ll
ca’ me traitor and that - yo I mean t’ say,’ addressing S=
lackbridge,
‘but ‘tis easier to ca’ than mak’ out. So let be.=
8217;
He had moved away a pace or two to
come down from the platform, when he remembered something he had not said, =
and
returned again.
‘Haply,’ he said, turn=
ing
his furrowed face slowly about, that he might as it were individually addre=
ss
the whole audience, those both near and distant; ‘haply, when this
question has been tak’n up and discoosed, there’ll be a threat =
to
turn out if I’m let to work among yo. I hope I shall die ere ever suc=
h a
time cooms, and I shall work solitary among yo unless it cooms - truly, I m=
un
do ‘t, my friends; not to brave yo, but to live. I ha nobbut work to =
live
by; and wheerever can I go, I who ha worked sin I were no heighth at aw, in
Coketown heer? I mak’ no complaints o’ bein turned to the wa=
217;,
o’ bein outcasten and overlooken fro this time forrard, but hope I sh=
all
be let to work. If there is any right for me at aw, my friends, I think =
216;tis
that.’
Not a word was spoken. Not a sound=
was
audible in the building, but the slight rustle of men moving a little apart,
all along the centre of the room, to open a means of passing out, to the man
with whom they had all bound themselves to renounce companionship. Looking =
at
no one, and going his way with a lowly steadiness upon him that asserted
nothing and sought nothing, Old Stephen, with all his troubles on his head,
left the scene.
Then Slackbridge, who had kept his
oratorical arm extended during the going out, as if he were repressing with
infinite solicitude and by a wonderful moral power the vehement passions of=
the
multitude, applied himself to raising their spirits. Had not the Roman Brut=
us,
oh, my British countrymen, condemned his son to death; and had not the Spar=
tan
mothers, oh my soon to be victorious friends, driven their flying children =
on
the points of their enemies’ swords? Then was it not the sacred duty =
of
the men of Coketown, with forefathers before them, an admiring world in com=
pany
with them, and a posterity to come after them, to hurl out traitors from the
tents they had pitched in a sacred and a God-like cause? The winds of heaven
answered Yes; and bore Yes, east, west, north, and south. And consequently
three cheers for the United Aggregate Tribunal!
Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and
gave the time. The multitude of doubtful faces (a little conscience-stricke=
n)
brightened at the sound, and took it up. Private feeling must yield to the
common cause. Hurrah! The roof yet vibrated with the cheering, when the
assembly dispersed.
Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool =
fall
into the loneliest of lives, the life of solitude among a familiar crowd. T=
he
stranger in the land who looks into ten thousand faces for some answering l=
ook
and never finds it, is in cheering society as compared with him who passes =
ten
averted faces daily, that were once the countenances of friends. Such
experience was to be Stephen’s now, in every waking moment of his lif=
e;
at his work, on his way to it and from it, at his door, at his window,
everywhere. By general consent, they even avoided that side of the street on
which he habitually walked; and left it, of all the working men, to him onl=
y.
He had been for many years, a quiet
silent man, associating but little with other men, and used to companionship
with his own thoughts. He had never known before the strength of the want in
his heart for the frequent recognition of a nod, a look, a word; or the imm=
ense
amount of relief that had been poured into it by drops through such small
means. It was even harder than he could have believed possible, to separate=
in
his own conscience his abandonment by all his fellows from a baseless sense=
of
shame and disgrace.
The first four days of his enduran=
ce
were days so long and heavy, that he began to be appalled by the prospect
before him. Not only did he see no Rachael all the time, but he avoided eve=
ry
chance of seeing her; for, although he knew that the prohibition did not yet
formally extend to the women working in the factories, he found that some of
them with whom he was acquainted were changed to him, and he feared to try
others, and dreaded that Rachael might be even singled out from the rest if=
she
were seen in his company. So, he had been quite alone during the four days,=
and
had spoken to no one, when, as he was leaving his work at night, a young ma=
n of
a very light complexion accosted him in the street.
‘Your name’s Blackpool,
ain’t it?’ said the young man.
Stephen coloured to find himself w=
ith
his hat in his hand, in his gratitude for being spoken to, or in the sudden=
ness
of it, or both. He made a feint of adjusting the lining, and said, ‘Y=
es.’
‘You are the Hand they have =
sent
to Coventry, I mean?’ said Bitzer, the very light young man in questi=
on.
Stephen answered ‘Yes,’
again.
‘I supposed so, from their a=
ll
appearing to keep away from you. Mr. Bounderby wants to speak to you. You k=
now
his house, don’t you?’
Stephen said ‘Yes,’ ag=
ain.
‘Then go straight up there, =
will
you?’ said Bitzer. ‘You’re expected, and have only to tell
the servant it’s you. I belong to the Bank; so, if you go straight up
without me (I was sent to fetch you), you’ll save me a walk.’
Stephen, whose way had been in the
contrary direction, turned about, and betook himself as in duty bound, to t=
he
red brick castle of the giant Bounderby.
‘WELL, Stephen,’ said
Bounderby, in his windy manner, ‘what’s this I hear? What have
these pests of the earth been doing to you? Come in, and speak up.’
It was into the drawing-room that =
he
was thus bidden. A tea-table was set out; and Mr. Bounderby’s young w=
ife,
and her brother, and a great gentleman from London, were present. To whom
Stephen made his obeisance, closing the door and standing near it, with his=
hat
in his hand.
‘This is the man I was telli=
ng
you about, Harthouse,’ said Mr. Bounderby. The gentleman he addressed,
who was talking to Mrs. Bounderby on the sofa, got up, saying in an indolent
way, ‘Oh really?’ and dawdled to the hearthrug where Mr. Bounde=
rby
stood.
‘Now,’ said Bounderby,=
‘speak
up!’
After the four days he had passed,
this address fell rudely and discordantly on Stephen’s ear. Besides b=
eing
a rough handling of his wounded mind, it seemed to assume that he really was
the self- interested deserter he had been called.
‘What were it, sir,’ s=
aid
Stephen, ‘as yo were pleased to want wi’ me?’
‘Why, I have told you,’=
; returned
Bounderby. ‘Speak up like a man, since you are a man, and tell us abo=
ut
yourself and this Combination.’
‘Wi’ yor pardon, sir,&=
#8217;
said Stephen Blackpool, ‘I ha’ nowt to sen about it.’
Mr. Bounderby, who was always more=
or
less like a Wind, finding something in his way here, began to blow at it
directly.
‘Now, look here, Harthouse,&=
#8217;
said he, ‘here’s a specimen of ‘em. When this man was here
once before, I warned this man against the mischievous strangers who are al=
ways
about - and who ought to be hanged wherever they are found - and I told this
man that he was going in the wrong direction. Now, would you believe it, th=
at
although they have put this mark upon him, he is such a slave to them still,
that he’s afraid to open his lips about them?’ ‘I sed as I
had nowt to sen, sir; not as I was fearfo’ o’ openin’ my
lips.’
‘You said! Ah! I know what y=
ou
said; more than that, I know what you mean, you see. Not always the same th=
ing,
by the Lord Harry! Quite different things. You had better tell us at once, =
that
that fellow Slackbridge is not in the town, stirring up the people to mutin=
y;
and that he is not a regular qualified leader of the people: that is, a most
confounded scoundrel. You had better tell us so at once; you can’t
deceive me. You want to tell us so. Why don’t you?’
‘I’m as sooary as yo, =
sir,
when the people’s leaders is bad,’ said Stephen, shaking his he=
ad. ‘They
taks such as offers. Haply ‘tis na’ the sma’est o’
their misfortuns when they can get no better.’ The wind began to get
boisterous.
‘Now, you’ll think this
pretty well, Harthouse,’ said Mr. Bounderby. ‘You’ll think
this tolerably strong. You’ll say, upon my soul this is a tidy specim=
en
of what my friends have to deal with; but this is nothing, sir! You shall h=
ear
me ask this man a question. Pray, Mr. Blackpool’ - wind springing up =
very
fast - ‘may I take the liberty of asking you how it happens that you
refused to be in this Combination?’
‘How ‘t happens?’=
;
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Bounder=
by,
with his thumbs in the arms of his coat, and jerking his head and shutting =
his
eyes in confidence with the opposite wall: ‘how it happens.’
‘I’d leefer not coom t=
o ‘t,
sir; but sin you put th’ question - an’ not want’n t̵=
7;
be ill-manner’n - I’ll answer. I ha passed a promess.’
‘Not to me, you know,’
said Bounderby. (Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One now prevailing.)
‘O no, sir. Not to yo.’=
;
‘As for me, any consideration
for me has had just nothing at all to do with it,’ said Bounderby, st=
ill
in confidence with the wall. ‘If only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ha=
d been
in question, you would have joined and made no bones about it?’
‘Why yes, sir. ‘Tis tr=
ue.’
‘Though he knows,’ said
Mr. Bounderby, now blowing a gale, ‘that there are a set of rascals a=
nd
rebels whom transportation is too good for! Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have be=
en
knocking about in the world some time. Did you ever meet with anything like
that man out of this blessed country?’ And Mr. Bounderby pointed him =
out
for inspection, with an angry finger.
‘Nay, ma’am,’ sa=
id
Stephen Blackpool, staunchly protesting against the words that had been use=
d,
and instinctively addressing himself to Louisa, after glancing at her face.=
‘Not
rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o’ th’ kind, ma’am, nowt o&=
#8217;
th’ kind. They’ve not doon me a kindness, ma’am, as I know
and feel. But there’s not a dozen men amoong ‘em, ma’am -=
a
dozen? Not six - but what believes as he has doon his duty by the rest and =
by
himseln. God forbid as I, that ha’ known, and had’n experience =
o’
these men aw my life - I, that ha’ ett’n an’ droonken wi&=
#8217;
‘em, an’ seet’n wi’ ‘em, and toil’n wi&=
#8217;
‘em, and lov’n ‘em, should fail fur to stan by ‘em =
wi’
the truth, let ‘em ha’ doon to me what they may!’
He spoke with the rugged earnestne=
ss
of his place and character - deepened perhaps by a proud consciousness that=
he
was faithful to his class under all their mistrust; but he fully remembered
where he was, and did not even raise his voice.
‘No, ma’am, no. They=
8217;re
true to one another, faithfo’ to one another, ‘fectionate to one
another, e’en to death. Be poor amoong ‘em, be sick amoong R=
16;em,
grieve amoong ‘em for onny o’ th’ monny causes that carri=
es
grief to the poor man’s door, an’ they’ll be tender wi=
217;
yo, gentle wi’ yo, comfortable wi’ yo, Chrisen wi’ yo. Be
sure o’ that, ma’am. They’d be riven to bits, ere ever th=
ey’d
be different.’
‘In short,’ said Mr.
Bounderby, ‘it’s because they are so full of virtues that they =
have
turned you adrift. Go through with it while you are about it. Out with it.&=
#8217;
‘How ‘tis, ma’am=
,’
resumed Stephen, appearing still to find his natural refuge in Louisa’=
;s
face, ‘that what is best in us fok, seems to turn us most to trouble =
an’
misfort’n an’ mistake, I dunno. But ‘tis so. I know ̵=
6;tis,
as I know the heavens is over me ahint the smoke. We’re patient too, =
an’
wants in general to do right. An’ I canna think the fawt is aw wiR=
17;
us.’
‘Now, my friend,’ said=
Mr.
Bounderby, whom he could not have exasperated more, quite unconscious of it
though he was, than by seeming to appeal to any one else, ‘if you will
favour me with your attention for half a minute, I should like to have a wo=
rd
or two with you. You said just now, that you had nothing to tell us about t=
his
business. You are quite sure of that before we go any further.’
‘Sir, I am sure on ‘t.=
’
‘Here’s a gentleman fr=
om
London present,’ Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point at Mr. James
Harthouse with his thumb, ‘a Parliament gentleman. I should like him =
to
hear a short bit of dialogue between you and me, instead of taking the
substance of it - for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will be; no=
body
knows better than I do, take notice! - instead of receiving it on trust fro=
m my
mouth.’
Stephen bent his head to the gentl=
eman
from London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than usual. He turned h=
is
eyes involuntarily to his former refuge, but at a look from that quarter
(expressive though instantaneous) he settled them on Mr. Bounderby’s
face.
‘Now, what do you complain o=
f?’
asked Mr. Bounderby.
‘I ha’ not coom here, =
sir,’
Stephen reminded him, ‘to complain. I coom for that I were sent for.&=
#8217;
‘What,’ repeated Mr.
Bounderby, folding his arms, ‘do you people, in a general way, compla=
in
of?’
Stephen looked at him with some li=
ttle
irresolution for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind.
‘Sir, I were never good at
showin o ‘t, though I ha had’n my share in feeling o ‘t. =
‘Deed
we are in a muddle, sir. Look round town - so rich as ‘tis - and see =
the
numbers o’ people as has been broughten into bein heer, fur to weave,=
an’
to card, an’ to piece out a livin’, aw the same one way, someho=
ws, ‘twixt
their cradles and their graves. Look how we live, an’ wheer we live, =
an’
in what numbers, an’ by what chances, and wi’ what sameness; and
look how the mills is awlus a goin, and how they never works us no nigher to
ony dis’ant object - ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considers of u=
s,
and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi’ yor deputations to
Secretaries o’ State ‘bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and =
how
we are awlus wrong, and never had’n no reason in us sin ever we were
born. Look how this ha growen an’ growen, sir, bigger an’ bigge=
r,
broader an’ broader, harder an’ harder, fro year to year, fro
generation unto generation. Who can look on ‘t, sir, and fairly tell a
man ‘tis not a muddle?’
‘Of course,’ said Mr.
Bounderby. ‘Now perhaps you’ll let the gentleman know, how you
would set this muddle (as you’re so fond of calling it) to rights.=
217;
‘I donno, sir. I canna be
expecten to ‘t. ‘Tis not me as should be looken to for that, si=
r. ‘Tis
them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak upon
themseln, sir, if not to do’t?’
‘I’ll tell you somethi=
ng
towards it, at any rate,’ returned Mr. Bounderby. ‘We will make=
an
example of half a dozen Slackbridges. We’ll indict the blackguards for
felony, and get ‘em shipped off to penal settlements.’
Stephen gravely shook his head.
‘Don’t tell me we won&=
#8217;t,
man,’ said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, ‘be=
cause
we will, I tell you!’
‘Sir,’ returned Stephe=
n,
with the quiet confidence of absolute certainty, ‘if yo was t’ =
tak
a hundred Slackbridges - aw as there is, and aw the number ten times towd -=
an’
was t’ sew ‘em up in separate sacks, an’ sink ‘em in
the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry land coom to be, yo’d lea=
ve
the muddle just wheer ‘tis. Mischeevous strangers!’ said Stephe=
n,
with an anxious smile; ‘when ha we not heern, I am sure, sin ever we =
can
call to mind, o’ th’ mischeevous strangers! ‘Tis not by t=
hem
the trouble’s made, sir. ‘Tis not wi’ them ‘t
commences. I ha no favour for ‘em - I ha no reason to favour ‘e=
m -
but ‘tis hopeless and useless to dream o’ takin them fro their
trade, ‘stead o’ takin their trade fro them! Aw that’s now
about me in this room were heer afore I coom, an’ will be heer when I=
am
gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an’ pack it off to Norfolk Island,=
an’
the time will go on just the same. So ‘tis wi’ Slackbridge every
bit.’
Reverting for a moment to his form=
er
refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door.
Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of =
his
own will and desire; and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late
injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated =
him.
He stayed to finish what was in his mind.
‘Sir, I canna, wi’ my
little learning an’ my common way, tell the genelman what will better=
aw
this - though some working men o’ this town could, above my powers - =
but
I can tell him what I know will never do ‘t. The strong hand will nev=
er
do ‘t. Vict’ry and triumph will never do ‘t. Agreeing fur=
to
mak one side unnat’rally awlus and for ever right, and toother side u=
nnat’rally
awlus and for ever wrong, will never, never do ‘t. Nor yet lettin alo=
ne
will never do ‘t. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the =
like
lives and aw faw’en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, an=
d yo
will be as anoother, wi’ a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as
long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, =
wi’
kindness and patience an’ cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one anot=
her
in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses w=
i’
what they need themseln - like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman=
ha
seen in aw his travels can beat - will never do ‘t till th’ Sun
turns t’ ice. Most o’ aw, rating ‘em as so much Power, and
reg’latin ‘em as if they was figures in a soom, or machines: wi=
’out
loves and likens, wi’out memories and inclinations, wi’out soul=
s to
weary and souls to hope - when aw goes quiet, draggin on wi’ ‘e=
m as
if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, and when aw goes onquiet,
reproachin ‘em for their want o’ sitch humanly feelins in their
dealins wi’ yo - this will never do ‘t, sir, till God’s w=
ork
is onmade.’
Stephen stood with the open door in
his hand, waiting to know if anything more were expected of him.
‘Just stop a moment,’ =
said
Mr. Bounderby, excessively red in the face. ‘I told you, the last time
you were here with a grievance, that you had better turn about and come out=
of
that. And I also told you, if you remember, that I was up to the gold spoon
look- out.’
‘I were not up to ‘t
myseln, sir; I do assure yo.’
‘Now it’s clear to me,=
’
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘that you are one of those chaps who have always =
got
a grievance. And you go about, sowing it and raising crops. That’s the
business of your life, my friend.’
Stephen shook his head, mutely
protesting that indeed he had other business to do for his life.
‘You are such a waspish,
raspish, ill-conditioned chap, you see,’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘t=
hat
even your own Union, the men who know you best, will have nothing to do with
you. I never thought those fellows could be right in anything; but I tell y=
ou
what! I so far go along with them for a novelty, that I’ll have nothi=
ng
to do with you either.’
Stephen raised his eyes quickly to=
his
face.
‘You can finish off what you=
’re
at,’ said Mr. Bounderby, with a meaning nod, ‘and then go
elsewhere.’
‘Sir, yo know weel,’ s=
aid
Stephen expressively, ‘that if I canna get work wi’ yo, I canna=
get
it elsewheer.’
The reply was, ‘What I know,=
I
know; and what you know, you know. I have no more to say about it.’
Stephen glanced at Louisa again, b=
ut
her eyes were raised to his no more; therefore, with a sigh, and saying, ba=
rely
above his breath, ‘Heaven help us aw in this world!’ he departe=
d.
IT was falling dark when Stephen c=
ame
out of Mr. Bounderby’s house. The shadows of night had gathered so fa=
st,
that he did not look about him when he closed the door, but plodded straight
along the street. Nothing was further from his thoughts than the curious old
woman he had encountered on his previous visit to the same house, when he h=
eard
a step behind him that he knew, and turning, saw her in Rachael’s
company.
He saw Rachael first, as he had he=
ard
her only.
‘Ah, Rachael, my dear! Missu=
s,
thou wi’ her!’
‘Well, and now you are surpr=
ised
to be sure, and with reason I must say,’ the old woman returned. R=
16;Here
I am again, you see.’
‘But how wi’ Rachael?&=
#8217;
said Stephen, falling into their step, walking between them, and looking fr=
om
the one to the other.
‘Why, I come to be with this
good lass pretty much as I came to be with you,’ said the old woman,
cheerfully, taking the reply upon herself. ‘My visiting time is later
this year than usual, for I have been rather troubled with shortness of bre=
ath,
and so put it off till the weather was fine and warm. For the same reason I=
don’t
make all my journey in one day, but divide it into two days, and get a bed
to-night at the Travellers’ Coffee House down by the railroad (a nice
clean house), and go back Parliamentary, at six in the morning. Well, but w=
hat
has this to do with this good lass, says you? I’m going to tell you. I
have heard of Mr. Bounderby being married. I read it in the paper, where it
looked grand - oh, it looked fine!’ the old woman dwelt on it with
strange enthusiasm: ‘and I want to see his wife. I have never seen her
yet. Now, if you’ll believe me, she hasn’t come out of that hou=
se
since
Once again, Stephen had to conquer=
an
instinctive propensity to dislike this old woman, though her manner was as
honest and simple as a manner possibly could be. With a gentleness that was=
as
natural to him as he knew it to be to Rachael, he pursued the subject that
interested her in her old age.
‘Well, missus,’ said h=
e, ‘I
ha seen the lady, and she were young and hansom. Wi’ fine dark thinkin
eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as I ha never seen the like on.’
‘Young and handsome. Yes!=
217;
cried the old woman, quite delighted. ‘As bonny as a rose! And what a
happy wife!’
‘Aye, missus, I suppose she =
be,’
said Stephen. But with a doubtful glance at Rachael.
‘Suppose she be? She must be.
She’s your master’s wife,’ returned the old woman.
Stephen nodded assent. ‘Thou=
gh
as to master,’ said he, glancing again at Rachael, ‘not master =
onny
more. That’s aw enden ‘twixt him and me.’
‘Have you left his work,
Stephen?’ asked Rachael, anxiously and quickly.
‘Why, Rachael,’ he
replied, ‘whether I ha lef’n his work, or whether his work ha l=
ef’n
me, cooms t’ th’ same. His work and me are parted. ‘Tis as
weel so - better, I were thinkin when yo coom up wi’ me. It would ha
brought’n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply ‘ti=
s a
kindness to monny that I go; haply ‘tis a kindness to myseln; anyways=
it
mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coketown fur th’ time, and seek a
fort’n, dear, by beginnin fresh.’
‘Where will you go, Stephen?=
’
‘I donno t’night,̵=
7;
said he, lifting off his hat, and smoothing his thin hair with the flat of =
his
hand. ‘But I’m not goin t’night, Rachael, nor yet t’=
;morrow.
‘Tan’t easy overmuch t’ know wheer t’ turn, but a g=
ood
heart will coom to me.’
Herein, too, the sense of even
thinking unselfishly aided him. Before he had so much as closed Mr. Bounder=
by’s
door, he had reflected that at least his being obliged to go away was good =
for
her, as it would save her from the chance of being brought into question for
not withdrawing from him. Though it would cost him a hard pang to leave her,
and though he could think of no similar place in which his condemnation wou=
ld
not pursue him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced away from the
endurance of the last four days, even to unknown difficulties and distresse=
s.
So he said, with truth, ‘I=
8217;m
more leetsome, Rachael, under ‘t, than I could’n ha believed.=
8217;
It was not her part to make his burden heavier. She answered with her
comforting smile, and the three walked on together.
Age, especially when it strives to=
be
self-reliant and cheerful, finds much consideration among the poor. The old
woman was so decent and contented, and made so light of her infirmities, th=
ough
they had increased upon her since her former interview with Stephen, that t=
hey
both took an interest in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their walki=
ng
at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to be talked to, a=
nd
very willing to talk to any extent: so, when they came to their part of the
town, she was more brisk and vivacious than ever.
‘Come to my poor place, miss=
us,’
said Stephen, ‘and tak a coop o’ tea. Rachael will coom then; a=
nd
arterwards I’ll see thee safe t’ thy Travellers’ lodgin. =
‘T
may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th’ chance o’ thy coompany
agen.’
They complied, and the three went =
on
to the house where he lodged. When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen
glanced at his window with a dread that always haunted his desolate home; b=
ut
it was open, as he had left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his
life had flitted away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her si=
nce.
The only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his
room, and the grayer hair upon his head.
He lighted a candle, set out his
little tea-board, got hot water from below, and brought in small portions of
tea and sugar, a loaf, and some butter from the nearest shop. The bread was=
new
and crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar lump, of course - in fulfilment=
of
the standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived li=
ke
princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borro=
wing
of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of
sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide hea=
th
before him, enjoyed the meal - again in corroboration of the magnates, as
exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir=
.
‘I ha never thowt yet, missu=
s,’
said Stephen, ‘o’ askin thy name.’
The old lady announced herself as =
‘Mrs.
Pegler.’
‘A widder, I think?’ s=
aid
Stephen.
‘Oh, many long years!’
Mrs. Pegler’s husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by
Mrs. Pegler’s calculation, when Stephen was born.
‘‘Twere a bad job, too=
, to
lose so good a one,’ said Stephen. ‘Onny children?’
Mrs. Pegler’s cup, rattling
against her saucer as she held it, denoted some nervousness on her part. =
8216;No,’
she said. ‘Not now, not now.’
‘Dead, Stephen,’ Racha=
el
softly hinted.
‘I’m sooary I ha spok&=
#8217;n
on ‘t,’ said Stephen, ‘I ought t’ hadn in my mind a=
s I
might touch a sore place. I - I blame myseln.’
While he excused himself, the old =
lady’s
cup rattled more and more. ‘I had a son,’ she said, curiously
distressed, and not by any of the usual appearances of sorrow; ‘and he
did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken of if you please. He=
is
- ‘ Putting down her cup, she moved her hands as if she would have ad=
ded,
by her action, ‘dead!’ Then she said aloud, ‘I have lost =
him.’
Stephen had not yet got the better=
of
his having given the old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling up the
narrow stairs, and calling him to the door, whispered in his ear. Mrs. Pegl=
er
was by no means deaf, for she caught a word as it was uttered.
‘Bounderby!’ she cried=
, in
a suppressed voice, starting up from the table. ‘Oh hide me! Don̵=
7;t
let me be seen for the world. Don’t let him come up till I’ve g=
ot
away. Pray, pray!’ She trembled, and was excessively agitated; getting
behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to reassure her; and not seeming to know
what she was about.
‘But hearken, missus, hearke=
n,’
said Stephen, astonished. "Tisn’t Mr. Bounderby; ‘tis his
wife. Yo’r not fearfo’ o’ her. Yo was hey-go-mad about he=
r,
but an hour sin.’
‘But are you sure it’s=
the
lady, and not the gentleman?’ she asked, still trembling.
‘Certain sure!’
‘Well then, pray don’t
speak to me, nor yet take any notice of me,’ said the old woman. R=
16;Let
me be quite to myself in this corner.’
Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael=
for
an explanation, which she was quite unable to give him; took the candle, we=
nt
downstairs, and in a few moments returned, lighting Louisa into the room. S=
he
was followed by the whelp.
Rachael had risen, and stood apart
with her shawl and bonnet in her hand, when Stephen, himself profoundly
astonished by this visit, put the candle on the table. Then he too stood, w=
ith
his doubled hand upon the table near it, waiting to be addressed.
For the first time in her life Lou=
isa
had come into one of the dwellings of the Coketown Hands; for the first tim=
e in
her life she was face to face with anything like individuality in connection
with them. She knew of their existence by hundreds and by thousands. She kn=
ew
what results in work a given number of them would produce in a given space =
of
time. She knew them in crowds passing to and from their nests, like ants or
beetles. But she knew from her reading infinitely more of the ways of toili=
ng
insects than of these toiling men and women.
Something to be worked so much and
paid so much, and there ended; something to be infallibly settled by laws of
supply and demand; something that blundered against those laws, and flounde=
red
into difficulty; something that was a little pinched when wheat was dear, a=
nd
over-ate itself when wheat was cheap; something that increased at such a ra=
te
of percentage, and yielded such another percentage of crime, and such anoth=
er
percentage of pauperism; something wholesale, of which vast fortunes were m=
ade;
something that occasionally rose like a sea, and did some harm and waste
(chiefly to itself), and fell again; this she knew the Coketown Hands to be.
But, she had scarcely thought more of separating them into units, than of
separating the sea itself into its component drops.
She stood for some moments looking
round the room. From the few chairs, the few books, the common prints, and =
the
bed, she glanced to the two women, and to Stephen.
‘I have come to speak to you=
, in
consequence of what passed just now. I should like to be serviceable to you=
, if
you will let me. Is this your wife?’
Rachael raised her eyes, and they
sufficiently answered no, and dropped again.
‘I remember,’ said Lou=
isa,
reddening at her mistake; ‘I recollect, now, to have heard your domes=
tic
misfortunes spoken of, though I was not attending to the particulars at the
time. It was not my meaning to ask a question that would give pain to any o=
ne
here. If I should ask any other question that may happen to have that resul=
t,
give me credit, if you please, for being in ignorance how to speak to you a=
s I
ought.’
As Stephen had but a little while =
ago
instinctively addressed himself to her, so she now instinctively addressed
herself to Rachael. Her manner was short and abrupt, yet faltering and timi=
d.
‘He has told you what has pa=
ssed
between himself and my husband? You would be his first resource, I think.=
8217;
‘I have heard the end of it,
young lady,’ said Rachael.
‘Did I understand, that, bei=
ng
rejected by one employer, he would probably be rejected by all? I thought he
said as much?’
‘The chances are very small,
young lady - next to nothing - for a man who gets a bad name among them.=
217;
‘What shall I understand that
you mean by a bad name?’ ‘The name of being troublesome.’=
‘Then, by the prejudices of =
his
own class, and by the prejudices of the other, he is sacrificed alike? Are =
the
two so deeply separated in this town, that there is no place whatever for an
honest workman between them?’
Rachael shook her head in silence.=
‘He fell into suspicion,R=
17;
said Louisa, ‘with his fellow-weavers, because - he had made a promise
not to be one of them. I think it must have been to you that he made that
promise. Might I ask you why he made it?’
Rachael burst into tears. ‘I
didn’t seek it of him, poor lad. I prayed him to avoid trouble for his
own good, little thinking he’d come to it through me. But I know he=
8217;d
die a hundred deaths, ere ever he’d break his word. I know that of him
well.’
Stephen had remained quietly
attentive, in his usual thoughtful attitude, with his hand at his chin. He =
now
spoke in a voice rather less steady than usual.
‘No one, excepting myseln, c=
an
ever know what honour, an’ what love, an’ respect, I bear to
Rachael, or wi’ what cause. When I passed that promess, I towd her tr=
ue,
she were th’ Angel o’ my life. ‘Twere a solemn promess. &=
#8216;Tis
gone fro’ me, for ever.’
Louisa turned her head to him, and
bent it with a deference that was new in her. She looked from him to Rachae=
l,
and her features softened. ‘What will you do?’ she asked him. A=
nd
her voice had softened too.
‘Weel, ma’am,’ s=
aid
Stephen, making the best of it, with a smile; ‘when I ha finished off=
, I
mun quit this part, and try another. Fortnet or misfortnet, a man can but t=
ry;
there’s nowt to be done wi’out tryin’ - cept laying down =
and
dying.’
‘How will you travel?’=
‘Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.=
’
Louisa coloured, and a purse appea=
red
in her hand. The rustling of a bank-note was audible, as she unfolded one a=
nd
laid it on the table.
‘Rachael, will you tell him -
for you know how, without offence - that this is freely his, to help him on=
his
way? Will you entreat him to take it?’
‘I canna do that, young lady=
,’
she answered, turning her head aside. ‘Bless you for thinking o’
the poor lad wi’ such tenderness. But ‘tis for him to know his
heart, and what is right according to it.’
Louisa looked, in part incredulous=
, in
part frightened, in part overcome with quick sympathy, when this man of so =
much
self- command, who had been so plain and steady through the late interview,
lost his composure in a moment, and now stood with his hand before his face.
She stretched out hers, as if she would have touched him; then checked hers=
elf,
and remained still.
‘Not e’en Rachael,R=
17;
said Stephen, when he stood again with his face uncovered, ‘could mak
sitch a kind offerin, by onny words, kinder. T’ show that I’m n=
ot a
man wi’out reason and gratitude, I’ll tak two pound. I’ll
borrow ‘t for t’ pay ‘t back. ‘Twill be the sweetest
work as ever I ha done, that puts it in my power t’ acknowledge once =
more
my lastin thankfulness for this present action.’
She was fain to take up the note
again, and to substitute the much smaller sum he had named. He was neither
courtly, nor handsome, nor picturesque, in any respect; and yet his manner =
of
accepting it, and of expressing his thanks without more words, had a grace =
in
it that Lord Chesterfield could not have taught his son in a century.
Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging=
one
leg and sucking his walking- stick with sufficient unconcern, until the vis=
it
had attained this stage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he got up, rath=
er
hurriedly, and put in a word.
‘Just wait a moment, Loo! Be=
fore
we go, I should like to speak to him a moment. Something comes into my head=
. If
you’ll step out on the stairs, Blackpool, I’ll mention it. Never
mind a light, man!’ Tom was remarkably impatient of his moving towards
the cupboard, to get one. ‘It don’t want a light.’
Stephen followed him out, and Tom
closed the room door, and held the lock in his hand.
‘I say!’ he whispered.=
‘I
think I can do you a good turn. Don’t ask me what it is, because it m=
ay
not come to anything. But there’s no harm in my trying.’
His breath fell like a flame of fi=
re
on Stephen’s ear, it was so hot.
‘That was our light porter at
the Bank,’ said Tom, ‘who brought you the message to-night. I c=
all
him our light porter, because I belong to the Bank too.’
Stephen thought, ‘What a hur=
ry
he is in!’ He spoke so confusedly.
‘Well!’ said Tom. R=
16;Now
look here! When are you off?’
‘T’ day’s Monday=
,’
replied Stephen, considering. ‘Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh =
216;bout.’
‘Friday or Saturday,’ =
said
Tom. ‘Now look here! I am not sure that I can do you the good turn I =
want
to do you - that’s my sister, you know, in your room - but I may be a=
ble
to, and if I should not be able to, there’s no harm done. So I tell y=
ou
what. You’ll know our light porter again?’
‘Yes, sure,’ said Step=
hen.
‘Very well,’ returned =
Tom.
‘When you leave work of a night, between this and your going away, ju=
st
hang about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don’t take on, as if you
meant anything, if he should see you hanging about there; because I shan=
217;t
put him up to speak to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want t=
o do
you. In that case he’ll have a note or a message for you, but not els=
e.
Now look here! You are sure you understand.’
He had wormed a finger, in the
darkness, through a button-hole of Stephen’s coat, and was screwing t=
hat
corner of the garment tight up round and round, in an extraordinary manner.=
‘I understand, sir,’ s=
aid
Stephen.
‘Now look here!’ repea=
ted
Tom. ‘Be sure you don’t make any mistake then, and don’t
forget. I shall tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and she&=
#8217;ll
approve, I know. Now look here! You’re all right, are you? You unders=
tand
all about it? Very well then. Come along, Loo!’
He pushed the door open as he call=
ed
to her, but did not return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the na=
rrow
stairs. He was at the bottom when she began to descend, and was in the stre=
et
before she could take his arm.
Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner
until the brother and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with the
candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpressible admiration of Mrs.
Bounderby, and, like an unaccountable old woman, wept, ‘because she w=
as
such a pretty dear.’ Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the object =
of
her admiration should return by chance, or anybody else should come, that h=
er
cheerfulness was ended for that night. It was late too, to people who rose
early and worked hard; therefore the party broke up; and Stephen and Rachael
escorted their mysterious acquaintance to the door of the Travellers’
Coffee House, where they parted from her.
They walked back together to the
corner of the street where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and neare=
r to
it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the dark corner where their
unfrequent meetings always ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both we=
re
afraid to speak.
‘I shall strive t’ see
thee agen, Rachael, afore I go, but if not - ‘
‘Thou wilt not, Stephen, I k=
now.
‘Tis better that we make up our minds to be open wi’ one anothe=
r.’
‘Thou’rt awlus right. =
‘Tis
bolder and better. I ha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as ‘tis but a
day or two that remains, ‘twere better for thee, my dear, not t’=
; be
seen wi’ me. ‘T might bring thee into trouble, fur no good.R=
17;
‘‘Tis not for that,
Stephen, that I mind. But thou know’st our old agreement. ‘Tis =
for
that.’
‘Well, well,’ said he.
"Tis better, onnyways.’
‘Thou’lt write to me, =
and
tell me all that happens, Stephen?’
‘Yes. What can I say now, but
Heaven be wi’ thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward t=
hee!’
‘May it bless thee, Stephen,
too, in all thy wanderings, and send thee peace and rest at last!’
‘I towd thee, my dear,’
said Stephen Blackpool - ‘that night - that I would never see or thin=
k o’
onnything that angered me, but thou, so much better than me, should’s=
t be
beside it. Thou’rt beside it now. Thou mak’st me see it wi̵=
7; a
better eye. Bless thee. Good night. Good-bye!’
It was but a hurried parting in a
common street, yet it was a sacred remembrance to these two common people.
Utilitarian economists, skeletons of schoolmasters, Commissioners of Fact,
genteel and used-up infidels, gabblers of many little dog’s-eared cre=
eds,
the poor you will have always with you. Cultivate in them, while there is y=
et
time, the utmost graces of the fancies and affections, to adorn their lives=
so
much in need of ornament; or, in the day of your triumph, when romance is
utterly driven out of their souls, and they and a bare existence stand face=
to
face, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and make an end of you.
Stephen worked the next day, and t=
he
next, uncheered by a word from any one, and shunned in all his comings and =
goings
as before. At the end of the second day, he saw land; at the end of the thi=
rd,
his loom stood empty.
He had overstayed his hour in the
street outside the Bank, on each of the two first evenings; and nothing had
happened there, good or bad. That he might not be remiss in his part of the
engagement, he resolved to wait full two hours, on this third and last nigh=
t.
There was the lady who had once ke=
pt
Mr. Bounderby’s house, sitting at the first-floor window as he had se=
en
her before; and there was the light porter, sometimes talking with her ther=
e,
and sometimes looking over the blind below which had BANK upon it, and
sometimes coming to the door and standing on the steps for a breath of air.
When he first came out, Stephen thought he might be looking for him, and pa=
ssed
near; but the light porter only cast his winking eyes upon him slightly, and
said nothing.
Two hours were a long stretch of
lounging about, after a long day’s labour. Stephen sat upon the step =
of a
door, leaned against a wall under an archway, strolled up and down, listened
for the church clock, stopped and watched children playing in the street. S=
ome
purpose or other is so natural to every one, that a mere loiterer always lo=
oks
and feels remarkable. When the first hour was out, Stephen even began to ha=
ve
an uncomfortable sensation upon him of being for the time a disreputable
character.
Then came the lamplighter, and two
lengthening lines of light all down the long perspective of the street, unt=
il
they were blended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsit closed the first-f=
loor
window, drew down the blind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a light went
up-stairs after her, passing first the fanlight of the door, and afterwards=
the
two staircase windows, on its way up. By and by, one corner of the second-f=
loor
blind was disturbed, as if Mrs. Sparsit’s eye were there; also the ot=
her
corner, as if the light porter’s eye were on that side. Still, no
communication was made to Stephen. Much relieved when the two hours were at
last accomplished, he went away at a quick pace, as a recompense for so much
loitering.
He had only to take leave of his
landlady, and lie down on his temporary bed upon the floor; for his bundle =
was
made up for to- morrow, and all was arranged for his departure. He meant to=
be
clear of the town very early; before the Hands were in the streets.
It was barely daybreak, when, with=
a
parting look round his room, mournfully wondering whether he should ever se=
e it
again, he went out. The town was as entirely deserted as if the inhabitants=
had
abandoned it, rather than hold communication with him. Everything looked wa=
n at
that hour. Even the coming sun made but a pale waste in the sky, like a sad
sea.
By the place where Rachael lived,
though it was not in his way; by the red brick streets; by the great silent
factories, not trembling yet; by the railway, where the danger-lights were
waning in the strengthening day; by the railway’s crazy neighbourhood,
half pulled down and half built up; by scattered red brick villas, where the
besmoked evergreens were sprinkled with a dirty powder, like untidy
snuff-takers; by coal-dust paths and many varieties of ugliness; Stephen go=
t to
the top of the hill, and looked back.
Day was shining radiantly upon the
town then, and the bells were going for the morning work. Domestic fires we=
re
not yet lighted, and the high chimneys had the sky to themselves. Puffing o=
ut
their poisonous volumes, they would not be long in hiding it; but, for half=
an
hour, some of the many windows were golden, which showed the Coketown peopl=
e a
sun eternally in eclipse, through a medium of smoked glass.
So strange to turn from the chimne=
ys
to the birds. So strange, to have the road-dust on his feet instead of the
coal-grit. So strange to have lived to his time of life, and yet to be begi=
nning
like a boy this summer morning! With these musings in his mind, and his bun=
dle
under his arm, Stephen took his attentive face along the high road. And the
trees arched over him, whispering that he left a true and loving heart behi=
nd.
MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE, ‘going =
in’
for his adopted party, soon began to score. With the aid of a little more
coaching for the political sages, a little more genteel listlessness for the
general society, and a tolerable management of the assumed honesty in
dishonesty, most effective and most patronized of the polite deadly sins, he
speedily came to be considered of much promise. The not being troubled with
earnestness was a grand point in his favour, enabling him to take to the ha=
rd
Fact fellows with as good a grace as if he had been born one of the tribe, =
and
to throw all other tribes overboard, as conscious hypocrites.
‘Whom none of us believe, my
dear Mrs. Bounderby, and who do not believe themselves. The only difference
between us and the professors of virtue or benevolence, or philanthropy - n=
ever
mind the name - is, that we know it is all meaningless, and say so; while t=
hey
know it equally and will never say so.’
Why should she be shocked or warne=
d by
this reiteration? It was not so unlike her father’s principles, and h=
er
early training, that it need startle her. Where was the great difference
between the two schools, when each chained her down to material realities, =
and
inspired her with no faith in anything else? What was there in her soul for=
James
Harthouse to destroy, which Thomas Gradgrind had nurtured there in its stat=
e of
innocence!
It was even the worse for her at t=
his
pass, that in her mind - implanted there before her eminently practical fat=
her
began to form it - a struggling disposition to believe in a wider and nobler
humanity than she had ever heard of, constantly strove with doubts and
resentments. With doubts, because the aspiration had been so laid waste in =
her
youth. With resentments, because of the wrong that had been done her, if it
were indeed a whisper of the truth. Upon a nature long accustomed to
self-suppression, thus torn and divided, the Harthouse philosophy came as a
relief and justification. Everything being hollow and worthless, she had mi=
ssed
nothing and sacrificed nothing. What did it matter, she had said to her fat=
her,
when he proposed her husband. What did it matter, she said still. With a
scornful self-reliance, she asked herself, What did anything matter - and w=
ent
on.
Towards what? Step by step, onward=
and
downward, towards some end, yet so gradually, that she believed herself to
remain motionless. As to Mr. Harthouse, whither he tended, he neither
considered nor cared. He had no particular design or plan before him: no
energetic wickedness ruffled his lassitude. He was as much amused and
interested, at present, as it became so fine a gentleman to be; perhaps even
more than it would have been consistent with his reputation to confess. Soon
after his arrival he languidly wrote to his brother, the honourable and joc=
ular
member, that the Bounderbys were ‘great fun;’ and further, that=
the
female Bounderby, instead of being the Gorgon he had expected, was young, a=
nd
remarkably pretty. After that, he wrote no more about them, and devoted his
leisure chiefly to their house. He was very often in their house, in his
flittings and visitings about the Coketown district; and was much encourage=
d by
Mr. Bounderby. It was quite in Mr. Bounderby’s gusty way to boast to =
all
his world that he didn’t care about your highly connected people, but
that if his wife Tom Gradgrind’s daughter did, she was welcome to the=
ir
company.
Mr. James Harthouse began to think=
it
would be a new sensation, if the face which changed so beautifully for the
whelp, would change for him.
He was quick enough to observe; he=
had
a good memory, and did not forget a word of the brother’s revelations=
. He
interwove them with everything he saw of the sister, and he began to unders=
tand
her. To be sure, the better and profounder part of her character was not wi=
thin
his scope of perception; for in natures, as in seas, depth answers unto dep=
th;
but he soon began to read the rest with a student’s eye.
Mr. Bounderby had taken possession=
of
a house and grounds, about fifteen miles from the town, and accessible with=
in a
mile or two, by a railway striding on many arches over a wild country,
undermined by deserted coal-shafts, and spotted at night by fires and black
shapes of stationary engines at pits’ mouths. This country, gradually
softening towards the neighbourhood of Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, there
mellowed into a rustic landscape, golden with heath, and snowy with hawthor=
n in
the spring of the year, and tremulous with leaves and their shadows all the
summer time. The bank had foreclosed a mortgage effected on the property th=
us
pleasantly situated, by one of the Coketown magnates, who, in his determina=
tion
to make a shorter cut than usual to an enormous fortune, overspeculated him=
self
by about two hundred thousand pounds. These accidents did sometimes happen =
in
the best regulated families of Coketown, but the bankrupts had no connexion
whatever with the improvident classes.
It afforded Mr. Bounderby supreme
satisfaction to instal himself in this snug little estate, and with
demonstrative humility to grow cabbages in the flower-garden. He delighted =
to
live, barrack- fashion, among the elegant furniture, and he bullied the very
pictures with his origin. ‘Why, sir,’ he would say to a visitor=
, ‘I
am told that Nickits,’ the late owner, ‘gave seven hundred pound
for that Seabeach. Now, to be plain with you, if I ever, in the whole cours=
e of
my life, take seven looks at it, at a hundred pound a look, it will be as m=
uch
as I shall do. No, by George! I don’t forget that I am Josiah Bounder=
by
of Coketown. For years upon years, the only pictures in my possession, or t=
hat
I could have got into my possession, by any means, unless I stole ‘em,
were the engravings of a man shaving himself in a boot, on the blacking bot=
tles
that I was overjoyed to use in cleaning boots with, and that I sold when th=
ey were
empty for a farthing a-piece, and glad to get it!’
Then he would address Mr. Harthous=
e in
the same style.
‘Harthouse, you have a coupl=
e of
horses down here. Bring half a dozen more if you like, and we’ll find
room for ‘em. There’s stabling in this place for a dozen horses;
and unless Nickits is belied, he kept the full number. A round dozen of =
216;em,
sir. When that man was a boy, he went to Westminster School. Went to
Westminster School as a King’s Scholar, when I was principally living=
on
garbage, and sleeping in market baskets. Why, if I wanted to keep a dozen
horses - which I don’t, for one’s enough for me - I couldn̵=
7;t
bear to see ‘em in their stalls here, and think what my own lodging u=
sed
to be. I couldn’t look at ‘em, sir, and not order ‘em out.
Yet so things come round. You see this place; you know what sort of a place=
it
is; you are aware that there’s not a completer place of its size in t=
his
kingdom or elsewhere - I don’t care where - and here, got into the mi=
ddle
of it, like a maggot into a nut, is Josiah Bounderby. While Nickits (as a m=
an
came into my office, and told me yesterday), Nickits, who used to act in La=
tin,
in the Westminster School plays, with the chief- justices and nobility of t=
his
country applauding him till they were black in the face, is drivelling at t=
his
minute - drivelling, sir! - in a fifth floor, up a narrow dark back street =
in
Antwerp.’
It was among the leafy shadows of =
this
retirement, in the long sultry summer days, that Mr. Harthouse began to pro=
ve
the face which had set him wondering when he first saw it, and to try if it
would change for him.
‘Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it=
a
most fortunate accident that I find you alone here. I have for some time ha=
d a
particular wish to speak to you.’
It was not by any wonderful accide=
nt that
he found her, the time of day being that at which she was always alone, and=
the
place being her favourite resort. It was an opening in a dark wood, where s=
ome
felled trees lay, and where she would sit watching the fallen leaves of last
year, as she had watched the falling ashes at home.
He sat down beside her, with a gla=
nce
at her face.
‘Your brother. My young frie=
nd
Tom - ‘
Her colour brightened, and she tur=
ned
to him with a look of interest. ‘I never in my life,’ he though=
t, ‘saw
anything so remarkable and so captivating as the lighting of those features=
!’
His face betrayed his thoughts - perhaps without betraying him, for it might
have been according to its instructions so to do.
‘Pardon me. The expression of
your sisterly interest is so beautiful - Tom should be so proud of it - I k=
now
this is inexcusable, but I am so compelled to admire.’
‘Being so impulsive,’ =
she
said composedly.
‘Mrs. Bounderby, no: you kno=
w I
make no pretence with you. You know I am a sordid piece of human nature, re=
ady
to sell myself at any time for any reasonable sum, and altogether incapable=
of
any Arcadian proceeding whatever.’
‘I am waiting,’ she
returned, ‘for your further reference to my brother.’
‘You are rigid with me, and I
deserve it. I am as worthless a dog as you will find, except that I am not
false - not false. But you surprised and started me from my subject, which =
was
your brother. I have an interest in him.’
‘Have you an interest in
anything, Mr. Harthouse?’ she asked, half incredulously and half
gratefully.
‘If you had asked me when I
first came here, I should have said no. I must say now - even at the hazard=
of
appearing to make a pretence, and of justly awakening your incredulity - ye=
s.’
She made a slight movement, as if =
she
were trying to speak, but could not find voice; at length she said, ‘=
Mr.
Harthouse, I give you credit for being interested in my brother.’
‘Thank you. I claim to deser=
ve
it. You know how little I do claim, but I will go that length. You have don=
e so
much for him, you are so fond of him; your whole life, Mrs. Bounderby,
expresses such charming self-forgetfulness on his account - pardon me again=
- I
am running wide of the subject. I am interested in him for his own sake.=
217;
She had made the slightest action
possible, as if she would have risen in a hurry and gone away. He had turned
the course of what he said at that instant, and she remained.
‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ he
resumed, in a lighter manner, and yet with a show of effort in assuming it,
which was even more expressive than the manner he dismissed; ‘it is no
irrevocable offence in a young fellow of your brother’s years, if he =
is
heedless, inconsiderate, and expensive - a little dissipated, in the common
phrase. Is he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Allow me to be frank. Do you
think he games at all?’
‘I think he makes bets.̵=
7;
Mr. Harthouse waiting, as if that were not her whole answer, she added, =
216;I
know he does.’
‘Of course he loses?’<= o:p>
‘Yes.’
‘Everybody does lose who bet=
s.
May I hint at the probability of your sometimes supplying him with money for
these purposes?’
She sat, looking down; but, at this
question, raised her eyes searchingly and a little resentfully.
‘Acquit me of impertinent
curiosity, my dear Mrs. Bounderby. I think Tom may be gradually falling into
trouble, and I wish to stretch out a helping hand to him from the depths of=
my
wicked experience. - Shall I say again, for his sake? Is that necessary?=
217;
She seemed to try to answer, but
nothing came of it.
‘Candidly to confess everyth=
ing
that has occurred to me,’ said James Harthouse, again gliding with the
same appearance of effort into his more airy manner; ‘I will confide =
to
you my doubt whether he has had many advantages. Whether - forgive my plain=
ness
- whether any great amount of confidence is likely to have been established
between himself and his most worthy father.’
‘I do not,’ said Louis=
a,
flushing with her own great remembrance in that wise, ‘think it likel=
y.’
‘Or, between himself, and - I
may trust to your perfect understanding of my meaning, I am sure - and his
highly esteemed brother-in-law.’ She flushed deeper and deeper, and w=
as
burning red when she replied in a fainter voice, ‘I do not think that
likely, either.’
‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ said
Harthouse, after a short silence, ‘may there be a better confidence
between yourself and me? Tom has borrowed a considerable sum of you?’=
‘You will understand, Mr.
Harthouse,’ she returned, after some indecision: she had been more or
less uncertain, and troubled throughout the conversation, and yet had in the
main preserved her self-contained manner; ‘you will understand that i=
f I
tell you what you press to know, it is not by way of complaint or regret. I
would never complain of anything, and what I have done I do not in the least
regret.’
‘So spirited, too!’
thought James Harthouse.
‘When I married, I found tha=
t my
brother was even at that time heavily in debt. Heavily for him, I mean. Hea=
vily
enough to oblige me to sell some trinkets. They were no sacrifice. I sold t=
hem
very willingly. I attached no value to them. They, were quite worthless to =
me.’
Either she saw in his face that he
knew, or she only feared in her conscience that he knew, that she spoke of =
some
of her husband’s gifts. She stopped, and reddened again. If he had not
known it before, he would have known it then, though he had been a much dul=
ler
man than he was.
‘Since then, I have given my
brother, at various times, what money I could spare: in short, what money I
have had. Confiding in you at all, on the faith of the interest you profess=
for
him, I will not do so by halves. Since you have been in the habit of visiti=
ng
here, he has wanted in one sum as much as a hundred pounds. I have not been
able to give it to him. I have felt uneasy for the consequences of his bein=
g so
involved, but I have kept these secrets until now, when I trust them to your
honour. I have held no confidence with any one, because - you anticipated my
reason just now.’ She abruptly broke off.
He was a ready man, and he saw, and
seized, an opportunity here of presenting her own image to her, slightly
disguised as her brother.
‘Mrs. Bounderby, though a
graceless person, of the world worldly, I feel the utmost interest, I assure
you, in what you tell me. I cannot possibly be hard upon your brother. I
understand and share the wise consideration with which you regard his error=
s.
With all possible respect both for Mr. Gradgrind and for Mr. Bounderby, I t=
hink
I perceive that he has not been fortunate in his training. Bred at a
disadvantage towards the society in which he has his part to play, he rushes
into these extremes for himself, from opposite extremes that have long been
forced - with the very best intentions we have no doubt - upon him. Mr.
Bounderby’s fine bluff English independence, though a most charming
characteristic, does not - as we have agreed - invite confidence. If I might
venture to remark that it is the least in the world deficient in that delic=
acy
to which a youth mistaken, a character misconceived, and abilities misdirec=
ted,
would turn for relief and guidance, I should express what it presents to my=
own
view.’
As she sat looking straight before
her, across the changing lights upon the grass into the darkness of the wood
beyond, he saw in her face her application of his very distinctly uttered
words.
‘All allowance,’ he
continued, ‘must be made. I have one great fault to find with Tom,
however, which I cannot forgive, and for which I take him heavily to accoun=
t.’
Louisa turned her eyes to his face,
and asked him what fault was that?
‘Perhaps,’ he returned=
, ‘I
have said enough. Perhaps it would have been better, on the whole, if no al=
lusion
to it had escaped me.’
‘You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse.
Pray let me know it.’
‘To relieve you from needless
apprehension - and as this confidence regarding your brother, which I prize=
I
am sure above all possible things, has been established between us - I obey=
. I
cannot forgive him for not being more sensible in every word, look, and act=
of
his life, of the affection of his best friend; of the devotion of his best
friend; of her unselfishness; of her sacrifice. The return he makes her, wi=
thin
my observation, is a very poor one. What she has done for him demands his
constant love and gratitude, not his ill- humour and caprice. Careless fell=
ow
as I am, I am not so indifferent, Mrs. Bounderby, as to be regardless of th=
is
vice in your brother, or inclined to consider it a venial offence.’
The wood floated before her, for h=
er
eyes were suffused with tears. They rose from a deep well, long concealed, =
and
her heart was filled with acute pain that found no relief in them.
‘In a word, it is to correct
your brother in this, Mrs. Bounderby, that I must aspire. My better knowled=
ge
of his circumstances, and my direction and advice in extricating them - rat=
her
valuable, I hope, as coming from a scapegrace on a much larger scale - will
give me some influence over him, and all I gain I shall certainly use towar=
ds
this end. I have said enough, and more than enough. I seem to be protesting
that I am a sort of good fellow, when, upon my honour, I have not the least
intention to make any protestation to that effect, and openly announce that=
I
am nothing of the sort. Yonder, among the trees,’ he added, having li=
fted
up his eyes and looked about; for he had watched her closely until now; =
216;is
your brother himself; no doubt, just come down. As he seems to be loitering=
in
this direction, it may be as well, perhaps, to walk towards him, and throw
ourselves in his way. He has been very silent and doleful of late. Perhaps,=
his
brotherly conscience is touched - if there are such things as consciences.
Though, upon my honour, I hear of them much too often to believe in them.=
8217;
He assisted her to rise, and she t=
ook
his arm, and they advanced to meet the whelp. He was idly beating the branc=
hes
as he lounged along: or he stooped viciously to rip the moss from the trees
with his stick. He was startled when they came upon him while he was engage=
d in
this latter pastime, and his colour changed.
‘Halloa!’ he stammered=
; ‘I
didn’t know you were here.’
‘Whose name, Tom,’ said
Mr. Harthouse, putting his hand upon his shoulder and turning him, so that =
they
all three walked towards the house together, ‘have you been carving on
the trees?’
‘Whose name?’ returned
Tom. ‘Oh! You mean what girl’s name?’
‘You have a suspicious
appearance of inscribing some fair creature’s on the bark, Tom.’=
;
‘Not much of that, Mr.
Harthouse, unless some fair creature with a slashing fortune at her own
disposal would take a fancy to me. Or she might be as ugly as she was rich,
without any fear of losing me. I’d carve her name as often as she lik=
ed.’
‘I am afraid you are mercena=
ry,
Tom.’
‘Mercenary,’ repeated =
Tom.
‘Who is not mercenary? Ask my sister.’
‘Have you so proved it to be=
a
failing of mine, Tom?’ said Louisa, showing no other sense of his
discontent and ill-nature.
‘You know whether the cap fi=
ts
you, Loo,’ returned her brother sulkily. ‘If it does, you can w=
ear
it.’
‘Tom is misanthropical to-da=
y,
as all bored people are now and then,’ said Mr. Harthouse. ‘Don=
’t
believe him, Mrs. Bounderby. He knows much better. I shall disclose some of=
his
opinions of you, privately expressed to me, unless he relents a little.R=
17;
‘At all events, Mr. Harthous=
e,’
said Tom, softening in his admiration of his patron, but shaking his head
sullenly too, ‘you can’t tell her that I ever praised her for b=
eing
mercenary. I may have praised her for being the contrary, and I should do it
again, if I had as good reason. However, never mind this now; it’s not
very interesting to you, and I am sick of the subject.’
They walked on to the house, where
Louisa quitted her visitor’s arm and went in. He stood looking after =
her,
as she ascended the steps, and passed into the shadow of the door; then put=
his
hand upon her brother’s shoulder again, and invited him with a
confidential nod to a walk in the garden.
‘Tom, my fine fellow, I want=
to
have a word with you.’
They had stopped among a disorder =
of
roses - it was part of Mr. Bounderby’s humility to keep Nickits’=
;s
roses on a reduced scale - and Tom sat down on a terrace-parapet, plucking =
buds
and picking them to pieces; while his powerful Familiar stood over him, wit=
h a
foot upon the parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm supported by
that knee. They were just visible from her window. Perhaps she saw them.
‘Tom, what’s the matte=
r?’
‘Oh! Mr. Harthouse,’ s= aid Tom with a groan, ‘I am hard up, and bothered out of my life.’<= o:p>
‘My good fellow, so am I.=
217;
‘You!’ returned Tom. &=
#8216;You
are the picture of independence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in a horrible mess. You
have no idea what a state I have got myself into - what a state my sister m=
ight
have got me out of, if she would only have done it.’
He took to biting the rosebuds now,
and tearing them away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an infi=
rm
old man’s. After one exceedingly observant look at him, his companion
relapsed into his lightest air.
‘Tom, you are inconsiderate:=
you
expect too much of your sister. You have had money of her, you dog, you know
you have.’
‘Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know=
I
have. How else was I to get it? Here’s old Bounderby always boasting =
that
at my age he lived upon twopence a month, or something of that sort. Here=
8217;s
my father drawing what he calls a line, and tying me down to it from a baby,
neck and heels. Here’s my mother who never has anything of her own,
except her complaints. What is a fellow to do for money, and where am I to =
look
for it, if not to my sister?’
He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by the coat.<= o:p>
‘But, my dear Tom, if your
sister has not got it - ‘
‘Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I
don’t say she has got it. I may have wanted more than she was likely =
to
have got. But then she ought to get it. She could get it. It’s of no =
use
pretending to make a secret of matters now, after what I have told you alre=
ady;
you know she didn’t marry old Bounderby for her own sake, or for his
sake, but for my sake. Then why doesn’t she get what I want, out of h=
im,
for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she is going to do with it; she=
is
sharp enough; she could manage to coax it out of him, if she chose. Then why
doesn’t she choose, when I tell her of what consequence it is? But no.
There she sits in his company like a stone, instead of making herself agree=
able
and getting it easily. I don’t know what you may call this, but I cal=
l it
unnatural conduct.’
There was a piece of ornamental wa=
ter
immediately below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr. James
Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch Mr. Thomas Gradgrind junio=
r,
as the injured men of Coketown threatened to pitch their property into the
Atlantic. But he preserved his easy attitude; and nothing more solid went o=
ver
the stone balustrades than the accumulated rosebuds now floating about, a
little surface-island.
‘My dear Tom,’ said
Harthouse, ‘let me try to be your banker.’
‘For God’s sake,’
replied Tom, suddenly, ‘don’t talk about bankers!’ And ve=
ry
white he looked, in contrast with the roses. Very white.
Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly
well-bred man, accustomed to the best society, was not to be surprised - he
could as soon have been affected - but he raised his eyelids a little more,=
as
if they were lifted by a feeble touch of wonder. Albeit it was as much agai=
nst
the precepts of his school to wonder, as it was against the doctrines of the
Gradgrind College.
‘What is the present need, T=
om?
Three figures? Out with them. Say what they are.’
‘Mr. Harthouse,’ retur=
ned
Tom, now actually crying; and his tears were better than his injuries, howe=
ver
pitiful a figure he made: ‘it’s too late; the money is of no us=
e to
me at present. I should have had it before to be of use to me. But I am very
much obliged to you; you’re a true friend.’
A true friend! ‘Whelp, whelp=
!’
thought Mr. Harthouse, lazily; ‘what an Ass you are!’
‘And I take your offer as a
great kindness,’ said Tom, grasping his hand. ‘As a great kindn=
ess,
Mr. Harthouse.’
‘Well,’ returned the
other, ‘it may be of more use by and by. And, my good fellow, if you =
will
open your bedevilments to me when they come thick upon you, I may show you
better ways out of them than you can find for yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tom,
shaking his head dismally, and chewing rosebuds. ‘I wish I had known =
you
sooner, Mr. Harthouse.’
‘Now, you see, Tom,’ s=
aid
Mr. Harthouse in conclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two, as a
contribution to the island, which was always drifting to the wall as if it
wanted to become a part of the mainland: ‘every man is selfish in
everything he does, and I am exactly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. =
I am
desperately intent;’ the languor of his desperation being quite tropi=
cal;
‘on your softening towards your sister - which you ought to do; and on
your being a more loving and agreeable sort of brother - which you ought to=
be.’
‘I will be, Mr. Harthouse.=
8217;
‘No time like the present, T=
om.
Begin at once.’
‘Certainly I will. And my si=
ster
Loo shall say so.’
‘Having made which bargain, =
Tom,’
said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left =
him
at liberty to infer - as he did, poor fool - that this condition was imposed
upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, =
8216;we
will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time.’
When Tom appeared before dinner,
though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appe=
ared
before Mr. Bounderby came in. ‘I didn’t mean to be cross, Loo,&=
#8217;
he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. ‘I know you are fond of
me, and you know I am fond of you.’
After this, there was a smile upon
Louisa’s face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else!
‘So much the less is the whe=
lp
the only creature that she cares for,’ thought James Harthouse, rever=
sing
the reflection of his first day’s knowledge of her pretty face. ̵=
6;So
much the less, so much the less.’
THE next morning was too bright a
morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant =
bay
window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so whole=
some
an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragra=
nce
of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air,=
so
rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle
winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time, and cou=
ld
give his mind to it.
He had established a confidence wi=
th
her, from which her husband was excluded. He had established a confidence w=
ith
her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and =
the
absence, now and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had
artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most =
delicate
recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he had
associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which she live=
d,
had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory!
And yet he had not, even now, any
earnest wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much
better for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom he was=
one
were designedly bad, than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting
icebergs setting with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships.
When the Devil goeth about like a
roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters
are attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according =
to
the mode; when he is aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to
brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving ou=
t of
red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil.
So James Harthouse reclined in the
window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the =
road
by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it led was before h=
im,
pretty plainly; but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What
will be, will be.
As he had rather a long ride to ta=
ke
that day - for there was a public occasion ‘to do’ at some
distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgr=
ind
men - he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if=
she
had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left o=
ff.
There was a look of interest for him again.
He got through the day as much (or=
as
little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing
circumstances; and came riding back at six o’clock. There was a sweep=
of
some half-mile between the lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a
foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits’s, when Mr. Bounderby
burst out of the shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy acr=
oss
the road.
‘Harthouse!’ cried Mr.
Bounderby. ‘Have you heard?’
‘Heard what?’ said
Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderby with no
good wishes.
‘Then you haven’t hear=
d!’
‘I have heard you, and so has
this brute. I have heard nothing else.’
Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted
himself in the centre of the path before the horse’s head, to explode=
his
bombshell with more effect.
‘The Bank’s robbed!=
217;
‘You don’t mean it!=
217;
‘Robbed last night, sir. Rob=
bed
in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key.’
‘Of much?’
Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to ma=
ke
the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, ‘W=
hy,
no; not of very much. But it might have been.’
‘Of how much?’
‘Oh! as a sum - if you stick=
to
a sum - of not more than a hundred and fifty pound,’ said Bounderby, =
with
impatience. ‘But it’s not the sum; it’s the fact. It̵=
7;s
the fact of the Bank being robbed, that’s the important circumstance.=
I
am surprised you don’t see it.’
‘My dear Bounderby,’ s=
aid
James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, ‘I do see i=
t;
and am as overcome as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle
afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to
congratulate you - which I do with all my soul, I assure you - on your not =
having
sustained a greater loss.’
‘Thank’ee,’ repl=
ied
Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. ‘But I tell you what. It mi=
ght
have been twenty thousand pound.’
‘I suppose it might.’<= o:p>
‘Suppose it might! By the Lo=
rd,
you may suppose so. By George!’ said Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menac=
ing
nods and shakes of his head. ‘It might have been twice twenty. There&=
#8217;s
no knowing what it would have been, or wouldn’t have been, as it was,=
but
for the fellows’ being disturbed.’
Louisa had come up now, and Mrs.
Sparsit, and Bitzer.
‘Here’s Tom Gradgrind&=
#8217;s
daughter knows pretty well what it might have been, if you don’t,R=
17;
blustered Bounderby. ‘Dropped, sir, as if she was shot when I told he=
r!
Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her credit, under the
circumstances, in my opinion!’
She still looked faint and pale. J=
ames
Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as they moved on very slowly, ask=
ed
her how the robbery had been committed.
‘Why, I am going to tell you=
,’
said Bounderby, irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. ‘If you had=
n’t
been so mighty particular about the sum, I should have begun to tell you
before. You know this lady (for she is a lady), Mrs. Sparsit?’
‘I have already had the hono=
ur -
‘
‘Very well. And this young m=
an,
Bitzer, you saw him too on the same occasion?’ Mr. Harthouse inclined=
his
head in assent, and Bitzer knuckled his forehead.
‘Very well. They live at the
Bank. You know they live at the Bank, perhaps? Very well. Yesterday afterno=
on,
at the close of business hours, everything was put away as usual. In the ir=
on
room that this young fellow sleeps outside of, there was never mind how muc=
h.
In the little safe in young Tom’s closet, the safe used for petty
purposes, there was a hundred and fifty odd pound.’
‘A hundred and fifty-four,
seven, one,’ said Bitzer.
‘Come!’ retorted
Bounderby, stopping to wheel round upon him, ‘let’s have none of
your interruptions. It’s enough to be robbed while you’re snori=
ng
because you’re too comfortable, without being put right with your four
seven ones. I didn’t snore, myself, when I was your age, let me tell =
you.
I hadn’t victuals enough to snore. And I didn’t four seven one.=
Not
if I knew it.’
Bitzer knuckled his forehead again=
, in
a sneaking manner, and seemed at once particularly impressed and depressed =
by
the instance last given of Mr. Bounderby’s moral abstinence.
‘A hundred and fifty odd pou=
nd,’
resumed Mr. Bounderby. ‘That sum of money, young Tom locked in his sa=
fe,
not a very strong safe, but that’s no matter now. Everything was left,
all right. Some time in the night, while this young fellow snored - Mrs.
Sparsit, ma’am, you say you have heard him snore?’
‘Sir,’ returned Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘I cannot say that I have heard him precisely snore, and
therefore must not make that statement. But on winter evenings, when he has
fallen asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I should prefer to descr=
ibe
as partially choke. I have heard him on such occasions produce sounds of a
nature similar to what may be sometimes heard in Dutch clocks. Not,’ =
said
Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of giving strict evidence, ‘that I w=
ould
convey any imputation on his moral character. Far from it. I have always
considered Bitzer a young man of the most upright principle; and to that I =
beg
to bear my testimony.’
‘Well!’ said the
exasperated Bounderby, ‘while he was snoring, or choking, or
Dutch-clocking, or something or other - being asleep - some fellows, someho=
w,
whether previously concealed in the house or not remains to be seen, got to
young Tom’s safe, forced it, and abstracted the contents. Being then
disturbed, they made off; letting themselves out at the main door, and
double-locking it again (it was double-locked, and the key under Mrs. Spars=
it’s
pillow) with a false key, which was picked up in the street near the Bank,
about twelve o’clock to-day. No alarm takes place, till this chap,
Bitzer, turns out this morning, and begins to open and prepare the offices =
for
business. Then, looking at Tom’s safe, he sees the door ajar, and fin=
ds
the lock forced, and the money gone.’
‘Where is Tom, by the by?=
217;
asked Harthouse, glancing round.
‘He has been helping the pol=
ice,’
said Bounderby, ‘and stays behind at the Bank. I wish these fellows h=
ad
tried to rob me when I was at his time of life. They would have been out of
pocket if they had invested eighteenpence in the job; I can tell ‘em
that.’
‘Is anybody suspected?’=
;
‘Suspected? I should think t=
here
was somebody suspected. Egod!’ said Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Spa=
rsit’s
arm to wipe his heated head. ‘Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to =
be
plundered and nobody suspected. No, thank you!’
Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was
suspected?
‘Well,’ said Bounderby,
stopping and facing about to confront them all, ‘I’ll tell you.=
It’s
not to be mentioned everywhere; it’s not to be mentioned anywhere: in=
order
that the scoundrels concerned (there’s a gang of ‘em) may be th=
rown
off their guard. So take this in confidence. Now wait a bit.’ Mr.
Bounderby wiped his head again. ‘What should you say to;’ here =
he
violently exploded: ‘to a Hand being in it?’
‘I hope,’ said Harthou=
se,
lazily, ‘not our friend Blackpot?’
‘Say Pool instead of Pot, si=
r,’
returned Bounderby, ‘and that’s the man.’
Louisa faintly uttered some word of
incredulity and surprise.
‘O yes! I know!’ said
Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. ‘I know! I am used to t=
hat.
I know all about it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows
are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want to have t=
heir
rights explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisf=
ied
Hand, and I’ll show you a man that’s fit for anything bad, I do=
n’t
care what it is.’
Another of the popular fictions of
Coketown, which some pains had been taken to disseminate - and which some
people really believed.
‘But I am acquainted with th=
ese
chaps,’ said Bounderby. ‘I can read ‘em off, like books. =
Mrs.
Sparsit, ma’am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow,=
the
first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit w=
as
to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church?
Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the
aristocracy, - did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow, "you can=
8217;t
hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you’ll
come to no good"?’
‘Assuredly, sir,’ retu=
rned
Mrs. Sparsit, ‘you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such =
an
admonition.’
‘When he shocked you, maR=
17;am,’
said Bounderby; ‘when he shocked your feelings?’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned M=
rs.
Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, ‘he certainly did so. Though =
I do
not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points - more
foolish if the term is preferred - than they might have been, if I had alwa=
ys
occupied my present position.’
Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursti=
ng
pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, ‘I am the proprietor of th=
is
female, and she’s worth your attention, I think.’ Then, resumed=
his
discourse.
‘You can recall for yourself,
Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn’t mince the ma=
tter
with him. I am never mealy with ‘em. I KNOW ‘em. Very well, sir.
Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother
did in my infancy - only with this difference, that he is a worse subject t=
han
my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;R=
17;
Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every
little division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; ‘to his
being seen - night after night - watching the Bank? - to his lurking about
there - after dark? - To its striking Mrs. Sparsit - that he could be lurki=
ng
for no good - To her calling Bitzer’s attention to him, and their both
taking notice of him - And to its appearing on inquiry to-day - that he was
also noticed by the neighbours?’ Having come to the climax, Mr.
Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine on his head.
‘Suspicious,’ said Jam=
es
Harthouse, ‘certainly.’
‘I think so, sir,’ said
Bounderby, with a defiant nod. ‘I think so. But there are more of =
216;em
in it. There’s an old woman. One never hears of these things till the
mischief’s done; all sorts of defects are found out in the stable door
after the horse is stolen; there’s an old woman turns up now. An old
woman who seems to have been flying into town on a broomstick, every now and
then. She watches the place a whole day before this fellow begins, and on t=
he
night when you saw him, she steals away with him and holds a council with h=
im -
I suppose, to make her report on going off duty, and be damned to her.̵=
7;
There was such a person in the room
that night, and she shrunk from observation, thought Louisa.
‘This is not all of ‘e=
m,
even as we already know ‘em,’ said Bounderby, with many nods of
hidden meaning. ‘But I have said enough for the present. You’ll=
have
the goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to no one. It may take time, =
but
we shall have ‘em. It’s policy to give ‘em line enough, a=
nd
there’s no objection to that.’
‘Of course, they will be
punished with the utmost rigour of the law, as notice-boards observe,’
replied James Harthouse, ‘and serve them right. Fellows who go in for
Banks must take the consequences. If there were no consequences, we should =
all
go in for Banks.’ He had gently taken Louisa’s parasol from her
hand, and had put it up for her; and she walked under its shade, though the=
sun
did not shine there.
‘For the present, Loo Bounde=
rby,’
said her husband, ‘here’s Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs. Spar=
sit’s
nerves have been acted upon by this business, and she’ll stay here a =
day
or two. So make her comfortable.’
‘Thank you very much, sir,=
8217;
that discreet lady observed, ‘but pray do not let My comfort be a
consideration. Anything will do for Me.’
It soon appeared that if Mrs. Spar=
sit
had a failing in her association with that domestic establishment, it was t=
hat
she was so excessively regardless of herself and regardful of others, as to=
be
a nuisance. On being shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible of i=
ts
comforts as to suggest the inference that she would have preferred to pass =
the
night on the mangle in the laundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses we=
re
accustomed to splendour, ‘but it is my duty to remember,’ Mrs.
Sparsit was fond of observing with a lofty grace: particularly when any of =
the
domestics were present, ‘that what I was, I am no longer. Indeed,R=
17;
said she, ‘if I could altogether cancel the remembrance that Mr. Spar=
sit
was a Powler, or that I myself am related to the Scadgers family; or if I c=
ould
even revoke the fact, and make myself a person of common descent and ordina=
ry
connexions; I would gladly do so. I should think it, under existing
circumstances, right to do so.’ The same Hermitical state of mind led=
to
her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until fairly commanded=
by
Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, ‘Indeed you are very good,
sir;’ and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather for=
mal
and public announcement, to ‘wait for the simple mutton.’ She w=
as
likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound=
to
bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne =
to
her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which
periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be obser=
ved
(or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Rom=
an
nose.
But Mrs. Sparsit’s greatest
point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There w=
ere
occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her h=
ead,
as who would say, ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ After allowing herself t=
o be
betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightn=
ess,
and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, ‘You have still good
spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;’ and would appear to hail it as a
blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy=
for
which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. =
She
had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby ‘Miss Gradgrind,̵=
7;
and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the eveni=
ng.
Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; =
but
indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to
persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of know=
ing
from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost
impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the =
more
she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; ‘the differenc=
es,’
she observed, ‘being such.’
In the drawing-room after dinner, =
Mr.
Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes=
of
the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the
extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with
instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail- train.
When candles were brought, Mrs.
Sparsit murmured, ‘Don’t be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheer=
ful,
sir, as I used to do.’ Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had
begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way,
sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. ‘I cannot bear to see=
you
so, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit. ‘Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as=
you
used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof.’ ‘I
haven’t played backgammon, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bounderby, =
8216;since
that time.’ ‘No, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, =
216;I
am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interes=
t in
the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend.’
They played near a window, opening=
on
the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Lo=
uisa
and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be
heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her p=
lace
at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the
shadows without. ‘What’s the matter, ma’am? ‘ said =
Mr.
Bounderby; ‘you don’t see a Fire, do you?’ ‘Oh dear=
no,
sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘I was thinking of the dew.’=
‘What
have you got to do with the dew, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bounderby. =
8216;It’s
not myself, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘I am fearful of Miss
Gradgrind’s taking cold.’ ‘She never takes cold,’ s=
aid
Mr. Bounderby. ‘Really, sir?’ said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affect=
ed
with a cough in her throat.
When the time drew near for retiri=
ng,
Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. ‘Oh, sir?’ said Mrs. Spars=
it. ‘Not
your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?’ ‘Why, I have got=
out
of the habit of taking it now, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bounderby. R=
16;The
more’s the pity, sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit; ‘you are lo=
sing
all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I
will offer to make it for you, as I have often done.’
Miss Gradgrind readily permitting =
Mrs.
Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage,
and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. ‘It will do you good, sir. It will wa=
rm
your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir.’
And when Mr. Bounderby said, ‘Your health, ma’am!’ she
answered with great feeling, ‘Thank you, sir. The same to you, and
happiness also.’ Finally, she wished him good night, with great patho=
s;
and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been
crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentio=
ned
what it was.
Long after Louisa had undressed and
lain down, she watched and waited for her brother’s coming home. That
could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country
silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagg=
ed
wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to
thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she
would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the
circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all =
was
dead again.
She waited yet some quarter of an
hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of h=
er
room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother’s room. His door
being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with=
a
noiseless step.
She kneeled down beside it, passed=
her
arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned=
to
be asleep, but she said nothing to him.
He started by and by as if he were
just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter?
‘Tom, have you anything to t=
ell
me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from eve=
ry
one besides, tell it to me.’
‘I don’t know what you
mean, Loo. You have been dreaming.’
‘My dear brother:’ she
laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she wo=
uld
hide him from every one but herself: ‘is there nothing that you have =
to
tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me noth=
ing
that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!’
‘I don’t know what you
mean, Loo!’
‘As you lie here alone, my d=
ear,
in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, =
if I
am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot,
unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the nig=
ht of
my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth
now!’
‘What is it you want to know=
?’
‘You may be certain;’ =
in
the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; =
216;that
I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and
true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O To=
m,
have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only "yes,"=
and
I shall understand you!’
She turned her ear to his lips, bu=
t he
remained doggedly silent.
‘Not a word, Tom?’
‘How can I say Yes, or how c=
an I
say No, when I don’t know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind g=
irl,
worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing m=
ore
to say. Go to bed, go to bed.’
‘You are tired,’ she
whispered presently, more in her usual way.
‘Yes, I am quite tired out.&=
#8217;
‘You have been so hurried and
disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?’
‘Only those you have heard o=
f,
from - him.’
‘Tom, have you said to any o=
ne that
we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?̵=
7;
‘No. Didn’t you yourse=
lf
particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you=
?’
‘Yes. But I did not know then
what was going to happen.’
‘Nor I neither. How could I?=
’
He was very quick upon her with th=
is
retort.
‘Ought I to say, after what =
has
happened,’ said his sister, standing by the bed - she had gradually
withdrawn herself and risen, ‘that I made that visit? Should I say so?
Must I say so?’
‘Good Heavens, Loo,’
returned her brother, ‘you are not in the habit of asking my advice. =
say
what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to myself. If you
disclose it, there’s an end of it.’
It was too dark for either to see =
the
other’s face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before
speaking.
‘Tom, do you believe the man=
I
gave the money to, is really implicated in this crime?’
‘I don’t know. I don=
8217;t
see why he shouldn’t be.’
‘He seemed to me an honest m=
an.’
‘Another person may seem to =
you dishonest,
and yet not be so.’ There was a pause, for he had hesitated and stopp=
ed.
‘In short,’ resumed To=
m,
as if he had made up his mind, ‘if you come to that, perhaps I was so=
far
from being altogether in his favour, that I took him outside the door to te=
ll
him quietly, that I thought he might consider himself very well off to get =
such
a windfall as he had got from my sister, and that I hoped he would make good
use of it. You remember whether I took him out or not. I say nothing against
the man; he may be a very good fellow, for anything I know; I hope he is.=
8217;
‘Was he offended by what you
said?’
‘No, he took it pretty well;=
he
was civil enough. Where are you, Loo?’ He sat up in bed and kissed he=
r. ‘Good
night, my dear, good night.’
‘You have nothing more to te=
ll
me?’
‘No. What should I have? You
wouldn’t have me tell you a lie!’
‘I wouldn’t have you do
that to-night, Tom, of all the nights in your life; many and much happier a=
s I
hope they will be.’
‘Thank you, my dear Loo. I a=
m so
tired, that I am sure I wonder I don’t say anything to get to sleep. =
Go
to bed, go to bed.’
Kissing her again, he turned round,
drew the coverlet over his head, and lay as still as if that time had come =
by
which she had adjured him. She stood for some time at the bedside before she
slowly moved away. She stopped at the door, looked back when she had opened=
it,
and asked him if he had called her? But he lay still, and she softly closed=
the
door and returned to her room.
Then the wretched boy looked
cautiously up and found her gone, crept out of bed, fastened his door, and
threw himself upon his pillow again: tearing his hair, morosely crying,
grudgingly loving her, hatefully but impenitently spurning himself, and no =
less
hatefully and unprofitably spurning all the good in the world.
MRS. SPARSIT, lying by to recover =
the
tone of her nerves in Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, kept such a sharp
look-out, night and day, under her Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, lik=
e a
couple of lighthouses on an iron-bound coast, might have warned all prudent
mariners from that bold rock her Roman nose and the dark and craggy region =
in
its neighbourhood, but for the placidity of her manner. Although it was har=
d to
believe that her retiring for the night could be anything but a form, so
severely wide awake were those classical eyes of hers, and so impossible di=
d it
seem that her rigid nose could yield to any relaxing influence, yet her man=
ner
of sitting, smoothing her uncomfortable, not to say, gritty mittens (they w=
ere
constructed of a cool fabric like a meat-safe), or of ambling to unknown pl=
aces
of destination with her foot in her cotton stirrup, was so perfectly serene,
that most observers would have been constrained to suppose her a dove, embo=
died
by some freak of nature, in the earthly tabernacle of a bird of the hook-be=
aked
order.
She was a most wonderful woman for
prowling about the house. How she got from story to story was a mystery bey=
ond
solution. A lady so decorous in herself, and so highly connected, was not t=
o be
suspected of dropping over the banisters or sliding down them, yet her
extraordinary facility of locomotion suggested the wild idea. Another
noticeable circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was, that she was never hurried. She
would shoot with consummate velocity from the roof to the hall, yet would b=
e in
full possession of her breath and dignity on the moment of her arrival ther=
e.
Neither was she ever seen by human vision to go at a great pace.
She took very kindly to Mr. Hartho=
use,
and had some pleasant conversation with him soon after her arrival. She made
him her stately curtsey in the garden, one morning before breakfast.
‘It appears but yesterday, s=
ir,’
said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘that I had the honour of receiving you at the Ban=
k,
when you were so good as to wish to be made acquainted with Mr. Bounderby=
8217;s
address.’
‘An occasion, I am sure, not=
to
be forgotten by myself in the course of Ages,’ said Mr. Harthouse,
inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsit with the most indolent of all possible a=
irs.
‘We live in a singular world,
sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit.
‘I have had the honour, by a
coincidence of which I am proud, to have made a remark, similar in effect,
though not so epigrammatically expressed.’
‘A singular world, I would s=
ay,
sir,’ pursued Mrs. Sparsit; after acknowledging the compliment with a
drooping of her dark eyebrows, not altogether so mild in its expression as =
her
voice was in its dulcet tones; ‘as regards the intimacies we form at =
one
time, with individuals we were quite ignorant of, at another. I recall, sir,
that on that occasion you went so far as to say you were actually apprehens=
ive
of Miss Gradgrind.’
‘Your memory does me more ho=
nour
than my insignificance deserves. I availed myself of your obliging hints to
correct my timidity, and it is unnecessary to add that they were perfectly
accurate. Mrs. Sparsit’s talent for - in fact for anything requiring
accuracy - with a combination of strength of mind - and Family - is too
habitually developed to admit of any question.’ He was almost falling
asleep over this compliment; it took him so long to get through, and his mi=
nd
wandered so much in the course of its execution.
‘You found Miss Gradgrind - I
really cannot call her Mrs. Bounderby; it’s very absurd of me - as
youthful as I described her?’ asked Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly.
‘You drew her portrait
perfectly,’ said Mr. Harthouse. ‘Presented her dead image.̵=
7;
‘Very engaging, sir,’ =
said
Mrs. Sparsit, causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one another.
‘Highly so.’
‘It used to be considered,=
8217;
said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘that Miss Gradgrind was wanting in animation, but=
I
confess she appears to me considerably and strikingly improved in that resp=
ect.
Ay, and indeed here is Mr. Bounderby!’ cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her
head a great many times, as if she had been talking and thinking of no one
else. ‘How do you find yourself this morning, sir? Pray let us see you
cheerful, sir.’
Now, these persistent assuagements=
of
his misery, and lightenings of his load, had by this time begun to have the
effect of making Mr. Bounderby softer than usual towards Mrs. Sparsit, and
harder than usual to most other people from his wife downward. So, when Mrs.
Sparsit said with forced lightness of heart, ‘You want your breakfast,
sir, but I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the tabl=
e,’
Mr. Bounderby replied, ‘If I waited to be taken care of by my wife, m=
a’am,
I believe you know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I’ll
trouble you to take charge of the teapot.’ Mrs. Sparsit complied, and
assumed her old position at table.
This again made the excellent woman
vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she
rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under exist=
ing
circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby̵=
7;s
breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind - she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss
Bounderby - she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right =
yet,
though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by - had assumed her
present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happene=
d to
be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby’s time was so very precious, and =
she
knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, t=
hat
she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will h=
ad
been a law to her.
‘There! Stop where you are, =
ma’am,’
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very =
glad
to be relieved of the trouble, I believe.’
‘Don’t say that, sir,&=
#8217;
returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, ‘because that is very un=
kind
to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir.’
‘You may set your mind at re=
st,
ma’am. - You can take it very quietly, can’t you, Loo?’ s=
aid
Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife.
‘Of course. It is of no mome=
nt.
Why should it be of any importance to me?’
‘Why should it be of any
importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bounderby,
swelling with a sense of slight. ‘You attach too much importance to t=
hese
things, ma’am. By George, you’ll be corrupted in some of your
notions here. You are old- fashioned, ma’am. You are behind Tom Gradg=
rind’s
children’s time.’
‘What is the matter with you=
?’
asked Louisa, coldly surprised. ‘What has given you offence?’
‘Offence!’ repeated
Bounderby. ‘Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shoul=
dn’t
name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I
believe. I don’t go beating about for side-winds.’
‘I suppose no one ever had
occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate,’ Louisa answered
him composedly: ‘I have never made that objection to you, either as a
child or as a woman. I don’t understand what you would have.’
‘Have?’ returned Mr.
Bounderby. ‘Nothing. Otherwise, don’t you, Loo Bounderby, know
thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it?’=
She looked at him, as he struck the
table and made the teacups ring, with a proud colour in her face that was a=
new
change, Mr. Harthouse thought. ‘You are incomprehensible this morning=
,’
said Louisa. ‘Pray take no further trouble to explain yourself. I am =
not
curious to know your meaning. What does it matter?’
Nothing more was said on this them=
e,
and Mr. Harthouse was soon idly gay on indifferent subjects. But from this =
day,
the Sparsit action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and James Harthouse more
together, and strengthened the dangerous alienation from her husband and
confidence against him with another, into which she had fallen by degrees so
fine that she could not retrace them if she tried. But whether she ever tri=
ed
or no, lay hidden in her own closed heart.
Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected =
on
this particular occasion, that, assisting Mr. Bounderby to his hat after
breakfast, and being then alone with him in the hall, she imprinted a chaste
kiss upon his hand, murmured ‘My benefactor!’ and retired,
overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is an indubitable fact, within the cognizanc=
e of
this history, that five minutes after he had left the house in the self-same
hat, the same descendant of the Scadgerses and connexion by matrimony of the
Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his portrait, made a contemptuous
grimace at that work of art, and said ‘Serve you right, you Noodle, a=
nd I
am glad of it.’
Mr. Bounderby had not been long go=
ne,
when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer had come down by train, shrieking and rattling
over the long line of arches that bestrode the wild country of past and pre=
sent
coal- pits, with an express from Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note to inform
Louisa that Mrs. Gradgrind lay very ill. She had never been well within her
daughter’s knowledge; but, she had declined within the last few days,=
had
continued sinking all through the night, and was now as nearly dead, as her
limited capacity of being in any state that implied the ghost of an intenti=
on
to get out of it, allowed.
Accompanied by the lightest of
porters, fit colourless servitor at Death’s door when Mrs. Gradgrind
knocked, Louisa rumbled to Coketown, over the coal-pits past and present, a=
nd
was whirled into its smoky jaws. She dismissed the messenger to his own
devices, and rode away to her old home.
She had seldom been there since her
marriage. Her father was usually sifting and sifting at his parliamentary
cinder-heap in London (without being observed to turn up many precious arti=
cles
among the rubbish), and was still hard at it in the national dust- yard. Her
mother had taken it rather as a disturbance than otherwise, to be visited, =
as
she reclined upon her sofa; young people, Louisa felt herself all unfit for;
Sissy she had never softened to again, since the night when the stroller=
217;s
child had raised her eyes to look at Mr. Bounderby’s intended wife. S=
he
had no inducements to go back, and had rarely gone.
Neither, as she approached her old
home now, did any of the best influences of old home descend upon her. The
dreams of childhood - its airy fables; its graceful, beautiful, humane,
impossible adornments of the world beyond: so good to be believed in once, =
so
good to be remembered when outgrown, for then the least among them rises to=
the
stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering little children to come =
into
the midst of it, and to keep with their pure hands a garden in the stony wa=
ys
of this world, wherein it were better for all the children of Adam that they
should oftener sun themselves, simple and trustful, and not worldly-wise - =
what
had she to do with these? Remembrances of how she had journeyed to the litt=
le
that she knew, by the enchanted roads of what she and millions of innocent
creatures had hoped and imagined; of how, first coming upon Reason through =
the
tender light of Fancy, she had seen it a beneficent god, deferring to gods =
as
great as itself; not a grim Idol, cruel and cold, with its victims bound ha=
nd
to foot, and its big dumb shape set up with a sightless stare, never to be
moved by anything but so many calculated tons of leverage - what had she to=
do
with these? Her remembrances of home and childhood were remembrances of the
drying up of every spring and fountain in her young heart as it gushed out.=
The
golden waters were not there. They were flowing for the fertilization of the
land where grapes are gathered from thorns, and figs from thistles.
She went, with a heavy, hardened k=
ind
of sorrow upon her, into the house and into her mother’s room. Since =
the
time of her leaving home, Sissy had lived with the rest of the family on eq=
ual
terms. Sissy was at her mother’s side; and Jane, her sister, now ten =
or
twelve years old, was in the room.
There was great trouble before it
could be made known to Mrs. Gradgrind that her eldest child was there. She
reclined, propped up, from mere habit, on a couch: as nearly in her old usu=
al
attitude, as anything so helpless could be kept in. She had positively refu=
sed
to take to her bed; on the ground that if she did, she would never hear the
last of it.
Her feeble voice sounded so far aw=
ay
in her bundle of shawls, and the sound of another voice addressing her seem=
ed
to take such a long time in getting down to her ears, that she might have b=
een
lying at the bottom of a well. The poor lady was nearer Truth than she ever=
had
been: which had much to do with it.
On being told that Mrs. Bounderby = was there, she replied, at cross- purposes, that she had never called him by th= at name since he married Louisa; that pending her choice of an objectionable n= ame, she had called him J; and that she could not at present depart from that regulation, not being yet provided with a permanent substitute. Louisa had = sat by her for some minutes, and had spoken to her often, before she arrived at= a clear understanding who it was. She then seemed to come to it all at once.<= o:p>
‘Well, my dear,’ said =
Mrs.
Gradgrind, ‘and I hope you are going on satisfactorily to yourself. It
was all your father’s doing. He set his heart upon it. And he ought to
know.’
‘I want to hear of you, moth=
er;
not of myself.’
‘You want to hear of me, my
dear? That’s something new, I am sure, when anybody wants to hear of =
me.
Not at all well, Louisa. Very faint and giddy.’
‘Are you in pain, dear mothe=
r?’
‘I think there’s a pain
somewhere in the room,’ said Mrs. Gradgrind, ‘but I couldn̵=
7;t
positively say that I have got it.’
After this strange speech, she lay
silent for some time. Louisa, holding her hand, could feel no pulse; but
kissing it, could see a slight thin thread of life in fluttering motion.
‘You very seldom see your
sister,’ said Mrs. Gradgrind. ‘She grows like you. I wish you w=
ould
look at her. Sissy, bring her here.’
She was brought, and stood with her
hand in her sister’s. Louisa had observed her with her arm round Siss=
y’s
neck, and she felt the difference of this approach.
‘Do you see the likeness,
Louisa?’
‘Yes, mother. I should think=
her
like me. But - ‘
‘Eh! Yes, I always say so,=
8217;
Mrs. Gradgrind cried, with unexpected quickness. ‘And that reminds me=
. I
- I want to speak to you, my dear. Sissy, my good girl, leave us alone a
minute.’ Louisa had relinquished the hand: had thought that her siste=
r’s
was a better and brighter face than hers had ever been: had seen in it, not
without a rising feeling of resentment, even in that place and at that time,
something of the gentleness of the other face in the room; the sweet face w=
ith
the trusting eyes, made paler than watching and sympathy made it, by the ri=
ch
dark hair.
Left alone with her mother, Louisa=
saw
her lying with an awful lull upon her face, like one who was floating away =
upon
some great water, all resistance over, content to be carried down the strea=
m.
She put the shadow of a hand to her lips again, and recalled her.
‘You were going to speak to =
me,
mother.’
‘Eh? Yes, to be sure, my dea=
r. You
know your father is almost always away now, and therefore I must write to h=
im
about it.’
‘About what, mother? DonR=
17;t
be troubled. About what?’
‘You must remember, my dear, that whenever I have said anything, on any subject, I have never heard the = last of it: and consequently, that I have long left off saying anything.’<= o:p>
‘I can hear you, mother.R=
17;
But, it was only by dint of bending down to her ear, and at the same time
attentively watching the lips as they moved, that she could link such faint=
and
broken sounds into any chain of connexion.
‘You learnt a great deal,
Louisa, and so did your brother. Ologies of all kinds from morning to night=
. If
there is any Ology left, of any description, that has not been worn to rags=
in
this house, all I can say is, I hope I shall never hear its name.’
‘I can hear you, mother, when
you have strength to go on.’ This, to keep her from floating away.
‘But there is something - no=
t an
Ology at all - that your father has missed, or forgotten, Louisa. I donR=
17;t
know what it is. I have often sat with Sissy near me, and thought about it.=
I
shall never get its name now. But your father may. It makes me restless. I =
want
to write to him, to find out for God’s sake, what it is. Give me a pe=
n,
give me a pen.’
Even the power of restlessness was
gone, except from the poor head, which could just turn from side to side.
She fancied, however, that her req=
uest
had been complied with, and that the pen she could not have held was in her
hand. It matters little what figures of wonderful no-meaning she began to t=
race
upon her wrappers. The hand soon stopped in the midst of them; the light th=
at
had always been feeble and dim behind the weak transparency, went out; and =
even
Mrs. Gradgrind, emerged from the shadow in which man walketh and disquietet=
h himself
in vain, took upon her the dread solemnity of the sages and patriarchs.
MRS. SPARSIT’S nerves being =
slow
to recover their tone, the worthy woman made a stay of some weeks in durati=
on
at Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, where, notwithstanding her anchorite turn=
of
mind based upon her becoming consciousness of her altered station, she resi=
gned
herself with noble fortitude to lodging, as one may say, in clover, and fee=
ding
on the fat of the land. During the whole term of this recess from the
guardianship of the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit was a pattern of consistency; contin=
uing
to take such pity on Mr. Bounderby to his face, as is rarely taken on man, =
and
to call his portrait a Noodle to its face, with the greatest acrimony and c=
ontempt.
Mr. Bounderby, having got it into =
his
explosive composition that Mrs. Sparsit was a highly superior woman to perc=
eive
that he had that general cross upon him in his deserts (for he had not yet
settled what it was), and further that Louisa would have objected to her as=
a
frequent visitor if it had comported with his greatness that she should obj=
ect
to anything he chose to do, resolved not to lose sight of Mrs. Sparsit easi=
ly.
So when her nerves were strung up to the pitch of again consuming sweetbrea=
ds in
solitude, he said to her at the dinner-table, on the day before her departu=
re, ‘I
tell you what, ma’am; you shall come down here of a Saturday, while t=
he
fine weather lasts, and stay till Monday.’ To which Mrs. Sparsit
returned, in effect, though not of the Mahomedan persuasion: ‘To hear=
is
to obey.’
Now, Mrs. Sparsit was not a poetic=
al
woman; but she took an idea in the nature of an allegorical fancy, into her
head. Much watching of Louisa, and much consequent observation of her
impenetrable demeanour, which keenly whetted and sharpened Mrs. SparsitR=
17;s
edge, must have given her as it were a lift, in the way of inspiration. She
erected in her mind a mighty Staircase, with a dark pit of shame and ruin at
the bottom; and down those stairs, from day to day and hour to hour, she saw
Louisa coming.
It became the business of Mrs. Spa=
rsit’s
life, to look up at her staircase, and to watch Louisa coming down. Sometim=
es
slowly, sometimes quickly, sometimes several steps at one bout, sometimes
stopping, never turning back. If she had once turned back, it might have be=
en
the death of Mrs. Sparsit in spleen and grief.
She had been descending steadily, =
to
the day, and on the day, when Mr. Bounderby issued the weekly invitation
recorded above. Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined to be
conversational.
‘And pray, sir,’ said =
she,
‘if I may venture to ask a question appertaining to any subject on wh=
ich
you show reserve - which is indeed hardy in me, for I well know you have a
reason for everything you do - have you received intelligence respecting the
robbery?’
‘Why, ma’am, no; not y=
et.
Under the circumstances, I didn’t expect it yet. Rome wasn’t bu=
ilt
in a day, ma’am.’
‘Very true, sir,’ said
Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head.
‘Nor yet in a week, ma’=
;am.’
‘No, indeed, sir,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a gentle melancholy upon her.
‘In a similar manner, maR=
17;am,’
said Bounderby, ‘I can wait, you know. If Romulus and Remus could wai=
t,
Josiah Bounderby can wait. They were better off in their youth than I was,
however. They had a she-wolf for a nurse; I had only a she-wolf for a
grandmother. She didn’t give any milk, ma’am; she gave bruises.=
She
was a regular Alderney at that.’
‘Ah!’ Mrs. Sparsit sig=
hed
and shuddered.
‘No, ma’am,’
continued Bounderby, ‘I have not heard anything more about it. ItR=
17;s
in hand, though; and young Tom, who rather sticks to business at present -
something new for him; he hadn’t the schooling I had - is helping. My
injunction is, Keep it quiet, and let it seem to blow over. Do what you like
under the rose, but don’t give a sign of what you’re about; or =
half
a hundred of ‘em will combine together and get this fellow who has
bolted, out of reach for good. Keep it quiet, and the thieves will grow in
confidence by little and little, and we shall have ‘em.’
‘Very sagacious indeed, sir,=
’
said Mrs. Sparsit. ‘Very interesting. The old woman you mentioned, si=
r - ‘
‘The old woman I mentioned, =
ma’am,’
said Bounderby, cutting the matter short, as it was nothing to boast about,=
‘is
not laid hold of; but, she may take her oath she will be, if that is any
satisfaction to her villainous old mind. In the mean time, ma’am, I a=
m of
opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she is talked about, the
better.’
The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in=
her
chamber window, resting from her packing operations, looked towards her gre=
at
staircase and saw Louisa still descending.
She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an al=
cove
in the garden, talking very low; he stood leaning over her, as they whisper=
ed
together, and his face almost touched her hair. ‘If not quite!’
said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk’s eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Spar=
sit
was too distant to hear a word of their discourse, or even to know that they
were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of their figures; =
but
what they said was this:
‘You recollect the man, Mr.
Harthouse?’
‘Oh, perfectly!’
‘His face, and his manner, a=
nd
what he said?’
‘Perfectly. And an infinitely
dreary person he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It=
was
knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I ass=
ure
you I thought at the time, "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!&q=
uot;‘
‘It has been very difficult =
to
me to think ill of that man.’
‘My dear Louisa - as Tom say=
s.’
Which he never did say. ‘You know no good of the fellow?’
‘No, certainly.’
‘Nor of any other such perso=
n?’
‘How can I,’ she retur=
ned,
with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, ‘when I
know nothing of them, men or women?’
‘My dear Louisa, then consen=
t to
receive the submissive representation of your devoted friend, who knows
something of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures - for
excellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little
foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of. This fel=
low
talks. Well; every fellow talks. He professes morality. Well; all sorts of
humbugs profess morality. From the House of Commons to the House of Correct=
ion,
there is a general profession of morality, except among our people; it real=
ly
is that exception which makes our people quite reviving. You saw and heard =
the
case. Here was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely short by my
esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby - who, as we know, is not possessed of that
delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. The member of the fluffy class=
es
was injured, exasperated, left the house grumbling, met somebody who propos=
ed
to him to go in for some share in this Bank business, went in, put somethin=
g in
his pocket which had nothing in it before, and relieved his mind extremely.
Really he would have been an uncommon, instead of a common, fellow, if he h=
ad
not availed himself of such an opportunity. Or he may have originated it
altogether, if he had the cleverness.’
‘I almost feel as though it =
must
be bad in me,’ returned Louisa, after sitting thoughtful awhile, R=
16;to
be so ready to agree with you, and to be so lightened in my heart by what y=
ou
say.’
‘I only say what is reasonab=
le;
nothing worse. I have talked it over with my friend Tom more than once - of
course I remain on terms of perfect confidence with Tom - and he is quite o=
f my
opinion, and I am quite of his. Will you walk?’
They strolled away, among the lanes
beginning to be indistinct in the twilight - she leaning on his arm - and s=
he
little thought how she was going down, down, down, Mrs. Sparsit’s
staircase.
Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it
standing. When Louisa had arrived at the bottom and disappeared in the gulf=
, it
might fall in upon her if it would; but, until then, there it was to be, a
Building, before Mrs. Sparsit’s eyes. And there Louisa always was, up=
on
it.
And always gliding down, down, dow=
n!
Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse c=
ome
and go; she heard of him here and there; she saw the changes of the face he=
had
studied; she, too, remarked to a nicety how and when it clouded, how and wh=
en
it cleared; she kept her black eyes wide open, with no touch of pity, with =
no
touch of compunction, all absorbed in interest. In the interest of seeing h=
er,
ever drawing, with no hand to stay her, nearer and nearer to the bottom of =
this
new Giant’s Staircase.
With all her deference for Mr.
Bounderby as contradistinguished from his portrait, Mrs. Sparsit had not the
smallest intention of interrupting the descent. Eager to see it accomplishe=
d,
and yet patient, she waited for the last fall, as for the ripeness and fuln=
ess
of the harvest of her hopes. Hushed in expectancy, she kept her wary gaze u=
pon
the stairs; and seldom so much as darkly shook her right mitten (with her f=
ist
in it), at the figure coming down.
THE figure descended the great sta=
irs,
steadily, steadily; always verging, like a weight in deep water, to the bla=
ck
gulf at the bottom.
Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wif=
e’s
decease, made an expedition from London, and buried her in a business-like
manner. He then returned with promptitude to the national cinder-heap, and
resumed his sifting for the odds and ends he wanted, and his throwing of the
dust about into the eyes of other people who wanted other odds and ends - in
fact resumed his parliamentary duties.
In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept
unwinking watch and ward. Separated from her staircase, all the week, by the
length of iron road dividing Coketown from the country house, she yet
maintained her cat-like observation of Louisa, through her husband, through=
her
brother, through James Harthouse, through the outsides of letters and packe=
ts,
through everything animate and inanimate that at any time went near the sta=
irs.
‘Your foot on the last step, my lady,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, apost=
rophizing
the descending figure, with the aid of her threatening mitten, ‘and a=
ll
your art shall never blind me.’
Art or nature though, the original
stock of Louisa’s character or the graft of circumstances upon it, - =
her
curious reserve did baffle, while it stimulated, one as sagacious as Mrs.
Sparsit. There were times when Mr. James Harthouse was not sure of her. The=
re
were times when he could not read the face he had studied so long; and when
this lonely girl was a greater mystery to him, than any woman of the world =
with
a ring of satellites to help her.
So the time went on; until it happ=
ened
that Mr. Bounderby was called away from home by business which required his
presence elsewhere, for three or four days. It was on a Friday that he
intimated this to Mrs. Sparsit at the Bank, adding: ‘But you’ll=
go
down to-morrow, ma’am, all the same. You’ll go down just as if I
was there. It will make no difference to you.’
‘Pray, sir,’ returned =
Mrs.
Sparsit, reproachfully, ‘let me beg you not to say that. Your absence
will make a vast difference to me, sir, as I think you very well know.̵=
7;
‘Well, ma’am, then you
must get on in my absence as well as you can,’ said Mr. Bounderby, not
displeased.
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ retor=
ted
Mrs. Sparsit, ‘your will is to me a law, sir; otherwise, it might be =
my
inclination to dispute your kind commands, not feeling sure that it will be
quite so agreeable to Miss Gradgrind to receive me, as it ever is to your o=
wn
munificent hospitality. But you shall say no more, sir. I will go, upon your
invitation.’
‘Why, when I invite you to my
house, ma’am,’ said Bounderby, opening his eyes, ‘I should
hope you want no other invitation.’
‘No, indeed, sir,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘I should hope not. Say no more, sir. I would,
sir, I could see you gay again.’
‘What do you mean, ma’=
am?’
blustered Bounderby.
‘Sir,’ rejoined Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘there was wont to be an elasticity in you which I sadly mis=
s.
Be buoyant, sir!’
Mr. Bounderby, under the influence=
of
this difficult adjuration, backed up by her compassionate eye, could only
scratch his head in a feeble and ridiculous manner, and afterwards assert
himself at a distance, by being heard to bully the small fry of business all
the morning.
‘Bitzer,’ said Mrs.
Sparsit that afternoon, when her patron was gone on his journey, and the Ba=
nk
was closing, ‘present my compliments to young Mr. Thomas, and ask him=
if
he would step up and partake of a lamb chop and walnut ketchup, with a glas=
s of
India ale?’ Young Mr. Thomas being usually ready for anything in that
way, returned a gracious answer, and followed on its heels. ‘Mr. Thom=
as,’
said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘these plain viands being on table, I thought you
might be tempted.’
‘Thank’ee, Mrs. Sparsi=
t,’
said the whelp. And gloomily fell to.
‘How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. T=
om?’
asked Mrs. Sparsit.
‘Oh, he’s all right,=
8217;
said Tom.
‘Where may he be at present?=
’
Mrs. Sparsit asked in a light conversational manner, after mentally devoting
the whelp to the Furies for being so uncommunicative.
‘He is shooting in Yorkshire=
,’
said Tom. ‘Sent Loo a basket half as big as a church, yesterday.̵=
7;
‘The kind of gentleman, now,=
’
said Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly, ‘whom one might wager to be a good shot!&=
#8217;
‘Crack,’ said Tom.
He had long been a down-looking yo=
ung
fellow, but this characteristic had so increased of late, that he never rai=
sed
his eyes to any face for three seconds together. Mrs. Sparsit consequently =
had
ample means of watching his looks, if she were so inclined.
‘Mr. Harthouse is a great
favourite of mine,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘as indeed he is of most
people. May we expect to see him again shortly, Mr. Tom?’
‘Why, I expect to see him
to-morrow,’ returned the whelp.
‘Good news!’ cried Mrs.
Sparsit, blandly.
‘I have got an appointment w=
ith
him to meet him in the evening at the station here,’ said Tom, ‘=
;and
I am going to dine with him afterwards, I believe. He is not coming down to=
the
country house for a week or so, being due somewhere else. At least, he says=
so;
but I shouldn’t wonder if he was to stop here over Sunday, and stray =
that
way.’
‘Which reminds me!’ sa=
id
Mrs. Sparsit. ‘Would you remember a message to your sister, Mr. Tom, =
if I
was to charge you with one?’
‘Well? I’ll try,’
returned the reluctant whelp, ‘if it isn’t a long un.’
‘It is merely my respectful
compliments,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘and I fear I may not trouble =
her
with my society this week; being still a little nervous, and better perhaps=
by
my poor self.’
‘Oh! If that’s all,=
217;
observed Tom, ‘it wouldn’t much matter, even if I was to forget=
it,
for Loo’s not likely to think of you unless she sees you.’
Having paid for his entertainment =
with
this agreeable compliment, he relapsed into a hangdog silence until there w=
as
no more India ale left, when he said, ‘Well, Mrs. Sparsit, I must be =
off!’
and went off.
Next day, Saturday, Mrs. Sparsit s=
at
at her window all day long looking at the customers coming in and out, watc=
hing
the postmen, keeping an eye on the general traffic of the street, revolving
many things in her mind, but, above all, keeping her attention on her
staircase. The evening come, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quie=
tly
out: having her reasons for hovering in a furtive way about the station by
which a passenger would arrive from Yorkshire, and for preferring to peep i=
nto
it round pillars and corners, and out of ladies’ waiting-room windows=
, to
appearing in its precincts openly.
Tom was in attendance, and loitered
about until the expected train came in. It brought no Mr. Harthouse. Tom wa=
ited
until the crowd had dispersed, and the bustle was over; and then referred t=
o a
posted list of trains, and took counsel with porters. That done, he strolled
away idly, stopping in the street and looking up it and down it, and lifting
his hat off and putting it on again, and yawning and stretching himself, and
exhibiting all the symptoms of mortal weariness to be expected in one who h=
ad
still to wait until the next train should come in, an hour and forty minutes
hence.
‘This is a device to keep him
out of the way,’ said Mrs. Sparsit, starting from the dull office win=
dow
whence she had watched him last. ‘Harthouse is with his sister now!=
8217;
It was the conception of an inspir=
ed
moment, and she shot off with her utmost swiftness to work it out. The stat=
ion
for the country house was at the opposite end of the town, the time was sho=
rt,
the road not easy; but she was so quick in pouncing on a disengaged coach, =
so
quick in darting out of it, producing her money, seizing her ticket, and di=
ving
into the train, that she was borne along the arches spanning the land of
coal-pits past and present, as if she had been caught up in a cloud and whi=
rled
away.
All the journey, immovable in the = air though never left behind; plain to the dark eyes of her mind, as the electr= ic wires which ruled a colossal strip of music-paper out of the evening sky, w= ere plain to the dark eyes of her body; Mrs. Sparsit saw her staircase, with the figure coming down. Very near the bottom now. Upon the brink of the abyss.<= o:p>
An overcast September evening, jus=
t at
nightfall, saw beneath its drooping eyelids Mrs. Sparsit glide out of her c=
arriage,
pass down the wooden steps of the little station into a stony road, cross it
into a green lane, and become hidden in a summer-growth of leaves and branc=
hes.
One or two late birds sleepily chirping in their nests, and a bat heavily
crossing and recrossing her, and the reek of her own tread in the thick dust
that felt like velvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw until she very so=
ftly
closed a gate.
She went up to the house, keeping
within the shrubbery, and went round it, peeping between the leaves at the
lower windows. Most of them were open, as they usually were in such warm
weather, but there were no lights yet, and all was silent. She tried the ga=
rden
with no better effect. She thought of the wood, and stole towards it, heedl=
ess
of long grass and briers: of worms, snails, and slugs, and all the creeping
things that be. With her dark eyes and her hook nose warily in advance of h=
er,
Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her way through the thick undergrowth, so intent
upon her object that she probably would have done no less, if the wood had =
been
a wood of adders.
Hark!
The smaller birds might have tumbl=
ed
out of their nests, fascinated by the glittering of Mrs. Sparsit’s ey=
es
in the gloom, as she stopped and listened.
Low voices close at hand. His voice
and hers. The appointment was a device to keep the brother away! There they
were yonder, by the felled tree.
Bending low among the dewy grass, =
Mrs.
Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drew herself up, and stood behind a tr=
ee,
like Robinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages; so near to them =
that
at a spring, and that no great one, she could have touched them both. He was
there secretly, and had not shown himself at the house. He had come on
horseback, and must have passed through the neighbouring fields; for his ho=
rse
was tied to the meadow side of the fence, within a few paces.
‘My dearest love,’ said
he, ‘what could I do? Knowing you were alone, was it possible that I
could stay away?’
‘You may hang your head, to =
make
yourself the more attractive; I don’t know what they see in you when =
you
hold it up,’ thought Mrs. Sparsit; ‘but you little think, my
dearest love, whose eyes are on you!’
That she hung her head, was certai=
n.
She urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither tur=
ned her
face to him, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable that she sat as still as =
ever
the amiable woman in ambuscade had seen her sit, at any period in her life.=
Her
hands rested in one another, like the hands of a statue; and even her manne=
r of
speaking was not hurried.
‘My dear child,’ said
Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsit saw with delight that his arm embraced her; ‘=
will
you not bear with my society for a little while?’
‘Not here.’
‘Where, Louisa?
‘Not here.’
‘But we have so little time =
to
make so much of, and I have come so far, and am altogether so devoted, and
distracted. There never was a slave at once so devoted and ill-used by his
mistress. To look for your sunny welcome that has warmed me into life, and =
to
be received in your frozen manner, is heart-rending.’
‘Am I to say again, that I m=
ust
be left to myself here?’
‘But we must meet, my dear
Louisa. Where shall we meet?’
They both started. The listener
started, guiltily, too; for she thought there was another listener among the
trees. It was only rain, beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops.
‘Shall I ride up to the hous=
e a
few minutes hence, innocently supposing that its master is at home and will=
be
charmed to receive me?’
‘No!’
‘Your cruel commands are
implicitly to be obeyed; though I am the most unfortunate fellow in the wor=
ld,
I believe, to have been insensible to all other women, and to have fallen
prostrate at last under the foot of the most beautiful, and the most engagi=
ng,
and the most imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannot go myself, or let you g=
o, in
this hard abuse of your power.’
Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her wi=
th
his encircling arm, and heard him then and there, within her (Mrs. Sparsit&=
#8217;s)
greedy hearing, tell her how he loved her, and how she was the stake for wh=
ich
he ardently desired to play away all that he had in life. The objects he had
lately pursued, turned worthless beside her; such success as was almost in =
his
grasp, he flung away from him like the dirt it was, compared with her. Its
pursuit, nevertheless, if it kept him near her, or its renunciation if it t=
ook
him from her, or flight if she shared it, or secrecy if she commanded it, or
any fate, or every fate, all was alike to him, so that she was true to him,=
-
the man who had seen how cast away she was, whom she had inspired at their =
first
meeting with an admiration, an interest, of which he had thought himself
incapable, whom she had received into her confidence, who was devoted to her
and adored her. All this, and more, in his hurry, and in hers, in the whirl=
of
her own gratified malice, in the dread of being discovered, in the rapidly
increasing noise of heavy rain among the leaves, and a thunderstorm rolling=
up
- Mrs. Sparsit received into her mind, set off with such an unavoidable hal=
o of
confusion and indistinctness, that when at length he climbed the fence and =
led
his horse away, she was not sure where they were to meet, or when, except t=
hat
they had said it was to be that night.
But one of them yet remained in the
darkness before her; and while she tracked that one she must be right. R=
16;Oh,
my dearest love,’ thought Mrs. Sparsit, ‘you little think how w=
ell
attended you are!’
Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wo=
od,
and saw her enter the house. What to do next? It rained now, in a sheet of
water. Mrs. Sparsit’s white stockings were of many colours, green
predominating; prickly things were in her shoes; caterpillars slung themsel=
ves,
in hammocks of their own making, from various parts of her dress; rills ran
from her bonnet, and her Roman nose. In such condition, Mrs. Sparsit stood
hidden in the density of the shrubbery, considering what next?
Lo, Louisa coming out of the house!
Hastily cloaked and muffled, and stealing away. She elopes! She falls from =
the
lowermost stair, and is swallowed up in the gulf.
Indifferent to the rain, and movin=
g with
a quick determined step, she struck into a side-path parallel with the ride.
Mrs. Sparsit followed in the shadow of the trees, at but a short distance; =
for
it was not easy to keep a figure in view going quickly through the umbrageo=
us
darkness.
When she stopped to close the
side-gate without noise, Mrs. Sparsit stopped. When she went on, Mrs. Spars=
it
went on. She went by the way Mrs. Sparsit had come, emerged from the green
lane, crossed the stony road, and ascended the wooden steps to the railroad=
. A
train for Coketown would come through presently, Mrs. Sparsit knew; so she
understood Coketown to be her first place of destination.
In Mrs. Sparsit’s limp and
streaming state, no extensive precautions were necessary to change her usual
appearance; but, she stopped under the lee of the station wall, tumbled her
shawl into a new shape, and put it on over her bonnet. So disguised she had=
no
fear of being recognized when she followed up the railroad steps, and paid =
her
money in the small office. Louisa sat waiting in a corner. Mrs. Sparsit sat
waiting in another corner. Both listened to the thunder, which was loud, an=
d to
the rain, as it washed off the roof, and pattered on the parapets of the
arches. Two or three lamps were rained out and blown out; so, both saw the
lightning to advantage as it quivered and zigzagged on the iron tracks.
The seizure of the station with a =
fit
of trembling, gradually deepening to a complaint of the heart, announced the
train. Fire and steam, and smoke, and red light; a hiss, a crash, a bell, a=
nd a
shriek; Louisa put into one carriage, Mrs. Sparsit put into another: the li=
ttle
station a desert speck in the thunderstorm.
Though her teeth chattered in her =
head
from wet and cold, Mrs. Sparsit exulted hugely. The figure had plunged down=
the
precipice, and she felt herself, as it were, attending on the body. Could s=
he,
who had been so active in the getting up of the funeral triumph, do less th=
an
exult? ‘She will be at Coketown long before him,’ thought Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘though his horse is never so good. Where will she wait for =
him?
And where will they go together? Patience. We shall see.’
The tremendous rain occasioned
infinite confusion, when the train stopped at its destination. Gutters and
pipes had burst, drains had overflowed, and streets were under water. In the
first instant of alighting, Mrs. Sparsit turned her distracted eyes towards=
the
waiting coaches, which were in great request. ‘She will get into one,=
’
she considered, ‘and will be away before I can follow in another. At =
all
risks of being run over, I must see the number, and hear the order given to=
the
coachman.’
But, Mrs. Sparsit was wrong in her
calculation. Louisa got into no coach, and was already gone. The black eyes
kept upon the railroad-carriage in which she had travelled, settled upon it=
a
moment too late. The door not being opened after several minutes, Mrs. Spar=
sit
passed it and repassed it, saw nothing, looked in, and found it empty. Wet
through and through: with her feet squelching and squashing in her shoes
whenever she moved; with a rash of rain upon her classical visage; with a
bonnet like an over-ripe fig; with all her clothes spoiled; with damp
impressions of every button, string, and hook-and-eye she wore, printed off
upon her highly connected back; with a stagnant verdure on her general
exterior, such as accumulates on an old park fence in a mouldy lane; Mrs.
Sparsit had no resource but to burst into tears of bitterness and say, R=
16;I
have lost her!’
THE national dustmen, after
entertaining one another with a great many noisy little fights among
themselves, had dispersed for the present, and Mr. Gradgrind was at home for
the vacation.
He sat writing in the room with the
deadly statistical clock, proving something no doubt - probably, in the mai=
n, that
the Good Samaritan was a Bad Economist. The noise of the rain did not distu=
rb
him much; but it attracted his attention sufficiently to make him raise his
head sometimes, as if he were rather remonstrating with the elements. When =
it
thundered very loudly, he glanced towards Coketown, having it in his mind t=
hat
some of the tall chimneys might be struck by lightning.
The thunder was rolling into dista=
nce,
and the rain was pouring down like a deluge, when the door of his room open=
ed.
He looked round the lamp upon his table, and saw, with amazement, his eldest
daughter.
‘Louisa!’
‘Father, I want to speak to =
you.’
‘What is the matter? How str=
ange
you look! And good Heaven,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, wondering more and mo=
re, ‘have
you come here exposed to this storm?’
She put her hands to her dress, as=
if
she hardly knew. ‘Yes.’ Then she uncovered her head, and letting
her cloak and hood fall where they might, stood looking at him: so colourle=
ss,
so dishevelled, so defiant and despairing, that he was afraid of her.
‘What is it? I conjure you,
Louisa, tell me what is the matter.’
She dropped into a chair before hi=
m,
and put her cold hand on his arm.
‘Father, you have trained me
from my cradle?’
‘Yes, Louisa.’
‘I curse the hour in which I=
was
born to such a destiny.’
He looked at her in doubt and drea=
d,
vacantly repeating: ‘Curse the hour? Curse the hour?’
‘How could you give me life,=
and
take from me all the inappreciable things that raise it from the state of
conscious death? Where are the graces of my soul? Where are the sentiments =
of
my heart? What have you done, O father, what have you done, with the garden
that should have bloomed once, in this great wilderness here!’
She struck herself with both her h=
ands
upon her bosom.
‘If it had ever been here, i=
ts
ashes alone would save me from the void in which my whole life sinks. I did=
not
mean to say this; but, father, you remember the last time we conversed in t=
his
room?’
He had been so wholly unprepared f=
or
what he heard now, that it was with difficulty he answered, ‘Yes, Lou=
isa.’
‘What has risen to my lips n=
ow,
would have risen to my lips then, if you had given me a moment’s help=
. I
don’t reproach you, father. What you have never nurtured in me, you h=
ave
never nurtured in yourself; but O! if you had only done so long ago, or if =
you
had only neglected me, what a much better and much happier creature I should
have been this day!’
On hearing this, after all his car=
e,
he bowed his head upon his hand and groaned aloud.
‘Father, if you had known, w=
hen
we were last together here, what even I feared while I strove against it - =
as
it has been my task from infancy to strive against every natural prompting =
that
has arisen in my heart; if you had known that there lingered in my breast,
sensibilities, affections, weaknesses capable of being cherished into stren=
gth,
defying all the calculations ever made by man, and no more known to his
arithmetic than his Creator is, - would you have given me to the husband wh=
om I
am now sure that I hate?’
He said, ‘No. No, my poor ch=
ild.’
‘Would you have doomed me, at
any time, to the frost and blight that have hardened and spoiled me? Would =
you
have robbed me - for no one’s enrichment - only for the greater
desolation of this world - of the immaterial part of my life, the spring and
summer of my belief, my refuge from what is sordid and bad in the real thin=
gs
around me, my school in which I should have learned to be more humble and m=
ore
trusting with them, and to hope in my little sphere to make them better?=
217;
‘O no, no. No, Louisa.=
217;
‘Yet, father, if I had been
stone blind; if I had groped my way by my sense of touch, and had been free,
while I knew the shapes and surfaces of things, to exercise my fancy somewh=
at,
in regard to them; I should have been a million times wiser, happier, more
loving, more contented, more innocent and human in all good respects, than =
I am
with the eyes I have. Now, hear what I have come to say.’
He moved, to support her with his =
arm.
She rising as he did so, they stood close together: she, with a hand upon h=
is
shoulder, looking fixedly in his face.
‘With a hunger and thirst up=
on
me, father, which have never been for a moment appeased; with an ardent imp=
ulse
towards some region where rules, and figures, and definitions were not quite
absolute; I have grown up, battling every inch of my way.’
‘I never knew you were unhap=
py,
my child.’
‘Father, I always knew it. In
this strife I have almost repulsed and crushed my better angel into a demon.
What I have learned has left me doubting, misbelieving, despising, regretti=
ng,
what I have not learned; and my dismal resource has been to think that life
would soon go by, and that nothing in it could be worth the pain and troubl=
e of
a contest.’
‘And you so young, Louisa!=
8217;
he said with pity.
‘And I so young. In this
condition, father - for I show you now, without fear or favour, the ordinary
deadened state of my mind as I know it - you proposed my husband to me. I t=
ook
him. I never made a pretence to him or you that I loved him. I knew, and,
father, you knew, and he knew, that I never did. I was not wholly indiffere=
nt,
for I had a hope of being pleasant and useful to Tom. I made that wild esca=
pe
into something visionary, and have slowly found out how wild it was. But Tom
had been the subject of all the little tenderness of my life; perhaps he be=
came
so because I knew so well how to pity him. It matters little now, except as=
it
may dispose you to think more leniently of his errors.’
As her father held her in his arms,
she put her other hand upon his other shoulder, and still looking fixedly in
his face, went on.
‘When I was irrevocably marr=
ied,
there rose up into rebellion against the tie, the old strife, made fiercer =
by
all those causes of disparity which arise out of our two individual natures,
and which no general laws shall ever rule or state for me, father, until th=
ey
shall be able to direct the anatomist where to strike his knife into the
secrets of my soul.’
‘Louisa!’ he said, and
said imploringly; for he well remembered what had passed between them in th=
eir
former interview.
‘I do not reproach you, fath=
er,
I make no complaint. I am here with another object.’
‘What can I do, child? Ask me
what you will.’
‘I am coming to it. Father,
chance then threw into my way a new acquaintance; a man such as I had had no
experience of; used to the world; light, polished, easy; making no pretence=
s;
avowing the low estimate of everything, that I was half afraid to form in
secret; conveying to me almost immediately, though I don’t know how o=
r by
what degrees, that he understood me, and read my thoughts. I could not find
that he was worse than I. There seemed to be a near affinity between us. I =
only
wondered it should be worth his while, who cared for nothing else, to care =
so
much for me.’
‘For you, Louisa!’
Her father might instinctively have
loosened his hold, but that he felt her strength departing from her, and sa=
w a
wild dilating fire in the eyes steadfastly regarding him.
‘I say nothing of his plea f=
or
claiming my confidence. It matters very little how he gained it. Father, he=
did
gain it. What you know of the story of my marriage, he soon knew, just as w=
ell.’
Her father’s face was ashy
white, and he held her in both his arms.
‘I have done no worse, I have
not disgraced you. But if you ask me whether I have loved him, or do love h=
im,
I tell you plainly, father, that it may be so. I don’t know.’
She took her hands suddenly from h=
is
shoulders, and pressed them both upon her side; while in her face, not like
itself - and in her figure, drawn up, resolute to finish by a last effort w=
hat
she had to say - the feelings long suppressed broke loose.
‘This night, my husband being
away, he has been with me, declaring himself my lover. This minute he expec=
ts
me, for I could release myself of his presence by no other means. I do not =
know
that I am sorry, I do not know that I am ashamed, I do not know that I am
degraded in my own esteem. All that I know is, your philosophy and your
teaching will not save me. Now, father, you have brought me to this. Save m=
e by
some other means!’
He tightened his hold in time to
prevent her sinking on the floor, but she cried out in a terrible voice, =
8216;I
shall die if you hold me! Let me fall upon the ground!’ And he laid h=
er
down there, and saw the pride of his heart and the triumph of his system,
lying, an insensible heap, at his feet.
LOUISA awoke from a torpor, and her
eyes languidly opened on her old bed at home, and her old room. It seemed, =
at
first, as if all that had happened since the days when these objects were
familiar to her were the shadows of a dream, but gradually, as the objects
became more real to her sight, the events became more real to her mind.
She could scarcely move her head f=
or
pain and heaviness, her eyes were strained and sore, and she was very weak.=
A
curious passive inattention had such possession of her, that the presence of
her little sister in the room did not attract her notice for some time. Even
when their eyes had met, and her sister had approached the bed, Louisa lay =
for
minutes looking at her in silence, and suffering her timidly to hold her
passive hand, before she asked:
‘When was I brought to this
room?’
‘Last night, Louisa.’<= o:p>
‘Who brought me here?’=
‘Sissy, I believe.’
‘Why do you believe so?̵=
7;
‘Because I found her here th=
is
morning. She didn’t come to my bedside to wake me, as she always does;
and I went to look for her. She was not in her own room either; and I went
looking for her all over the house, until I found her here taking care of y=
ou
and cooling your head. Will you see father? Sissy said I was to tell him wh=
en
you woke.’
‘What a beaming face you hav=
e,
Jane!’ said Louisa, as her young sister - timidly still - bent down to
kiss her.
‘Have I? I am very glad you
think so. I am sure it must be Sissy’s doing.’
The arm Louisa had begun to twine
around her neck, unbent itself. ‘You can tell father if you will.R=
17;
Then, staying her for a moment, she said, ‘It was you who made my roo=
m so
cheerful, and gave it this look of welcome?’
‘Oh no, Louisa, it was done
before I came. It was - ‘
Louisa turned upon her pillow, and
heard no more. When her sister had withdrawn, she turned her head back agai=
n,
and lay with her face towards the door, until it opened and her father ente=
red.
He had a jaded anxious look upon h=
im,
and his hand, usually steady, trembled in hers. He sat down at the side of =
the
bed, tenderly asking how she was, and dwelling on the necessity of her keep=
ing
very quiet after her agitation and exposure to the weather last night. He s=
poke
in a subdued and troubled voice, very different from his usual dictatorial
manner; and was often at a loss for words.
‘My dear Louisa. My poor
daughter.’ He was so much at a loss at that place, that he stopped
altogether. He tried again.
‘My unfortunate child.’
The place was so difficult to get over, that he tried again.
‘It would be hopeless for me,
Louisa, to endeavour to tell you how overwhelmed I have been, and still am,=
by
what broke upon me last night. The ground on which I stand has ceased to be
solid under my feet. The only support on which I leaned, and the strength of
which it seemed, and still does seem, impossible to question, has given way=
in
an instant. I am stunned by these discoveries. I have no selfish meaning in
what I say; but I find the shock of what broke upon me last night, to be ve=
ry
heavy indeed.’
She could give him no comfort here=
in.
She had suffered the wreck of her whole life upon the rock.
‘I will not say, Louisa, tha=
t if
you had by any happy chance undeceived me some time ago, it would have been
better for us both; better for your peace, and better for mine. For I am
sensible that it may not have been a part of my system to invite any confid=
ence
of that kind. I had proved my - my system to myself, and I have rigidly
administered it; and I must bear the responsibility of its failures. I only
entreat you to believe, my favourite child, that I have meant to do right.&=
#8217;
He said it earnestly, and to do him
justice he had. In gauging fathomless deeps with his little mean excise-rod,
and in staggering over the universe with his rusty stiff-legged compasses, =
he
had meant to do great things. Within the limits of his short tether he had
tumbled about, annihilating the flowers of existence with greater singlenes=
s of
purpose than many of the blatant personages whose company he kept.
‘I am well assured of what y=
ou
say, father. I know I have been your favourite child. I know you have inten=
ded
to make me happy. I have never blamed you, and I never shall.’
He took her outstretched hand, and
retained it in his. ‘My dear, I have remained all night at my table,
pondering again and again on what has so painfully passed between us. When I
consider your character; when I consider that what has been known to me for
hours, has been concealed by you for years; when I consider under what
immediate pressure it has been forced from you at last; I come to the
conclusion that I cannot but mistrust myself.’
He might have added more than all,
when he saw the face now looking at him. He did add it in effect, perhaps, =
as
he softly moved her scattered hair from her forehead with his hand. Such li=
ttle
actions, slight in another man, were very noticeable in him; and his daught=
er
received them as if they had been words of contrition.
‘But,’ said Mr. Gradgr=
ind,
slowly, and with hesitation, as well as with a wretched sense of happiness,=
‘if
I see reason to mistrust myself for the past, Louisa, I should also mistrust
myself for the present and the future. To speak unreservedly to you, I do. =
I am
far from feeling convinced now, however differently I might have felt only =
this
time yesterday, that I am fit for the trust you repose in me; that I know h=
ow
to respond to the appeal you have come home to make to me; that I have the
right instinct - supposing it for the moment to be some quality of that nat=
ure
- how to help you, and to set you right, my child.’
She had turned upon her pillow, and
lay with her face upon her arm, so that he could not see it. All her wildne=
ss
and passion had subsided; but, though softened, she was not in tears. Her
father was changed in nothing so much as in the respect that he would have =
been
glad to see her in tears.
‘Some persons hold,’ he
pursued, still hesitating, ‘that there is a wisdom of the Head, and t=
hat
there is a wisdom of the Heart. I have not supposed so; but, as I have said=
, I
mistrust myself now. I have supposed the head to be all-sufficient. It may =
not
be all- sufficient; how can I venture this morning to say it is! If that ot=
her
kind of wisdom should be what I have neglected, and should be the instinct =
that
is wanted, Louisa - ‘
He suggested it very doubtfully, a=
s if
he were half unwilling to admit it even now. She made him no answer, lying
before him on her bed, still half-dressed, much as he had seen her lying on=
the
floor of his room last night.
‘Louisa,’ and his hand
rested on her hair again, ‘I have been absent from here, my dear, a g=
ood
deal of late; and though your sister’s training has been pursued
according to - the system,’ he appeared to come to that word with gre=
at
reluctance always, ‘it has necessarily been modified by daily
associations begun, in her case, at an early age. I ask you - ignorantly and
humbly, my daughter - for the better, do you think?’
‘Father,’ she replied,
without stirring, ‘if any harmony has been awakened in her young brea=
st
that was mute in mine until it turned to discord, let her thank Heaven for =
it,
and go upon her happier way, taking it as her greatest blessing that she has
avoided my way.’
‘O my child, my child!’=
; he
said, in a forlorn manner, ‘I am an unhappy man to see you thus! What
avails it to me that you do not reproach me, if I so bitterly reproach myse=
lf!’
He bent his head, and spoke low to her. ‘Louisa, I have a misgiving t=
hat
some change may have been slowly working about me in this house, by mere lo=
ve
and gratitude: that what the Head had left undone and could not do, the Hea=
rt
may have been doing silently. Can it be so?’
She made him no reply.
‘I am not too proud to belie=
ve
it, Louisa. How could I be arrogant, and you before me! Can it be so? Is it=
so,
my dear?’ He looked upon her once more, lying cast away there; and
without another word went out of the room. He had not been long gone, when =
she
heard a light tread near the door, and knew that some one stood beside her.=
She did not raise her head. A dull
anger that she should be seen in her distress, and that the involuntary look
she had so resented should come to this fulfilment, smouldered within her l=
ike
an unwholesome fire. All closely imprisoned forces rend and destroy. The air
that would be healthful to the earth, the water that would enrich it, the h=
eat
that would ripen it, tear it when caged up. So in her bosom even now; the
strongest qualities she possessed, long turned upon themselves, became a he=
ap
of obduracy, that rose against a friend.
It was well that soft touch came u=
pon
her neck, and that she understood herself to be supposed to have fallen asl=
eep.
The sympathetic hand did not claim her resentment. Let it lie there, let it
lie.
It lay there, warming into life a
crowd of gentler thoughts; and she rested. As she softened with the quiet, =
and
the consciousness of being so watched, some tears made their way into her e=
yes.
The face touched hers, and she knew that there were tears upon it too, and =
she
the cause of them.
As Louisa feigned to rouse herself,
and sat up, Sissy retired, so that she stood placidly near the bedside.
‘I hope I have not disturbed
you. I have come to ask if you would let me stay with you?’
‘Why should you stay with me=
? My
sister will miss you. You are everything to her.’
‘Am I?’ returned Sissy,
shaking her head. ‘I would be something to you, if I might.’
‘What?’ said Louisa,
almost sternly.
‘Whatever you want most, if I
could be that. At all events, I would like to try to be as near it as I can.
And however far off that may be, I will never tire of trying. Will you let =
me?’
‘My father sent you to ask m=
e.’
‘No indeed,’ replied
Sissy. ‘He told me that I might come in now, but he sent me away from=
the
room this morning - or at least - ‘
She hesitated and stopped.
‘At least, what?’ said
Louisa, with her searching eyes upon her.
‘I thought it best myself th=
at I
should be sent away, for I felt very uncertain whether you would like to fi=
nd
me here.’
‘Have I always hated you so
much?’
‘I hope not, for I have alwa=
ys
loved you, and have always wished that you should know it. But you changed =
to
me a little, shortly before you left home. Not that I wondered at it. You k=
new
so much, and I knew so little, and it was so natural in many ways, going as=
you
were among other friends, that I had nothing to complain of, and was not at=
all
hurt.’
Her colour rose as she said it
modestly and hurriedly. Louisa understood the loving pretence, and her heart
smote her.
‘May I try?’ said Siss=
y,
emboldened to raise her hand to the neck that was insensibly drooping towar=
ds
her.
Louisa, taking down the hand that
would have embraced her in another moment, held it in one of hers, and
answered:
‘First, Sissy, do you know w=
hat
I am? I am so proud and so hardened, so confused and troubled, so resentful=
and
unjust to every one and to myself, that everything is stormy, dark, and wic=
ked
to me. Does not that repel you?’
‘No!’
‘I am so unhappy, and all th=
at
should have made me otherwise is so laid waste, that if I had been bereft of
sense to this hour, and instead of being as learned as you think me, had to
begin to acquire the simplest truths, I could not want a guide to peace,
contentment, honour, all the good of which I am quite devoid, more abjectly
than I do. Does not that repel you?’
‘No!’
In the innocence of her brave
affection, and the brimming up of her old devoted spirit, the once deserted
girl shone like a beautiful light upon the darkness of the other.
Louisa raised the hand that it mig=
ht
clasp her neck and join its fellow there. She fell upon her knees, and clin=
ging
to this stroller’s child looked up at her almost with veneration.
‘Forgive me, pity me, help m=
e!
Have compassion on my great need, and let me lay this head of mine upon a
loving heart!’
‘O lay it here!’ cried
Sissy. ‘Lay it here, my dear.’
MR. JAMES HARTHOUSE passed a whole
night and a day in a state of so much hurry, that the World, with its best
glass in his eye, would scarcely have recognized him during that insane
interval, as the brother Jem of the honourable and jocular member. He was
positively agitated. He several times spoke with an emphasis, similar to the
vulgar manner. He went in and went out in an unaccountable way, like a man
without an object. He rode like a highwayman. In a word, he was so horribly
bored by existing circumstances, that he forgot to go in for boredom in the
manner prescribed by the authorities.
After putting his horse at Coketown
through the storm, as if it were a leap, he waited up all night: from time =
to
time ringing his bell with the greatest fury, charging the porter who kept
watch with delinquency in withholding letters or messages that could not fa=
il
to have been entrusted to him, and demanding restitution on the spot. The d=
awn
coming, the morning coming, and the day coming, and neither message nor let=
ter
coming with either, he went down to the country house. There, the report wa=
s,
Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Bounderby in town. Left for town suddenly last
evening. Not even known to be gone until receipt of message, importing that=
her
return was not to be expected for the present.
In these circumstances he had noth=
ing
for it but to follow her to town. He went to the house in town. Mrs. Bounde=
rby
not there. He looked in at the Bank. Mr. Bounderby away and Mrs. Sparsit aw=
ay.
Mrs. Sparsit away? Who could have been reduced to sudden extremity for the
company of that griffin!
‘Well! I don’t know,=
8217;
said Tom, who had his own reasons for being uneasy about it. ‘She was=
off
somewhere at daybreak this morning. She’s always full of mystery; I h=
ate
her. So I do that white chap; he’s always got his blinking eyes upon a
fellow.’
‘Where were you last night, =
Tom?’
‘Where was I last night!R=
17;
said Tom. ‘Come! I like that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse, t=
ill
it came down as I never saw it come down before. Where was I too! Where were
you, you mean.’
‘I was prevented from coming=
-
detained.’
‘Detained!’ murmured T=
om. ‘Two
of us were detained. I was detained looking for you, till I lost every train
but the mail. It would have been a pleasant job to go down by that on such a
night, and have to walk home through a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town
after all.’
‘Where?’
‘Where? Why, in my own bed at
Bounderby’s.’
‘Did you see your sister?=
217;
‘How the deuce,’ retur=
ned
Tom, staring, ‘could I see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?&=
#8217;
Cursing these quick retorts of the
young gentleman to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse disembarrass=
ed
himself of that interview with the smallest conceivable amount of ceremony,=
and
debated for the hundredth time what all this could mean? He made only one t=
hing
clear. It was, that whether she was in town or out of town, whether he had =
been
premature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or she had lost courage, =
or
they were discovered, or some mischance or mistake, at present
incomprehensible, had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune,
whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to live when condemned to that
region of blackness, was the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest=
-
What will be, will be.
‘So, whether I am waiting fo=
r a
hostile message, or an assignation, or a penitent remonstrance, or an impro=
mptu
wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the Lancashire manner - which would see=
m as
likely as anything else in the present state of affairs - I’ll dine,&=
#8217;
said Mr. James Harthouse. ‘Bounderby has the advantage in point of
weight; and if anything of a British nature is to come off between us, it m=
ay
be as well to be in training.’
Therefore he rang the bell, and
tossing himself negligently on a sofa, ordered ‘Some dinner at six - =
with
a beefsteak in it,’ and got through the intervening time as well as he
could. That was not particularly well; for he remained in the greatest
perplexity, and, as the hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered
itself, his perplexity augmented at compound interest.
However, he took affairs as coolly=
as
it was in human nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious id=
ea
of the training more than once. ‘It wouldn’t be bad,’ he
yawned at one time, ‘to give the waiter five shillings, and throw him=
.’
At another time it occurred to him, ‘Or a fellow of about thirteen or
fourteen stone might be hired by the hour.’ But these jests did not t=
ell
materially on the afternoon, or his suspense; and, sooth to say, they both
lagged fearfully.
It was impossible, even before din=
ner,
to avoid often walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out of t=
he
window, listening at the door for footsteps, and occasionally becoming rath=
er
hot when any steps approached that room. But, after dinner, when the day tu=
rned
to twilight, and the twilight turned to night, and still no communication w=
as
made to him, it began to be as he expressed it, ‘like the Holy Office=
and
slow torture.’ However, still true to his conviction that indifference
was the genuine high-breeding (the only conviction he had), he seized this
crisis as the opportunity for ordering candles and a newspaper.
He had been trying in vain, for ha=
lf
an hour, to read this newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said, at once
mysteriously and apologetically:
‘Beg your pardon, sir. You=
8217;re
wanted, sir, if you please.’
A general recollection that this w=
as
the kind of thing the Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse to=
ask
the waiter in return, with bristling indignation, what the Devil he meant b=
y ‘wanted’?
‘Beg your pardon, sir. Young
lady outside, sir, wishes to see you.’
‘Outside? Where?’
‘Outside this door, sir.R=
17;
Giving the waiter to the personage
before mentioned, as a block- head duly qualified for that consignment, Mr.
Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young woman whom he had never seen st=
ood
there. Plainly dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her into t=
he
room and placed a chair for her, he observed, by the light of the candles, =
that
she was even prettier than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent =
and youthful,
and its expression remarkably pleasant. She was not afraid of him, or in any
way disconcerted; she seemed to have her mind entirely preoccupied with the
occasion of her visit, and to have substituted that consideration for herse=
lf.
‘I speak to Mr. Harthouse?=
8217;
she said, when they were alone.
‘To Mr. Harthouse.’ He
added in his mind, ‘And you speak to him with the most confiding eyes=
I
ever saw, and the most earnest voice (though so quiet) I ever heard.’=
‘If I do not understand - an=
d I
do not, sir’ - said Sissy, ‘what your honour as a gentleman bin=
ds
you to, in other matters:’ the blood really rose in his face as she b=
egan
in these words: ‘I am sure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret,
and to keep secret what I am going to say. I will rely upon it, if you will
tell me I may so far trust - ‘
‘You may, I assure you.̵=
7;
‘I am young, as you see; I am
alone, as you see. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice or encouragement
beyond my own hope.’ He thought, ‘But that is very strong,̵=
7;
as he followed the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought besides,=
‘This
is a very odd beginning. I don’t see where we are going.’
‘I think,’ said Sissy,=
‘you
have already guessed whom I left just now!’
‘I have been in the greatest
concern and uneasiness during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have
appeared as many years),’ he returned, ‘on a lady’s accou=
nt.
The hopes I have been encouraged to form that you come from that lady, do n=
ot
deceive me, I trust.’
‘I left her within an hour.&=
#8217;
‘At - !’
‘At her father’s.̵=
7;
Mr. Harthouse’s face lengthe= ned in spite of his coolness, and his perplexity increased. ‘Then I certainly,’ he thought, ‘do not see where we are going.’<= o:p>
‘She hurried there last nigh=
t.
She arrived there in great agitation, and was insensible all through the ni=
ght.
I live at her father’s, and was with her. You may be sure, sir, you w=
ill
never see her again as long as you live.’
Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; =
and,
if ever man found himself in the position of not knowing what to say, made =
the
discovery beyond all question that he was so circumstanced. The child-like
ingenuousness with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness, her
truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire forgetfulness of hers=
elf
in her earnest quiet holding to the object with which she had come; all thi=
s,
together with her reliance on his easily given promise - which in itself sh=
amed
him - presented something in which he was so inexperienced, and against whi=
ch
he knew any of his usual weapons would fall so powerless; that not a word c=
ould
he rally to his relief.
At last he said:
‘So startling an announcemen=
t,
so confidently made, and by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last
degree. May I be permitted to inquire, if you are charged to convey that
information to me in those hopeless words, by the lady of whom we speak?=
217;
‘I have no charge from her.&=
#8217;
‘The drowning man catches at=
the
straw. With no disrespect for your judgment, and with no doubt of your
sincerity, excuse my saying that I cling to the belief that there is yet ho=
pe
that I am not condemned to perpetual exile from that lady’s presence.=
’
‘There is not the least hope.
The first object of my coming here, sir, is to assure you that you must bel=
ieve
that there is no more hope of your ever speaking with her again, than there
would be if she had died when she came home last night.’
‘Must believe? But if I can&=
#8217;t
- or if I should, by infirmity of nature, be obstinate - and won’t - =
‘
‘It is still true. There is =
no
hope.’
James Harthouse looked at her with=
an
incredulous smile upon his lips; but her mind looked over and beyond him, a=
nd
the smile was quite thrown away.
He bit his lip, and took a little =
time
for consideration.
‘Well! If it should unhappily
appear,’ he said, ‘after due pains and duty on my part, that I =
am
brought to a position so desolate as this banishment, I shall not become the
lady’s persecutor. But you said you had no commission from her?’=
;
‘I have only the commission =
of
my love for her, and her love for me. I have no other trust, than that I ha=
ve
been with her since she came home, and that she has given me her confidence=
. I
have no further trust, than that I know something of her character and her
marriage. O Mr. Harthouse, I think you had that trust too!’
He was touched in the cavity where=
his
heart should have been - in that nest of addled eggs, where the birds of he=
aven
would have lived if they had not been whistled away - by the fervour of this
reproach.
‘I am not a moral sort of
fellow,’ he said, ‘and I never make any pretensions to the
character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as immoral as need be. At the same
time, in bringing any distress upon the lady who is the subject of the pres=
ent
conversation, or in unfortunately compromising her in any way, or in commit=
ting
myself by any expression of sentiments towards her, not perfectly reconcila=
ble
with - in fact with - the domestic hearth; or in taking any advantage of her
father’s being a machine, or of her brother’s being a whelp, or=
of
her husband’s being a bear; I beg to be allowed to assure you that I =
have
had no particularly evil intentions, but have glided on from one step to
another with a smoothness so perfectly diabolical, that I had not the sligh=
test
idea the catalogue was half so long until I began to turn it over. Whereas I
find,’ said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion, ‘that it is rea=
lly
in several volumes.’
Though he said all this in his
frivolous way, the way seemed, for that once, a conscious polishing of but =
an
ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more se=
lf-possessed
air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be
polished out.
‘After what has been just now
represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt - I know of ha=
rdly
any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily - I feel bo=
und
to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, =
that
I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my
seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to =
this
- and - and, I cannot say,’ he added, rather hard up for a general
peroration, ‘that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a
moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow
whatever.’
Sissy’s face sufficiently sh=
owed
that her appeal to him was not finished.
‘You spoke,’ he resume=
d,
as she raised her eyes to him again, ‘of your first object. I may ass=
ume
that there is a second to be mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you oblige me by confi=
ding
it?’
‘Mr. Harthouse,’ retur=
ned
Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him,
and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, th=
at
held him at a singular disadvantage, ‘the only reparation that remains
with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you
can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite s=
ure
that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I =
do
not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it =
is
necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given =
you,
and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself=
, I
ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to re=
turn
to it.’
If she had asserted any influence =
over
him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she =
had
concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best
purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest tr=
ace
of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstran=
ce
he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he
could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as
affect her.
‘But do you know,’ he
asked, quite at a loss, ‘the extent of what you ask? You probably are=
not
aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in
itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be
devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that,=
but
I assure you it’s the fact.’
It had no effect on Sissy, fact or=
no
fact.
‘Besides which,’ said =
Mr.
Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, ‘it’=
;s
so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for
these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way.’
‘I am quite sure,’
repeated Sissy, ‘that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I=
am
quite sure, or I would not have come here.’
He glanced at her face, and walked
about again. ‘Upon my soul, I don’t know what to say. So immens=
ely
absurd!’
It fell to his lot, now, to stipul=
ate
for secrecy.
‘If I were to do such a very
ridiculous thing,’ he said, stopping again presently, and leaning aga=
inst
the chimney-piece, ‘it could only be in the most inviolable confidenc=
e.’
‘I will trust to you, sir,=
8217;
returned Sissy, ‘and you will trust to me.’
His leaning against the chimney-pi=
ece
reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piec=
e,
and somehow he felt as if he were the whelp to-night. He could make no way =
at
all.
‘I suppose a man never was
placed in a more ridiculous position,’ he said, after looking down, a=
nd
looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back
again. ‘But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. This will =
be,
I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine - in short, I engage to do it.=
’
Sissy rose. She was not surprised =
by
the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly.
‘You will permit me to say,&=
#8217;
continued Mr. James Harthouse, ‘that I doubt if any other ambassador,=
or
ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only
regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquish=
ed
at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy̵=
7;s
name?’
‘My name?’ said the
ambassadress.
‘The only name I could possi=
bly
care to know, to-night.’
‘Sissy Jupe.’
‘Pardon my curiosity at part=
ing.
Related to the family?’
‘I am only a poor girl,̵=
7;
returned Sissy. ‘I was separated from my father - he was only a strol=
ler
- and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since.=
’
She was gone.
‘It wanted this to complete =
the
defeat,’ said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on t=
he
sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. ‘The defeat may now be
considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl - only a stroller - only
James Harthouse made nothing of - only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of
failure.’
The Great Pyramid put it into his =
head
to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following =
note
(in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother:
Dear Jack, - All up at Coketown. B=
ored
out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM,
He rang the bell.
‘Send my fellow here.’=
‘Gone to bed, sir.’
‘Tell him to get up, and pack
up.’
He wrote two more notes. One, to M=
r.
Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and sho=
wing
where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effec=
t,
to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscripti=
ons,
he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway
carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape.
The moral sort of fellows might
suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections
afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made a=
ny
amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the clim=
ax
of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having
failed and been ridiculous - a dread of what other fellows who went in for
similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it - so oppr=
essed
him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of a=
ll
others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made
him ashamed of himself.
THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, wi=
th a
violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately fram=
e so
racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave
chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there,
majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James’s Street,
exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having
executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fain=
ted
away on Mr. Bounderby’s coat-collar.
Mr. Bounderby’s first proced=
ure
was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might throu=
gh
various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the
administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient’s
thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, and inserting salt=
in
her mouth. When these attentions had recovered her (which they speedily did=
),
he hustled her into a fast train without offering any other refreshment, and
carried her back to Coketown more dead than alive.
Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs.
Sparsit was an interesting spectacle on her arrival at her journey’s =
end;
but considered in any other light, the amount of damage she had by that time
sustained was excessive, and impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly
heedless of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and adamant =
to
her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediately crammed her into a coach, a=
nd
bore her off to Stone Lodge.
‘Now, Tom Gradgrind,’ =
said
Bounderby, bursting into his father-in- law’s room late at night; =
216;here’s
a lady here - Mrs. Sparsit - you know Mrs. Sparsit - who has something to s=
ay
to you that will strike you dumb.’
‘You have missed my letter!&=
#8217;
exclaimed Mr. Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition.
‘Missed your letter, sir!=
217;
bawled Bounderby. ‘The present time is no time for letters. No man sh=
all
talk to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with his mind in the st=
ate
it’s in now.’
‘Bounderby,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, in a tone of temperate remonstrance, ‘I speak of a very
special letter I have written to you, in reference to Louisa.’
‘Tom Gradgrind,’ repli=
ed
Bounderby, knocking the flat of his hand several times with great vehemence=
on
the table, ‘I speak of a very special messenger that has come to me, =
in
reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, stand forward!’
That unfortunate lady hereupon
essaying to offer testimony, without any voice and with painful gestures
expressive of an inflamed throat, became so aggravating and underwent so ma=
ny
facial contortions, that Mr. Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her by the
arm and shook her.
‘If you can’t get it o=
ut,
ma’am,’ said Bounderby, ‘leave me to get it out. This is =
not
a time for a lady, however highly connected, to be totally inaudible, and
seemingly swallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs. Sparsit latterly found
herself, by accident, in a situation to overhear a conversation out of doors
between your daughter and your precious gentleman-friend, Mr. James Harthou=
se.’
‘Indeed!’ said Mr.
Gradgrind.
‘Ah! Indeed!’ cried
Bounderby. ‘And in that conversation - ‘
‘It is not necessary to repe=
at
its tenor, Bounderby. I know what passed.’
‘You do? Perhaps,’ said
Bounderby, staring with all his might at his so quiet and assuasive
father-in-law, ‘you know where your daughter is at the present time!&=
#8217;
‘Undoubtedly. She is here.=
8217;
‘Here?’
‘My dear Bounderby, let me b=
eg
you to restrain these loud out- breaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here. The
moment she could detach herself from that interview with the person of whom=
you
speak, and whom I deeply regret to have been the means of introducing to yo=
u,
Louisa hurried here, for protection. I myself had not been at home many hou=
rs,
when I received her - here, in this room. She hurried by the train to town,=
she
ran from town to this house, through a raging storm, and presented herself
before me in a state of distraction. Of course, she has remained here ever
since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for hers, to be more quiet=
.’
Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about=
him
for some moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit’s direction;=
and
then, abruptly turning upon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretch=
ed
woman:
‘Now, ma’am! We shall =
be
happy to hear any little apology you may think proper to offer, for going a=
bout
the country at express pace, with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull, =
ma’am!’
‘Sir,’ whispered Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘my nerves are at present too much shaken, and my health is =
at
present too much impaired, in your service, to admit of my doing more than
taking refuge in tears.’ (Which she did.)
‘Well, ma’am,’ s=
aid
Bounderby, ‘without making any observation to you that may not be made
with propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got to add to that, is
that there is something else in which it appears to me you may take refuge,
namely, a coach. And the coach in which we came here being at the door, you=
’ll
allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you home to the Bank: where the b=
est
course for you to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest water y=
ou
can bear, and take a glass of scalding rum and butter after you get into be=
d.’
With these words, Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weeping lady,
and escorted her to the conveyance in question, shedding many plaintive sne=
ezes
by the way. He soon returned alone.
‘Now, as you showed me in yo=
ur
face, Tom Gradgrind, that you wanted to speak to me,’ he resumed, =
216;here
I am. But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I tell you plainly: not
relishing this business, even as it is, and not considering that I am at any
time as dutifully and submissively treated by your daughter, as Josiah
Bounderby of Coketown ought to be treated by his wife. You have your opinio=
n, I
dare say; and I have mine, I know. If you mean to say anything to me to-nig=
ht,
that goes against this candid remark, you had better let it alone.’
Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed,
being much softened, Mr. Bounderby took particular pains to harden himself =
at
all points. It was his amiable nature.
‘My dear Bounderby,’ M=
r.
Gradgrind began in reply.
‘Now, you’ll excuse me=
,’
said Bounderby, ‘but I don’t want to be too dear. That, to start
with. When I begin to be dear to a man, I generally find that his intention=
is
to come over me. I am not speaking to you politely; but, as you are aware, =
I am
not polite. If you like politeness, you know where to get it. You have your
gentleman-friends, you know, and they’ll serve you with as much of the
article as you want. I don’t keep it myself.’
‘Bounderby,’ urged Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘we are all liable to mistakes - ‘
‘I thought you couldn’t
make ‘em,’ interrupted Bounderby.
‘Perhaps I thought so. But, I
say we are all liable to mistakes and I should feel sensible of your delica=
cy,
and grateful for it, if you would spare me these references to Harthouse. I
shall not associate him in our conversation with your intimacy and
encouragement; pray do not persist in connecting him with mine.’
‘I never mentioned his name!=
’
said Bounderby.
‘Well, well!’ returned=
Mr.
Gradgrind, with a patient, even a submissive, air. And he sat for a little
while pondering. ‘Bounderby, I see reason to doubt whether we have ev=
er
quite understood Louisa.’
‘Who do you mean by We?̵=
7;
‘Let me say I, then,’ =
he
returned, in answer to the coarsely blurted question; ‘I doubt whethe=
r I
have understood Louisa. I doubt whether I have been quite right in the mann=
er
of her education.’
‘There you hit it,’
returned Bounderby. ‘There I agree with you. You have found it out at
last, have you? Education! I’ll tell you what education is - To be
tumbled out of doors, neck and crop, and put upon the shortest allowance of
everything except blows. That’s what I call education.’
‘I think your good sense will
perceive,’ Mr. Gradgrind remonstrated in all humility, ‘that
whatever the merits of such a system may be, it would be difficult of gener=
al
application to girls.’
‘I don’t see it at all,
sir,’ returned the obstinate Bounderby.
‘Well,’ sighed Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘we will not enter into the question. I assure you I have =
no
desire to be controversial. I seek to repair what is amiss, if I possibly c=
an;
and I hope you will assist me in a good spirit, Bounderby, for I have been =
very
much distressed.’
‘I don’t understand yo=
u,
yet,’ said Bounderby, with determined obstinacy, ‘and therefore=
I
won’t make any promises.’
‘In the course of a few hour=
s,
my dear Bounderby,’ Mr. Gradgrind proceeded, in the same depressed and
propitiatory manner, ‘I appear to myself to have become better inform=
ed
as to Louisa’s character, than in previous years. The enlightenment h=
as
been painfully forced upon me, and the discovery is not mine. I think there=
are
- Bounderby, you will be surprised to hear me say this - I think there are
qualities in Louisa, which - which have been harshly neglected, and - and a
little perverted. And - and I would suggest to you, that - that if you would
kindly meet me in a timely endeavour to leave her to her better nature for a
while - and to encourage it to develop itself by tenderness and considerati=
on -
it - it would be the better for the happiness of all of us. Louisa,’ =
said
Mr. Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, ‘has always been my
favourite child.’
The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned =
and
swelled to such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed to be, and
probably was, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears a bright purple shot
with crimson, he pent up his indignation, however, and said:
‘You’d like to keep her
here for a time?’
‘I - I had intended to
recommend, my dear Bounderby, that you should allow Louisa to remain here o=
n a
visit, and be attended by Sissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), who
understands her, and in whom she trusts.’
‘I gather from all this, Tom
Gradgrind,’ said Bounderby, standing up with his hands in his pockets=
, ‘that
you are of opinion that there’s what people call some incompatibility
between Loo Bounderby and myself.’
‘I fear there is at present a
general incompatibility between Louisa, and - and - and almost all the
relations in which I have placed her,’ was her father’s sorrowf=
ul
reply.
‘Now, look you here, Tom
Gradgrind,’ said Bounderby the flushed, confronting him with his legs
wide apart, his hands deeper in his pockets, and his hair like a hayfield
wherein his windy anger was boisterous. ‘You have said your say; I am
going to say mine. I am a Coketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby of Coketown. I
know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of this town, and I know=
the
chimneys of this town, and I know the smoke of this town, and I know the Ha=
nds
of this town. I know ‘em all pretty well. They’re real. When a =
man
tells me anything about imaginative qualities, I always tell that man, whoe=
ver
he is, that I know what he means. He means turtle soup and venison, with a =
gold
spoon, and that he wants to be set up with a coach and six. That’s wh=
at
your daughter wants. Since you are of opinion that she ought to have what s=
he
wants, I recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom Gradgrind, she w=
ill
never have it from me.’
‘Bounderby,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘I hoped, after my entreaty, you would have taken a differ=
ent
tone.’
‘Just wait a bit,’
retorted Bounderby; ‘you have said your say, I believe. I heard you o=
ut;
hear me out, if you please. Don’t make yourself a spectacle of unfair=
ness
as well as inconsistency, because, although I am sorry to see Tom Gradgrind
reduced to his present position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brough=
t so
low as that. Now, there’s an incompatibility of some sort or another,=
I
am given to understand by you, between your daughter and me. I’ll give
you to understand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an
incompatibility of the first magnitude - to be summed up in this - that your
daughter don’t properly know her husband’s merits, and is not
impressed with such a sense as would become her, by George! of the honour of
his alliance. That’s plain speaking, I hope.’
‘Bounderby,’ urged Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘this is unreasonable.’
‘Is it?’ said Bounderb=
y. ‘I
am glad to hear you say so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, with his new lights,
tells me that what I say is unreasonable, I am convinced at once it must be
devilish sensible. With your permission I am going on. You know my origin; =
and
you know that for a good many years of my life I didn’t want a
shoeing-horn, in consequence of not having a shoe. Yet you may believe or n=
ot,
as you think proper, that there are ladies - born ladies - belonging to
families - Families! - who next to worship the ground I walk on.’
He discharged this like a Rocket, =
at
his father-in-law’s head.
‘Whereas your daughter,̵=
7;
proceeded Bounderby, ‘is far from being a born lady. That you know,
yourself. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about such things, for you
are very well aware I don’t; but that such is the fact, and you, Tom
Gradgrind, can’t change it. Why do I say this?’
‘Not, I fear,’ observed
Mr. Gradgrind, in a low voice, ‘to spare me.’
‘Hear me out,’ said Bo=
underby,
‘and refrain from cutting in till your turn comes round. I say this,
because highly connected females have been astonished to see the way in whi=
ch
your daughter has conducted herself, and to witness her insensibility. They
have wondered how I have suffered it. And I wonder myself now, and I won=
217;t
suffer it.’
‘Bounderby,’ returned =
Mr.
Gradgrind, rising, ‘the less we say to- night the better, I think.=
217;
‘On the contrary, Tom Gradgr=
ind,
the more we say to-night, the better, I think. That is,’ the consider=
ation
checked him, ‘till I have said all I mean to say, and then I don̵=
7;t
care how soon we stop. I come to a question that may shorten the business. =
What
do you mean by the proposal you made just now?’
‘What do I mean, Bounderby?&=
#8217;
‘By your visiting propositio=
n,’
said Bounderby, with an inflexible jerk of the hayfield.
‘I mean that I hope you may =
be
induced to arrange in a friendly manner, for allowing Louisa a period of re=
pose
and reflection here, which may tend to a gradual alteration for the better =
in
many respects.’
‘To a softening down of your
ideas of the incompatibility?’ said Bounderby.
‘If you put it in those term=
s.’
‘What made you think of this=
?’
said Bounderby.
‘I have already said, I fear
Louisa has not been understood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you,=
so
far her elder, should aid in trying to set her right? You have accepted a g=
reat
charge of her; for better for worse, for - ‘
Mr. Bounderby may have been annoye=
d by
the repetition of his own words to Stephen Blackpool, but he cut the quotat=
ion
short with an angry start.
‘Come!’ said he, ̵=
6;I
don’t want to be told about that. I know what I took her for, as well=
as
you do. Never you mind what I took her for; that’s my look out.’=
;
‘I was merely going on to
remark, Bounderby, that we may all be more or less in the wrong, not even
excepting you; and that some yielding on your part, remembering the trust y=
ou
have accepted, may not only be an act of true kindness, but perhaps a debt
incurred towards Louisa.’
‘I think differently,’
blustered Bounderby. ‘I am going to finish this business according to=
my
own opinions. Now, I don’t want to make a quarrel of it with you, Tom
Gradgrind. To tell you the truth, I don’t think it would be worthy of=
my
reputation to quarrel on such a subject. As to your gentleman-friend, he may
take himself off, wherever he likes best. If he falls in my way, I shall te=
ll
him my mind; if he don’t fall in my way, I shan’t, for it won=
8217;t
be worth my while to do it. As to your daughter, whom I made Loo Bounderby,=
and
might have done better by leaving Loo Gradgrind, if she don’t come ho=
me
to-morrow, by twelve o’clock at noon, I shall understand that she pre=
fers
to stay away, and I shall send her wearing apparel and so forth over here, =
and
you’ll take charge of her for the future. What I shall say to people =
in
general, of the incompatibility that led to my so laying down the law, will=
be
this. I am Josiah Bounderby, and I had my bringing- up; she’s the
daughter of Tom Gradgrind, and she had her bringing- up; and the two horses
wouldn’t pull together. I am pretty well known to be rather an uncomm=
on
man, I believe; and most people will understand fast enough that it must be=
a
woman rather out of the common, also, who, in the long run, would come up t=
o my
mark.’
‘Let me seriously entreat yo=
u to
reconsider this, Bounderby,’ urged Mr. Gradgrind, ‘before you
commit yourself to such a decision.’
‘I always come to a decision=
,’
said Bounderby, tossing his hat on: ‘and whatever I do, I do at once.=
I
should be surprised at Tom Gradgrind’s addressing such a remark to Jo=
siah
Bounderby of Coketown, knowing what he knows of him, if I could be surprise=
d by
anything Tom Gradgrind did, after his making himself a party to sentimental
humbug. I have given you my decision, and I have got no more to say. Good n=
ight!’
So Mr. Bounderby went home to his =
town
house to bed. At five minutes past twelve o’clock next day, he direct=
ed
Mrs. Bounderby’s property to be carefully packed up and sent to Tom
Gradgrind’s; advertised his country retreat for sale by private contr=
act;
and resumed a bachelor life.
THE robbery at the Bank had not
languished before, and did not cease to occupy a front place in the attenti=
on
of the principal of that establishment now. In boastful proof of his
promptitude and activity, as a remarkable man, and a self-made man, and a
commercial wonder more admirable than Venus, who had risen out of the mud
instead of the sea, he liked to show how little his domestic affairs abated=
his
business ardour. Consequently, in the first few weeks of his resumed
bachelorhood, he even advanced upon his usual display of bustle, and every =
day
made such a rout in renewing his investigations into the robbery, that the
officers who had it in hand almost wished it had never been committed.
They were at fault too, and off the
scent. Although they had been so quiet since the first outbreak of the matt=
er,
that most people really did suppose it to have been abandoned as hopeless,
nothing new occurred. No implicated man or woman took untimely courage, or =
made
a self-betraying step. More remarkable yet, Stephen Blackpool could not be
heard of, and the mysterious old woman remained a mystery.
Things having come to this pass, a=
nd
showing no latent signs of stirring beyond it, the upshot of Mr. Bounderby&=
#8217;s
investigations was, that he resolved to hazard a bold burst. He drew up a
placard, offering Twenty Pounds reward for the apprehension of Stephen
Blackpool, suspected of complicity in the robbery of Coketown Bank on such a
night; he described the said Stephen Blackpool by dress, complexion, estima=
ted
height, and manner, as minutely as he could; he recited how he had left the
town, and in what direction he had been last seen going; he had the whole
printed in great black letters on a staring broadsheet; and he caused the w=
alls
to be posted with it in the dead of night, so that it should strike upon the
sight of the whole population at one blow.
The factory-bells had need to ring
their loudest that morning to disperse the groups of workers who stood in t=
he
tardy daybreak, collected round the placards, devouring them with eager eye=
s.
Not the least eager of the eyes assembled, were the eyes of those who could=
not
read. These people, as they listened to the friendly voice that read aloud -
there was always some such ready to help them - stared at the characters wh=
ich
meant so much with a vague awe and respect that would have been half ludicr=
ous,
if any aspect of public ignorance could ever be otherwise than threatening =
and
full of evil. Many ears and eyes were busy with a vision of the matter of t=
hese
placards, among turning spindles, rattling looms, and whirling wheels, for
hours afterwards; and when the Hands cleared out again into the streets, th=
ere
were still as many readers as before.
Slackbridge, the delegate, had to =
address
his audience too that night; and Slackbridge had obtained a clean bill from=
the
printer, and had brought it in his pocket. Oh, my friends and fellow-
countrymen, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown, oh, my fellow- brothers
and fellow-workmen and fellow-citizens and fellowmen, what a to-do was ther=
e,
when Slackbridge unfolded what he called ‘that damning document,̵=
7;
and held it up to the gaze, and for the execration of the working-man
community! ‘Oh, my fellow-men, behold of what a traitor in the camp of
those great spirits who are enrolled upon the holy scroll of Justice and of
Union, is appropriately capable! Oh, my prostrate friends, with the galling
yoke of tyrants on your necks and the iron foot of despotism treading down =
your
fallen forms into the dust of the earth, upon which right glad would your
oppressors be to see you creeping on your bellies all the days of your live=
s,
like the serpent in the garden - oh, my brothers, and shall I as a man not =
add,
my sisters too, what do you say, now, of Stephen Blackpool, with a slight s=
toop
in his shoulders and about five foot seven in height, as set forth in this
degrading and disgusting document, this blighting bill, this pernicious
placard, this abominable advertisement; and with what majesty of denounceme=
nt
will you crush the viper, who would bring this stain and shame upon the
God-like race that happily has cast him out for ever! Yes, my compatriots,
happily cast him out and sent him forth! For you remember how he stood here
before you on this platform; you remember how, face to face and foot to foo=
t, I
pursued him through all his intricate windings; you remember how he sneaked=
and
slunk, and sidled, and splitted of straws, until, with not an inch of groun=
d to
which to cling, I hurled him out from amongst us: an object for the undying
finger of scorn to point at, and for the avenging fire of every free and
thinking mind to scorch and scar! And now, my friends - my labouring friend=
s,
for I rejoice and triumph in that stigma - my friends whose hard but honest
beds are made in toil, and whose scanty but independent pots are boiled in
hardship; and now, I say, my friends, what appellation has that dastard cra=
ven
taken to himself, when, with the mask torn from his features, he stands bef=
ore
us in all his native deformity, a What? A thief! A plunderer! A proscribed
fugitive, with a price upon his head; a fester and a wound upon the noble
character of the Coketown operative! Therefore, my band of brothers in a sa=
cred
bond, to which your children and your children’s children yet unborn =
have
set their infant hands and seals, I propose to you on the part of the United
Aggregate Tribunal, ever watchful for your welfare, ever zealous for your
benefit, that this meeting does Resolve: That Stephen Blackpool, weaver, re=
ferred
to in this placard, having been already solemnly disowned by the community =
of
Coketown Hands, the same are free from the shame of his misdeeds, and canno=
t as
a class be reproached with his dishonest actions!’
Thus Slackbridge; gnashing and
perspiring after a prodigious sort. A few stern voices called out ‘No=
!’
and a score or two hailed, with assenting cries of ‘Hear, hear!’
the caution from one man, ‘Slackbridge, y’or over hetter inR=
17;t;
y’or a goen too fast!’ But these were pigmies against an army; =
the
general assemblage subscribed to the gospel according to Slackbridge, and g=
ave
three cheers for him, as he sat demonstratively panting at them.
These men and women were yet in the
streets, passing quietly to their homes, when Sissy, who had been called aw=
ay
from Louisa some minutes before, returned.
‘Who is it?’ asked Lou=
isa.
‘It is Mr. Bounderby,’
said Sissy, timid of the name, ‘and your brother Mr. Tom, and a young
woman who says her name is Rachael, and that you know her.’
‘What do they want, Sissy de=
ar?’
‘They want to see you. Racha=
el
has been crying, and seems angry.’
‘Father,’ said Louisa,=
for
he was present, ‘I cannot refuse to see them, for a reason that will
explain itself. Shall they come in here?’
As he answered in the affirmative,
Sissy went away to bring them. She reappeared with them directly. Tom was l=
ast;
and remained standing in the obscurest part of the room, near the door.
‘Mrs. Bounderby,’ said=
her
husband, entering with a cool nod, ‘I don’t disturb you, I hope.
This is an unseasonable hour, but here is a young woman who has been making
statements which render my visit necessary. Tom Gradgrind, as your son, you=
ng
Tom, refuses for some obstinate reason or other to say anything at all about
those statements, good or bad, I am obliged to confront her with your daugh=
ter.’
‘You have seen me once befor=
e,
young lady,’ said Rachael, standing in front of Louisa.
Tom coughed.
‘You have seen me, young lad=
y,’
repeated Rachael, as she did not answer, ‘once before.’
Tom coughed again.
‘I have.’
Rachael cast her eyes proudly towa=
rds
Mr. Bounderby, and said, ‘Will you make it known, young lady, where, =
and
who was there?’
‘I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool lodged, on the night of his discharge from his work, and I saw you there. He was there too; and an old woman who did not speak, and wh= om I could scarcely see, stood in a dark corner. My brother was with me.’<= o:p>
‘Why couldn’t you say =
so,
young Tom?’ demanded Bounderby.
‘I promised my sister I woul=
dn’t.’
Which Louisa hastily confirmed. ‘And besides,’ said the whelp
bitterly, ‘she tells her own story so precious well - and so full - t=
hat
what business had I to take it out of her mouth!’
‘Say, young lady, if you ple=
ase,’
pursued Rachael, ‘why, in an evil hour, you ever came to Stephen̵=
7;s
that night.’
‘I felt compassion for him,&=
#8217;
said Louisa, her colour deepening, ‘and I wished to know what he was
going to do, and wished to offer him assistance.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,R=
17;
said Bounderby. ‘Much flattered and obliged.’
‘Did you offer him,’ a=
sked
Rachael, ‘a bank-note?’
‘Yes; but he refused it, and
would only take two pounds in gold.’
Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr.
Bounderby again.
‘Oh, certainly!’ said
Bounderby. ‘If you put the question whether your ridiculous and
improbable account was true or not, I am bound to say it’s confirmed.=
’
‘Young lady,’ said
Rachael, ‘Stephen Blackpool is now named as a thief in public print a=
ll
over this town, and where else! There have been a meeting to-night where he
have been spoken of in the same shameful way. Stephen! The honestest lad, t=
he
truest lad, the best!’ Her indignation failed her, and she broke off
sobbing.
‘I am very, very sorry,̵=
7;
said Louisa.
‘Oh, young lady, young lady,=
’
returned Rachael, ‘I hope you may be, but I don’t know! I can=
8217;t
say what you may ha’ done! The like of you don’t know us, don=
8217;t
care for us, don’t belong to us. I am not sure why you may ha’ =
come
that night. I can’t tell but what you may ha’ come wi’ so=
me
aim of your own, not mindin to what trouble you brought such as the poor la=
d. I
said then, Bless you for coming; and I said it of my heart, you seemed to t=
ake
so pitifully to him; but I don’t know now, I don’t know!’=
Louisa could not reproach her for =
her
unjust suspicions; she was so faithful to her idea of the man, and so
afflicted.
‘And when I think,’ sa=
id
Rachael through her sobs, ‘that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkin=
you
so good to him - when I mind that he put his hand over his hard-worken face=
to
hide the tears that you brought up there - Oh, I hope you may be sorry, and=
ha’
no bad cause to be it; but I don’t know, I don’t know!’
‘You’re a pretty artic=
le,’
growled the whelp, moving uneasily in his dark corner, ‘to come here =
with
these precious imputations! You ought to be bundled out for not knowing how=
to
behave yourself, and you would be by rights.’
She said nothing in reply; and her=
low
weeping was the only sound that was heard, until Mr. Bounderby spoke.
‘Come!’ said he, ̵=
6;you
know what you have engaged to do. You had better give your mind to that; not
this.’
‘‘Deed, I am loath,=
217;
returned Rachael, drying her eyes, ‘that any here should see me like
this; but I won’t be seen so again. Young lady, when I had read what&=
#8217;s
put in print of Stephen - and what has just as much truth in it as if it had
been put in print of you - I went straight to the Bank to say I knew where
Stephen was, and to give a sure and certain promise that he should be here =
in
two days. I couldn’t meet wi’ Mr. Bounderby then, and your brot=
her
sent me away, and I tried to find you, but you was not to be found, and I w=
ent
back to work. Soon as I come out of the Mill to-night, I hastened to hear w=
hat
was said of Stephen - for I know wi’ pride he will come back to shame=
it!
- and then I went again to seek Mr. Bounderby, and I found him, and I told =
him
every word I knew; and he believed no word I said, and brought me here.R=
17;
‘So far, that’s true
enough,’ assented Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets and his
hat on. ‘But I have known you people before to-day, you’ll obse=
rve,
and I know you never die for want of talking. Now, I recommend you not so m=
uch
to mind talking just now, as doing. You have undertaken to do something; al=
l I
remark upon that at present is, do it!’
‘I have written to Stephen by
the post that went out this afternoon, as I have written to him once before=
sin’
he went away,’ said Rachael; ‘and he will be here, at furthest,=
in
two days.’
‘Then, I’ll tell you
something. You are not aware perhaps,’ retorted Mr. Bounderby, ‘=
;that
you yourself have been looked after now and then, not being considered quite
free from suspicion in this business, on account of most people being judged
according to the company they keep. The post-office hasn’t been forgo=
tten
either. What I’ll tell you is, that no letter to Stephen Blackpool has
ever got into it. Therefore, what has become of yours, I leave you to guess.
Perhaps you’re mistaken, and never wrote any.’
‘He hadn’t been gone f=
rom
here, young lady,’ said Rachael, turning appealingly to Louisa, ̵=
6;as
much as a week, when he sent me the only letter I have had from him, saying
that he was forced to seek work in another name.’
‘Oh, by George!’ cried
Bounderby, shaking his head, with a whistle, ‘he changes his name, do=
es
he! That’s rather unlucky, too, for such an immaculate chap. It’=
;s
considered a little suspicious in Courts of Justice, I believe, when an
Innocent happens to have many names.’
‘What,’ said Rachael, =
with
the tears in her eyes again, ‘what, young lady, in the name of Mercy,=
was
left the poor lad to do! The masters against him on one hand, the men again=
st
him on the other, he only wantin to work hard in peace, and do what he felt
right. Can a man have no soul of his own, no mind of his own? Must he go wr=
ong
all through wi’ this side, or must he go wrong all through wi’
that, or else be hunted like a hare?’
‘Indeed, indeed, I pity him =
from
my heart,’ returned Louisa; ‘and I hope that he will clear hims=
elf.’
‘You need have no fear of th=
at,
young lady. He is sure!’
‘All the surer, I suppose,=
8217;
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘for your refusing to tell where he is? Eh?’=
;
‘He shall not, through any a=
ct
of mine, come back wi’ the unmerited reproach of being brought back. =
He
shall come back of his own accord to clear himself, and put all those that =
have
injured his good character, and he not here for its defence, to shame. I ha=
ve
told him what has been done against him,’ said Rachael, throwing off =
all
distrust as a rock throws of the sea, ‘and he will be here, at furthe=
st,
in two days.’
‘Notwithstanding which,̵=
7;
added Mr. Bounderby, ‘if he can be laid hold of any sooner, he shall =
have
an earlier opportunity of clearing himself. As to you, I have nothing again=
st
you; what you came and told me turns out to be true, and I have given you t=
he
means of proving it to be true, and there’s an end of it. I wish you =
good
night all! I must be off to look a little further into this.’
Tom came out of his corner when Mr.
Bounderby moved, moved with him, kept close to him, and went away with him.=
The
only parting salutation of which he delivered himself was a sulky ‘Go=
od
night, father!’ With a brief speech, and a scowl at his sister, he le=
ft
the house.
Since his sheet-anchor had come ho=
me,
Mr. Gradgrind had been sparing of speech. He still sat silent, when Louisa
mildly said:
‘Rachael, you will not distr=
ust
me one day, when you know me better.’
‘It goes against me,’ =
Rachael
answered, in a gentler manner, ‘to mistrust any one; but when I am so
mistrusted - when we all are - I cannot keep such things quite out of my mi=
nd.
I ask your pardon for having done you an injury. I don’t think what I
said now. Yet I might come to think it again, wi’ the poor lad so
wronged.’
‘Did you tell him in your
letter,’ inquired Sissy, ‘that suspicion seemed to have fallen =
upon
him, because he had been seen about the Bank at night? He would then know w=
hat
he would have to explain on coming back, and would be ready.’
‘Yes, dear,’ she retur=
ned;
‘but I can’t guess what can have ever taken him there. He never
used to go there. It was never in his way. His way was the same as mine, and
not near it.’
Sissy had already been at her side
asking her where she lived, and whether she might come to-morrow night, to
inquire if there were news of him.
‘I doubt,’ said Rachae=
l, ‘if
he can be here till next day.’
‘Then I will come next night
too,’ said Sissy.
When Rachael, assenting to this, w=
as
gone, Mr. Gradgrind lifted up his head, and said to his daughter:
‘Louisa, my dear, I have nev= er, that I know of, seen this man. Do you believe him to be implicated?’<= o:p>
‘I think I have believed it,
father, though with great difficulty. I do not believe it now.’
‘That is to say, you once
persuaded yourself to believe it, from knowing him to be suspected. His
appearance and manner; are they so honest?’
‘Very honest.’
‘And her confidence not to be
shaken! I ask myself,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, musing, ‘does the re=
al
culprit know of these accusations? Where is he? Who is he?’
His hair had latterly began to cha=
nge
its colour. As he leaned upon his hand again, looking gray and old, Louisa,
with a face of fear and pity, hurriedly went over to him, and sat close at =
his
side. Her eyes by accident met Sissy’s at the moment. Sissy flushed a=
nd
started, and Louisa put her finger on her lip.
Next night, when Sissy returned ho=
me
and told Louisa that Stephen was not come, she told it in a whisper. Next n=
ight
again, when she came home with the same account, and added that he had not =
been
heard of, she spoke in the same low frightened tone. From the moment of that
interchange of looks, they never uttered his name, or any reference to him,
aloud; nor ever pursued the subject of the robbery, when Mr. Gradgrind spok=
e of
it.
The two appointed days ran out, th=
ree
days and nights ran out, and Stephen Blackpool was not come, and remained
unheard of. On the fourth day, Rachael, with unabated confidence, but
considering her despatch to have miscarried, went up to the Bank, and showed
her letter from him with his address, at a working colony, one of many, not
upon the main road, sixty miles away. Messengers were sent to that place, a=
nd
the whole town looked for Stephen to be brought in next day.
During this whole time the whelp m=
oved
about with Mr. Bounderby like his shadow, assisting in all the proceedings.=
He
was greatly excited, horribly fevered, bit his nails down to the quick, spo=
ke
in a hard rattling voice, and with lips that were black and burnt up. At th=
e hour
when the suspected man was looked for, the whelp was at the station; offeri=
ng
to wager that he had made off before the arrival of those who were sent in
quest of him, and that he would not appear.
The whelp was right. The messengers
returned alone. Rachael’s letter had gone, Rachael’s letter had
been delivered. Stephen Blackpool had decamped in that same hour; and no so=
ul
knew more of him. The only doubt in Coketown was, whether Rachael had writt=
en
in good faith, believing that he really would come back, or warning him to =
fly.
On this point opinion was divided.
Six days, seven days, far on into
another week. The wretched whelp plucked up a ghastly courage, and began to
grow defiant. ‘Was the suspected fellow the thief? A pretty question!=
If
not, where was the man, and why did he not come back?’
Where was the man, and why did he =
not
come back? In the dead of night the echoes of his own words, which had roll=
ed
Heaven knows how far away in the daytime, came back instead, and abided by =
him
until morning.
DAY and night again, day and night
again. No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not come bac=
k?
Every night, Sissy went to Rachael=
’s
lodging, and sat with her in her small neat room. All day, Rachael toiled as
such people must toil, whatever their anxieties. The smoke-serpents were
indifferent who was lost or found, who turned out bad or good; the melancho=
ly
mad elephants, like the Hard Fact men, abated nothing of their set routine,
whatever happened. Day and night again, day and night again. The monotony w=
as
unbroken. Even Stephen Blackpool’s disappearance was falling into the
general way, and becoming as monotonous a wonder as any piece of machinery =
in
Coketown.
‘I misdoubt,’ said
Rachael, ‘if there is as many as twenty left in all this place, who h=
ave
any trust in the poor dear lad now.’
She said it to Sissy, as they sat =
in
her lodging, lighted only by the lamp at the street corner. Sissy had come
there when it was already dark, to await her return from work; and they had=
since
sat at the window where Rachael had found her, wanting no brighter light to
shine on their sorrowful talk.
‘If it hadn’t been
mercifully brought about, that I was to have you to speak to,’ pursued
Rachael, ‘times are, when I think my mind would not have kept right. =
But
I get hope and strength through you; and you believe that though appearances
may rise against him, he will be proved clear?’
‘I do believe so,’
returned Sissy, ‘with my whole heart. I feel so certain, Rachael, that
the confidence you hold in yours against all discouragement, is not like to=
be
wrong, that I have no more doubt of him than if I had known him through as =
many
years of trial as you have.’
‘And I, my dear,’ said
Rachel, with a tremble in her voice, ‘have known him through them all=
, to
be, according to his quiet ways, so faithful to everything honest and good,
that if he was never to be heard of more, and I was to live to be a hundred
years old, I could say with my last breath, God knows my heart. I have never
once left trusting Stephen Blackpool!’
‘We all believe, up at the
Lodge, Rachael, that he will be freed from suspicion, sooner or later.̵=
7;
‘The better I know it to be =
so
believed there, my dear,’ said Rachael, ‘and the kinder I feel =
it
that you come away from there, purposely to comfort me, and keep me company,
and be seen wi’ me when I am not yet free from all suspicion myself, =
the
more grieved I am that I should ever have spoken those mistrusting words to=
the
young lady. And yet I - ‘
‘You don’t mistrust her
now, Rachael?’
‘Now that you have brought us
more together, no. But I can’t at all times keep out of my mind - =
216;
Her voice so sunk into a low and s=
low
communing with herself, that Sissy, sitting by her side, was obliged to lis=
ten
with attention.
‘I can’t at all times =
keep
out of my mind, mistrustings of some one. I can’t think who ‘ti=
s, I
can’t think how or why it may be done, but I mistrust that some one h=
as
put Stephen out of the way. I mistrust that by his coming back of his own
accord, and showing himself innocent before them all, some one would be
confounded, who - to prevent that - has stopped him, and put him out of the
way.’
‘That is a dreadful thought,=
’
said Sissy, turning pale.
‘It is a dreadful thought to
think he may be murdered.’
Sissy shuddered, and turned paler =
yet.
‘When it makes its way into =
my
mind, dear,’ said Rachael, ‘and it will come sometimes, though =
I do
all I can to keep it out, wi’ counting on to high numbers as I work, =
and
saying over and over again pieces that I knew when I were a child - I fall =
into
such a wild, hot hurry, that, however tired I am, I want to walk fast, miles
and miles. I must get the better of this before bed-time. I’ll walk h=
ome
wi’ you.’
‘He might fall ill upon the
journey back,’ said Sissy, faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope;=
‘and
in such a case, there are many places on the road where he might stop.̵=
7;
‘But he is in none of them. =
He
has been sought for in all, and he’s not there.’
‘True,’ was Sissy̵=
7;s
reluctant admission.
‘He’d walk the journey=
in
two days. If he was footsore and couldn’t walk, I sent him, in the le=
tter
he got, the money to ride, lest he should have none of his own to spare.=
217;
‘Let us hope that to-morrow =
will
bring something better, Rachael. Come into the air!’
Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael=
8217;s
shawl upon her shining black hair in the usual manner of her wearing it, and
they went out. The night being fine, little knots of Hands were here and th=
ere
lingering at street corners; but it was supper-time with the greater part of
them, and there were but few people in the streets.
‘You’re not so hurried
now, Rachael, and your hand is cooler.’
‘I get better, dear, if I can
only walk, and breathe a little fresh. ‘Times when I can’t, I t=
urn
weak and confused.’
‘But you must not begin to f=
ail,
Rachael, for you may be wanted at any time to stand by Stephen. To-morrow is
Saturday. If no news comes to-morrow, let us walk in the country on Sunday
morning, and strengthen you for another week. Will you go?’
‘Yes, dear.’
They were by this time in the stre=
et
where Mr. Bounderby’s house stood. The way to Sissy’s destinati=
on
led them past the door, and they were going straight towards it. Some train=
had
newly arrived in Coketown, which had put a number of vehicles in motion, and
scattered a considerable bustle about the town. Several coaches were rattli=
ng
before them and behind them as they approached Mr. Bounderby’s, and o=
ne
of the latter drew up with such briskness as they were in the act of passing
the house, that they looked round involuntarily. The bright gaslight over M=
r.
Bounderby’s steps showed them Mrs. Sparsit in the coach, in an ecstas=
y of
excitement, struggling to open the door; Mrs. Sparsit seeing them at the sa=
me
moment, called to them to stop.
‘It’s a coincidence,=
8217;
exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, as she was released by the coachman. ‘It̵=
7;s
a Providence! Come out, ma’am!’ then said Mrs. Sparsit, to some=
one
inside, ‘come out, or we’ll have you dragged out!’
Hereupon, no other than the myster=
ious
old woman descended. Whom Mrs. Sparsit incontinently collared.
‘Leave her alone, everybody!=
’
cried Mrs. Sparsit, with great energy. ‘Let nobody touch her. She bel=
ongs
to me. Come in, ma’am!’ then said Mrs. Sparsit, reversing her
former word of command. ‘Come in, ma’am, or we’ll have you
dragged in!’
The spectacle of a matron of class=
ical
deportment, seizing an ancient woman by the throat, and hauling her into a
dwelling-house, would have been under any circumstances, sufficient temptat=
ion
to all true English stragglers so blest as to witness it, to force a way in=
to
that dwelling-house and see the matter out. But when the phenomenon was
enhanced by the notoriety and mystery by this time associated all over the =
town
with the Bank robbery, it would have lured the stragglers in, with an
irresistible attraction, though the roof had been expected to fall upon the=
ir
heads. Accordingly, the chance witnesses on the ground, consisting of the
busiest of the neighbours to the number of some five-and-twenty, closed in
after Sissy and Rachael, as they closed in after Mrs. Sparsit and her prize;
and the whole body made a disorderly irruption into Mr. Bounderby’s
dining-room, where the people behind lost not a moment’s time in moun=
ting
on the chairs, to get the better of the people in front.
‘Fetch Mr. Bounderby down!=
8217;
cried Mrs. Sparsit. ‘Rachael, young woman; you know who this is?̵=
7;
‘It’s Mrs. Pegler,R=
17;
said Rachael.
‘I should think it is!’
cried Mrs. Sparsit, exulting. ‘Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away,
everybody!’ Here old Mrs. Pegler, muffling herself up, and shrinking =
from
observation, whispered a word of entreaty. ‘Don’t tell me,̵=
7;
said Mrs. Sparsit, aloud. ‘I have told you twenty times, coming along,
that I will not leave you till I have handed you over to him myself.’=
Mr. Bounderby now appeared,
accompanied by Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom he had been holding
conference up-stairs. Mr. Bounderby looked more astonished than hospitable,=
at
sight of this uninvited party in his dining-room.
‘Why, what’s the matter
now!’ said he. ‘Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am?’
‘Sir,’ explained that
worthy woman, ‘I trust it is my good fortune to produce a person you =
have
much desired to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve your mind, sir, and
connecting together such imperfect clues to the part of the country in which
that person might be supposed to reside, as have been afforded by the young
woman, Rachael, fortunately now present to identify, I have had the happine=
ss
to succeed, and to bring that person with me - I need not say most unwillin=
gly
on her part. It has not been, sir, without some trouble that I have effected
this; but trouble in your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, =
and
cold a real gratification.’
Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr.
Bounderby’s visage exhibited an extraordinary combination of all poss=
ible
colours and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs. Pegler was disclosed to
his view.
‘Why, what do you mean by th=
is?’
was his highly unexpected demand, in great warmth. ‘I ask you, what do
you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am?’
‘Sir!’ exclaimed Mrs.
Sparsit, faintly.
‘Why don’t you mind yo=
ur
own business, ma’am?’ roared Bounderby. ‘How dare you go =
and
poke your officious nose into my family affairs?’
This allusion to her favourite fea=
ture
overpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she were
frozen; and with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly grated her mittens
against one another, as if they were frozen too.
‘My dear Josiah!’ cried
Mrs. Pegler, trembling. ‘My darling boy! I am not to blame. It’s
not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady over and over again, that I knew she=
was
doing what would not be agreeable to you, but she would do it.’
‘What did you let her bring =
you
for? Couldn’t you knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch her=
, or
do something or other to her?’ asked Bounderby.
‘My own boy! She threatened =
me
that if I resisted her, I should be brought by constables, and it was bette=
r to
come quietly than make that stir in such a’ - Mrs. Pegler glanced tim=
idly
but proudly round the walls - ‘such a fine house as this. Indeed, ind=
eed,
it is not my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! I have always lived quiet,=
and
secret, Josiah, my dear. I have never broken the condition once. I have nev=
er
said I was your mother. I have admired you at a distance; and if I have com=
e to
town sometimes, with long times between, to take a proud peep at you, I have
done it unbeknown, my love, and gone away again.’
Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in h=
is
pockets, walked in impatient mortification up and down at the side of the l=
ong
dining-table, while the spectators greedily took in every syllable of Mrs.
Pegler’s appeal, and at each succeeding syllable became more and more
round-eyed. Mr. Bounderby still walking up and down when Mrs. Pegler had do=
ne,
Mr. Gradgrind addressed that maligned old lady:
‘I am surprised, madam,̵=
7;
he observed with severity, ‘that in your old age you have the face to
claim Mr. Bounderby for your son, after your unnatural and inhuman treatmen=
t of
him.’
‘Me unnatural!’ cried =
poor
old Mrs. Pegler. ‘Me inhuman! To my dear boy?’
‘Dear!’ repeated Mr.
Gradgrind. ‘Yes; dear in his self-made prosperity, madam, I dare say.=
Not
very dear, however, when you deserted him in his infancy, and left him to t=
he
brutality of a drunken grandmother.’
‘I deserted my Josiah!’
cried Mrs. Pegler, clasping her hands. ‘Now, Lord forgive you, sir, f=
or
your wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against the memory of my poor
mother, who died in my arms before Josiah was born. May you repent of it, s=
ir,
and live to know better!’
She was so very earnest and injure=
d,
that Mr. Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon him, said =
in a
gentler tone:
‘Do you deny, then, madam, t=
hat
you left your son to - to be brought up in the gutter?’
‘Josiah in the gutter!’
exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. ‘No such a thing, sir. Never! For shame on you=
! My
dear boy knows, and will give you to know, that though he come of humble
parents, he come of parents that loved him as dear as the best could, and n=
ever
thought it hardship on themselves to pinch a bit that he might write and ci=
pher
beautiful, and I’ve his books at home to show it! Aye, have I!’
said Mrs. Pegler, with indignant pride. ‘And my dear boy knows, and w=
ill
give you to know, sir, that after his beloved father died, when he was eight
years old, his mother, too, could pinch a bit, as it was her duty and her
pleasure and her pride to do it, to help him out in life, and put him ̵=
6;prentice.
And a steady lad he was, and a kind master he had to lend him a hand, and w=
ell
he worked his own way forward to be rich and thriving. And I’ll give =
you
to know, sir - for this my dear boy won’t - that though his mother ke=
pt
but a little village shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on thirty
pound a year - more than I want, for I put by out of it - only making the
condition that I was to keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about =
him,
and not trouble him. And I never have, except with looking at him once a ye=
ar,
when he has never knowed it. And it’s right,’ said poor old Mrs.
Pegler, in affectionate championship, ‘that I should keep down in my =
own
part, and I have no doubts that if I was here I should do a many unbefitting
things, and I am well contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to
myself, and I can love for love’s own sake! And I am ashamed of you, =
sir,’
said Mrs. Pegler, lastly, ‘for your slanders and suspicions. And I ne=
ver
stood here before, nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said no.=
And
I shouldn’t be here now, if it hadn’t been for being brought he=
re.
And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother t=
o my
son, with my son standing here to tell you so different!’
The bystanders, on and off the
dining-room chairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and Mr.
Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in a very distressing predicament,
when Mr. Bounderby, who had never ceased walking up and down, and had every
moment swelled larger and larger, and grown redder and redder, stopped shor=
t.
‘I don’t exactly know,=
’
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘how I come to be favoured with the attendance of=
the
present company, but I don’t inquire. When they’re quite satisf=
ied,
perhaps they’ll be so good as to disperse; whether they’re
satisfied or not, perhaps they’ll be so good as to disperse. I’m
not bound to deliver a lecture on my family affairs, I have not undertaken =
to
do it, and I’m not a going to do it. Therefore those who expect any
explanation whatever upon that branch of the subject, will be disappointed -
particularly Tom Gradgrind, and he can’t know it too soon. In referen=
ce
to the Bank robbery, there has been a mistake made, concerning my mother. If
there hadn’t been over-officiousness it wouldn’t have been made,
and I hate over-officiousness at all times, whether or no. Good evening!=
217;
Although Mr. Bounderby carried it =
off
in these terms, holding the door open for the company to depart, there was a
blustering sheepishness upon him, at once extremely crestfallen and
superlatively absurd. Detected as the Bully of humility, who had built his
windy reputation upon lies, and in his boastfulness had put the honest trut=
h as
far away from him as if he had advanced the mean claim (there is no meaner)=
to
tack himself on to a pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous figure. With the pe=
ople
filing off at the door he held, who he knew would carry what had passed to =
the
whole town, to be given to the four winds, he could not have looked a Bully
more shorn and forlorn, if he had had his ears cropped. Even that unlucky
female, Mrs. Sparsit, fallen from her pinnacle of exultation into the Sloug=
h of
Despond, was not in so bad a plight as that remarkable man and self-made
Humbug, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown.
Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pe=
gler
to occupy a bed at her son’s for that night, walked together to the g=
ate
of Stone Lodge and there parted. Mr. Gradgrind joined them before they had =
gone
very far, and spoke with much interest of Stephen Blackpool; for whom he
thought this signal failure of the suspicions against Mrs. Pegler was likel=
y to
work well.
As to the whelp; throughout this s=
cene
as on all other late occasions, he had stuck close to Bounderby. He seemed =
to
feel that as long as Bounderby could make no discovery without his knowledg=
e,
he was so far safe. He never visited his sister, and had only seen her once
since she went home: that is to say on the night when he still stuck close =
to
Bounderby, as already related.
There was one dim unformed fear
lingering about his sister’s mind, to which she never gave utterance,
which surrounded the graceless and ungrateful boy with a dreadful mystery. =
The
same dark possibility had presented itself in the same shapeless guise, this
very day, to Sissy, when Rachael spoke of some one who would be confounded =
by
Stephen’s return, having put him out of the way. Louisa had never spo=
ken
of harbouring any suspicion of her brother in connexion with the robbery, s=
he
and Sissy had held no confidence on the subject, save in that one interchan=
ge
of looks when the unconscious father rested his gray head on his hand; but =
it
was understood between them, and they both knew it. This other fear was so
awful, that it hovered about each of them like a ghostly shadow; neither da=
ring
to think of its being near herself, far less of its being near the other.
And still the forced spirit which =
the
whelp had plucked up, throve with him. If Stephen Blackpool was not the thi=
ef,
let him show himself. Why didn’t he?
Another night. Another day and nig=
ht.
No Stephen Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not come back?
THE Sunday was a bright Sunday in
autumn, clear and cool, when early in the morning Sissy and Rachael met, to
walk in the country.
As Coketown cast ashes not only on=
its
own head but on the neighbourhood’s too - after the manner of those p=
ious
persons who do penance for their own sins by putting other people into
sackcloth - it was customary for those who now and then thirsted for a drau=
ght
of pure air, which is not absolutely the most wicked among the vanities of
life, to get a few miles away by the railroad, and then begin their walk, or
their lounge in the fields. Sissy and Rachael helped themselves out of the
smoke by the usual means, and were put down at a station about midway betwe=
en
the town and Mr. Bounderby’s retreat.
Though the green landscape was blo=
tted
here and there with heaps of coal, it was green elsewhere, and there were t=
rees
to see, and there were larks singing (though it was Sunday), and there were
pleasant scents in the air, and all was over-arched by a bright blue sky. In
the distance one way, Coketown showed as a black mist; in another distance
hills began to rise; in a third, there was a faint change in the light of t=
he
horizon where it shone upon the far-off sea. Under their feet, the grass was
fresh; beautiful shadows of branches flickered upon it, and speckled it;
hedgerows were luxuriant; everything was at peace. Engines at pits’
mouths, and lean old horses that had worn the circle of their daily labour =
into
the ground, were alike quiet; wheels had ceased for a short space to turn; =
and
the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve without the shocks and noises of
another time.
They walked on across the fields a=
nd
down the shady lanes, sometimes getting over a fragment of a fence so rotten
that it dropped at a touch of the foot, sometimes passing near a wreck of
bricks and beams overgrown with grass, marking the site of deserted works. =
They
followed paths and tracks, however slight. Mounds where the grass was rank =
and
high, and where brambles, dock-weed, and such-like vegetation, were confuse=
dly
heaped together, they always avoided; for dismal stories were told in that
country of the old pits hidden beneath such indications.
The sun was high when they sat dow=
n to
rest. They had seen no one, near or distant, for a long time; and the solit=
ude
remained unbroken. ‘It is so still here, Rachael, and the way is so
untrodden, that I think we must be the first who have been here all the sum=
mer.’
As Sissy said it, her eyes were
attracted by another of those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She
got up to look at it. ‘And yet I don’t know. This has not been
broken very long. The wood is quite fresh where it gave way. Here are foots=
teps
too. - O Rachael!’
She ran back, and caught her round=
the
neck. Rachael had already started up.
‘What is the matter?’<= o:p>
‘I don’t know. There i=
s a
hat lying in the grass.’ They went forward together. Rachael took it =
up,
shaking from head to foot. She broke into a passion of tears and lamentatio=
ns:
Stephen Blackpool was written in his own hand on the inside.
‘O the poor lad, the poor la=
d!
He has been made away with. He is lying murdered here!’
‘Is there - has the hat any
blood upon it?’ Sissy faltered.
They were afraid to look; but they=
did
examine it, and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had been lying
there some days, for rain and dew had stained it, and the mark of its shape=
was
on the grass where it had fallen. They looked fearfully about them, without
moving, but could see nothing more. ‘Rachael,’ Sissy whispered,=
‘I
will go on a little by myself.’
She had unclasped her hand, and wa=
s in
the act of stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in both arms with a sc=
ream
that resounded over the wide landscape. Before them, at their very feet, was
the brink of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprang ba=
ck,
and fell upon their knees, each hiding her face upon the other’s neck=
.
‘O, my good Lord! He’s
down there! Down there!’ At first this, and her terrific screams, were
all that could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers, by any
representations, by any means. It was impossible to hush her; and it was de=
adly
necessary to hold her, or she would have flung herself down the shaft.
‘Rachael, dear Rachael, good
Rachael, for the love of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! Think of Stephen,
think of Stephen, think of Stephen!’
By an earnest repetition of this
entreaty, poured out in all the agony of such a moment, Sissy at last broug=
ht
her to be silent, and to look at her with a tearless face of stone.
‘Rachael, Stephen may be liv=
ing.
You wouldn’t leave him lying maimed at the bottom of this dreadful pl=
ace,
a moment, if you could bring help to him?’
‘No, no, no!’
‘Don’t stir from here,=
for
his sake! Let me go and listen.’
She shuddered to approach the pit;=
but
she crept towards it on her hands and knees, and called to him as loud as s=
he
could call. She listened, but no sound replied. She called again and listen=
ed;
still no answering sound. She did this, twenty, thirty times. She took a li=
ttle
clod of earth from the broken ground where he had stumbled, and threw it in.
She could not hear it fall.
The wide prospect, so beautiful in=
its
stillness but a few minutes ago, almost carried despair to her brave heart,=
as
she rose and looked all round her, seeing no help. ‘Rachael, we must =
lose
not a moment. We must go in different directions, seeking aid. You shall go=
by
the way we have come, and I will go forward by the path. Tell any one you s=
ee,
and every one what has happened. Think of Stephen, think of Stephen!’=
She knew by Rachael’s face t=
hat
she might trust her now. And after standing for a moment to see her running,
wringing her hands as she ran, she turned and went upon her own search; she
stopped at the hedge to tie her shawl there as a guide to the place, then t=
hrew
her bonnet aside, and ran as she had never run before.
Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven’s
name! Don’t stop for breath. Run, run! Quickening herself by carrying
such entreaties in her thoughts, she ran from field to field, and lane to l=
ane,
and place to place, as she had never run before; until she came to a shed b=
y an
engine-house, where two men lay in the shade, asleep on straw.
First to wake them, and next to te=
ll
them, all so wild and breathless as she was, what had brought her there, we=
re
difficulties; but they no sooner understood her than their spirits were on =
fire
like hers. One of the men was in a drunken slumber, but on his comrade̵=
7;s
shouting to him that a man had fallen down the Old Hell Shaft, he started o=
ut
to a pool of dirty water, put his head in it, and came back sober.
With these two men she ran to anot=
her
half-a-mile further, and with that one to another, while they ran elsewhere.
Then a horse was found; and she got another man to ride for life or death to
the railroad, and send a message to Louisa, which she wrote and gave him. By
this time a whole village was up: and windlasses, ropes, poles, candles,
lanterns, all things necessary, were fast collecting and being brought into=
one
place, to be carried to the Old Hell Shaft.
It seemed now hours and hours since
she had left the lost man lying in the grave where he had been buried alive.
She could not bear to remain away from it any longer - it was like deserting
him - and she hurried swiftly back, accompanied by half-a-dozen labourers,
including the drunken man whom the news had sobered, and who was the best m=
an
of all. When they came to the Old Hell Shaft, they found it as lonely as she
had left it. The men called and listened as she had done, and examined the =
edge
of the chasm, and settled how it had happened, and then sat down to wait un=
til
the implements they wanted should come up.
Every sound of insects in the air,
every stirring of the leaves, every whisper among these men, made Sissy
tremble, for she thought it was a cry at the bottom of the pit. But the wind
blew idly over it, and no sound arose to the surface, and they sat upon the
grass, waiting and waiting. After they had waited some time, straggling peo=
ple
who had heard of the accident began to come up; then the real help of
implements began to arrive. In the midst of this, Rachael returned; and with
her party there was a surgeon, who brought some wine and medicines. But, the
expectation among the people that the man would be found alive was very sli=
ght
indeed.
There being now people enough pres=
ent
to impede the work, the sobered man put himself at the head of the rest, or=
was
put there by the general consent, and made a large ring round the Old Hell
Shaft, and appointed men to keep it. Besides such volunteers as were accept=
ed
to work, only Sissy and Rachael were at first permitted within this ring; b=
ut,
later in the day, when the message brought an express from Coketown, Mr.
Gradgrind and Louisa, and Mr. Bounderby, and the whelp, were also there.
The sun was four hours lower than =
when
Sissy and Rachael had first sat down upon the grass, before a means of enab=
ling
two men to descend securely was rigged with poles and ropes. Difficulties h=
ad
arisen in the construction of this machine, simple as it was; requisites had
been found wanting, and messages had had to go and return. It was five o=
217;clock
in the afternoon of the bright autumnal Sunday, before a candle was sent do=
wn
to try the air, while three or four rough faces stood crowded close togethe=
r,
attentively watching it: the man at the windlass lowering as they were told.
The candle was brought up again, feebly burning, and then some water was ca=
st
in. Then the bucket was hooked on; and the sobered man and another got in w=
ith
lights, giving the word ‘Lower away!’
As the rope went out, tight and
strained, and the windlass creaked, there was not a breath among the one or=
two
hundred men and women looking on, that came as it was wont to come. The sig=
nal
was given and the windlass stopped, with abundant rope to spare. Apparently=
so
long an interval ensued with the men at the windlass standing idle, that so=
me
women shrieked that another accident had happened! But the surgeon who held=
the
watch, declared five minutes not to have elapsed yet, and sternly admonished
them to keep silence. He had not well done speaking, when the windlass was
reversed and worked again. Practised eyes knew that it did not go as heavil=
y as
it would if both workmen had been coming up, and that only one was returnin=
g.
The rope came in tight and straine=
d;
and ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of the windlass, and all eyes
were fastened on the pit. The sobered man was brought up and leaped out bri=
skly
on the grass. There was an universal cry of ‘Alive or dead?’ and
then a deep, profound hush.
When he said ‘Alive!’ a
great shout arose and many eyes had tears in them.
‘But he’s hurt very ba=
d,’
he added, as soon as he could make himself heard again. ‘Where’s
doctor? He’s hurt so very bad, sir, that we donno how to get him up.&=
#8217;
They all consulted together, and
looked anxiously at the surgeon, as he asked some questions, and shook his =
head
on receiving the replies. The sun was setting now; and the red light in the
evening sky touched every face there, and caused it to be distinctly seen in
all its rapt suspense.
The consultation ended in the men
returning to the windlass, and the pitman going down again, carrying the wi=
ne
and some other small matters with him. Then the other man came up. In the
meantime, under the surgeon’s directions, some men brought a hurdle, =
on
which others made a thick bed of spare clothes covered with loose straw, wh=
ile
he himself contrived some bandages and slings from shawls and handkerchiefs=
. As
these were made, they were hung upon an arm of the pitman who had last come=
up,
with instructions how to use them: and as he stood, shown by the light he
carried, leaning his powerful loose hand upon one of the poles, and sometim=
es
glancing down the pit, and sometimes glancing round upon the people, he was=
not
the least conspicuous figure in the scene. It was dark now, and torches were
kindled.
It appeared from the little this m=
an
said to those about him, which was quickly repeated all over the circle, th=
at
the lost man had fallen upon a mass of crumbled rubbish with which the pit =
was
half choked up, and that his fall had been further broken by some jagged ea=
rth
at the side. He lay upon his back with one arm doubled under him, and accor=
ding
to his own belief had hardly stirred since he fell, except that he had moved
his free hand to a side pocket, in which he remembered to have some bread a=
nd
meat (of which he had swallowed crumbs), and had likewise scooped up a litt=
le
water in it now and then. He had come straight away from his work, on being
written to, and had walked the whole journey; and was on his way to Mr.
Bounderby’s country house after dark, when he fell. He was crossing t=
hat
dangerous country at such a dangerous time, because he was innocent of what=
was
laid to his charge, and couldn’t rest from coming the nearest way to
deliver himself up. The Old Hell Shaft, the pitman said, with a curse upon =
it,
was worthy of its bad name to the last; for though Stephen could speak now,=
he
believed it would soon be found to have mangled the life out of him.
When all was ready, this man, still
taking his last hurried charges from his comrades and the surgeon after the
windlass had begun to lower him, disappeared into the pit. The rope went ou=
t as
before, the signal was made as before, and the windlass stopped. No man rem=
oved
his hand from it now. Every one waited with his grasp set, and his body bent
down to the work, ready to reverse and wind in. At length the signal was gi=
ven,
and all the ring leaned forward.
For, now, the rope came in, tighte=
ned
and strained to its utmost as it appeared, and the men turned heavily, and =
the
windlass complained. It was scarcely endurable to look at the rope, and thi=
nk
of its giving way. But, ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of the
windlass safely, and the connecting chains appeared, and finally the bucket
with the two men holding on at the sides - a sight to make the head swim, a=
nd
oppress the heart - and tenderly supporting between them, slung and tied
within, the figure of a poor, crushed, human creature.
A low murmur of pity went round the
throng, and the women wept aloud, as this form, almost without form, was mo=
ved
very slowly from its iron deliverance, and laid upon the bed of straw. At
first, none but the surgeon went close to it. He did what he could in its
adjustment on the couch, but the best that he could do was to cover it. That
gently done, he called to him Rachael and Sissy. And at that time the pale,
worn, patient face was seen looking up at the sky, with the broken right ha=
nd
lying bare on the outside of the covering garments, as if waiting to be tak=
en
by another hand.
They gave him drink, moistened his
face with water, and administered some drops of cordial and wine. Though he=
lay
quite motionless looking up at the sky, he smiled and said, ‘Rachael.=
’
She stooped down on the grass at his side, and bent over him until her eyes
were between his and the sky, for he could not so much as turn them to look=
at
her.
‘Rachael, my dear.’
She took his hand. He smiled again=
and
said, ‘Don’t let ‘t go.’
‘Thou’rt in great pain=
, my
own dear Stephen?’
‘I ha’ been, but not n=
ow.
I ha’ been - dreadful, and dree, and long, my dear - but ‘tis o=
wer
now. Ah, Rachael, aw a muddle! Fro’ first to last, a muddle!’
The spectre of his old look seemed=
to
pass as he said the word.
‘I ha’ fell into th=
217;
pit, my dear, as have cost wi’in the knowledge o’ old fok now
livin, hundreds and hundreds o’ men’s lives - fathers, sons,
brothers, dear to thousands an’ thousands, an’ keeping ‘em
fro’ want and hunger. I ha’ fell into a pit that ha’ been=
wi’
th’ Firedamp crueller than battle. I ha’ read on ‘t in the
public petition, as onny one may read, fro’ the men that works in pit=
s,
in which they ha’ pray’n and pray’n the lawmakers for Chr=
ist’s
sake not to let their work be murder to ‘em, but to spare ‘em f=
or
th’ wives and children that they loves as well as gentlefok loves the=
irs.
When it were in work, it killed wi’out need; when ‘tis let alon=
e,
it kills wi’out need. See how we die an’ no need, one way an=
217;
another - in a muddle - every day!’
He faintly said it, without any an=
ger
against any one. Merely as the truth.
‘Thy little sister, Rachael,
thou hast not forgot her. Thou’rt not like to forget her now, and me =
so
nigh her. Thou know’st - poor, patient, suff’rin, dear - how th=
ou
didst work for her, seet’n all day long in her little chair at thy
winder, and how she died, young and misshapen, awlung o’ sickly air as
had’n no need to be, an’ awlung o’ working people’s
miserable homes. A muddle! Aw a muddle!’
Louisa approached him; but he could
not see her, lying with his face turned up to the night sky.
‘If aw th’ things that
tooches us, my dear, was not so muddled, I should’n ha’ hadR=
17;n
need to coom heer. If we was not in a muddle among ourseln, I should’=
n ha’
been, by my own fellow weavers and workin’ brothers, so mistook. If M=
r.
Bounderby had ever know’d me right - if he’d ever know’d =
me
at aw - he would’n ha’ took’n offence wi’ me. He wo=
uld’n
ha’ suspect’n me. But look up yonder, Rachael! Look aboove!R=
17;
Following his eyes, she saw that he
was gazing at a star.
‘It ha’ shined upon me=
,’
he said reverently, ‘in my pain and trouble down below. It ha’
shined into my mind. I ha’ look’n at ‘t and thowt o’
thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind have cleared awa, above a bit, I
hope. If soom ha’ been wantin’ in unnerstan’in me better,=
I,
too, ha’ been wantin’ in unnerstan’in them better. When I=
got
thy letter, I easily believen that what the yoong ledy sen and done to me, =
and
what her brother sen and done to me, was one, and that there were a wicked =
plot
betwixt ‘em. When I fell, I were in anger wi’ her, an’
hurryin on t’ be as onjust t’ her as oothers was t’ me. B=
ut
in our judgments, like as in our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain=
an’
trouble, lookin up yonder, - wi’ it shinin on me - I ha’ seen m=
ore
clear, and ha’ made it my dyin prayer that aw th’ world may on&=
#8217;y
coom toogether more, an’ get a better unnerstan’in o’ one
another, than when I were in ‘t my own weak seln.’
Louisa hearing what he said, bent =
over
him on the opposite side to Rachael, so that he could see her.
‘You ha’ heard?’=
he
said, after a few moments’ silence. ‘I ha’ not forgot you,
ledy.’
‘Yes, Stephen, I have heard =
you.
And your prayer is mine.’
‘You ha’ a father. Wil=
l yo
tak’ a message to him?’
‘He is here,’ said Lou=
isa,
with dread. ‘Shall I bring him to you?’
‘If yo please.’
Louisa returned with her father.
Standing hand-in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn countenance.
‘Sir, yo will clear me an=
217;
mak my name good wi’ aw men. This I leave to yo.’
Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and ask=
ed
how?
‘Sir,’ was the reply: =
‘yor
son will tell yo how. Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me: not=
a
single word. I ha’ seen an’ spok’n wi’ yor son, one
night. I ask no more o’ yo than that yo clear me - an’ I trust =
to
yo to do ‘t.’
The bearers being now ready to car=
ry
him away, and the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who had torc=
hes
or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the litter. Before it was raised, a=
nd
while they were arranging how to go, he said to Rachael, looking upward at =
the
star:
‘Often as I coom to myseln, =
and
found it shinin’ on me down there in my trouble, I thowt it were the =
star
as guided to Our Saviour’s home. I awmust think it be the very star!&=
#8217;
They lifted him up, and he was
overjoyed to find that they were about to take him in the direction whither=
the
star seemed to him to lead.
‘Rachael, beloved lass! Don&=
#8217;t
let go my hand. We may walk toogether t’night, my dear!’
‘I will hold thy hand, and k=
eep
beside thee, Stephen, all the way.’
‘Bless thee! Will soombody be
pleased to coover my face!’
They carried him very gently along=
the
fields, and down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael always hol=
ding
the hand in hers. Very few whispers broke the mournful silence. It was soon=
a
funeral procession. The star had shown him where to find the God of the poo=
r;
and through humility, and sorrow, and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redee=
mer’s
rest.
BEFORE the ring formed round the O=
ld
Hell Shaft was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it. Mr. Bound=
erby
and his shadow had not stood near Louisa, who held her father’s arm, =
but
in a retired place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was summoned to the co=
uch,
Sissy, attentive to all that happened, slipped behind that wicked shadow - a
sight in the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for any sight=
but
one - and whispered in his ear. Without turning his head, he conferred with=
her
a few moments, and vanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the circle befo=
re
the people moved.
When the father reached home, he s=
ent
a message to Mr. Bounderby’s, desiring his son to come to him directl=
y.
The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having missed him in the crowd, and seeing
nothing of him since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge.
‘I believe, father,’ s=
aid
Louisa, ‘he will not come back to town to-night.’ Mr. Gradgrind
turned away, and said no more.
In the morning, he went down to the
Bank himself as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son’s place emp=
ty
(he had not the courage to look in at first) went back along the street to =
meet
Mr. Bounderby on his way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would =
soon
explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he had found it necessary =
to employ
his son at a distance for a little while. Also, that he was charged with the
duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool’s memory, and declaring the thi=
ef.
Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stood stock-still in the street after his
father-in-law had left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, without i=
ts
beauty.
Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked
himself in his room, and kept it all that day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped=
at
his door, he said, without opening it, ‘Not now, my dears; in the
evening.’ On their return in the evening, he said, ‘I am not ab=
le
yet - to-morrow.’ He ate nothing all day, and had no candle after dar=
k;
and they heard him walking to and fro late at night.
But, in the morning he appeared at
breakfast at the usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged and
bent he looked, and quite bowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man, and a
better man, than in the days when in this life he wanted nothing - but Fact=
s.
Before he left the room, he appointed a time for them to come to him; and s=
o,
with his gray head drooping, went away.
‘Dear father,’ said
Louisa, when they kept their appointment, ‘you have three young child=
ren
left. They will be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven’s
help.’
She gave her hand to Sissy, as if =
she
meant with her help too.
‘Your wretched brother,̵=
7;
said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Do you think he had planned this robbery, when he
went with you to the lodging?’
‘I fear so, father. I know he
had wanted money very much, and had spent a great deal.’
‘The poor man being about to
leave the town, it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion on him?’=
;
‘I think it must have flashed
upon him while he sat there, father. For I asked him to go there with me. T=
he
visit did not originate with him.’
‘He had some conversation wi=
th
the poor man. Did he take him aside?’
‘He took him out of the room=
. I
asked him afterwards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible excuse; b=
ut
since last night, father, and when I remember the circumstances by its ligh=
t, I
am afraid I can imagine too truly what passed between them.’
‘Let me know,’ said her
father, ‘if your thoughts present your guilty brother in the same dark
view as mine.’
‘I fear, father,’
hesitated Louisa, ‘that he must have made some representation to Step=
hen
Blackpool - perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own - which induced him to d=
o in
good faith and honesty, what he had never done before, and to wait about the
Bank those two or three nights before he left the town.’
‘Too plain!’ returned =
the
father. ‘Too plain!’
He shaded his face, and remained
silent for some moments. Recovering himself, he said:
‘And now, how is he to be fo=
und?
How is he to be saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possibly al=
low
to elapse before I publish the truth, how is he to be found by us, and only=
by us?
Ten thousand pounds could not effect it.’
‘Sissy has effected it, fath=
er.’
He raised his eyes to where she st=
ood,
like a good fairy in his house, and said in a tone of softened gratitude and
grateful kindness, ‘It is always you, my child!’
‘We had our fears,’ Si=
ssy
explained, glancing at Louisa, ‘before yesterday; and when I saw you
brought to the side of the litter last night, and heard what passed (being
close to Rachael all the time), I went to him when no one saw, and said to =
him,
"Don’t look at me. See where your father is. Escape at once, for=
his
sake and your own!" He was in a tremble before I whispered to him, and=
he
started and trembled more then, and said, "Where can I go? I have very
little money, and I don’t know who will hide me!" I thought of
father’s old circus. I have not forgotten where Mr. Sleary goes at th=
is
time of year, and I read of him in a paper only the other day. I told him to
hurry there, and tell his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him till I came.
"I’ll get to him before the morning," he said. And I saw him
shrink away among the people.’
‘Thank Heaven!’ exclai=
med
his father. ‘He may be got abroad yet.’
It was the more hopeful as the tow=
n to
which Sissy had directed him was within three hours’ journey of
Liverpool, whence he could be swiftly dispatched to any part of the world. =
But,
caution being necessary in communicating with him - for there was a greater
danger every moment of his being suspected now, and nobody could be sure at
heart but that Mr. Bounderby himself, in a bullying vein of public zeal, mi=
ght
play a Roman part - it was consented that Sissy and Louisa should repair to=
the
place in question, by a circuitous course, alone; and that the unhappy fath=
er,
setting forth in an opposite direction, should get round to the same bourne=
by
another and wider route. It was further agreed that he should not present
himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions should be mistrusted, or the
intelligence of his arrival should cause his son to take flight anew; but, =
that
the communication should be left to Sissy and Louisa to open; and that they
should inform the cause of so much misery and disgrace, of his father’=
;s
being at hand and of the purpose for which they had come. When these
arrangements had been well considered and were fully understood by all thre=
e,
it was time to begin to carry them into execution. Early in the afternoon, =
Mr.
Gradgrind walked direct from his own house into the country, to be taken up=
on
the line by which he was to travel; and at night the remaining two set forth
upon their different course, encouraged by not seeing any face they knew.
The two travelled all night, except
when they were left, for odd numbers of minutes, at branch-places, up
illimitable flights of steps, or down wells - which was the only variety of
those branches - and, early in the morning, were turned out on a swamp, a m=
ile
or two from the town they sought. From this dismal spot they were rescued b=
y a
savage old postilion, who happened to be up early, kicking a horse in a fly:
and so were smuggled into the town by all the back lanes where the pigs liv=
ed:
which, although not a magnificent or even savoury approach, was, as is usua=
l in
such cases, the legitimate highway.
The first thing they saw on enteri=
ng
the town was the skeleton of Sleary’s Circus. The company had departed
for another town more than twenty miles off, and had opened there last nigh=
t.
The connection between the two places was by a hilly turnpike-road, and the
travelling on that road was very slow. Though they took but a hasty breakfa=
st,
and no rest (which it would have been in vain to seek under such anxious
circumstances), it was
A Grand Morning Performance by the
Riders, commencing at that very hour, was in course of announcement by the
bellman as they set their feet upon the stones of the street. Sissy recomme=
nded
that, to avoid making inquiries and attracting attention in the town, they =
should
present themselves to pay at the door. If Mr. Sleary were taking the money,=
he
would be sure to know her, and would proceed with discretion. If he were no=
t,
he would be sure to see them inside; and, knowing what he had done with the
fugitive, would proceed with discretion still.
Therefore, they repaired, with
fluttering hearts, to the well- remembered booth. The flag with the inscrip=
tion
SLEARY’S HORSE- RIDING was there; and the Gothic niche was there; but=
Mr.
Sleary was not there. Master Kidderminster, grown too maturely turfy to be
received by the wildest credulity as Cupid any more, had yielded to the
invincible force of circumstances (and his beard), and, in the capacity of a
man who made himself generally useful, presided on this occasion over the e=
xchequer
- having also a drum in reserve, on which to expend his leisure moments and
superfluous forces. In the extreme sharpness of his look out for base coin,=
Mr.
Kidderminster, as at present situated, never saw anything but money; so Sis=
sy
passed him unrecognised, and they went in.
The Emperor of Japan, on a steady = old white horse stencilled with black spots, was twirling five wash-hand basins= at once, as it is the favourite recreation of that monarch to do. Sissy, though well acquainted with his Royal line, had no personal knowledge of the prese= nt Emperor, and his reign was peaceful. Miss Josephine Sleary, in her celebrat= ed graceful Equestrian Tyrolean Flower Act, was then announced by a new clown = (who humorously said Cauliflower Act), and Mr. Sleary appeared, leading her in.<= o:p>
Mr. Sleary had only made one cut at
the Clown with his long whip- lash, and the Clown had only said, ‘If =
you
do it again, I’ll throw the horse at you!’ when Sissy was
recognised both by father and daughter. But they got through the Act with g=
reat
self-possession; and Mr. Sleary, saving for the first instant, conveyed no =
more
expression into his locomotive eye than into his fixed one. The performance
seemed a little long to Sissy and Louisa, particularly when it stopped to
afford the Clown an opportunity of telling Mr. Sleary (who said ‘Inde=
ed,
sir!’ to all his observations in the calmest way, and with his eye on=
the
house) about two legs sitting on three legs looking at one leg, when in came
four legs, and laid hold of one leg, and up got two legs, caught hold of th=
ree
legs, and threw ‘em at four legs, who ran away with one leg. For,
although an ingenious Allegory relating to a butcher, a three- legged stool=
, a
dog, and a leg of mutton, this narrative consumed time; and they were in gr=
eat
suspense. At last, however, little fair-haired Josephine made her curtsey a=
mid
great applause; and the Clown, left alone in the ring, had just warmed hims=
elf,
and said, ‘Now I’ll have a turn!’ when Sissy was touched =
on
the shoulder, and beckoned out.
She took Louisa with her; and they
were received by Mr. Sleary in a very little private apartment, with canvas
sides, a grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which the box com=
pany
stamped their approbation, as if they were coming through. ‘Thethilia=
,’
said Mr. Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, ‘it doth me good to
thee you. You wath alwayth a favourite with uth, and you’ve done uth
credith thinth the old timeth I’m thure. You mutht thee our people, my
dear, afore we thpeak of bithnith, or they’ll break their hearth -
ethpethially the women. Here’th Jothphine hath been and got married t=
o E.
W. B. Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, and though he’th only three
yearth old, he thtickth on to any pony you can bring againtht him. He’=
;th
named The Little Wonder of Thcolathtic Equitation; and if you don’t h=
ear
of that boy at Athley’th, you’ll hear of him at Parith. And you
recollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon yourth=
elf?
Well. He’th married too. Married a widder. Old enough to be hith moth=
er.
Thee wath Tightrope, thee wath, and now thee’th nothing - on accounth=
of
fat. They’ve got two children, tho we’re thtrong in the Fairy
bithnith and the Nurthery dodge. If you wath to thee our Children in the Wo=
od,
with their father and mother both a dyin’ on a horthe - their uncle a
retheiving of ‘em ath hith wardth, upon a horthe - themthelvth both a
goin’ a black- berryin’ on a horthe - and the Robinth a coming =
in
to cover ‘em with leavth, upon a horthe - you’d thay it wath the
completetht thing ath ever you thet your eyeth on! And you remember Emma
Gordon, my dear, ath wath a’motht a mother to you? Of courthe you do;=
I
needn’t athk. Well! Emma, thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw̵=
7;d
a heavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing ath the Thult=
an
of the Indieth, and he never got the better of it; and thee married a theco=
nd
time - married a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the front - a=
nd
he’th a Overtheer and makin’ a fortun.’
These various changes, Mr. Sleary,
very short of breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a wonderf=
ul
kind of innocence, considering what a bleary and brandy-and-watery old vete=
ran
he was. Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather
deeply lined in the jaws by daylight), and the Little Wonder of Scholastic
Equitation, and in a word, all the company. Amazing creatures they were in
Louisa’s eyes, so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, an=
d so
demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to see them crowding about
Sissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears.
‘There! Now Thethilia hath k=
ithd
all the children, and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all round with
all the men, clear, every one of you, and ring in the band for the thecond
part!’
As soon as they were gone, he continued in a low tone. ‘Now, Thethilia, I don’t athk to know = any thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be Mith Thquire.’<= o:p>
‘This is his sister. Yes.=
217;
‘And t’other on’=
th
daughter. That’h what I mean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hope =
the
Thquire’th well?’
‘My father will be here soon=
,’
said Louisa, anxious to bring him to the point. ‘Is my brother safe?&=
#8217;
‘Thafe and thound!’ he
replied. ‘I want you jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through
here. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole for yourthelf.̵=
7;
They each looked through a chink in
the boards.
‘That’h Jack the Giant
Killer - piethe of comic infant bithnith,’ said Sleary. ‘There&=
#8217;th
a property-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there’th my Clown w=
ith
a thauthepan-lid and a thpit, for Jack’th thervant; there’th li=
ttle
Jack himthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour; there’th two comic black
thervanth twithe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bring it in=
and
clear it; and the Giant (a very ecthpenthive bathket one), he an’t on
yet. Now, do you thee ‘em all?’
‘Yes,’ they both said.=
‘Look at ‘em again,=
217;
said Sleary, ‘look at ‘em well. You thee em all? Very good. Now,
mith;’ he put a form for them to sit on; ‘I have my opinionth, =
and
the Thquire your father hath hith. I don’t want to know what your bro=
ther’th
been up to; ith better for me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath
thtood by Thethilia, and I’ll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ith=
one
them black thervanth.’
Louisa uttered an exclamation, par=
tly
of distress, partly of satisfaction.
‘Ith a fact,’ said Sle=
ary,
‘and even knowin’ it, you couldn’t put your finger on him.
Let the Thquire come. I thall keep your brother here after the performanth.=
I
thant undreth him, nor yet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire come here a=
fter
the performanth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth, and you thall
find your brother, and have the whole plathe to talk to him in. Never mind =
the
lookth of him, ath long ath he’th well hid.’
Louisa, with many thanks and with a
lightened load, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. She left her love for h=
er
brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she and Sissy went away until lat=
er
in the afternoon.
Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an ho=
ur
afterwards. He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and was now sanguine
with Sleary’s assistance, of getting his disgraced son to Liverpool in
the night. As neither of the three could be his companion without almost
identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a letter to a correspondent
whom he could trust, beseeching him to ship the bearer off at any cost, to
North or South America, or any distant part of the world to which he could =
be
the most speedily and privately dispatched.
This done, they walked about, wait=
ing
for the Circus to be quite vacated; not only by the audience, but by the
company and by the horses. After watching it a long time, they saw Mr. Slea=
ry
bring out a chair and sit down by the side-door, smoking; as if that were h=
is
signal that they might approach.
‘Your thervant, Thquire,R=
17;
was his cautious salutation as they passed in. ‘If you want me you=
217;ll
find me here. You muthn’t mind your thon having a comic livery on.=
217;
They all three went in; and Mr.
Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown’s performing chair in the mi=
ddle
of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the
strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom=
he
had the misery to call his son.
In a preposterous coat, like a bea=
dle’s,
with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense
waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing
fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten and full of hole=
s;
with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the
greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably,
ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never
could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact th=
ough
it was. And one of his model children had come to this!
At first the whelp would not draw =
any
nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length,=
if
any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of
Sissy - for Louisa he disowned altogether - he came down, bench by bench, u=
ntil
he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, wi=
thin
its limits from where his father sat.
‘How was this done?’ a=
sked
the father.
‘How was what done?’
moodily answered the son.
‘This robbery,’ said t=
he
father, raising his voice upon the word.
‘I forced the safe myself ov=
er
night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was
found, made long before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be suppos=
ed
to have been used. I didn’t take the money all at once. I pretended to
put my balance away every night, but I didn’t. Now you know all about=
it.’
‘If a thunderbolt had fallen=
on
me,’ said the father, ‘it would have shocked me less than this!=
’
‘I don’t see why,̵=
7;
grumbled the son. ‘So many people are employed in situations of trust=
; so
many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a
hundred times, of its being a law. How can I help laws? You have comforted
others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!’
The father buried his face in his
hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw: his
hands, with the black partly worn away inside, looking like the hands of a
monkey. The evening was fast closing in; and from time to time, he turned t=
he
whites of his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his father. They were=
the
only parts of his face that showed any life or expression, the pigment upon=
it
was so thick.
‘You must be got to Liverpoo=
l,
and sent abroad.’
‘I suppose I must. I canR=
17;t
be more miserable anywhere,’ whimpered the whelp, ‘than I have =
been
here, ever since I can remember. That’s one thing.’
Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and
returned with Sleary, to whom he submitted the question, How to get this
deplorable object away?
‘Why, I’ve been thinki=
ng
of it, Thquire. There’th not muth time to lothe, tho you muth thay ye=
th
or no. Ith over twenty mileth to the rail. There’th a coath in half an
hour, that goeth to the rail, ‘purpothe to cath the mail train. That
train will take him right to Liverpool.’
‘But look at him,’ gro=
aned
Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Will any coach - ‘
‘I don’t mean that he
thould go in the comic livery,’ said Sleary. ‘Thay the word, an=
d I’ll
make a Jothkin of him, out of the wardrobe, in five minutes.’
‘I don’t understand,=
8217;
said Mr. Gradgrind.
‘A Jothkin - a Carter. Make =
up
your mind quick, Thquire. There’ll be beer to feth. I’ve never =
met
with nothing but beer ath’ll ever clean a comic blackamoor.’
Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented; Mr.
Sleary rapidly turned out from a box, a smock frock, a felt hat, and other
essentials; the whelp rapidly changed clothes behind a screen of baize; Mr.
Sleary rapidly brought beer, and washed him white again.
‘Now,’ said Sleary, =
8216;come
along to the coath, and jump up behind; I’ll go with you there, and t=
hey’ll
thuppothe you one of my people. Thay farewell to your family, and tharpR=
17;th
the word.’ With which he delicately retired.
‘Here is your letter,’
said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘All necessary means will be provided for you. At=
one,
by repentance and better conduct, for the shocking action you have committe=
d,
and the dreadful consequences to which it has led. Give me your hand, my po=
or
boy, and may God forgive you as I do!’
The culprit was moved to a few abj=
ect
tears by these words and their pathetic tone. But, when Louisa opened her a=
rms,
he repulsed her afresh.
‘Not you. I don’t want=
to
have anything to say to you!’
‘O Tom, Tom, do we end so, a=
fter
all my love!’
‘After all your love!’=
he
returned, obdurately. ‘Pretty love! Leaving old Bounderby to himself,=
and
packing my best friend Mr. Harthouse off, and going home just when I was in=
the
greatest danger. Pretty love that! Coming out with every word about our hav=
ing
gone to that place, when you saw the net was gathering round me. Pretty love
that! You have regularly given me up. You never cared for me.’
‘Tharp’th the word!=
217;
said Sleary, at the door.
They all confusedly went out: Loui=
sa
crying to him that she forgave him, and loved him still, and that he would =
one
day be sorry to have left her so, and glad to think of these her last words,
far away: when some one ran against them. Mr. Gradgrind and Sissy, who were
both before him while his sister yet clung to his shoulder, stopped and
recoiled.
For, there was Bitzer, out of brea=
th,
his thin lips parted, his thin nostrils distended, his white eyelashes
quivering, his colourless face more colourless than ever, as if he ran hims=
elf
into a white heat, when other people ran themselves into a glow. There he
stood, panting and heaving, as if he had never stopped since the night, now
long ago, when he had run them down before.
‘I’m sorry to interfere
with your plans,’ said Bitzer, shaking his head, ‘but I canR=
17;t
allow myself to be done by horse-riders. I must have young Mr. Tom; he must=
n’t
be got away by horse-riders; here he is in a smock frock, and I must have h=
im!’
By the collar, too, it seemed. For=
, so
he took possession of him.
THEY went back into the booth, Sle=
ary
shutting the door to keep intruders out. Bitzer, still holding the paralysed
culprit by the collar, stood in the Ring, blinking at his old patron through
the darkness of the twilight.
‘Bitzer,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, broken down, and miserably submissive to him, ‘have you a
heart?’
‘The circulation, sir,’
returned Bitzer, smiling at the oddity of the question, ‘couldn’=
;t
be carried on without one. No man, sir, acquainted with the facts establish=
ed
by Harvey relating to the circulation of the blood, can doubt that I have a
heart.’
‘Is it accessible,’ cr=
ied
Mr. Gradgrind, ‘to any compassionate influence?’
‘It is accessible to Reason,
sir,’ returned the excellent young man. ‘And to nothing else.=
8217;
They stood looking at each other; =
Mr.
Gradgrind’s face as white as the pursuer’s.
‘What motive - even what mot=
ive
in reason - can you have for preventing the escape of this wretched youth,&=
#8217;
said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘and crushing his miserable father? See his sister
here. Pity us!’
‘Sir,’ returned Bitzer=
, in
a very business-like and logical manner, ‘since you ask me what motiv=
e I
have in reason, for taking young Mr. Tom back to Coketown, it is only
reasonable to let you know. I have suspected young Mr. Tom of this bank-rob=
bery
from the first. I had had my eye upon him before that time, for I knew his
ways. I have kept my observations to myself, but I have made them; and I ha=
ve
got ample proofs against him now, besides his running away, and besides his=
own
confession, which I was just in time to overhear. I had the pleasure of wat=
ching
your house yesterday morning, and following you here. I am going to take yo=
ung
Mr. Tom back to Coketown, in order to deliver him over to Mr. Bounderby. Si=
r, I
have no doubt whatever that Mr. Bounderby will then promote me to young Mr.=
Tom’s
situation. And I wish to have his situation, sir, for it will be a rise to =
me,
and will do me good.’
‘If this is solely a questio=
n of
self-interest with you - ‘ Mr. Gradgrind began.
‘I beg your pardon for
interrupting you, sir,’ returned Bitzer; ‘but I am sure you know
that the whole social system is a question of self-interest. What you must
always appeal to, is a person’s self-interest. It’s your only h=
old.
We are so constituted. I was brought up in that catechism when I was very
young, sir, as you are aware.’
‘What sum of money,’ s= aid Mr. Gradgrind, ‘will you set against your expected promotion?’<= o:p>
‘Thank you, sir,’ retu=
rned
Bitzer, ‘for hinting at the proposal; but I will not set any sum agai=
nst
it. Knowing that your clear head would propose that alternative, I have gone
over the calculations in my mind; and I find that to compound a felony, eve=
n on
very high terms indeed, would not be as safe and good for me as my improved
prospects in the Bank.’
‘Bitzer,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, stretching out his hands as though he would have said, See how
miserable I am! ‘Bitzer, I have but one chance left to soften you. You
were many years at my school. If, in remembrance of the pains bestowed upon=
you
there, you can persuade yourself in any degree to disregard your present in=
terest
and release my son, I entreat and pray you to give him the benefit of that
remembrance.’
‘I really wonder, sir,’
rejoined the old pupil in an argumentative manner, ‘to find you takin=
g a
position so untenable. My schooling was paid for; it was a bargain; and whe=
n I
came away, the bargain ended.’
It was a fundamental principle of =
the
Gradgrind philosophy that everything was to be paid for. Nobody was ever on=
any
account to give anybody anything, or render anybody help without purchase.
Gratitude was to be abolished, and the virtues springing from it were not to
be. Every inch of the existence of mankind, from birth to death, was to be a
bargain across a counter. And if we didn’t get to Heaven that way, it=
was
not a politico-economical place, and we had no business there.
‘I don’t deny,’
added Bitzer, ‘that my schooling was cheap. But that comes right, sir=
. I
was made in the cheapest market, and have to dispose of myself in the deare=
st.’
He was a little troubled here, by
Louisa and Sissy crying.
‘Pray don’t do that,=
8217;
said he, ‘it’s of no use doing that: it only worries. You seem =
to
think that I have some animosity against young Mr. Tom; whereas I have none=
at
all. I am only going, on the reasonable grounds I have mentioned, to take h=
im
back to Coketown. If he was to resist, I should set up the cry of Stop thie=
f!
But, he won’t resist, you may depend upon it.’
Mr. Sleary, who with his mouth open and his rolling eye as immovably jammed in his head as his fixed one, had listened to these doctrines with profound attention, here stepped forward.<= o:p>
‘Thquire, you know perfectly
well, and your daughter knowth perfectly well (better than you, becauthe I =
thed
it to her), that I didn’t know what your thon had done, and that I di=
dn’t
want to know - I thed it wath better not, though I only thought, then, it w=
ath
thome thkylarking. However, thith young man having made it known to be a
robbery of a bank, why, that’h a theriouth thing; muth too theriouth a
thing for me to compound, ath thith young man hath very properly called it.=
Conthequently,
Thquire, you muthn’t quarrel with me if I take thith young man’=
th
thide, and thay he’th right and there’th no help for it. But I =
tell
you what I’ll do, Thquire; I’ll drive your thon and thith young=
man
over to the rail, and prevent expothure here. I can’t conthent to do
more, but I’ll do that.’
Fresh lamentations from Louisa, and
deeper affliction on Mr. Gradgrind’s part, followed this desertion of
them by their last friend. But, Sissy glanced at him with great attention; =
nor
did she in her own breast misunderstand him. As they were all going out aga=
in,
he favoured her with one slight roll of his movable eye, desiring her to li=
nger
behind. As he locked the door, he said excitedly:
‘The Thquire thtood by you,
Thethilia, and I’ll thtand by the Thquire. More than that: thith ith a
prethiouth rathcal, and belongth to that bluthtering Cove that my people ne=
arly
pitht out o’ winder. It’ll be a dark night; I’ve got a ho=
rthe
that’ll do anything but thpeak; I’ve got a pony that’ll go
fifteen mile an hour with Childerth driving of him; I’ve got a dog th=
at’ll
keep a man to one plathe four-and-twenty hourth. Get a word with the young
Thquire. Tell him, when he theeth our horthe begin to danthe, not to be afr=
aid
of being thpilt, but to look out for a pony-gig coming up. Tell him, when he
theeth that gig clothe by, to jump down, and it’ll take him off at a
rattling pathe. If my dog leth thith young man thtir a peg on foot, I give =
him
leave to go. And if my horthe ever thtirth from that thpot where he beginth=
a
danthing, till the morning - I don’t know him? - Tharp’th the w=
ord!’
The word was so sharp, that in ten
minutes Mr. Childers, sauntering about the market-place in a pair of slippe=
rs,
had his cue, and Mr. Sleary’s equipage was ready. It was a fine sight=
, to
behold the learned dog barking round it, and Mr. Sleary instructing him, wi=
th
his one practicable eye, that Bitzer was the object of his particular
attentions. Soon after dark they all three got in and started; the learned =
dog
(a formidable creature) already pinning Bitzer with his eye, and sticking c=
lose
to the wheel on his side, that he might be ready for him in the event of his
showing the slightest disposition to alight.
The other three sat up at the inn =
all
night in great suspense. At eight o’clock in the morning Mr. Sleary a=
nd
the dog reappeared: both in high spirits.
‘All right, Thquire!’ =
said
Mr. Sleary, ‘your thon may be aboard-a- thip by thith time. Childerth
took him off, an hour and a half after we left there latht night. The horthe
danthed the polka till he wath dead beat (he would have walthed if he hadn&=
#8217;t
been in harneth), and then I gave him the word and he went to thleep
comfortable. When that prethiouth young Rathcal thed he’d go for̵=
7;ard
afoot, the dog hung on to hith neck-hankercher with all four legth in the a=
ir
and pulled him down and rolled him over. Tho he come back into the drag, and
there he that, ‘till I turned the horthe’th head, at half-patht
thixth thith morning.’
Mr. Gradgrind overwhelmed him with
thanks, of course; and hinted as delicately as he could, at a handsome
remuneration in money.
‘I don’t want money
mythelf, Thquire; but Childerth ith a family man, and if you wath to like to
offer him a five-pound note, it mightn’t be unactheptable. Likewithe =
if
you wath to thtand a collar for the dog, or a thet of bellth for the horthe=
, I
thould be very glad to take ‘em. Brandy and water I alwayth take.R=
17;
He had already called for a glass, and now called for another. ‘If you
wouldn’t think it going too far, Thquire, to make a little thpread for
the company at about three and thixth ahead, not reckoning Luth, it would m=
ake ‘em
happy.’
All these little tokens of his
gratitude, Mr. Gradgrind very willingly undertook to render. Though he thou=
ght
them far too slight, he said, for such a service.
‘Very well, Thquire; then, if
you’ll only give a Horthe-riding, a bethpeak, whenever you can, you=
8217;ll
more than balanthe the account. Now, Thquire, if your daughter will ethcuthe
me, I thould like one parting word with you.’
Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an
adjoining room; Mr. Sleary, stirring and drinking his brandy and water as he
stood, went on:
‘Thquire, - you don’t =
need
to be told that dogth ith wonderful animalth.’
‘Their instinct,’ said=
Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘is surprising.’
‘Whatever you call it - and =
I’m
bletht if I know what to call it’ - said Sleary, ‘it ith
athtonithing. The way in whith a dog’ll find you - the dithtanthe he&=
#8217;ll
come!’
‘His scent,’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, ‘being so fine.’
‘I’m bletht if I know =
what
to call it,’ repeated Sleary, shaking his head, ‘but I have had
dogth find me, Thquire, in a way that made me think whether that dog hadn=
8217;t
gone to another dog, and thed, "You don’t happen to know a perth=
on
of the name of Thleary, do you? Perthon of the name of Thleary, in the
Horthe-Riding way - thtout man - game eye?" And whether that dog might=
n’t
have thed, "Well, I can’t thay I know him mythelf, but I know a =
dog
that I think would be likely to be acquainted with him." And whether t=
hat
dog mightn’t have thought it over, and thed, "Thleary, Thleary! O
yeth, to be thure! A friend of mine menthioned him to me at one time. I can=
get
you hith addreth directly." In conthequenth of my being afore the publ=
ic,
and going about tho muth, you thee, there mutht be a number of dogth acquai=
nted
with me, Thquire, that I don’t know!’
Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quite
confounded by this speculation.
‘Any way,’ said Sleary,
after putting his lips to his brandy and water, ‘ith fourteen month a=
go,
Thquire, thinthe we wath at Chethter. We wath getting up our Children in the
Wood one morning, when there cometh into our Ring, by the thtage door, a do=
g.
He had travelled a long way, he wath in a very bad condithon, he wath lame,=
and
pretty well blind. He went round to our children, one after another, as if =
he
wath a theeking for a child he know’d; and then he come to me, and th=
rowd
hithelf up behind, and thtood on hith two forelegth, weak ath he wath, and =
then
he wagged hith tail and died. Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.’
‘Sissy’s father’s
dog!’
‘Thethilia’th father=
8217;th
old dog. Now, Thquire, I can take my oath, from my knowledge of that dog, t=
hat
that man wath dead - and buried - afore that dog come back to me. Joth̵=
7;phine
and Childerth and me talked it over a long time, whether I thould write or =
not.
But we agreed, "No. There’th nothing comfortable to tell; why
unthettle her mind, and make her unhappy?" Tho, whether her father bat=
hely
detherted her; or whether he broke hith own heart alone, rather than pull h=
er
down along with him; never will be known, now, Thquire, till - no, not till=
we
know how the dogth findth uth out!’
‘She keeps the bottle that he
sent her for, to this hour; and she will believe in his affection to the la=
st
moment of her life,’ said Mr. Gradgrind.
‘It theemth to prethent two
thingth to a perthon, don’t it, Thquire?’ said Mr. Sleary, musi=
ng
as he looked down into the depths of his brandy and water: ‘one, that
there ith a love in the world, not all Thelf-interetht after all, but
thomething very different; t’other, that it bath a way of ith own of
calculating or not calculating, whith thomehow or another ith at leatht ath
hard to give a name to, ath the wayth of the dogth ith!’
Mr. Gradgrind looked out of window,
and made no reply. Mr. Sleary emptied his glass and recalled the ladies.
‘Thethilia my dear, kith me =
and
good-bye! Mith Thquire, to thee you treating of her like a thithter, and a
thithter that you trutht and honour with all your heart and more, ith a very
pretty thight to me. I hope your brother may live to be better detherving of
you, and a greater comfort to you. Thquire, thake handth, firtht and latht!=
Don’t
be croth with uth poor vagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. They can’=
t be
alwayth a learning, nor yet they can’t be alwayth a working, they an&=
#8217;t
made for it. You mutht have uth, Thquire. Do the withe thing and the kind t=
hing
too, and make the betht of uth; not the wurtht!’
‘And I never thought before,=
’
said Mr. Sleary, putting his head in at the door again to say it, ‘th=
at I
wath tho muth of a Cackler!’
IT is a dangerous thing to see
anything in the sphere of a vain blusterer, before the vain blusterer sees =
it
himself. Mr. Bounderby felt that Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipated h=
im,
and presumed to be wiser than he. Inappeasably indignant with her for her
triumphant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turned this presumption, on the par=
t of
a woman in her dependent position, over and over in his mind, until it
accumulated with turning like a great snowball. At last he made the discove=
ry
that to discharge this highly connected female - to have it in his power to
say, ‘She was a woman of family, and wanted to stick to me, but I wou=
ldn’t
have it, and got rid of her’ - would be to get the utmost possible am=
ount
of crowning glory out of the connection, and at the same time to punish Mrs.
Sparsit according to her deserts.
Filled fuller than ever, with this
great idea, Mr. Bounderby came in to lunch, and sat himself down in the
dining-room of former days, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit sat by the
fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup, little thinking whither she was
posting.
Since the Pegler affair, this
gentlewoman had covered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet
melancholy and contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become her habit to as=
sume
a woful look, which woful look she now bestowed upon her patron.
‘What’s the matter now=
, ma’am?’
said Mr. Bounderby, in a very short, rough way.
‘Pray, sir,’ returned =
Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘do not bite my nose off.’
‘Bite your nose off, ma̵=
7;am?’
repeated Mr. Bounderby. ‘Your nose!’ meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit
conceived, that it was too developed a nose for the purpose. After which
offensive implication, he cut himself a crust of bread, and threw the knife
down with a noise.
Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of =
her
stirrup, and said, ‘Mr. Bounderby, sir!’
‘Well, ma’am?’
retorted Mr. Bounderby. ‘What are you staring at?’
‘May I ask, sir,’ said
Mrs. Sparsit, ‘have you been ruffled this morning?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘May I inquire, sir,’
pursued the injured woman, ‘whether I am the unfortunate cause of your
having lost your temper?’
‘Now, I’ll tell you wh=
at,
ma’am,’ said Bounderby, ‘I am not come here to be bullied=
. A
female may be highly connected, but she can’t be permitted to bother =
and
badger a man in my position, and I am not going to put up with it.’ (=
Mr.
Bounderby felt it necessary to get on: foreseeing that if he allowed of
details, he would be beaten.)
Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then
knitted, her Coriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her work into its proper bas=
ket;
and rose.
‘Sir,’ said she, majes=
tically.
‘It is apparent to me that I am in your way at present. I will retire=
to
my own apartment.’
‘Allow me to open the door, =
ma’am.’
‘Thank you, sir; I can do it=
for
myself.’
‘You had better allow me, ma=
’am,’
said Bounderby, passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock; ‘bec=
ause
I can take the opportunity of saying a word to you, before you go. Mrs.
Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think you are cramped here, do you know? It
appears to me, that, under my humble roof, there’s hardly opening eno=
ugh
for a lady of your genius in other people’s affairs.’
Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the
darkest scorn, and said with great politeness, ‘Really, sir?’
‘I have been thinking it ove=
r,
you see, since the late affairs have happened, ma’am,’ said
Bounderby; ‘and it appears to my poor judgment - ‘
‘Oh! Pray, sir,’ Mrs.
Sparsit interposed, with sprightly cheerfulness, ‘don’t dispara=
ge
your judgment. Everybody knows how unerring Mr. Bounderby’s judgment =
is.
Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the theme of general conversatio=
n.
Disparage anything in yourself but your judgment, sir,’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, laughing.
Mr. Bounderby, very red and
uncomfortable, resumed:
‘It appears to me, ma’=
am,
I say, that a different sort of establishment altogether would bring out a =
lady
of your powers. Such an establishment as your relation, Lady Scadgers’=
;s,
now. Don’t you think you might find some affairs there, ma’am, =
to
interfere with?’
‘It never occurred to me bef=
ore,
sir,’ returned Mrs. Sparsit; ‘but now you mention it, should th=
ink
it highly probable.’
‘Then suppose you try, ma=
217;am,’
said Bounderby, laying an envelope with a cheque in it in her little basket=
. ‘You
can take your own time for going, ma’am; but perhaps in the meanwhile=
, it
will be more agreeable to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals by
herself, and not to be intruded upon. I really ought to apologise to you -
being only Josiah Bounderby of Coketown - for having stood in your light so
long.’
‘Pray don’t name it, s=
ir,’
returned Mrs. Sparsit. ‘If that portrait could speak, sir - but it has
the advantage over the original of not possessing the power of committing
itself and disgusting others, - it would testify, that a long period has
elapsed since I first habitually addressed it as the picture of a Noodle.
Nothing that a Noodle does, can awaken surprise or indignation; the proceed=
ings
of a Noodle can only inspire contempt.’
Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her
Roman features like a medal struck to commemorate her scorn of Mr. Bounderb=
y,
surveyed him fixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfully past him, and
ascended the staircase. Mr. Bounderby closed the door, and stood before the
fire; projecting himself after his old explosive manner into his portrait -=
and
into futurity.
Into how much of futurity? He saw =
Mrs.
Sparsit fighting out a daily fight at the points of all the weapons in the
female armoury, with the grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting Lady Scadg=
ers,
still laid up in bed with her mysterious leg, and gobbling her insufficient
income down by about the middle of every quarter, in a mean little airless
lodging, a mere closet for one, a mere crib for two; but did he see more? D=
id
he catch any glimpse of himself making a show of Bitzer to strangers, as the
rising young man, so devoted to his master’s great merits, who had won
young Tom’s place, and had almost captured young Tom himself, in the
times when by various rascals he was spirited away? Did he see any faint
reflection of his own image making a vain-glorious will, whereby
five-and-twenty Humbugs, past five-and-fifty years of age, each taking upon
himself the name, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, should for ever dine in
Bounderby Hall, for ever lodge in Bounderby buildings, for ever attend a
Bounderby chapel, for ever go to sleep under a Bounderby chaplain, for ever=
be
supported out of a Bounderby estate, and for ever nauseate all healthy
stomachs, with a vast amount of Bounderby balderdash and bluster? Had he any
prescience of the day, five years to come, when Josiah Bounderby of Coketown
was to die of a fit in the Coketown street, and this same precious will was=
to
begin its long career of quibble, plunder, false pretences, vile example,
little service and much law? Probably not. Yet the portrait was to see it a=
ll
out.
Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same
day, and in the same hour, sitting thoughtful in his own room. How much of
futurity did he see? Did he see himself, a white-haired decrepit man, bendi=
ng
his hitherto inflexible theories to appointed circumstances; making his fac=
ts
and figures subservient to Faith, Hope, and Charity; and no longer trying to
grind that Heavenly trio in his dusty little mills? Did he catch sight of
himself, therefore much despised by his late political associates? Did he s=
ee
them, in the era of its being quite settled that the national dustmen have =
only
to do with one another, and owe no duty to an abstraction called a People, =
‘taunting
the honourable gentleman’ with this and with that and with what not, =
five
nights a-week, until the small hours of the morning? Probably he had that m=
uch
foreknowledge, knowing his men.
Here was Louisa on the night of the
same day, watching the fire as in days of yore, though with a gentler and a
humbler face. How much of the future might arise before her vision? Broadsi=
des
in the streets, signed with her father’s name, exonerating the late
Stephen Blackpool, weaver, from misplaced suspicion, and publishing the gui=
lt
of his own son, with such extenuation as his years and temptation (he could=
not
bring himself to add, his education) might beseech; were of the Present. So,
Stephen Blackpool’s tombstone, with her father’s record of his
death, was almost of the Present, for she knew it was to be. These things s=
he
could plainly see. But, how much of the Future?
A working woman, christened Rachae=
l,
after a long illness once again appearing at the ringing of the Factory bel=
l,
and passing to and fro at the set hours, among the Coketown Hands; a woman =
of
pensive beauty, always dressed in black, but sweet-tempered and serene, and
even cheerful; who, of all the people in the place, alone appeared to have
compassion on a degraded, drunken wretch of her own sex, who was sometimes =
seen
in the town secretly begging of her, and crying to her; a woman working, ev=
er
working, but content to do it, and preferring to do it as her natural lot,
until she should be too old to labour any more? Did Louisa see this? Such a
thing was to be.
A lonely brother, many thousands of
miles away, writing, on paper blotted with tears, that her words had too so=
on
come true, and that all the treasures in the world would be cheaply bartered
for a sight of her dear face? At length this brother coming nearer home, wi=
th
hope of seeing her, and being delayed by illness; and then a letter, in a
strange hand, saying ‘he died in hospital, of fever, such a day, and =
died
in penitence and love of you: his last word being your name’? Did Lou=
isa
see these things? Such things were to be.
Herself again a wife - a mother -
lovingly watchful of her children, ever careful that they should have a
childhood of the mind no less than a childhood of the body, as knowing it t=
o be
even a more beautiful thing, and a possession, any hoarded scrap of which, =
is a
blessing and happiness to the wisest? Did Louisa see this? Such a thing was
never to be.
But, happy Sissy’s happy chi=
ldren
loving her; all children loving her; she, grown learned in childish lore;
thinking no innocent and pretty fancy ever to be despised; trying hard to k=
now
her humbler fellow-creatures, and to beautify their lives of machinery and
reality with those imaginative graces and delights, without which the heart=
of
infancy will wither up, the sturdiest physical manhood will be morally stark
death, and the plainest national prosperity figures can show, will be the
Writing on the Wall, - she holding this course as part of no fantastic vow,=
or
bond, or brotherhood, or sisterhood, or pledge, or covenant, or fancy dress=
, or
fancy fair; but simply as a duty to be done, - did Louisa see these things =
of
herself? These things were to be.
Dear reader! It rests with you and=
me,
whether, in our two fields of action, similar things shall be or not. Let t=
hem
be! We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our
fires turn gray and cold.
The End