Bleak House
confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. At once a
child, an elder girl, and the little woman I had been so happy as, I
was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted to each
station, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile
them. I suppose that few who have not been in such a condition can
quite understand what I mean or what painful unrest arose from this
source.
For the same reason I am almost afraid to hint at that time in my
disorder—it seemed one long night, but I believe there were both
nights and days in it—when I laboured up colossal staircases, ever
striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as I have seen a worm in
a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. I knew
perfectly at intervals, and I think vaguely at most times, that I was
in my bed; and I talked with Charley, and felt her touch, and knew
her very well; yet I would find myself complaining, “Oh, more of
these never-ending stairs, Charley—more and more—piled up to the
sky’, I think!” and labouring on again.
Dare I hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in
great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry
circle of some kind, of which I was one of the beads! And when my
only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such
inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing?
Perhaps the less I say of these sick experiences, the less tedious
and the more intelligible I shall be. I do not recall them to make
others unhappy or because I am now the least unhappy in remembering
them. It may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions we
might be the better able to alleviate their intensity.
The repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful
rest, when in my weakness I was too calm to have any care for myself
and could have heard (or so I think now) that I was dying, with no
other emotion than with a pitying love for those I left behind—this
state can be perhaps more widely understood. I was in this state when
I first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once more, and
knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough
that I should see again.
I had heard my Ada crying at the door, day and night; I had heard her
calling to me that I was cruel and did not love her; I had heard her
praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to
leave my bedside no more; but I had only said, when I could speak,
“Never, my sweet girl, never!” and I had over and over again reminded
Charley that she was to keep my darling from the room whether I lived
or died. Charley had been true to me in that time of need, and with
her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast.
But now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every
day more fully and brightly on me, I could read the letters that my
dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to my
lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. I could
see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about the two
rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to Ada from
the open window again. I could understand the stillness in the house
and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who had
always been so good to me. I could weep in the exquisite felicity of
my heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever I had been in my
strength.
By and by my strength began to be restored. Instead of lying, with so
strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were done
for some one else whom I was quietly sorry for, I helped it a little,
and so on to a little more and much more, until I became useful to
myself, and interested, and attached to life again.
How well I remember the pleasant afternoon when I was raised in bed
with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with
Charley! The little creature—sent into the world, surely, to
minister to the weak and sick—was so happy, and so busy, and stopped
so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and
fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she was so
glad, that I was obliged to say, “Charley, if you go on in this way,
I must lie down again, my darling, for I am weaker than I thought I
was!” So Charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face
here and there across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into
the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shade, while I
watched her peacefully. When all her preparations were concluded and
the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies to tempt me, and its
white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so lovingly and
beautifully arranged for me by Ada downstairs, was ready at the
bedside, I felt sure I was steady enough to say something to Charley
that was not new to my thoughts.
First I complimented Charley on the room, and indeed it was so fresh
and airy, so spotless and neat, that I could scarce believe I had
been lying there so long. This delighted Charley, and her face was
brighter than before.
“Yet, Charley,” said I, looking round, “I miss something, surely,
that I am accustomed to?”
Poor little Charley looked round too and pretended to shake her head
as if there were nothing absent.
“Are the pictures all as they used to be?” I asked her.
“Every one of them, miss,” said Charley.
“And the furniture, Charley?”
“Except where I have moved it about to make more room, miss.”
“And yet,” said I, “I miss some familiar object. Ah, I know what it
is, Charley! It’s the looking-glass.”
Charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten
something, and went into the next room; and I heard her sob there.
I had thought of this very often. I was now certain of it. I could
thank God that it was not a shock to me now. I called Charley back,
and when she came—at first pretending to smile, but as she drew
nearer to me, looking grieved—I took her in my arms and said, “It
matters very little, Charley. I hope I can do without my old face
very well.”
I was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great
chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on
Charley. The mirror was gone from its usual place in that room too,
but what I had to bear was none the harder to bear for that.
My guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was
now no good reason why I should deny myself that happiness. He came
one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me in his
embrace and say, “My dear, dear girl!” I had long known—who could
know better?—what a deep fountain of affection and generosity his
heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering and change to
fill such a place in it? “Oh, yes!” I thought. “He has seen me, and
he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder of
me than he was before; and what have I to mourn for!”
He sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. For a
little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed
it, fell into his usual manner. There never can have been, there
never can be, a pleasanter manner.
“My little woman,” said he, “what a sad time this has been. Such an
inflexible little woman, too, through all!”
“Only for the best, guardian,” said I.
“For the best?” he repeated tenderly. “Of course, for the best. But
here have Ada and I been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has
your friend Caddy been coming and going late and early; here has
every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has
even poor Rick been writing—to ME too—in his anxiety for you!”
I had read of Caddy in Ada’s letters, but not of Richard. I told him
so.
“Why, no, my dear,” he replied. “I have thought it better not to
mention it to her.”
“And you speak of his writing to YOU,” said I, repeating his
emphasis. “As if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as
if he could write to a better friend!”
“He thinks he could, my love,” returned my guardian, “and to many a
better. The truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while
unable to write to you with any hope of an answer—wrote coldly,
haughtily, distantly, resentfully. Well, dearest little woman, we
must look forbearingly on it. He is not to blame. Jarndyce and
Jarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his eyes.
I have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. If two
angels could be concerned in it, I believe it would change their
nature.”
“It has not changed yours, guardian.”
“Oh, yes, it has, my dear,” he said laughingly. “It has made the
south wind easterly, I don’t know how often. Rick mistrusts and
suspects me—goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect
me. Hears I have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his
and what not. Whereas, heaven knows that if I could get out of the
mountains of Wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has been so
long bestowed (which I can’t) or could level them by the extinction
of my own original right (which I can’t either, and no human power
ever can, anyhow, I believe, to such a pass have we got), I would do
it this hour. I would rather restore to poor Rick his proper nature
than be endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart
and soul, upon the wheel of Chancery, have left unclaimed with the
Accountant-General—and that’s money enough, my dear, to be cast into
a pyramid, in memory of Chancery’s transcendent wickedness.”
“IS it possible, guardian,” I asked, amazed, “that Richard can be
suspicious of you?”
“Ah, my love, my love,” he said, “it is in the subtle poison of such
abuses to breed such diseases. His blood is infected, and objects
lose their natural aspects in his sight. It is not HIS fault.”
“But it is a terrible misfortune, guardian.”
“It is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within
the influences of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. I know none greater. By
little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed,
and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything
around him. But again I say with all my soul, we must be patient with
poor Rick and not blame him. What a troop of fine fresh hearts like
his have I seen in my time turned by the same means!”
I could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that
his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little.
“We must not say so, Dame Durden,” he cheerfully replied; “Ada is the
happier, I hope, and that is much. I did think that I and both these
young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that
we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it. But
it was too much to expect. Jarndyce and Jarndyce was the curtain of
Rick’s cradle.”
“But, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach
him what a false and wretched thing it is?”
“We WILL hope so, my Esther,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “and that it may not
teach him so too late. In any case we must not be hard on him. There
are not many grown and matured men living while we speak, good men
too, who if they were thrown into this same court as suitors would
not be vitally changed and depreciated within three years—within
two—within one. How can we stand amazed at poor Rick? A young man so
unfortunate,” here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking
aloud, “cannot at first believe (who could?) that Chancery is what it
is. He looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his
interests and bring them to some settlement. It procrastinates,
disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine hopes and
patience, thread by thread; but he still looks to it, and hankers
after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. Well,