Dombey and Son
little garden, you know,” says Cook plaintively, “and bring up sweet
peas in the spring.” “Exactly so,” says Mr Towlinson, “and be one of
the Brethren of something or another.” “We are all brethren,” says Mrs
Perch, in a pause of her drink. “Except the sisters,” says Mr Perch.
“How are the mighty fallen!” remarks Cook. “Pride shall have a fall,
and it always was and will be so!” observes the housemaid.
It is wonderful how good they feel, in making these reflections; and
what a Christian unanimity they are sensible of, in bearing the common
shock with resignation. There is only one interruption to this
excellent state of mind, which is occasioned by a young kitchen-maid of
inferior rank—in black stockings—who, having sat with her mouth open
for a long time, unexpectedly discharges from it words to this effect,
“Suppose the wages shouldn’t be paid!” The company sit for a moment
speechless; but Cook recovering first, turns upon the young woman, and
requests to know how she dares insult the family, whose bread she eats,
by such a dishonest supposition, and whether she thinks that anybody,
with a scrap of honour left, could deprive poor servants of their
pittance? “Because if that is your religious feelings, Mary Daws,” says
Cook warmly, “I don’t know where you mean to go to.”
Mr Towlinson don’t know either; nor anybody; and the young
kitchen-maid, appearing not to know exactly, herself, and scouted by
the general voice, is covered with confusion, as with a garment.
After a few days, strange people begin to call at the house, and to
make appointments with one another in the dining-room, as if they lived
there. Especially, there is a gentleman, of a Mosaic Arabian cast of
countenance, with a very massive watch-guard, who whistles in the
drawing-room, and, while he is waiting for the other gentleman, who
always has pen and ink in his pocket, asks Mr Towlinson (by the easy
name of “Old Cock,”) if he happens to know what the figure of them
crimson and gold hangings might have been, when new bought. The callers
and appointments in the dining-room become more numerous every day, and
every gentleman seems to have pen and ink in his pocket, and to have
some occasion to use it. At last it is said that there is going to be a
Sale; and then more people arrive, with pen and ink in their pockets,
commanding a detachment of men with carpet caps, who immediately begin
to pull up the carpets, and knock the furniture about, and to print off
thousands of impressions of their shoes upon the hall and staircase.
The council downstairs are in full conclave all this time, and, having
nothing to do, perform perfect feats of eating. At length, they are one
day summoned in a body to Mrs Pipchin’s room, and thus addressed by the
fair Peruvian:
“Your master’s in difficulties,” says Mrs Pipchin, tartly. “You know
that, I suppose?”
Mr Towlinson, as spokesman, admits a general knowledge of the fact.
“And you’re all on the look-out for yourselves, I warrant you,” says
Mrs Pipchin, shaking her head at them.
A shrill voice from the rear exclaims, “No more than yourself!”
“That’s your opinion, Mrs Impudence, is it?” says the ireful Pipchin,
looking with a fiery eye over the intermediate heads.
“Yes, Mrs Pipchin, it is,” replies Cook, advancing. “And what then,
pray?”
“Why, then you may go as soon as you like,” says Mrs Pipchin. “The
sooner the better; and I hope I shall never see your face again.”
With this the doughty Pipchin produces a canvas bag; and tells her
wages out to that day, and a month beyond it; and clutches the money
tight, until a receipt for the same is duly signed, to the last
upstroke; when she grudgingly lets it go. This form of proceeding Mrs
Pipchin repeats with every member of the household, until all are paid.
“Now those that choose, can go about their business,” says Mrs Pipchin,
“and those that choose can stay here on board wages for a week or so,
and make themselves useful. Except,” says the inflammable Pipchin,
“that slut of a cook, who’ll go immediately.”
“That,” says Cook, “she certainly will! I wish you good day, Mrs
Pipchin, and sincerely wish I could compliment you on the sweetness of
your appearance!”
“Get along with you,” says Mrs Pipchin, stamping her foot.
Cook sails off with an air of beneficent dignity, highly exasperating
to Mrs Pipchin, and is shortly joined below stairs by the rest of the
confederation.
Mr Towlinson then says that, in the first place, he would beg to
propose a little snack of something to eat; and over that snack would
desire to offer a suggestion which he thinks will meet the position in
which they find themselves. The refreshment being produced, and very
heartily partaken of, Mr Towlinson’s suggestion is, in effect, that
Cook is going, and that if we are not true to ourselves, nobody will be
true to us. That they have lived in that house a long time, and exerted
themselves very much to be sociable together. (At this, Cook says, with
emotion, “Hear, hear!” and Mrs Perch, who is there again, and full to
the throat, sheds tears.) And that he thinks, at the present time, the
feeling ought to be “Go one, go all!” The housemaid is much affected by
this generous sentiment, and warmly seconds it. Cook says she feels
it’s right, and only hopes it’s not done as a compliment to her, but
from a sense of duty. Mr Towlinson replies, from a sense of duty; and
that now he is driven to express his opinions, he will openly say, that
he does not think it over-respectable to remain in a house where Sales
and such-like are carrying forwards. The housemaid is sure of it; and
relates, in confirmation, that a strange man, in a carpet cap, offered,
this very morning, to kiss her on the stairs. Hereupon, Mr Towlinson is
starting from his chair, to seek and “smash” the offender; when he is
laid hold on by the ladies, who beseech him to calm himself, and to
reflect that it is easier and wiser to leave the scene of such
indecencies at once. Mrs Perch, presenting the case in a new light,
even shows that delicacy towards Mr Dombey, shut up in his own rooms,
imperatively demands precipitate retreat. “For what,” says the good
woman, “must his feelings be, if he was to come upon any of the poor
servants that he once deceived into thinking him immensely rich!” Cook
is so struck by this moral consideration, that Mrs Perch improves it
with several pious axioms, original and selected. It becomes a clear
case that they must all go. Boxes are packed, cabs fetched, and at dusk
that evening there is not one member of the party left.
The house stands, large and weather-proof, in the long dull street; but
it is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.
The men in the carpet caps go on tumbling the furniture about; and the
gentlemen with the pens and ink make out inventories of it, and sit
upon pieces of furniture never made to be sat upon, and eat bread and
cheese from the public-house on other pieces of furniture never made to
be eaten on, and seem to have a delight in appropriating precious
articles to strange uses. Chaotic combinations of furniture also take
place. Mattresses and bedding appear in the dining-room; the glass and
china get into the conservatory; the great dinner service is set out in
heaps on the long divan in the large drawing-room; and the stair-wires,
made into fasces, decorate the marble chimneypieces. Finally, a rug,
with a printed bill upon it, is hung out from the balcony; and a
similar appendage graces either side of the hall door.
Then, all day long, there is a retinue of mouldy gigs and chaise-carts
in the street; and herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian,
over-run the house, sounding the plate-glass mirrors with their
knuckles, striking discordant octaves on the Grand Piano, drawing wet
forefingers over the pictures, breathing on the blades of the best
dinner-knives, punching the squabs of chairs and sofas with their dirty
fists, touzling the feather beds, opening and shutting all the drawers,
balancing the silver spoons and forks, looking into the very threads of
the drapery and linen, and disparaging everything. There is not a
secret place in the whole house. Fluffy and snuffy strangers stare into
the kitchen-range as curiously as into the attic clothes-press. Stout
men with napless hats on, look out of the bedroom windows, and cut
jokes with friends in the street. Quiet, calculating spirits withdraw
into the dressing-rooms with catalogues, and make marginal notes
thereon, with stumps of pencils. Two brokers invade the very
fire-escape, and take a panoramic survey of the neighbourhood from the
top of the house. The swarm and buzz, and going up and down, endure for
days. The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on view.
Then there is a palisade of tables made in the best drawing-room; and
on the capital, french-polished, extending, telescopic range of Spanish
mahogany dining-tables with turned legs, the pulpit of the Auctioneer
is erected; and the herds of shabby vampires, Jew and Christian, the
strangers fluffy and snuffy, and the stout men with the napless hats,
congregate about it and sit upon everything within reach, mantel-pieces
included, and begin to bid. Hot, humming, and dusty are the rooms all
day; and—high above the heat, hum, and dust—the head and shoulders,
voice and hammer, of the Auctioneer, are ever at work. The men in the
carpet caps get flustered and vicious with tumbling the Lots about, and
still the Lots are going, going, gone; still coming on. Sometimes there
is joking and a general roar. This lasts all day and three days
following. The Capital Modern Household Furniture, &c., is on sale.
Then the mouldy gigs and chaise-carts reappear; and with them come
spring-vans and waggons, and an army of porters with knots. All day
long, the men with carpet caps are screwing at screw-drivers and
bed-winches, or staggering by the dozen together on the staircase under
heavy burdens, or upheaving perfect rocks of Spanish mahogany, best
rose-wood, or plate-glass, into the gigs and chaise-carts, vans and
waggons. All sorts of vehicles of burden are in attendance, from a
tilted waggon to a wheelbarrow. Poor Paul’s little bedstead is carried
off in a donkey-tandem. For nearly a whole week, the Capital Modern
Household Furniture, & c., is in course of removal.
At last it is all gone. Nothing is left about the house but scattered
leaves of catalogues, littered scraps of straw and hay, and a battery
of pewter pots behind the hall-door. The men with the carpet-caps
gather up their screw-drivers and bed-winches into bags, shoulder them,
and walk off. One of the pen-and-ink gentlemen goes over the house as a
last attention; sticking up bills in the windows respecting the lease
of this desirable family mansion, and shutting the shutters. At length
he follows the men with the carpet caps. None of the invaders remain.
The house is a ruin, and the rats fly from it.
Mrs Pipchin’s apartments, together with those locked rooms on the
ground-floor where the window-blinds are drawn down close, have been
spared the general devastation. Mrs Pipchin has remained austere and
stony during the proceedings, in her own room; or has occasionally
looked in at the sale to see what the goods are fetching, and to bid
for one particular easy chair. Mrs Pipchin has been the highest bidder
for the easy chair, and sits upon her property when Mrs Chick comes to
see her.
“How is my brother, Mrs Pipchin?” says Mrs Chick.
“I don’t know any more than the deuce,” says Mrs Pipchin. “He never
does me the honour to speak to me. He has his meat and drink put in the
next room to his own; and what he takes, he comes out and takes when
there’s nobody there. It’s no use asking me. I know no more about him
than the man in the south who burnt his mouth by eating cold plum