Dombey and Son
When Mr Dombey had looked at him, and told him he was young, and that
his Uncle’s circumstances were not good, there had been an expression
of disdain in his face; a contemptuous and disparaging assumption that
he would be quite content to live idly on a reduced old man, which
stung the boy’s generous soul. Determined to assure Mr Dombey, in so
far as it was possible to give him the assurance without expressing it
in words, that indeed he mistook his nature, Walter had been anxious to
show even more cheerfulness and activity after the West Indian
interview than he had shown before: if that were possible, in one of
his quick and zealous disposition. He was too young and inexperienced
to think, that possibly this very quality in him was not agreeable to
Mr Dombey, and that it was no stepping-stone to his good opinion to be
elastic and hopeful of pleasing under the shadow of his powerful
displeasure, whether it were right or wrong. But it may have been—it
may have been—that the great man thought himself defied in this new
exposition of an honest spirit, and purposed to bring it down.
“Well! at last and at least, Uncle Sol must be told,” thought Walter,
with a sigh. And as Walter was apprehensive that his voice might
perhaps quaver a little, and that his countenance might not be quite as
hopeful as he could wish it to be, if he told the old man himself, and
saw the first effects of his communication on his wrinkled face, he
resolved to avail himself of the services of that powerful mediator,
Captain Cuttle. Sunday coming round, he set off therefore, after
breakfast, once more to beat up Captain Cuttle’s quarters.
It was not unpleasant to remember, on the way thither, that Mrs
MacStinger resorted to a great distance every Sunday morning, to attend
the ministry of the Reverend Melchisedech Howler, who, having been one
day discharged from the West India Docks on a false suspicion (got up
expressly against him by the general enemy) of screwing gimlets into
puncheons, and applying his lips to the orifice, had announced the
destruction of the world for that day two years, at ten in the morning,
and opened a front parlour for the reception of ladies and gentlemen of
the Ranting persuasion, upon whom, on the first occasion of their
assemblage, the admonitions of the Reverend Melchisedech had produced
so powerful an effect, that, in their rapturous performance of a sacred
jig, which closed the service, the whole flock broke through into a
kitchen below, and disabled a mangle belonging to one of the fold.
This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided to
Walter and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the
night when Brogley the broker was paid out. The Captain himself was
punctual in his attendance at a church in his own neighbourhood, which
hoisted the Union Jack every Sunday morning; and where he was good
enough—the lawful beadle being infirm—to keep an eye upon the boys,
over whom he exercised great power, in virtue of his mysterious hook.
Knowing the regularity of the Captain’s habits, Walter made all the
haste he could, that he might anticipate his going out; and he made
such good speed, that he had the pleasure, on turning into Brig Place,
to behold the broad blue coat and waistcoat hanging out of the
Captain’s open window, to air in the sun.
It appeared incredible that the coat and waistcoat could be seen by
mortal eyes without the Captain; but he certainly was not in them,
otherwise his legs—the houses in Brig Place not being lofty—would have
obstructed the street door, which was perfectly clear. Quite wondering
at this discovery, Walter gave a single knock.
“Stinger,” he distinctly heard the Captain say, up in his room, as if
that were no business of his. Therefore Walter gave two knocks.
“Cuttle,” he heard the Captain say upon that; and immediately
afterwards the Captain, in his clean shirt and braces, with his
neckerchief hanging loosely round his throat like a coil of rope, and
his glazed hat on, appeared at the window, leaning out over the broad
blue coat and waistcoat.
“Wal”r!” cried the Captain, looking down upon him in amazement.
“Ay, ay, Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter, “only me”
“What’s the matter, my lad?” inquired the Captain, with great concern.
“Gills an’t been and sprung nothing again?”
“No, no,” said Walter. “My Uncle’s all right, Captain Cuttle.”
The Captain expressed his gratification, and said he would come down
below and open the door, which he did.
“Though you’re early, Wal”r,” said the Captain, eyeing him still
doubtfully, when they got upstairs:
“Why, the fact is, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, sitting down, “I was
afraid you would have gone out, and I want to benefit by your friendly
counsel.”
“So you shall,” said the Captain; “what’ll you take?”
“I want to take your opinion, Captain Cuttle,” returned Walter,
smiling. “That’s the only thing for me.”
“Come on then,” said the Captain. “With a will, my lad!”
Walter related to him what had happened; and the difficulty in which he
felt respecting his Uncle, and the relief it would be to him if Captain
Cuttle, in his kindness, would help him to smooth it away; Captain
Cuttle’s infinite consternation and astonishment at the prospect
unfolded to him, gradually swallowing that gentleman up, until it left
his face quite vacant, and the suit of blue, the glazed hat, and the
hook, apparently without an owner.
“You see, Captain Cuttle,” pursued Walter, “for myself, I am young, as
Mr Dombey said, and not to be considered. I am to fight my way through
the world, I know; but there are two points I was thinking, as I came
along, that I should be very particular about, in respect to my Uncle.
I don’t mean to say that I deserve to be the pride and delight of his
life—you believe me, I know—but I am. Now, don’t you think I am?”
The Captain seemed to make an endeavour to rise from the depths of his
astonishment, and get back to his face; but the effort being
ineffectual, the glazed hat merely nodded with a mute, unutterable
meaning.
“If I live and have my health,” said Walter, “and I am not afraid of
that, still, when I leave England I can hardly hope to see my Uncle
again. He is old, Captain Cuttle; and besides, his life is a life of
custom—”
“Steady, Wal”r! Of a want of custom?” said the Captain, suddenly
reappearing.
“Too true,” returned Walter, shaking his head: “but I meant a life of
habit, Captain Cuttle—that sort of custom. And if (as you very truly
said, I am sure) he would have died the sooner for the loss of the
stock, and all those objects to which he has been accustomed for so
many years, don’t you think he might die a little sooner for the loss
of—”
“Of his Nevy,” interposed the Captain. “Right!”
“Well then,” said Walter, trying to speak gaily, “we must do our best
to make him believe that the separation is but a temporary one, after
all; but as I know better, or dread that I know better, Captain Cuttle,
and as I have so many reasons for regarding him with affection, and
duty, and honour, I am afraid I should make but a very poor hand at
that, if I tried to persuade him of it. That’s my great reason for
wishing you to break it out to him; and that’s the first point.”
“Keep her off a point or so!” observed the Captain, in a contemplative
voice.
“What did you say, Captain Cuttle?” inquired Walter.
“Stand by!” returned the Captain, thoughtfully.
Walter paused to ascertain if the Captain had any particular
information to add to this, but as he said no more, went on.
“Now, the second point, Captain Cuttle. I am sorry to say, I am not a
favourite with Mr Dombey. I have always tried to do my best, and I have
always done it; but he does not like me. He can’t help his likings and
dislikings, perhaps. I say nothing of that. I only say that I am
certain he does not like me. He does not send me to this post as a good
one; he disclaims to represent it as being better than it is; and I
doubt very much if it will ever lead me to advancement in the
House—whether it does not, on the contrary, dispose of me for ever, and
put me out of the way. Now, we must say nothing of this to my Uncle,
Captain Cuttle, but must make it out to be as favourable and promising
as we can; and when I tell you what it really is, I only do so, that in
case any means should ever arise of lending me a hand, so far off, I
may have one friend at home who knows my real situation.
“Wal”r, my boy,” replied the Captain, “in the Proverbs of Solomon you
will find the following words, ‘May we never want a friend in need, nor
a bottle to give him!’ When found, make a note of.”
Here the Captain stretched out his hand to Walter, with an air of
downright good faith that spoke volumes; at the same time repeating
(for he felt proud of the accuracy and pointed application of his
quotation), “When found, make a note of.”
“Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, taking the immense fist extended to him
by the Captain in both his hands, which it completely filled, next to
my Uncle Sol, I love you. There is no one on earth in whom I can more
safely trust, I am sure. As to the mere going away, Captain Cuttle, I
don’t care for that; why should I care for that! If I were free to seek
my own fortune—if I were free to go as a common sailor—if I were free
to venture on my own account to the farthest end of the world—I would
gladly go! I would have gladly gone, years ago, and taken my chance of
what might come of it. But it was against my Uncle’s wishes, and
against the plans he had formed for me; and there was an end of that.
But what I feel, Captain Cuttle, is that we have been a little mistaken
all along, and that, so far as any improvement in my prospects is
concerned, I am no better off now than I was when I first entered
Dombey’s House—perhaps a little worse, for the House may have been
kindly inclined towards me then, and it certainly is not now.”
“Turn again, Whittington,” muttered the disconsolate Captain, after
looking at Walter for some time.
“Ay,” replied Walter, laughing, “and turn a great many times, too,
Captain Cuttle, I’m afraid, before such fortune as his ever turns up
again. Not that I complain,” he added, in his lively, animated,
energetic way. “I have nothing to complain of. I am provided for. I can
live. When I leave my Uncle, I leave him to you; and I can leave him to
no one better, Captain Cuttle. I haven’t told you all this because I
despair, not I; it’s to convince you that I can’t pick and choose in
Dombey’s House, and that where I am sent, there I must go, and what I
am offered, that I must take. It’s better for my Uncle that I should be
sent away; for Mr Dombey is a valuable friend to him, as he proved
himself, you know when, Captain Cuttle; and I am persuaded he won’t be
less valuable when he hasn’t me there, every day, to awaken his
dislike. So hurrah for the West Indies, Captain Cuttle! How does that
tune go that the sailors sing?
“For the Port of Barbados, Boys!
Cheerily!
Leaving old England behind us, Boys!
Cheerily!”
Here the Captain roared in chorus—
“Oh cheerily, cheerily!
Oh cheer-i-ly!”
The last line reaching the quick ears of an ardent skipper not quite
sober, who lodged opposite, and who instantly sprung out of bed, threw
up his window, and joined in, across the street, at the top of his
voice, produced a fine effect. When it was impossible to sustain the
concluding note any longer, the skipper bellowed forth a terrific
“ahoy!” intended in part as a friendly greeting, and in part to show
that he was not at all breathed. That done, he shut down his window,
and went to bed again.
“And now, Captain Cuttle,” said Walter, handing him the blue coat and