Great Expectations
cannot suggest a darker picture of her state of mind.
I never could have believed it without experience, but as Joe and Biddy
became more at their cheerful ease again, I became quite gloomy.
Dissatisfied with my fortune, of course I could not be; but it is
possible that I may have been, without quite knowing it, dissatisfied
with myself.
Anyhow, I sat with my elbow on my knee and my face upon my hand,
looking into the fire, as those two talked about my going away, and
about what they should do without me, and all that. And whenever I
caught one of them looking at me, though never so pleasantly (and they
often looked at me,—particularly Biddy), I felt offended: as if they
were expressing some mistrust of me. Though Heaven knows they never did
by word or sign.
At those times I would get up and look out at the door; for our kitchen
door opened at once upon the night, and stood open on summer evenings
to air the room. The very stars to which I then raised my eyes, I am
afraid I took to be but poor and humble stars for glittering on the
rustic objects among which I had passed my life.
“Saturday night,” said I, when we sat at our supper of bread and cheese
and beer. “Five more days, and then the day before _the_ day! They’ll
soon go.”
“Yes, Pip,” observed Joe, whose voice sounded hollow in his beer-mug.
“They’ll soon go.”
“Soon, soon go,” said Biddy.
“I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and
order my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I’ll come and put
them on there, or that I’ll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook’s. It
would be very disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new gen-teel figure
too, Pip,” said Joe, industriously cutting his bread, with his cheese
on it, in the palm of his left hand, and glancing at my untasted supper
as if he thought of the time when we used to compare slices. “So might
Wopsle. And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment.”
“That’s just what I don’t want, Joe. They would make such a business of
it,—such a coarse and common business,—that I couldn’t bear myself.”
“Ah, that indeed, Pip!” said Joe. “If you couldn’t abear yourself—”
Biddy asked me here, as she sat holding my sister’s plate, “Have you
thought about when you’ll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister
and me? You will show yourself to us; won’t you?”
“Biddy,” I returned with some resentment, “you are so exceedingly quick
that it’s difficult to keep up with you.”
(“She always were quick,” observed Joe.)
“If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me say
that I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening,—most likely
on the evening before I go away.”
Biddy said no more. Handsomely forgiving her, I soon exchanged an
affectionate good night with her and Joe, and went up to bed. When I
got into my little room, I sat down and took a long look at it, as a
mean little room that I should soon be parted from and raised above,
for ever. It was furnished with fresh young remembrances too, and even
at the same moment I fell into much the same confused division of mind
between it and the better rooms to which I was going, as I had been in
so often between the forge and Miss Havisham’s, and Biddy and Estella.
The sun had been shining brightly all day on the roof of my attic, and
the room was warm. As I put the window open and stood looking out, I
saw Joe come slowly forth at the dark door, below, and take a turn or
two in the air; and then I saw Biddy come, and bring him a pipe and
light it for him. He never smoked so late, and it seemed to hint to me
that he wanted comforting, for some reason or other.
He presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his
pipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew
that they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing
tone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for
more, if I could have heard more; so I drew away from the window, and
sat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and
strange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the
loneliest I had ever known.
Looking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe’s pipe
floating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe,—not
obtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared
together. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy
bed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more.
Chapter XIX.
Morning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life,
and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same. What lay
heaviest on my mind was, the consideration that six days intervened
between me and the day of departure; for I could not divest myself of a
misgiving that something might happen to London in the meanwhile, and
that, when I got there, it would be either greatly deteriorated or
clean gone.
Joe and Biddy were very sympathetic and pleasant when I spoke of our
approaching separation; but they only referred to it when I did. After
breakfast, Joe brought out my indentures from the press in the best
parlour, and we put them in the fire, and I felt that I was free. With
all the novelty of my emancipation on me, I went to church with Joe,
and thought perhaps the clergyman wouldn’t have read that about the
rich man and the kingdom of Heaven, if he had known all.
After our early dinner, I strolled out alone, purposing to finish off
the marshes at once, and get them done with. As I passed the church, I
felt (as I had felt during service in the morning) a sublime compassion
for the poor creatures who were destined to go there, Sunday after
Sunday, all their lives through, and to lie obscurely at last among the
low green mounds. I promised myself that I would do something for them
one of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing a dinner
of roast-beef and plum-pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of
condescension, upon everybody in the village.
If I had often thought before, with something allied to shame, of my
companionship with the fugitive whom I had once seen limping among
those graves, what were my thoughts on this Sunday, when the place
recalled the wretch, ragged and shivering, with his felon iron and
badge! My comfort was, that it happened a long time ago, and that he
had doubtless been transported a long way off, and that he was dead to
me, and might be veritably dead into the bargain.
No more low, wet grounds, no more dikes and sluices, no more of these
grazing cattle,—though they seemed, in their dull manner, to wear a
more respectful air now, and to face round, in order that they might
stare as long as possible at the possessor of such great
expectations,—farewell, monotonous acquaintances of my childhood,
henceforth I was for London and greatness; not for smith’s work in
general, and for you! I made my exultant way to the old Battery, and,
lying down there to consider the question whether Miss Havisham
intended me for Estella, fell asleep.
When I awoke, I was much surprised to find Joe sitting beside me,
smoking his pipe. He greeted me with a cheerful smile on my opening my
eyes, and said,—
“As being the last time, Pip, I thought I’d foller.”
“And Joe, I am very glad you did so.”
“Thankee, Pip.”
“You may be sure, dear Joe,” I went on, after we had shaken hands,
“that I shall never forget you.”
“No, no, Pip!” said Joe, in a comfortable tone, “_I_’m sure of that.
Ay, ay, old chap! Bless you, it were only necessary to get it well
round in a man’s mind, to be certain on it. But it took a bit of time
to get it well round, the change come so oncommon plump; didn’t it?”
Somehow, I was not best pleased with Joe’s being so mightily secure of
me. I should have liked him to have betrayed emotion, or to have said,
“It does you credit, Pip,” or something of that sort. Therefore, I made
no remark on Joe’s first head; merely saying as to his second, that the
tidings had indeed come suddenly, but that I had always wanted to be a
gentleman, and had often and often speculated on what I would do, if I
were one.
“Have you though?” said Joe. “Astonishing!”
“It’s a pity now, Joe,” said I, “that you did not get on a little more,
when we had our lessons here; isn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t know,” returned Joe. “I’m so awful dull. I’m only master
of my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it’s
no more of a pity now, than it was—this day twelvemonth—don’t you see?”
What I had meant was, that when I came into my property and was able to
do something for Joe, it would have been much more agreeable if he had
been better qualified for a rise in station. He was so perfectly
innocent of my meaning, however, that I thought I would mention it to
Biddy in preference.
So, when we had walked home and had had tea, I took Biddy into our
little garden by the side of the lane, and, after throwing out in a
general way for the elevation of her spirits, that I should never
forget her, said I had a favour to ask of her.
“And it is, Biddy,” said I, “that you will not omit any opportunity of
helping Joe on, a little.”
“How helping him on?” asked Biddy, with a steady sort of glance.
“Well! Joe is a dear good fellow,—in fact, I think he is the dearest
fellow that ever lived,—but he is rather backward in some things. For
instance, Biddy, in his learning and his manners.”
Although I was looking at Biddy as I spoke, and although she opened her
eyes very wide when I had spoken, she did not look at me.
“O, his manners! won’t his manners do then?” asked Biddy, plucking a
black-currant leaf.
“My dear Biddy, they do very well here—”
“O! they _do_ very well here?” interrupted Biddy, looking closely at
the leaf in her hand.
“Hear me out,—but if I were to remove Joe into a higher sphere, as I
shall hope to remove him when I fully come into my property, they would
hardly do him justice.”
“And don’t you think he knows that?” asked Biddy.
It was such a very provoking question (for it had never in the most
distant manner occurred to me), that I said, snappishly,—
“Biddy, what do you mean?”
Biddy, having rubbed the leaf to pieces between her hands,—and the
smell of a black-currant bush has ever since recalled to me that
evening in the little garden by the side of the lane,—said, “Have you
never considered that he may be proud?”
“Proud?” I repeated, with disdainful emphasis.
“O! there are many kinds of pride,” said Biddy, looking full at me and
shaking her head; “pride is not all of one kind—”
“Well? What are you stopping for?” said I.
“Not all of one kind,” resumed Biddy. “He may be too proud to let any
one take him out of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills
well and with respect. To tell you the truth, I think he is; though it
sounds bold in me to say so, for you must know him far better than I
do.”
“Now, Biddy,” said I, “I am very sorry to see this in you. I did not
expect to see this in you. You are envious, Biddy, and grudging. You
are dissatisfied on account of my rise in fortune, and you can’t help
showing it.”
“If you have the heart to think so,” returned Biddy, “say so. Say so
over and over again, if you have the heart to think so.”
“If you have the heart to be so, you mean, Biddy,” said I, in a
virtuous and superior tone; “don’t put it off upon me. I am very sorry
to see it, and it’s a—it’s a bad side of human nature. I did intend to
ask you to use any little opportunities you might have after I was
gone, of improving dear Joe. But after this I ask you nothing. I am
extremely sorry to see this in you, Biddy,” I repeated. “It’s a—it’s a
bad side of human nature.”