Hard Times
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, looked 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 Louisa in exactly the same voice as before, ‘do you ask
me to love Mr. Bounderby?’
‘My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask 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 due to your
good sense, not to say to his, as to address you from any such ground.
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 accustomed to consider every other question, simply as
one of tangible Fact. The ignorant 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 disparity 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 one 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 find, 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 instances, 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 considerable part of China, and
among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of computation 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, father,’ 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 yourself 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 then 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 case 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 will
elude the utmost cunning of algebra until the last trumpet ever to be
sounded shall blow even algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and
too high for such a leap. With his unbending, utilitarian,
matter-of-fact face, he hardened 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 sat 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 there but languid and monotonous smoke. Yet
when the night comes, Fire bursts out, father!’ she answered, turning
quickly.
‘Of course I know that, Louisa. 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, ‘Father, I have often thought that
life is very short.’—This was so distinctly one of his subjects that he
interposed.
‘It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, the average duration of human
life is proved to have increased of late 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, father.’
‘O indeed? Still,’ said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘I need not point out to you,
Louisa, that it is governed by the laws which govern lives in the
aggregate.’
‘While it lasts, I would wish to do the little I can, and the little I am
fit for. What does it matter?’
Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to understand the last four words;
replying, ‘How, matter? What matter, my dear?’
‘Mr. Bounderby,’ she went on in a steady, straight way, without regarding
this, ‘asks me to marry 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.’
‘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 very proper request. Have you any wish in
reference to the period of your marriage, 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 considered 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 never 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?’
‘My dear Louisa,’ returned Mr. Gradgrind, reassured and satisfied. ‘You
correct me justly. I merely wished to discharge my duty.’
‘What do _I_ know, father,’ said Louisa in her quiet manner, ‘of tastes
and fancies; of aspirations and affections; of all that part of my nature
in which such light things might have been nourished? What escape have I
had from problems that could be demonstrated, and realities that could be
grasped?’ As she said it, she 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 had a child’s heart. You have trained me so
well, that I never dreamed a child’s dream. You have dealt so wisely
with me, father, from my cradle to this hour, that I never had a child’s
belief or a child’s fear.’
Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his 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. Detaining her in his embrace, he said, ‘I
may assure you now, my favourite child, 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) almost any age.
Kiss me once more, Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother.’
Accordingly, they went down to the drawing-room, where the esteemed lady
with no nonsense about her, was recumbent 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 impatience, ‘allow me to present to you Mrs.
Bounderby.’
‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Gradgrind, ‘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 down it all day long. And now
you see,’ whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after the
affectionate ceremony, ‘I shall be worrying myself, 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. It’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