Little Dorrit
graciously lifting off his hat, and, with an engaging air, prevented
Frederick the free from running against the company, or being jostled
against the wall. The Collegians as a body were not easily impressible,
but even they, according to their various ways of wondering, appeared to
find in the two brothers a sight to wonder at.
‘You are a little low this evening, Frederick,’ said the Father of the
Marshalsea. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘The matter?’ He stared for a moment, and then dropped his head and eyes
again. ‘No, William, no. Nothing is the matter.’
‘If you could be persuaded to smarten yourself up a little, Frederick--’
‘Aye, aye!’ said the old man hurriedly. ‘But I can’t be. I can’t be.
Don’t talk so. That’s all over.’
The Father of the Marshalsea glanced at a passing Collegian with whom he
was on friendly terms, as who should say, ‘An enfeebled old man, this;
but he is my brother, sir, my brother, and the voice of Nature is
potent!’ and steered his brother clear of the handle of the pump by the
threadbare sleeve. Nothing would have been wanting to the perfection of
his character as a fraternal guide, philosopher and friend, if he had
only steered his brother clear of ruin, instead of bringing it upon him.
‘I think, William,’ said the object of his affectionate consideration,
‘that I am tired, and will go home to bed.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the other, ‘don’t let me detain you; don’t
sacrifice your inclination to me.’
‘Late hours, and a heated atmosphere, and years, I suppose,’ said
Frederick, ‘weaken me.’
‘My dear Frederick,’ returned the Father of the Marshalsea, ‘do you
think you are sufficiently careful of yourself? Do you think your habits
are as precise and methodical as--shall I say as mine are? Not to revert
again to that little eccentricity which I mentioned just now, I doubt if
you take air and exercise enough, Frederick. Here is the parade, always
at your service. Why not use it more regularly than you do?’
‘Hah!’ sighed the other. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
‘But it is of no use saying yes, yes, my dear Frederick,’ the Father
of the Marshalsea in his mild wisdom persisted, ‘unless you act on that
assent. Consider my case, Frederick. I am a kind of example. Necessity
and time have taught me what to do. At certain stated hours of the day,
you will find me on the parade, in my room, in the Lodge, reading the
paper, receiving company, eating and drinking. I have impressed upon Amy
during many years, that I must have my meals (for instance) punctually.
Amy has grown up in a sense of the importance of these arrangements, and
you know what a good girl she is.’
The brother only sighed again, as he plodded dreamily along, ‘Hah! Yes,
yes, yes, yes.’
‘My dear fellow,’ said the Father of the Marshalsea, laying his hand
upon his shoulder, and mildly rallying him--mildly, because of his
weakness, poor dear soul; ‘you said that before, and it does not express
much, Frederick, even if it means much. I wish I could rouse you, my
good Frederick; you want to be roused.’
‘Yes, William, yes. No doubt,’ returned the other, lifting his dim eyes
to his face. ‘But I am not like you.’
The Father of the Marshalsea said, with a shrug of modest
self-depreciation, ‘Oh! You might be like me, my dear Frederick;
you might be, if you chose!’ and forbore, in the magnanimity of his
strength, to press his fallen brother further.
There was a great deal of leave-taking going on in corners, as was usual
on Sunday nights; and here and there in the dark, some poor woman, wife
or mother, was weeping with a new Collegian. The time had been when the
Father himself had wept, in the shades of that yard, as his own
poor wife had wept. But it was many years ago; and now he was like
a passenger aboard ship in a long voyage, who has recovered from
sea-sickness, and is impatient of that weakness in the fresher
passengers taken aboard at the last port. He was inclined to
remonstrate, and to express his opinion that people who couldn’t get on
without crying, had no business there. In manner, if not in words, he
always testified his displeasure at these interruptions of the general
harmony; and it was so well understood, that delinquents usually
withdrew if they were aware of him.
On this Sunday evening, he accompanied his brother to the gate with an
air of endurance and clemency; being in a bland temper and graciously
disposed to overlook the tears. In the flaring gaslight of the Lodge,
several Collegians were basking; some taking leave of visitors, and
some who had no visitors, watching the frequent turning of the key, and
conversing with one another and with Mr Chivery. The paternal entrance
made a sensation of course; and Mr Chivery, touching his hat (in a short
manner though) with his key, hoped he found himself tolerable.
‘Thank you, Chivery, quite well. And you?’
Mr Chivery said in a low growl, ‘Oh! _he_ was all right.’ Which was his
general way of acknowledging inquiries after his health when a little
sullen.
‘I had a visit from Young John to-day, Chivery. And very smart he
looked, I assure you.’
So Mr Chivery had heard. Mr Chivery must confess, however, that his wish
was that the boy didn’t lay out so much money upon it. For what did it
bring him in? It only brought him in wexation. And he could get that
anywhere for nothing.
‘How vexation, Chivery?’ asked the benignant father.
‘No odds,’ returned Mr Chivery. ‘Never mind. Mr Frederick going out?’
‘Yes, Chivery, my brother is going home to bed. He is tired, and
not quite well. Take care, Frederick, take care. Good night, my dear
Frederick!’
Shaking hands with his brother, and touching his greasy hat to the
company in the Lodge, Frederick slowly shuffled out of the door which
Mr Chivery unlocked for him. The Father of the Marshalsea showed the
amiable solicitude of a superior being that he should come to no harm.
‘Be so kind as to keep the door open a moment, Chivery, that I may see
him go along the passage and down the steps. Take care, Frederick! (He
is very infirm.) Mind the steps! (He is so very absent.) Be careful
how you cross, Frederick. (I really don’t like the notion of his going
wandering at large, he is so extremely liable to be run over.)’
With these words, and with a face expressive of many uneasy doubts and
much anxious guardianship, he turned his regards upon the assembled
company in the Lodge: so plainly indicating that his brother was to be
pitied for not being under lock and key, that an opinion to that effect
went round among the Collegians assembled.
But he did not receive it with unqualified assent; on the contrary, he
said, No, gentlemen, no; let them not misunderstand him. His brother
Frederick was much broken, no doubt, and it might be more comfortable to
himself (the Father of the Marshalsea) to know that he was safe within
the walls. Still, it must be remembered that to support an existence
there during many years, required a certain combination of qualities--he
did not say high qualities, but qualities--moral qualities. Now, had his
brother Frederick that peculiar union of qualities? Gentlemen, he was a
most excellent man, a most gentle, tender, and estimable man, with the
simplicity of a child; but would he, though unsuited for most other
places, do for that place? No; he said confidently, no! And, he said,
Heaven forbid that Frederick should be there in any other character
than in his present voluntary character! Gentlemen, whoever came to
that College, to remain there a length of time, must have strength of
character to go through a good deal and to come out of a good deal. Was
his beloved brother Frederick that man? No. They saw him, even as it
was, crushed. Misfortune crushed him. He had not power of recoil enough,
not elasticity enough, to be a long time in such a place, and yet
preserve his self-respect and feel conscious that he was a gentleman.
Frederick had not (if he might use the expression) Power enough to see
in any delicate little attentions and--and--Testimonials that he might
under such circumstances receive, the goodness of human nature, the fine
spirit animating the Collegians as a community, and at the same time
no degradation to himself, and no depreciation of his claims as a
gentleman. Gentlemen, God bless you!
Such was the homily with which he improved and pointed the occasion to
the company in the Lodge before turning into the sallow yard again,
and going with his own poor shabby dignity past the Collegian in the
dressing-gown who had no coat, and past the Collegian in the sea-side
slippers who had no shoes, and past the stout greengrocer Collegian in
the corduroy knee-breeches who had no cares, and past the lean clerk
Collegian in buttonless black who had no hopes, up his own poor shabby
staircase to his own poor shabby room.
There, the table was laid for his supper, and his old grey gown was
ready for him on his chair-back at the fire. His daughter put her
little prayer-book in her pocket--had she been praying for pity on all
prisoners and captives!--and rose to welcome him.
Uncle had gone home, then? she asked him, as she changed his coat and
gave him his black velvet cap. Yes, uncle had gone home. Had her father
enjoyed his walk? Why, not much, Amy; not much. No! Did he not feel
quite well?
As she stood behind him, leaning over his chair so lovingly, he looked
with downcast eyes at the fire. An uneasiness stole over him that was
like a touch of shame; and when he spoke, as he presently did, it was in
an unconnected and embarrassed manner.
‘Something, I--hem!--I don’t know what, has gone wrong with Chivery.
He is not--ha!--not nearly so obliging and attentive as usual to-night.
It--hem!--it’s a little thing, but it puts me out, my love. It’s
impossible to forget,’ turning his hands over and over and looking
closely at them, ‘that--hem!--that in such a life as mine, I am
unfortunately dependent on these men for something every hour in the
day.’
Her arm was on his shoulder, but she did not look in his face while he
spoke. Bending her head she looked another way.
‘I--hem!--I can’t think, Amy, what has given Chivery offence. He is
generally so--so very attentive and respectful. And to-night he was
quite--quite short with me. Other people there too! Why, good Heaven!
if I was to lose the support and recognition of Chivery and his brother
officers, I might starve to death here.’ While he spoke, he was opening
and shutting his hands like valves; so conscious all the time of that
touch of shame, that he shrunk before his own knowledge of his meaning.
‘I--ha!--I can’t think what it’s owing to. I am sure I cannot imagine
what the cause of it is. There was a certain Jackson here once, a
turnkey of the name of Jackson (I don’t think you can remember him,
my dear, you were very young), and--hem!--and he had a--brother, and
this--young brother paid his addresses to--at least, did not go so far
as to pay his addresses to--but admired--respectfully admired--the--not
daughter, the sister--of one of us; a rather distinguished Collegian; I
may say, very much so. His name was Captain Martin; and he
consulted me on the question whether it was necessary that his
daughter--sister--should hazard offending the turnkey brother by
being too--ha!--too plain with the other brother. Captain Martin was
a gentleman and a man of honour, and I put it to him first to give me
his--his own opinion. Captain Martin (highly respected in the army) then
unhesitatingly said that it appeared to him that his--hem!--sister was
not called upon to understand the young man too distinctly, and that
she might lead him on--I am doubtful whether “lead him on” was Captain
Martin’s exact expression: indeed I think he said tolerate him--on her