Little Dorrit
Little Dorrit looked at him doubtfully, and not without alarm. ‘I wish
you’d show me the palm of your hand,’ said Pancks. ‘I should like to
have a look at it. Don’t let me be troublesome.’
He was so far troublesome that he was not at all wanted there, but she
laid her work in her lap for a moment, and held out her left hand with
her thimble on it.
‘Years of toil, eh?’ said Pancks, softly, touching it with his blunt
forefinger. ‘But what else are we made for? Nothing. Hallo!’ looking
into the lines. ‘What’s this with bars? It’s a College! And what’s this
with a grey gown and a black velvet cap? it’s a father! And what’s this
with a clarionet? It’s an uncle! And what’s this in dancing-shoes? It’s
a sister! And what’s this straggling about in an idle sort of a way?
It’s a brother! And what’s this thinking for ‘em all? Why, this is you,
Miss Dorrit!’
Her eyes met his as she looked up wonderingly into his face, and she
thought that although his were sharp eyes, he was a brighter and
gentler-looking man than she had supposed at dinner. His eyes were on
her hand again directly, and her opportunity of confirming or correcting
the impression was gone.
‘Now, the deuce is in it,’ muttered Pancks, tracing out a line in her
hand with his clumsy finger, ‘if this isn’t me in the corner here! What
do I want here? What’s behind me?’
He carried his finger slowly down to the wrist, and round the wrist, and
affected to look at the back of the hand for what was behind him.
‘Is it any harm?’ asked Little Dorrit, smiling.
‘Deuce a bit!’ said Pancks. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’
‘I ought to ask you that. I am not the fortune-teller.’
‘True,’ said Pancks. ‘What’s it worth? You shall live to see, Miss
Dorrit.’
Releasing the hand by slow degrees, he drew all his fingers through his
prongs of hair, so that they stood up in their most portentous manner;
and repeated slowly, ‘Remember what I say, Miss Dorrit. You shall live
to see.’
She could not help showing that she was much surprised, if it were only
by his knowing so much about her.
‘Ah! That’s it!’ said Pancks, pointing at her. ‘Miss Dorrit, not that,
ever!’
More surprised than before, and a little more frightened, she looked to
him for an explanation of his last words.
‘Not that,’ said Pancks, making, with great seriousness, an imitation
of a surprised look and manner that appeared to be unintentionally
grotesque. ‘Don’t do that. Never on seeing me, no matter when, no matter
where. I am nobody. Don’t take on to mind me. Don’t mention me. Take no
notice. Will you agree, Miss Dorrit?’
‘I hardly know what to say,’ returned Little Dorrit, quite astounded.
‘Why?’
‘Because I am a fortune-teller. Pancks the gipsy. I haven’t told you so
much of your fortune yet, Miss Dorrit, as to tell you what’s behind
me on that little hand. I have told you you shall live to see. Is it
agreed, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Agreed that I--am--to--’
‘To take no notice of me away from here, unless I take on first. Not
to mind me when I come and go. It’s very easy. I am no loss, I am not
handsome, I am not good company, I am only my proprietors grubber.
You need do no more than think, “Ah! Pancks the gipsy at his
fortune-telling--he’ll tell the rest of my fortune one day--I shall live
to know it.” Is it agreed, Miss Dorrit?’
‘Ye-es,’ faltered Little Dorrit, whom he greatly confused, ‘I suppose
so, while you do no harm.’
‘Good!’ Mr Pancks glanced at the wall of the adjoining room, and stooped
forward. ‘Honest creature, woman of capital points, but heedless and
a loose talker, Miss Dorrit.’ With that he rubbed his hands as if the
interview had been very satisfactory to him, panted away to the door,
and urbanely nodded himself out again.
If Little Dorrit were beyond measure perplexed by this curious conduct
on the part of her new acquaintance, and by finding herself involved
in this singular treaty, her perplexity was not diminished by ensuing
circumstances. Besides that Mr Pancks took every opportunity afforded
him in Mr Casby’s house of significantly glancing at her and snorting
at her--which was not much, after what he had done already--he began to
pervade her daily life. She saw him in the street, constantly. When she
went to Mr Casby’s, he was always there. When she went to Mrs Clennam’s,
he came there on any pretence, as if to keep her in his sight. A week
had not gone by, when she found him to her astonishment in the Lodge one
night, conversing with the turnkey on duty, and to all appearance one
of his familiar companions. Her next surprise was to find him equally at
his ease within the prison; to hear of his presenting himself among
the visitors at her father’s Sunday levee; to see him arm in arm with
a Collegiate friend about the yard; to learn, from Fame, that he had
greatly distinguished himself one evening at the social club that held
its meetings in the Snuggery, by addressing a speech to the members
of the institution, singing a song, and treating the company to five
gallons of ale--report madly added a bushel of shrimps. The effect on
Mr Plornish of such of these phenomena as he became an eye-witness of in
his faithful visits, made an impression on Little Dorrit only second to
that produced by the phenomena themselves. They seemed to gag and bind
him. He could only stare, and sometimes weakly mutter that it wouldn’t
be believed down Bleeding Heart Yard that this was Pancks; but he never
said a word more, or made a sign more, even to Little Dorrit. Mr Pancks
crowned his mysteries by making himself acquainted with Tip in some
unknown manner, and taking a Sunday saunter into the College on that
gentleman’s arm. Throughout he never took any notice of Little Dorrit,
save once or twice when he happened to come close to her and there
was no one very near; on which occasions, he said in passing,
with a friendly look and a puff of encouragement, ‘Pancks the
gipsy--fortune-telling.’
Little Dorrit worked and strove as usual, wondering at all this, but
keeping her wonder, as she had from her earliest years kept many heavier
loads, in her own breast. A change had stolen, and was stealing yet,
over the patient heart. Every day found her something more retiring
than the day before. To pass in and out of the prison unnoticed, and
elsewhere to be overlooked and forgotten, were, for herself, her chief
desires.
To her own room too, strangely assorted room for her delicate youth
and character, she was glad to retreat as often as she could without
desertion of any duty. There were afternoon times when she was
unemployed, when visitors dropped in to play a hand at cards with her
father, when she could be spared and was better away. Then she would
flit along the yard, climb the scores of stairs that led to her room,
and take her seat at the window. Many combinations did those spikes
upon the wall assume, many light shapes did the strong iron weave itself
into, many golden touches fell upon the rust, while Little Dorrit sat
there musing. New zig-zags sprung into the cruel pattern sometimes, when
she saw it through a burst of tears; but beautified or hardened still,
always over it and under it and through it, she was fain to look in her
solitude, seeing everything with that ineffaceable brand.
A garret, and a Marshalsea garret without compromise, was Little
Dorrit’s room. Beautifully kept, it was ugly in itself, and had little
but cleanliness and air to set it off; for what embellishment she had
ever been able to buy, had gone to her father’s room. Howbeit, for this
poor place she showed an increasing love; and to sit in it alone became
her favourite rest.
Insomuch, that on a certain afternoon during the Pancks mysteries, when
she was seated at her window, and heard Maggy’s well-known step coming
up the stairs, she was very much disturbed by the apprehension of being
summoned away. As Maggy’s step came higher up and nearer, she trembled
and faltered; and it was as much as she could do to speak, when Maggy at
length appeared.
‘Please, Little Mother,’ said Maggy, panting for breath, ‘you must come
down and see him. He’s here.’
‘Who, Maggy?’
‘Who, o’ course Mr Clennam. He’s in your father’s room, and he says to
me, Maggy, will you be so kind and go and say it’s only me.’
‘I am not very well, Maggy. I had better not go. I am going to lie down.
See! I lie down now, to ease my head. Say, with my grateful regard, that
you left me so, or I would have come.’
‘Well, it an’t very polite though, Little Mother,’ said the staring
Maggy, ‘to turn your face away, neither!’
Maggy was very susceptible to personal slights, and very ingenious in
inventing them. ‘Putting both your hands afore your face too!’ she went
on. ‘If you can’t bear the looks of a poor thing, it would be better to
tell her so at once, and not go and shut her out like that, hurting her
feelings and breaking her heart at ten year old, poor thing!’
‘It’s to ease my head, Maggy.’
‘Well, and if you cry to ease your head, Little Mother, let me cry too.
Don’t go and have all the crying to yourself,’ expostulated Maggy, ‘that
an’t not being greedy.’ And immediately began to blubber.
It was with some difficulty that she could be induced to go back with
the excuse; but the promise of being told a story--of old her great
delight--on condition that she concentrated her faculties upon the
errand and left her little mistress to herself for an hour longer,
combined with a misgiving on Maggy’s part that she had left her good
temper at the bottom of the staircase, prevailed. So away she went,
muttering her message all the way to keep it in her mind, and, at the
appointed time, came back.
‘He was very sorry, I can tell you,’ she announced, ‘and wanted to send
a doctor. And he’s coming again to-morrow he is and I don’t think he’ll
have a good sleep to-night along o’ hearing about your head, Little
Mother. Oh my! Ain’t you been a-crying!’
‘I think I have, a little, Maggy.’
‘A little! Oh!’
‘But it’s all over now--all over for good, Maggy. And my head is much
better and cooler, and I am quite comfortable. I am very glad I did not
go down.’
Her great staring child tenderly embraced her; and having smoothed her
hair, and bathed her forehead and eyes with cold water (offices in which
her awkward hands became skilful), hugged her again, exulted in her
brighter looks, and stationed her in her chair by the window. Over
against this chair, Maggy, with apoplectic exertions that were not
at all required, dragged the box which was her seat on story-telling
occasions, sat down upon it, hugged her own knees, and said, with a
voracious appetite for stories, and with widely-opened eyes:
‘Now, Little Mother, let’s have a good ‘un!’
‘What shall it be about, Maggy?’
‘Oh, let’s have a princess,’ said Maggy, ‘and let her be a reg’lar one.
Beyond all belief, you know!’
Little Dorrit considered for a moment; and with a rather sad smile upon
her face, which was flushed by the sunset, began:
‘Maggy, there was once upon a time a fine King, and he had everything he
could wish for, and a great deal more. He had gold and silver, diamonds
and rubies, riches of every kind. He had palaces, and he had--’
‘Hospitals,’ interposed Maggy, still nursing her knees. ‘Let him have
hospitals, because they’re so comfortable. Hospitals with lots of
Chicking.’
‘Yes, he had plenty of them, and he had plenty of everything.’
‘Plenty of baked potatoes, for instance?’ said Maggy.
‘Plenty of everything.’
‘Lor!’ chuckled Maggy, giving her knees a hug. ‘Wasn’t it prime!’
‘This King had a daughter, who was the wisest and most beautiful
Princess that ever was seen. When she was a child she understood all her
lessons before her masters taught them to her; and when she was grown