Little Dorrit
If he had come from Court on these occasions, nay, if he had been the
noble Refrigerator come home triumphantly from a foreign court to be
presented and promoted on his last tremendous failure, Mrs Plornish
could not have handed him with greater elevation about Bleeding Heart
Yard. ‘Here’s Father,’ she would say, presenting him to a neighbour.
‘Father will soon be home with us for good, now. Ain’t Father looking
well? Father’s a sweeter singer than ever; you’d never have forgotten
it, if you’d aheard him just now.’ As to Mr Plornish, he had married
these articles of belief in marrying Mr Nandy’s daughter, and only
wondered how it was that so gifted an old gentleman had not made a
fortune. This he attributed, after much reflection, to his musical
genius not having been scientifically developed in his youth. ‘For why,’
argued Mr Plornish, ‘why go a-binding music when you’ve got it in
yourself? That’s where it is, I consider.’
Old Nandy had a patron: one patron. He had a patron who in a certain
sumptuous way--an apologetic way, as if he constantly took an admiring
audience to witness that he really could not help being more free
with this old fellow than they might have expected, on account of his
simplicity and poverty--was mightily good to him. Old Nandy had
been several times to the Marshalsea College, communicating with his
son-in-law during his short durance there; and had happily acquired to
himself, and had by degrees and in course of time much improved, the
patronage of the Father of that national institution.
Mr Dorrit was in the habit of receiving this old man as if the old man
held of him in vassalage under some feudal tenure. He made little treats
and teas for him, as if he came in with his homage from some outlying
district where the tenantry were in a primitive state. It seemed as if
there were moments when he could by no means have sworn but that the old
man was an ancient retainer of his, who had been meritoriously faithful.
When he mentioned him, he spoke of him casually as his old pensioner. He
had a wonderful satisfaction in seeing him, and in commenting on his
decayed condition after he was gone. It appeared to him amazing that he
could hold up his head at all, poor creature. ‘In the Workhouse, sir,
the Union; no privacy, no visitors, no station, no respect, no
speciality. Most deplorable!’
It was Old Nandy’s birthday, and they let him out. He said nothing about
its being his birthday, or they might have kept him in; for such old
men should not be born. He passed along the streets as usual to Bleeding
Heart Yard, and had his dinner with his daughter and son-in-law, and
gave them Phyllis. He had hardly concluded, when Little Dorrit looked in
to see how they all were.
‘Miss Dorrit,’ said Mrs Plornish, ‘here’s Father! Ain’t he looking nice?
And such voice he’s in!’
Little Dorrit gave him her hand, and smilingly said she had not seen him
this long time.
‘No, they’re rather hard on poor Father,’ said Mrs Plornish with a
lengthening face, ‘and don’t let him have half as much change and fresh
air as would benefit him. But he’ll soon be home for good, now. Won’t
you, Father?’
‘Yes, my dear, I hope so. In good time, please God.’
Here Mr Plornish delivered himself of an oration which he invariably
made, word for word the same, on all such opportunities. It was couched
in the following terms:
‘John Edward Nandy. Sir. While there’s a ounce of wittles or drink of
any sort in this present roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on
it. While there’s a handful of fire or a mouthful of bed in this present
roof, you’re fully welcome to your share on it. If so be as there should
be nothing in this present roof, you should be as welcome to your share
on it as if it was something, much or little. And this is what I mean
and so I don’t deceive you, and consequently which is to stand out is to
entreat of you, and therefore why not do it?’
To this lucid address, which Mr Plornish always delivered as if he had
composed it (as no doubt he had) with enormous labour, Mrs Plornish’s
father pipingly replied:
‘I thank you kindly, Thomas, and I know your intentions well, which is
the same I thank you kindly for. But no, Thomas. Until such times as
it’s not to take it out of your children’s mouths, which take it is, and
call it by what name you will it do remain and equally deprive, though
may they come, and too soon they can not come, no Thomas, no!’
Mrs Plornish, who had been turning her face a little away with a corner
of her apron in her hand, brought herself back to the conversation again
by telling Miss Dorrit that Father was going over the water to pay his
respects, unless she knew of any reason why it might not be agreeable.
Her answer was, ‘I am going straight home, and if he will come with me
I shall be so glad to take care of him--so glad,’ said Little Dorrit,
always thoughtful of the feelings of the weak, ‘of his company.’
‘There, Father!’ cried Mrs Plornish. ‘Ain’t you a gay young man to
be going for a walk along with Miss Dorrit! Let me tie your
neck-handkerchief into a regular good bow, for you’re a regular beau
yourself, Father, if ever there was one.’
With this filial joke his daughter smartened him up, and gave him a
loving hug, and stood at the door with her weak child in her arms, and
her strong child tumbling down the steps, looking after her little old
father as he toddled away with his arm under Little Dorrit’s.
They walked at a slow pace, and Little Dorrit took him by the Iron
Bridge and sat him down there for a rest, and they looked over at the
water and talked about the shipping, and the old man mentioned what he
would do if he had a ship full of gold coming home to him (his plan was
to take a noble lodging for the Plornishes and himself at a Tea Gardens,
and live there all the rest of their lives, attended on by the waiter),
and it was a special birthday of the old man. They were within five
minutes of their destination, when, at the corner of her own street,
they came upon Fanny in her new bonnet bound for the same port.
‘Why, good gracious me, Amy!’ cried that young lady starting. ‘You never
mean it!’
‘Mean what, Fanny dear?’
‘Well! I could have believed a great deal of you,’ returned the young
lady with burning indignation, ‘but I don’t think even I could have
believed this, of even you!’
‘Fanny!’ cried Little Dorrit, wounded and astonished.
‘Oh! Don’t Fanny me, you mean little thing, don’t! The idea of coming
along the open streets, in the broad light of day, with a Pauper!’
(firing off the last word as if it were a ball from an air-gun).
‘O Fanny!’
‘I tell you not to Fanny me, for I’ll not submit to it! I never knew
such a thing. The way in which you are resolved and determined to
disgrace us on all occasions, is really infamous. You bad little thing!’
‘Does it disgrace anybody,’ said Little Dorrit, very gently, ‘to take
care of this poor old man?’
‘Yes, miss,’ returned her sister, ‘and you ought to know it does.
And you do know it does, and you do it because you know it does. The
principal pleasure of your life is to remind your family of their
misfortunes. And the next great pleasure of your existence is to keep
low company. But, however, if you have no sense of decency, I
have. You’ll please to allow me to go on the other side of the way,
unmolested.’
With this, she bounced across to the opposite pavement. The old
disgrace, who had been deferentially bowing a pace or two off (for
Little Dorrit had let his arm go in her wonder, when Fanny began), and
who had been hustled and cursed by impatient passengers for stopping the
way, rejoined his companion, rather giddy, and said, ‘I hope nothing’s
wrong with your honoured father, Miss? I hope there’s nothing the matter
in the honoured family?’
‘No, no,’ returned Little Dorrit. ‘No, thank you. Give me your arm
again, Mr Nandy. We shall soon be there now.’
So she talked to him as she had talked before, and they came to the
Lodge and found Mr Chivery on the lock, and went in. Now, it happened
that the Father of the Marshalsea was sauntering towards the Lodge at
the moment when they were coming out of it, entering the prison arm in
arm. As the spectacle of their approach met his view, he displayed the
utmost agitation and despondency of mind; and--altogether regardless of
Old Nandy, who, making his reverence, stood with his hat in his hand, as
he always did in that gracious presence--turned about, and hurried in at
his own doorway and up the staircase.
Leaving the old unfortunate, whom in an evil hour she had taken under
her protection, with a hurried promise to return to him directly, Little
Dorrit hastened after her father, and, on the staircase, found Fanny
following her, and flouncing up with offended dignity. The three came
into the room almost together; and the Father sat down in his chair,
buried his face in his hands, and uttered a groan.
‘Of course,’ said Fanny. ‘Very proper. Poor, afflicted Pa! Now, I hope
you believe me, Miss?’
‘What is it, father?’ cried Little Dorrit, bending over him. ‘Have I
made you unhappy, father? Not I, I hope!’
‘You hope, indeed! I dare say! Oh, you’--Fanny paused for a sufficiently
strong expression--‘you Common-minded little Amy! You complete
prison-child!’
He stopped these angry reproaches with a wave of his hand, and sobbed
out, raising his face and shaking his melancholy head at his younger
daughter, ‘Amy, I know that you are innocent in intention. But you
have cut me to the soul.’
‘Innocent in intention!’ the implacable Fanny struck in. ‘Stuff in
intention! Low in intention! Lowering of the family in intention!’
‘Father!’ cried Little Dorrit, pale and trembling. ‘I am very sorry.
Pray forgive me. Tell me how it is, that I may not do it again!’
‘How it is, you prevaricating little piece of goods!’ cried Fanny. ‘You
know how it is. I have told you already, so don’t fly in the face of
Providence by attempting to deny it!’
‘Hush! Amy,’ said the father, passing his pocket-handkerchief several
times across his face, and then grasping it convulsively in the hand
that dropped across his knee, ‘I have done what I could to keep you
select here; I have done what I could to retain you a position here. I
may have succeeded; I may not. You may know it; you may not. I give no
opinion. I have endured everything here but humiliation. That I have
happily been spared--until this day.’
Here his convulsive grasp unclosed itself, and he put his
pocket-handkerchief to his eyes again. Little Dorrit, on the ground
beside him, with her imploring hand upon his arm, watched him
remorsefully. Coming out of his fit of grief, he clenched his
pocket-handkerchief once more.
‘Humiliation I have happily been spared until this day. Through all
my troubles there has been that--Spirit in myself, and that--that
submission to it, if I may use the term, in those about me, which has
spared me--ha--humiliation. But this day, this minute, I have keenly
felt it.’
‘Of course! How could it be otherwise?’ exclaimed the irrepressible
Fanny. ‘Careering and prancing about with a Pauper!’ (air-gun again).
‘But, dear father,’ cried Little Dorrit, ‘I don’t justify myself for
having wounded your dear heart--no! Heaven knows I don’t!’ She clasped
her hands in quite an agony of distress. ‘I do nothing but beg and pray
you to be comforted and overlook it. But if I had not known that you
were kind to the old man yourself, and took much notice of him, and were
always glad to see him, I would not have come here with him, father, I
would not, indeed. What I have been so unhappy as to do, I have done
in mistake. I would not wilfully bring a tear to your eyes, dear love!’
said Little Dorrit, her heart well-nigh broken, ‘for anything the world