Podcasts about Havisham

Tonight, we'll read an excerpt from Charles Dickens “Great Expectations” where young Pip visits the mysterious Miss Havisham at her decaying mansion. There he meets Estella, a beautiful but scornful girl who treat him with cold disdain, making him painfully aware of his lower social status. Miss Havisham, frozen in time since being jilted at the altar, encourages Estella to toy with Pip's emotions. This encounter leaves Pip deeply ashamed of his humble background, planting the seed of his desire to become a gentleman. Miss Havisham's tragic and eerie presence has left a lasting impact on literature, film television and music. She appears in Havisham by Carol Ann Duffy, which reimagines her bitter longing, and influences characters like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard and Bertha Mason in Jane Eyre. Artists like Tori Amos and Florence and The Machine reference her ghostly figure in music, while The Simpsons parody her infamous heartbreak and decay, solidifying her as a timeless gothic archetype. — read by 'N' — Sign up for Snoozecast+ to get expanded, ad-free access by going to snoozecast.com/plus! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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La historia sigue la vida de Philip Pirrip, más conocido como Pip, un huérfano criado por su hermana y su esposo en un pueblo inglés. La trama comienza cuando Pip ayuda a un convicto fugitivo llamado Abel Magwitch, lo que desencadena una serie de eventos que cambian su vida para siempre.A medida que Pip crece, se encuentra con una variedad de personajes, incluido el extraño y misterioso señorita Havisham, quien lo utiliza en sus propios planes retorcidos, y su hermosa pero distante ahijada, Estella. Pip se enamora perdidamente de Estella, pero su amor parece imposible debido a las barreras sociales entre ellos.Es una obra magistral que explora temas de clase social, identidad y redención, y ha sido aclamada por su compleja trama, sus memorables personajes y su profundidad emocional.Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/audio-libros-master/exclusive-contentAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

La historia sigue la vida de Philip Pirrip, más conocido como Pip, un huérfano criado por su hermana y su esposo en un pueblo inglés. La trama comienza cuando Pip ayuda a un convicto fugitivo llamado Abel Magwitch, lo que desencadena una serie de eventos que cambian su vida para siempre.A medida que Pip crece, se encuentra con una variedad de personajes, incluido el extraño y misterioso señorita Havisham, quien lo utiliza en sus propios planes retorcidos, y su hermosa pero distante ahijada, Estella. Pip se enamora perdidamente de Estella, pero su amor parece imposible debido a las barreras sociales entre ellos.Es una obra magistral que explora temas de clase social, identidad y redención, y ha sido aclamada por su compleja trama, sus memorables personajes y su profundidad emocional.Grandes EsperanzasSupport this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/audio-libros-master/exclusive-contentAdvertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In mid-1880s Brooklyn, New York, Cedric Errol lives with his Mother (never named, known only as Mrs Errol or "dearest") in genteel poverty after his Father Captain Errol dies. They receive a visit from Havisham, an English lawyer with a message from Cedric's grandfather, Lord Dorincourt. Cedric is now Lord Fauntleroy and heir to the Earldom and a vast estate. The Earl wants Cedric to live with him and learn to be an English aristocrat. He offers Mrs Errol a house and income but refuses to meet or have anything to do with her.The crusty Earl is impressed by the appearance and intelligence of his young American grandson, and charmed by his innocent nature. He admits that Cedric, who has befriended and cared for the poor and needy on the Earl's estate, will be a better Earl than he was.A pretender to Cedric's inheritance appears, but the claim is investigated and disproved with the assistance of Cedric's loyal American friends. The Earl is reconciled to his son's American widow.The Earl had intended to teach his grandson how to be an aristocrat; however, Cedric inadvertently teaches his grand-father that an aristocrat should practice compassion and social justice towards persons who are dependent on him. The Earl becomes the kind and good man Cedric always innocently believed him to be. Cedric is reunited with his mother, who comes to live in the ancestral castle with them. "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is the first children's novel written by English-American playwright and author Frances Hodgson Burnett. (From Wikipedia.)Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In mid-1880s Brooklyn, New York, Cedric Errol lives with his Mother (never named, known only as Mrs Errol or "dearest") in genteel poverty after his Father Captain Errol dies. They receive a visit from Havisham, an English lawyer with a message from Cedric's grandfather, Lord Dorincourt. Cedric is now Lord Fauntleroy and heir to the Earldom and a vast estate. The Earl wants Cedric to live with him and learn to be an English aristocrat. He offers Mrs Errol a house and income but refuses to meet or have anything to do with her.The crusty Earl is impressed by the appearance and intelligence of his young American grandson, and charmed by his innocent nature. He admits that Cedric, who has befriended and cared for the poor and needy on the Earl's estate, will be a better Earl than he was.A pretender to Cedric's inheritance appears, but the claim is investigated and disproved with the assistance of Cedric's loyal American friends. The Earl is reconciled to his son's American widow.The Earl had intended to teach his grandson how to be an aristocrat; however, Cedric inadvertently teaches his grand-father that an aristocrat should practice compassion and social justice towards persons who are dependent on him. The Earl becomes the kind and good man Cedric always innocently believed him to be. Cedric is reunited with his mother, who comes to live in the ancestral castle with them. "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is the first children's novel written by English-American playwright and author Frances Hodgson Burnett. (From Wikipedia.)Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In mid-1880s Brooklyn, New York, Cedric Errol lives with his Mother (never named, known only as Mrs Errol or "dearest") in genteel poverty after his Father Captain Errol dies. They receive a visit from Havisham, an English lawyer with a message from Cedric's grandfather, Lord Dorincourt. Cedric is now Lord Fauntleroy and heir to the Earldom and a vast estate. The Earl wants Cedric to live with him and learn to be an English aristocrat. He offers Mrs Errol a house and income but refuses to meet or have anything to do with her.The crusty Earl is impressed by the appearance and intelligence of his young American grandson, and charmed by his innocent nature. He admits that Cedric, who has befriended and cared for the poor and needy on the Earl's estate, will be a better Earl than he was.A pretender to Cedric's inheritance appears, but the claim is investigated and disproved with the assistance of Cedric's loyal American friends. The Earl is reconciled to his son's American widow.The Earl had intended to teach his grandson how to be an aristocrat; however, Cedric inadvertently teaches his grand-father that an aristocrat should practice compassion and social justice towards persons who are dependent on him. The Earl becomes the kind and good man Cedric always innocently believed him to be. Cedric is reunited with his mother, who comes to live in the ancestral castle with them. "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is the first children's novel written by English-American playwright and author Frances Hodgson Burnett. (From Wikipedia.)Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In mid-1880s Brooklyn, New York, Cedric Errol lives with his Mother (never named, known only as Mrs Errol or "dearest") in genteel poverty after his Father Captain Errol dies. They receive a visit from Havisham, an English lawyer with a message from Cedric's grandfather, Lord Dorincourt. Cedric is now Lord Fauntleroy and heir to the Earldom and a vast estate. The Earl wants Cedric to live with him and learn to be an English aristocrat. He offers Mrs Errol a house and income but refuses to meet or have anything to do with her.The crusty Earl is impressed by the appearance and intelligence of his young American grandson, and charmed by his innocent nature. He admits that Cedric, who has befriended and cared for the poor and needy on the Earl's estate, will be a better Earl than he was.A pretender to Cedric's inheritance appears, but the claim is investigated and disproved with the assistance of Cedric's loyal American friends. The Earl is reconciled to his son's American widow.The Earl had intended to teach his grandson how to be an aristocrat; however, Cedric inadvertently teaches his grand-father that an aristocrat should practice compassion and social justice towards persons who are dependent on him. The Earl becomes the kind and good man Cedric always innocently believed him to be. Cedric is reunited with his mother, who comes to live in the ancestral castle with them. "Little Lord Fauntleroy" is the first children's novel written by English-American playwright and author Frances Hodgson Burnett. (From Wikipedia.)Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

Le journaliste et écrivain français Jean-Jacques Greif pour sa nouvelle traduction du livre "De grandes espérances" de Charles Dickens (Tristram), un livre paru en français il y a 160 ans. La vie n'est pas facile pour Pip. Orphelin, élevé à la dure, comment pourrait-il échapper à sa triste condition de garçon de la campagne, voué à devenir forgeron ? Reçu chez l'étrange, vieille et riche mademoiselle Havisham, il fait la connaissance de sa fille adoptive, la ravissante Estella. Depuis qu'elle a été abandonnée le jour de ses noces, le temps semble s'être arrêté dans la maison de la vieille femme. Elle ne vit plus que pour se venger des hommes, et Estella, dont Pip tombe amoureux, est l'instrument de cette vengeance... De plus en plus honteux de ses origines, Pip se réfugie dans son rêve de devenir un gentleman... Or un jour, il est informé qu'un bienfaiteur anonyme désire lui allouer une importante somme d'argent, pour financer son installation à Londres et favoriser son ascension sociale. Alors que ses espoirs de grandeur se réalisent enfin, et qu'il s'apprête à revoir Estella, Pip est loin de soupçonner ce qui l'attend. Le talk-show culturel de Jérôme Colin. Avec, dès 11h30, La Bagarre dans la Discothèque, un jeu musical complétement décalé où la créativité et la mauvaise foi font loi. À partir de midi, avec une belle bande de chroniqueurs, ils explorent ensemble tous les pans de la culture belge et internationale sans sacralisation, pour découvrir avec simplicité, passion et humour. Merci pour votre écoute Entrez sans Frapper c'est également en direct tous les jours de la semaine de 11h30 à 13h sur www.rtbf.be/lapremiere Retrouvez tous les épisodes de Entrez sans Frapper sur notre plateforme Auvio.be : https://auvio.rtbf.be/emission/8521 Et si vous avez apprécié ce podcast, n'hésitez pas à nous donner des étoiles ou des commentaires, cela nous aide à le faire connaître plus largement.

"J'entends des voix" de Laurence Bibot : La voix du plus long jeu de la télé. Le journaliste et écrivain français Jean-Jacques Greif pour sa nouvelle traduction du livre "De grandes espérances" de Charles Dickens (Tristram), un livre paru en français il y a 160 ans. La vie n'est pas facile pour Pip. Orphelin, élevé à la dure, comment pourrait-il échapper à sa triste condition de garçon de la campagne, voué à devenir forgeron ? Reçu chez l'étrange, vieille et riche mademoiselle Havisham, il fait la connaissance de sa fille adoptive, la ravissante Estella. Depuis qu'elle a été abandonnée le jour de ses noces, le temps semble s'être arrêté dans la maison de la vieille femme. Elle ne vit plus que pour se venger des hommes, et Estella, dont Pip tombe amoureux, est l'instrument de cette vengeance... De plus en plus honteux de ses origines, Pip se réfugie dans son rêve de devenir un gentleman... Or un jour, il est informé qu'un bienfaiteur anonyme désire lui allouer une importante somme d'argent, pour financer son installation à Londres et favoriser son ascension sociale. Alors que ses espoirs de grandeur se réalisent enfin, et qu'il s'apprête à revoir Estella, Pip est loin de soupçonner ce qui l'attend. Le coup de coeur de Gorian Delpâture : "Le Banquet des Empouses" d'Olga Tokarczuk (Noir sur Blanc), Prix Nobel de Littérature en 2018. En septembre 1912, lorsqu'il arrive au sanatorium de Görbersdorf, dans les montagnes de Basse-Silésie, le jeune Wojnicz espère que le traitement et l'air pur stopperont la maladie funeste qu'on vient de lui diagnostiquer : tuberculosis. À la Pension pour Messieurs, Wojnicz intègre une société exclusivement masculine, des malades venus de toute l'Europe qui, jour après jour, discutent de la marche du monde et, surtout, de la « question de la femme ». Mais en arrière-plan de ce symposium des misogynies, voici que s'élève une voix primordiale, faite de toutes les voix des femmes tant redoutées… Hypersensible, malmené par un père autoritaire, Wojnicz veut à toute force étouffer son ambiguïté et dissimuler aux autres ce qu'il est ou redoute de devenir. Pourtant, une mort violente, puis le récit d'autres événements terribles survenus dans la région, vont le conduire à sortir de lui-même. Alors qu'il est question de meurtres rituels et de sorcières ayant trouvé refuge dans les forêts, notre héros va marcher au-devant de forces obscures dont il ne sait pas qu'elles s'intéressent déjà à lui. Le talk-show culturel de Jérôme Colin. Avec, dès 11h30, La Bagarre dans la Discothèque, un jeu musical complétement décalé où la créativité et la mauvaise foi font loi. À partir de midi, avec une belle bande de chroniqueurs, ils explorent ensemble tous les pans de la culture belge et internationale sans sacralisation, pour découvrir avec simplicité, passion et humour. Merci pour votre écoute Entrez sans Frapper c'est également en direct tous les jours de la semaine de 11h30 à 13h sur www.rtbf.be/lapremiere Retrouvez tous les épisodes de Entrez sans Frapper sur notre plateforme Auvio.be : https://auvio.rtbf.be/emission/8521 Et si vous avez apprécié ce podcast, n'hésitez pas à nous donner des étoiles ou des commentaires, cela nous aide à le faire connaître plus largement.

Recorded at EThOs Small Business Incubator and Co-working Spaces in Marion, Illinois. https://members.ethosmarion.org/  SUBSCRIBE TO THE PODCAST Our guest: https://www.havishamhouse.com/bourbon-bar

Steven Knight's incredibly interesting adaptation of the 1860s novel raises questions of society's relationship with Charles Dickens, revising endings, the British collective subconscious, shock tactics, adaptive remixing, myopic approaches to cultural touchstones, problematising periods, social mobility, rags-to-riches storytelling, character agency, cultural ownership, and much more. (00:00:00) New expectations & Steven Knight (00:07:40) Problematising a period (00:16:16) Women in the show + social mobility (00:23:21) Pip & Magwitch (00:27:21) Policing adaptations + Pip's agency (00:38:48) Why another adaptation? (00:46:09) Endings, period drama, Pip's personality (00:55:21) Shock tactics & apologia (01:08:09) Dreams, adaptations, collective subconscious (01:18:32) Improvisation & rags-to-riches storytelling (01:32:45) Style of the show (01:41:13) Jaggers, realism (01:59:32) Three endings + sexuality (02:28:38) The show's beginning + gentlemen (02:39:24) Reception to the show (03:06:53) Stray positive thoughts + different Drummle (03:14:19) Pip, Havisham, maturity (03:31:37) Knight's next Dickens adaptation… Continue reading →

Andy Farnsworth joins KSL-TV to help audiences decipher #WhatToWatch for the weekend of March 31, 2023. Will "Dungeons and Dragons" the movie live up to Dungeons and Dragons the game? That's the big question as "Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves" takes the iconic tabletop role-playing game to the big screen. Another game-turned-movie is "Tetris" on Apple TV+, a sort of Cold War spy movie about a video game. Over on Netflix, Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston are back as the charming, somewhat bumbling, yet unexpectedly effective husband/wife detective team in "Murder Mystery 2." Actor Kiefer Sutherland has a new action-thriller TV series on Paramount+ called "Rabbit Hole." And for fans of sitcoms, Rob Lowe has a comedy for you on Netflix with the quirky show "Unstable." And Finally, a new adaptation of "Great Expectations" on FX & Hulu, starring Olivia Colman as Miss Havisham. But fair warning, this ain't your parents Charles Dickens! Beyond Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Gaming, and Tech, the brains behind Fan Effect are connoisseurs of categories surpassing the nerdy. Brilliant opinions and commentary on all things geek, but surprising knowledge and witty arguments over pop culture, Star Trek, MARVEL vs. DC, and a wide range of movies, TV shows, and more. Formerly known as SLC Fanboys, the show is hosted by Andy Farnsworth and KellieAnn Halvorsen, who are joined by guest experts. Based in the beautiful beehive state, Fan Effect celebrates Utah's unique fan culture as it has been declared The Nerdiest State in America by TIME.    Listen regularly on your favorite platform, at kslnewsradio.com, or on the KSL App. Join the conversation on Facebook @FanEffectShow, Instagram @FanEffectShow, and Twitter @FanEffectShow. Fan Effect is sponsored by Megaplex Theatres, Utah's premiere movie entertainment company. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Today we bring you the first episode of Out of Place, an audio fiction podcast we love! Each episode contains an analysis of an alternative timelines, and the errors of history that caused it to come into being. Read on or listen for more information on Out of Place. --- Content Warning: This episode contains discussion of Death, Ritual Sacrifice, Trepanation, Lobotomy Out of Place Entry #000: Ritual Looking back, it all started with The Skull... Created by Ben Counter Theme by Tom Rory Parsons Produced by Pacific S. Obadiah --- More about Out of Place: Andrew Moss doesn't have much going for him, he dropped out of college, he lives alone, and his job involves staring at, and cataloguing every bit of broken pottery or “interesting” historic thing in the basement of the Carruthers Institute. That all changes when a mysterious package arrives from a Mr. Havisham- Inside is an artifact as mysterious as it is old.  Mr. Havisham's artifacts are a constant source of dread for Andrew, who is equal parts confused, excited, and terrified of their existence- Because they're not just out of time, but out of place. Andrew suspects that these artifacts don't come from our world at all, but another world, with another history. It's the only thing that could explain the marks of trepanation on a skull from the 80's, or a pamphlet from a world where Pompeii wasn't covered in ash.  If that's the case… Who, or perhaps what is Mr. Havisham? Support the makers of out of place! More about Midnight Disease Productions Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

durée : 00:24:41 - Le Feuilleton - Où Pip découvre jusqu'où peut aller la vengeance d'une femme blessée.

durée : 00:24:51 - Le Feuilleton - Où le chemin du jeune Pip croise celui de la jeune Estella, aussi ravissante qu'arrogante.

durée : 00:24:51 - Le Feuilleton - Où le chemin du jeune Pip croise celui de la jeune Estella, aussi ravissante qu'arrogante.

durée : 00:24:41 - Le Feuilleton - Où Pip découvre jusqu'où peut aller la vengeance d'une femme blessée.

The pale young gentleman and I stood contemplating one another in Barnard's Inn, until we both burst out laughing. “The idea of its being you!” said he. “The idea of its being you!” said I. And then we contemplated one another afresh, and laughed again. “Well!” said the pale young gentleman, reaching out his hand good-humoredly, “it's all over now, I hope, and it will be magnanimous in you if you'll forgive me for having knocked you about so.”I derived from this speech that Mr. Herbert Pocket (for Herbert was the pale young gentleman's name) still rather confounded his intention with his execution. But I made a modest reply, and we shook hands warmly.“You hadn't come into your good fortune at that time?” said Herbert Pocket.“No,” said I.“No,” he acquiesced: “I heard it had happened very lately. I was rather on the lookout for good fortune then.”“Indeed?”“Yes. Miss Havisham had sent for me, to see if she could take a fancy to me. But she couldn't⁠—at all events, she didn't.”I thought it polite to remark that I was surprised to hear that.“Bad taste,” said Herbert, laughing, “but a fact. Yes, she had sent for me on a trial visit, and if I had come out of it successfully, I suppose I should have been provided for; perhaps I should have been what-you-may-called it to Estella.”“What's that?” I asked, with sudden gravity.He was arranging his fruit in plates while we talked, which divided his attention, and was the cause of his having made this lapse of a word. “Affianced,” he explained, still busy with the fruit. “Betrothed. Engaged. What's-his-named. Any word of that sort.”“How did you bear your disappointment?” I asked.“Pooh!” said he, “I didn't care much for it. She's a tartar.”“Miss Havisham?”“I don't say no to that, but I meant Estella. That girl's hard and haughty and capricious to the last degree, and has been brought up by Miss Havisham to wreak revenge on all the male sex.”“What relation is she to Miss Havisham?”“None,” said he. “Only adopted.”“Why should she wreak revenge on all the male sex? What revenge?”“Lord, Mr. Pip!” said he. “Don't you know?”“No,” said I.“Dear me! It's quite a story, and shall be saved till dinnertime. And now let me take the liberty of asking you a question. How did you come there, that day?”I told him, and he was attentive until I had finished, and then burst out laughing again, and asked me if I was sore afterwards? I didn't ask him if he was, for my conviction on that point was perfectly established.“Mr. Jaggers is your guardian, I understand?” he went on.“Yes.”“You know he is Miss Havisham's man of business and solicitor, and has her confidence when nobody else has?”This was bringing me (I felt) towards dangerous ground. I answered with a constraint I made no attempt to disguise, that I had seen Mr. Jaggers in Miss Havisham's house on the very day of our combat, but never at any other time, and that I believed he had no recollection of having ever seen me there.“He was so obliging as to suggest my father for your tutor, and he called on my father to propose it. Of course he knew about my father from his connection with Miss Havisham. My father is Miss Havisham's cousin; not that that implies familiar intercourse between them, for he is a bad courtier and will not propitiate her.”Herbert Pocket had a frank and easy way with him that was very taking. I had never seen anyone then, and I have never seen anyone since, who more strongly expressed to me, in every look and tone, a natural incapacity to do anything secret and mean. There was something wonderfully hopeful about his general air, and something that at the same time whispered to me he would never be very successful or rich. I don't know how this was. I became imbued with the notion on that first occasion before we sat down to dinner, but I cannot define by what means.He was still a pale young gentleman, and had a certain conquered languor about him in the midst of his spirits and briskness, that did not seem indicative of natural strength. He had not a handsome face, but it was better than handsome: being extremely amiable and cheerful. His figure was a little ungainly, as in the days when my knuckles had taken such liberties with it, but it looked as if it would always be light and young. Whether Mr. Trabb's local work would have sat more gracefully on him than on me, may be a question; but I am conscious that he carried off his rather old clothes much better than I carried off my new suit.As he was so communicative, I felt that reserve on my part would be a bad return unsuited to our years. I therefore told him my small story, and laid stress on my being forbidden to inquire who my benefactor was. I further mentioned that as I had been brought up a blacksmith in a country place, and knew very little of the ways of politeness, I would take it as a great kindness in him if he would give me a hint whenever he saw me at a loss or going wrong.“With pleasure,” said he, “though I venture to prophesy that you'll want very few hints. I dare say we shall be often together, and I should like to banish any needless restraint between us. Will you do me the favour to begin at once to call me by my Christian name, Herbert?”I thanked him and said I would. I informed him in exchange that my Christian name was Philip.“I don't take to Philip,” said he, smiling, “for it sounds like a moral boy out of the spelling-book, who was so lazy that he fell into a pond, or so fat that he couldn't see out of his eyes, or so avaricious that he locked up his cake till the mice ate it, or so determined to go a bird's-nesting that he got himself eaten by bears who lived handy in the neighborhood. I tell you what I should like. We are so harmonious, and you have been a blacksmith⁠—would you mind it?”“I shouldn't mind anything that you propose,” I answered, “but I don't understand you.”“Would you mind Handel for a familiar name? There's a charming piece of music by Handel, called the Harmonious Blacksmith.”“I should like it very much.”“Then, my dear Handel,” said he, turning round as the door opened, “here is the dinner, and I must beg of you to take the top of the table, because the dinner is of your providing.”This I would not hear of, so he took the top, and I faced him. It was a nice little dinner⁠—seemed to me then a very Lord Mayor's Feast⁠—and it acquired additional relish from being eaten under those independent circumstances, with no old people by, and with London all around us. This again was heightened by a certain gypsy character that set the banquet off; for while the table was, as Mr. Pumblechook might have said, the lap of luxury⁠—being entirely furnished forth from the coffeehouse⁠—the circumjacent region of sitting room was of a comparatively pastureless and shifty character; imposing on the waiter the wandering habits of putting the covers on the floor (where he fell over them), the melted butter in the armchair, the bread on the bookshelves, the cheese in the coal-scuttle, and the boiled fowl into my bed in the next room⁠—where I found much of its parsley and butter in a state of congelation when I retired for the night. All this made the feast delightful, and when the waiter was not there to watch me, my pleasure was without alloy.We had made some progress in the dinner, when I reminded Herbert of his promise to tell me about Miss Havisham.“True,” he replied. “I'll redeem it at once. Let me introduce the topic, Handel, by mentioning that in London it is not the custom to put the knife in the mouth⁠—for fear of accidents⁠—and that while the fork is reserved for that use, it is not put further in than necessary. It is scarcely worth mentioning, only it's as well to do as other people do. Also, the spoon is not generally used overhand, but under. This has two advantages. You get at your mouth better (which after all is the object), and you save a good deal of the attitude of opening oysters, on the part of the right elbow.”He offered these friendly suggestions in such a lively way, that we both laughed and I scarcely blushed.“Now,” he pursued, “concerning Miss Havisham. Miss Havisham, you must know, was a spoilt child. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her father denied her nothing. Her father was a country gentleman down in your part of the world, and was a brewer. I don't know why it should be a crack thing to be a brewer; but it is indisputable that while you cannot possibly be genteel and bake, you may be as genteel as never was and brew. You see it every day.”“Yet a gentleman may not keep a public house; may he?” said I.“Not on any account,” returned Herbert; “but a public house may keep a gentleman. Well! Mr. Havisham was very rich and very proud. So was his daughter.”“Miss Havisham was an only child?” I hazarded.“Stop a moment, I am coming to that. No, she was not an only child; she had a half-brother. Her father privately married again⁠—his cook, I rather think.”“I thought he was proud,” said I.“My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately, because he was proud, and in course of time she died. When she was dead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then the son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are acquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous, extravagant, undutiful⁠—altogether bad. At last his father disinherited him; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though not nearly so well off as Miss Havisham.⁠—Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one's glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one's nose.”I had been doing this, in an excess of attention to his recital. I thanked him, and apologized. He said, “Not at all,” and resumed.“Miss Havisham was now an heiress, and you may suppose was looked after as a great match. Her half-brother had now ample means again, but what with debts and what with new madness wasted them most fearfully again. There were stronger differences between him and her than there had been between him and his father, and it is suspected that he cherished a deep and mortal grudge against her as having influenced the father's anger. Now, I come to the cruel part of the story⁠—merely breaking off, my dear Handel, to remark that a dinner-napkin will not go into a tumbler.”Why I was trying to pack mine into my tumbler, I am wholly unable to say. I only know that I found myself, with a perseverance worthy of a much better cause, making the most strenuous exertions to compress it within those limits. Again I thanked him and apologized, and again he said in the cheerfullest manner, “Not at all, I am sure!” and resumed.“There appeared upon the scene⁠—say at the races, or the public balls, or anywhere else you like⁠—a certain man, who made love to Miss Havisham. I never saw him (for this happened five-and-twenty years ago, before you and I were, Handel), but I have heard my father mention that he was a showy man, and the kind of man for the purpose. But that he was not to be, without ignorance or prejudice, mistaken for a gentleman, my father most strongly asseverates; because it is a principle of his that no man who was not a true gentleman at heart ever was, since the world began, a true gentleman in manner. He says, no varnish can hide the grain of the wood; and that the more varnish you put on, the more the grain will express itself. Well! This man pursued Miss Havisham closely, and professed to be devoted to her. I believe she had not shown much susceptibility up to that time; but all the susceptibility she possessed certainly came out then, and she passionately loved him. There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized him. He practised on her affection in that systematic way, that he got great sums of money from her, and he induced her to buy her brother out of a share in the brewery (which had been weakly left him by his father) at an immense price, on the plea that when he was her husband he must hold and manage it all. Your guardian was not at that time in Miss Havisham's counsels, and she was too haughty and too much in love to be advised by anyone. Her relations were poor and scheming, with the exception of my father; he was poor enough, but not timeserving or jealous. The only independent one among them, he warned her that she was doing too much for this man, and was placing herself too unreservedly in his power. She took the first opportunity of angrily ordering my father out of the house, in his presence, and my father has never seen her since.”I thought of her having said, “Matthew will come and see me at last when I am laid dead upon that table;” and I asked Herbert whether his father was so inveterate against her?“It's not that,” said he, “but she charged him, in the presence of her intended husband, with being disappointed in the hope of fawning upon her for his own advancement, and, if he were to go to her now, it would look true⁠—even to him⁠—and even to her. To return to the man and make an end of him. The marriage day was fixed, the wedding dresses were bought, the wedding tour was planned out, the wedding guests were invited. The day came, but not the bridegroom. He wrote her a letter⁠—”“Which she received,” I struck in, “when she was dressing for her marriage? At twenty minutes to nine?”“At the hour and minute,” said Herbert, nodding, “at which she afterwards stopped all the clocks. What was in it, further than that it most heartlessly broke the marriage off, I can't tell you, because I don't know. When she recovered from a bad illness that she had, she laid the whole place waste, as you have seen it, and she has never since looked upon the light of day.”“Is that all the story?” I asked, after considering it.“All I know of it; and indeed I only know so much, through piecing it out for myself; for my father always avoids it, and, even when Miss Havisham invited me to go there, told me no more of it than it was absolutely requisite I should understand. But I have forgotten one thing. It has been supposed that the man to whom she gave her misplaced confidence acted throughout in concert with her half-brother; that it was a conspiracy between them; and that they shared the profits.”“I wonder he didn't marry her and get all the property,” said I.“He may have been married already, and her cruel mortification may have been a part of her half-brother's scheme,” said Herbert. “Mind! I don't know that.”“What became of the two men?” I asked, after again considering the subject.“They fell into deeper shame and degradation⁠—if there can be deeper⁠—and ruin.”“Are they alive now?”“I don't know.”“You said just now that Estella was not related to Miss Havisham, but adopted. When adopted?”Herbert shrugged his shoulders. “There has always been an Estella, since I have heard of a Miss Havisham. I know no more. And now, Handel,” said he, finally throwing off the story as it were, “there is a perfectly open understanding between us. All that I know about Miss Havisham, you know.”“And all that I know,” I retorted, “you know.”“I fully believe it. So there can be no competition or perplexity between you and me. And as to the condition on which you hold your advancement in life⁠—namely, that you are not to inquire or discuss to whom you owe it⁠—you may be very sure that it will never be encroached upon, or even approached, by me, or by anyone belonging to me.”In truth, he said this with so much delicacy, that I felt the subject done with, even though I should be under his father's roof for years and years to come. Yet he said it with so much meaning, too, that I felt he as perfectly understood Miss Havisham to be my benefactress, as I understood the fact myself.It had not occurred to me before, that he had led up to the theme for the purpose of clearing it out of our way; but we were so much the lighter and easier for having broached it, that I now perceived this to be the case. We were very gay and sociable, and I asked him, in the course of conversation, what he was? He replied, “A capitalist⁠—an Insurer of Ships.” I suppose he saw me glancing about the room in search of some tokens of shipping, or capital, for he added, “In the City.”I had grand ideas of the wealth and importance of Insurers of Ships in the City, and I began to think with awe of having laid a young Insurer on his back, blackened his enterprising eye, and cut his responsible head open. But again there came upon me, for my relief, that odd impression that Herbert Pocket would never be very successful or rich.“I shall not rest satisfied with merely employing my capital in insuring ships. I shall buy up some good Life Assurance shares, and cut into the direction. I shall also do a little in the mining way. None of these things will interfere with my chartering a few thousand tons on my own account. I think I shall trade,” said he, leaning back in his chair, “to the East Indies, for silks, shawls, spices, dyes, drugs, and precious woods. It's an interesting trade.”“And the profits are large?” said I.“Tremendous!” said he.I wavered again, and began to think here were greater expectations than my own.“I think I shall trade, also,” said he, putting his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, “to the West Indies, for sugar, tobacco, and rum. Also to Ceylon, specially for elephants' tusks.”“You will want a good many ships,” said I.“A perfect fleet,” said he.Quite overpowered by the magnificence of these transactions, I asked him where the ships he insured mostly traded to at present?“I haven't begun insuring yet,” he replied. “I am looking about me.”Somehow, that pursuit seemed more in keeping with Barnard's Inn. I said (in a tone of conviction), “Ah-h!”“Yes. I am in a countinghouse, and looking about me.”“Is a countinghouse profitable?” I asked.“To⁠—do you mean to the young fellow who's in it?” he asked, in reply.“Yes; to you.”“Why, n-no; not to me.” He said this with the air of one carefully reckoning up and striking a balance. “Not directly profitable. That is, it doesn't pay me anything, and I have to⁠—keep myself.”This certainly had not a profitable appearance, and I shook my head as if I would imply that it would be difficult to lay by much accumulative capital from such a source of income.“But the thing is,” said Herbert Pocket, “that you look about you. That's the grand thing. You are in a countinghouse, you know, and you look about you.”It struck me as a singular implication that you couldn't be out of a countinghouse, you know, and look about you; but I silently deferred to his experience.“Then the time comes,” said Herbert, “when you see your opening. And you go in, and you swoop upon it and you make your capital, and then there you are! When you have once made your capital, you have nothing to do but employ it.”This was very like his way of conducting that encounter in the garden; very like. His manner of bearing his poverty, too, exactly corresponded to his manner of bearing that defeat. It seemed to me that he took all blows and buffets now with just the same air as he had taken mine then. It was evident that he had nothing around him but the simplest necessaries, foreverything that I remarked upon turned out to have been sent in on my account from the coffeehouse or somewhere else.Yet, having already made his fortune in his own mind, he was so unassuming with it that I felt quite grateful to him for not being puffed up. It was a pleasant addition to his naturally pleasant ways, and we got on famously. In the evening we went out for a walk in the streets, and went half-price to the Theatre; and next day we went to church at Westminster Abbey, and in the afternoon we walked in the Parks; and I wondered who shod all the horses there, and wished Joe did.On a moderate computation, it was many months, that Sunday, since I had left Joe and Biddy. The space interposed between myself and them partook of that expansion, and our marshes were any distance off. That I could have been at our old church in my old churchgoing clothes, on the very last Sunday that ever was, seemed a combination of impossibilities, geographical and social, solar and lunar. Yet in the London streets so crowded with people and so brilliantly lighted in the dusk of evening, there were depressing hints of reproaches for that I had put the poor old kitchen at home so far away; and in the dead of night, the footsteps of some incapable impostor of a porter mooning about Barnard's Inn, under pretence of watching it, fell hollow on my heart.On the Monday morning at a quarter before nine, Herbert went to the countinghouse to report himself⁠—to look about him, too, I suppose⁠—and I bore him company. He was to come away in an hour or two to attend me to Hammersmith, and I was to wait about for him. It appeared to me that the eggs from which young Insurers were hatched were incubated in dust and heat, like the eggs of ostriches, judging from the places to which those incipient giants repaired on a Monday morning. Nor did the countinghouse where Herbert assisted, show in my eyes as at all a good observatory; being a back second floor up a yard, of a grimy presence in all particulars, and with a look into another back second floor, rather than a look out.I waited about until it was noon, and I went upon 'Change, and I saw fluey men sitting there under the bills about shipping, whom I took to be great merchants, though I couldn't understand why they should all be out of spirits. When Herbert came, we went and had lunch at a celebrated house which I then quite venerated, but now believe to have been the most abject superstition in Europe, and where I could not help noticing, even then, that there was much more gravy on the tablecloths and knives and waiters' clothes, than in the steaks. This collation disposed of at a moderate price (considering the grease, which was not charged for), we went back to Barnard's Inn and got my little portmanteau, and then took coach for Hammersmith. We arrived there at two or three o'clock in the afternoon, and had very little way to walk to Mr. Pocket's house. Lifting the latch of a gate, we passed direct into a little garden overlooking the river, where Mr. Pocket's children were playing about. And unless I deceive myself on a point where my interests or prepossessions are certainly not concerned, I saw that Mr. and Mrs. Pocket's children were not growing up or being brought up, but were tumbling up.Mrs. Pocket was sitting on a garden chair under a tree, reading, with her legs upon another garden chair; and Mrs. Pocket's two nursemaids were looking about them while the children played. “Mamma,” said Herbert, “this is young Mr. Pip.” Upon which Mrs. Pocket received me with an appearance of amiable dignity.“Master Alick and Miss Jane,” cried one of the nurses to two of the children, “if you go a bouncing up against them bushes you'll fall over into the river and be drownded, and what'll your pa say then?”At the same time this nurse picked up Mrs. Pocket's handkerchief, and said, “If that don't make six times you've dropped it, Mum!” Upon which Mrs. Pocket laughed and said, “Thank you, Flopson,” and settling herself in one chair only, resumed her book. Her countenance immediately assumed a knitted and intent expression as if she had been reading for a week, but before she could have read half a dozen lines, she fixed her eyes upon me, and said, “I hope your mamma is quite well?” This unexpected inquiry put me into such a difficulty that I began saying in the absurdest way that if there had been any such person I had no doubt she would have been quite well and would have been very much obliged and would have sent her compliments, when the nurse came to my rescue.“Well!” she cried, picking up the pocket handkerchief, “if that don't make seven times! What are you a doing of this afternoon, Mum!” Mrs. Pocket received her property, at first with a look of unutterable surprise as if she had never seen it before, and then with a laugh of recognition, and said, “Thank you, Flopson,” and forgot me, and went on reading.I found, now I had leisure to count them, that there were no fewer than six little Pockets present, in various stages of tumbling up. I had scarcely arrived at the total when a seventh was heard, as in the region of air, wailing dolefully.“If there ain't Baby!” said Flopson, appearing to think it most surprising. “Make haste up, Millers.”Millers, who was the other nurse, retired into the house, and by degrees the child's wailing was hushed and stopped, as if it were a young ventriloquist with something in its mouth. Mrs. Pocket read all the time, and I was curious to know what the book could be.We were waiting, I supposed, for Mr. Pocket to come out to us; at any rate we waited there, and so I had an opportunity of observing the remarkable family phenomenon that whenever any of the children strayed near Mrs. Pocket in their play, they always tripped themselves up and tumbled over her⁠—always very much to her momentary astonishment, and their own more enduring lamentation. I was at a loss to account for this surprising circumstance, and could not help giving my mind to speculations about it, until by and by Millers came down with the baby, which baby was handed to Flopson, which Flopson was handing it to Mrs. Pocket, when she too went fairly head foremost over Mrs. Pocket, baby and all, and was caught by Herbert and myself.“Gracious me, Flopson!” said Mrs. Pocket, looking off her book for a moment, “everybody's tumbling!”“Gracious you, indeed, Mum!” returned Flopson, very red in the face; “what have you got there?”“I got here, Flopson?” asked Mrs. Pocket.“Why, if it ain't your footstool!” cried Flopson. “And if you keep it under your skirts like that, who's to help tumbling? Here! Take the baby, Mum, and give me your book.”Mrs. Pocket acted on the advice, and inexpertly danced the infant a little in her lap, while the other children played about it. This had lasted but a very short time, when Mrs. Pocket issued summary orders that they were all to be taken into the house for a nap. Thus I made the second discovery on that first occasion, that the nurture of the little Pockets consisted of alternately tumbling up and lying down.Under these circumstances, when Flopson and Millers had got the children into the house, like a little flock of sheep, and Mr. Pocket came out of it to make my acquaintance, I was not much surprised to find that Mr. Pocket was a gentleman with a rather perplexed expression of face, and with his very gray hair disordered on his head, as if he didn't quite see his way to putting anything straight. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit greatexpectations.substack.com

I now fell into a regular routine of apprenticeship life, which was varied beyond the limits of the village and the marshes, by no more remarkable circumstance than the arrival of my birthday and my paying another visit to Miss Havisham. I found Miss Sarah Pocket still on duty at the gate; I found Miss Havisham just as I had left her, and she spoke of Estella in the very same way, if not in the very same words. The interview lasted but a few minutes, and she gave me a guinea when I was going, and told me to come again on my next birthday. I may mention at once that this became an annual custom. I tried to decline taking the guinea on the first occasion, but with no better effect than causing her to ask me very angrily, if I expected more? Then, and after that, I took it.So unchanging was the dull old house, the yellow light in the darkened room, the faded spectre in the chair by the dressing-table glass, that I felt as if the stopping of the clocks had stopped Time in that mysterious place, and, while I and everything else outside it grew older, it stood still. Daylight never entered the house as to my thoughts and remembrances of it, any more than as to the actual fact. It bewildered me, and under its influence I continued at heart to hate my trade and to be ashamed of home.Imperceptibly I became conscious of a change in Biddy, however. Her shoes came up at the heel, her hair grew bright and neat, her hands were always clean. She was not beautiful⁠—she was common, and could not be like Estella⁠—but she was pleasant and wholesome and sweet-tempered. She had not been with us more than a year (I remember her being newly out of mourning at the time it struck me), when I observed to myself one evening that she had curiously thoughtful and attentive eyes; eyes that were very pretty and very good.It came of my lifting up my own eyes from a task I was poring at⁠—writing some passages from a book, to improve myself in two ways at once by a sort of stratagem⁠—and seeing Biddy observant of what I was about. I laid down my pen, and Biddy stopped in her needlework without laying it down.“Biddy,” said I, “how do you manage it? Either I am very stupid, or you are very clever.”“What is it that I manage? I don't know,” returned Biddy, smiling.She managed our whole domestic life, and wonderfully too; but I did not mean that, though that made what I did mean more surprising.“How do you manage, Biddy,” said I, “to learn everything that I learn, and always to keep up with me?” I was beginning to be rather vain of my knowledge, for I spent my birthday guineas on it, and set aside the greater part of my pocket money for similar investment; though I have no doubt, now, that the little I knew was extremely dear at the price.“I might as well ask you,” said Biddy, “how you manage?”“No; because when I come in from the forge of a night, anyone can see me turning to at it. But you never turn to at it, Biddy.”“I suppose I must catch it like a cough,” said Biddy, quietly; and went on with her sewing.Pursuing my idea as I leaned back in my wooden chair, and looked at Biddy sewing away with her head on one side, I began to think her rather an extraordinary girl. For I called to mind now, that she was equally accomplished in the terms of our trade, and the names of our different sorts of work, and our various tools. In short, whatever I knew, Biddy knew. Theoretically, she was already as good a blacksmith as I, or better.“You are one of those, Biddy,” said I, “who make the most of every chance. You never had a chance before you came here, and see how improved you are!”Biddy looked at me for an instant, and went on with her sewing. “I was your first teacher though; wasn't I?” said she, as she sewed.“Biddy!” I exclaimed, in amazement. “Why, you are crying!”“No I am not,” said Biddy, looking up and laughing. “What put that in your head?”What could have put it in my head but the glistening of a tear as it dropped on her work? I sat silent, recalling what a drudge she had been until Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt successfully overcame that bad habit of living, so highly desirable to be got rid of by some people. I recalled the hopeless circumstances by which she had been surrounded in the miserable little shop and the miserable little noisy evening school, with that miserable old bundle of incompetence always to be dragged and shouldered. I reflected that even in those untoward times there must have been latent in Biddy what was now developing, for, in my first uneasiness and discontent I had turned to her for help, as a matter of course. Biddy sat quietly sewing, shedding no more tears, and while I looked at her and thought about it all, it occurred to me that perhaps I had not been sufficiently grateful to Biddy. I might have been too reserved, and should have patronized her more (though I did not use that precise word in my meditations) with my confidence.“Yes, Biddy,” I observed, when I had done turning it over, “you were my first teacher, and that at a time when we little thought of ever being together like this, in this kitchen.”“Ah, poor thing!” replied Biddy. It was like her self-forgetfulness to transfer the remark to my sister, and to get up and be busy about her, making her more comfortable; “that's sadly true!”“Well!” said I, “we must talk together a little more, as we used to do. And I must consult you a little more, as I used to do. Let us have a quiet walk on the marshes next Sunday, Biddy, and a long chat.”My sister was never left alone now; but Joe more than readily undertook the care of her on that Sunday afternoon, and Biddy and I went out together. It was summertime, and lovely weather. When we had passed the village and the church and the churchyard, and were out on the marshes and began to see the sails of the ships as they sailed on, I began to combine Miss Havisham and Estella with the prospect, in my usual way. When we came to the riverside and sat down on the bank, with the water rippling at our feet, making it all more quiet than it would have been without that sound, I resolved that it was a good time and place for the admission of Biddy into my inner confidence.“Biddy,” said I, after binding her to secrecy, “I want to be a gentleman.”“O, I wouldn't, if I was you!” she returned. “I don't think it would answer.”“Biddy,” said I, with some severity, “I have particular reasons for wanting to be a gentleman.”“You know best, Pip; but don't you think you are happier as you are?”“Biddy,” I exclaimed, impatiently, “I am not at all happy as I am. I am disgusted with my calling and with my life. I have never taken to either, since I was bound. Don't be absurd.”“Was I absurd?” said Biddy, quietly raising her eyebrows; “I am sorry for that; I didn't mean to be. I only want you to do well, and to be comfortable.”“Well, then, understand once for all that I never shall or can be comfortable⁠—or anything but miserable⁠—there, Biddy!⁠—unless I can lead a very different sort of life from the life I lead now.”“That's a pity!” said Biddy, shaking her head with a sorrowful air.Now, I too had so often thought it a pity, that, in the singular kind of quarrel with myself which I was always carrying on, I was half inclined to shed tears of vexation and distress when Biddy gave utterance to her sentiment and my own. I told her she was right, and I knew it was much to be regretted, but still it was not to be helped.“If I could have settled down,” I said to Biddy, plucking up the short grass within reach, much as I had once upon a time pulled my feelings out of my hair and kicked them into the brewery wall⁠—“if I could have settled down and been but half as fond of the forge as I was when I was little, I know it would have been much better for me. You and I and Joe would have wanted nothing then, and Joe and I would perhaps have gone partners when I was out of my time, and I might even have grown up to keep company with you, and we might have sat on this very bank on a fine Sunday, quite different people. I should have been good enough for you; shouldn't I, Biddy?”Biddy sighed as she looked at the ships sailing on, and returned for answer, “Yes; I am not over-particular.” It scarcely sounded flattering, but I knew she meant well.“Instead of that,” said I, plucking up more grass and chewing a blade or two, “see how I am going on. Dissatisfied, and uncomfortable, and⁠—what would it signify to me, being coarse and common, if nobody had told me so!”Biddy turned her face suddenly towards mine, and looked far more attentively at me than she had looked at the sailing ships.“It was neither a very true nor a very polite thing to say,” she remarked, directing her eyes to the ships again. “Who said it?”I was disconcerted, for I had broken away without quite seeing where I was going to. It was not to be shuffled off now, however, and I answered, “The beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's, and she's more beautiful than anybody ever was, and I admire her dreadfully, and I want to be a gentleman on her account.” Having made this lunatic confession, I began to throw my torn-up grass into the river, as if I had some thoughts of following it.“Do you want to be a gentleman, to spite her or to gain her over?” Biddy quietly asked me, after a pause.“I don't know,” I moodily answered.“Because, if it is to spite her,” Biddy pursued, “I should think⁠—but you know best⁠—that might be better and more independently done by caring nothing for her words. And if it is to gain her over, I should think⁠—but you know best⁠—she was not worth gaining over.”Exactly what I myself had thought, many times. Exactly what was perfectly manifest to me at the moment. But how could I, a poor dazed village lad, avoid that wonderful inconsistency into which the best and wisest of men fall every day?“It may be all quite true,” said I to Biddy, “but I admire her dreadfully.”In short, I turned over on my face when I came to that, and got a good grasp on the hair on each side of my head, and wrenched it well. All the while knowing the madness of my heart to be so very mad and misplaced, that I was quite conscious it would have served my face right, if I had lifted it up by my hair, and knocked it against the pebbles as a punishment for belonging to such an idiot.Biddy was the wisest of girls, and she tried to reason no more with me. She put her hand, which was a comfortable hand though roughened by work, upon my hands, one after another, and gently took them out of my hair. Then she softly patted my shoulder in a soothing way, while with my face upon my sleeve I cried a little⁠—exactly as I had done in the brewery yard⁠—and felt vaguely convinced that I was very much ill-used by somebody, or by everybody; I can't say which.“I am glad of one thing,” said Biddy, “and that is, that you have felt you could give me your confidence, Pip. And I am glad of another thing, and that is, that of course you know you may depend upon my keeping it and always so far deserving it. If your first teacher (dear! such a poor one, and so much in need of being taught herself!) had been your teacher at the present time, she thinks she knows what lesson she would set. But it would be a hard one to learn, and you have got beyond her, and it's of no use now.” So, with a quiet sigh for me, Biddy rose from the bank, and said, with a fresh and pleasant change of voice, “Shall we walk a little farther, or go home?”“Biddy,” I cried, getting up, putting my arm round her neck, and giving her a kiss, “I shall always tell you everything.”“Till you're a gentleman,” said Biddy.“You know I never shall be, so that's always. Not that I have any occasion to tell you anything, for you know everything I know⁠—as I told you at home the other night.”“Ah!” said Biddy, quite in a whisper, as she looked away at the ships. And then repeated, with her former pleasant change, “shall we walk a little farther, or go home?”I said to Biddy we would walk a little farther, and we did so, and the summer afternoon toned down into the summer evening, and it was very beautiful. I began to consider whether I was not more naturally and wholesomely situated, after all, in these circumstances, than playing beggar my neighbor by candlelight in the room with the stopped clocks, and being despised by Estella. I thought it would be very good for me if I could get her out of my head, with all the rest of those remembrances and fancies, and could go to work determined to relish what I had to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it. I asked myself the question whether I did not surely know that if Estella were beside me at that moment instead of Biddy, she would make me miserable? I was obliged to admit that I did know it for a certainty, and I said to myself, “Pip, what a fool you are!”We talked a good deal as we walked, and all that Biddy said seemed right. Biddy was never insulting, or capricious, or Biddy today and somebody else tomorrow; she would have derived only pain, and no pleasure, from giving me pain; she would far rather have wounded her own breast than mine. How could it be, then, that I did not like her much the better of the two?“Biddy,” said I, when we were walking homeward, “I wish you could put me right.”“I wish I could!” said Biddy.“If I could only get myself to fall in love with you⁠—you don't mind my speaking so openly to such an old acquaintance?”“Oh dear, not at all!” said Biddy. “Don't mind me.”“If I could only get myself to do it, that would be the thing for me.”“But you never will, you see,” said Biddy.It did not appear quite so unlikely to me that evening, as it would have done if we had discussed it a few hours before. I therefore observed I was not quite sure of that. But Biddy said she was, and she said it decisively. In my heart I believed her to be right; and yet I took it rather ill, too, that she should be so positive on the point.When we came near the churchyard, we had to cross an embankment, and get over a stile near a sluice-gate. There started up, from the gate, or from the rushes, or from the ooze (which was quite in his stagnant way), Old Orlick.“Halloa!” he growled, “where are you two going?”“Where should we be going, but home?”“Well, then,” said he, “I'm jiggered if I don't see you home!”This penalty of being jiggered was a favorite supposititious case of his. He attached no definite meaning to the word that I am aware of, but used it, like his own pretended Christian name, to affront mankind, and convey an idea of something savagely damaging. When I was younger, I had had a general belief that if he had jiggered me personally, he would have done it with a sharp and twisted hook.Biddy was much against his going with us, and said to me in a whisper, “Don't let him come; I don't like him.” As I did not like him either, I took the liberty of saying that we thanked him, but we didn't want seeing home. He received that piece of information with a yell of laughter, and dropped back, but came slouching after us at a little distance.Curious to know whether Biddy suspected him of having had a hand in that murderous attack of which my sister had never been able to give any account, I asked her why she did not like him.“Oh!” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as he slouched after us, “because I⁠—I am afraid he likes me.”“Did he ever tell you he liked you?” I asked indignantly.“No,” said Biddy, glancing over her shoulder again, “he never told me so; but he dances at me, whenever he can catch my eye.”However novel and peculiar this testimony of attachment, I did not doubt the accuracy of the interpretation. I was very hot indeed upon Old Orlick's daring to admire her; as hot as if it were an outrage on myself.“But it makes no difference to you, you know,” said Biddy, calmly.“No, Biddy, it makes no difference to me; only I don't like it; I don't approve of it.”“Nor I neither,” said Biddy. “Though that makes no difference to you.”“Exactly,” said I; “but I must tell you I should have no opinion of you, Biddy, if he danced at you with your own consent.”I kept an eye on Orlick after that night, and, whenever circumstances were favorable to his dancing at Biddy, got before him to obscure that demonstration. He had struck root in Joe's establishment, by reason of my sister's sudden fancy for him, or I should have tried to get him dismissed. He quite understood and reciprocated my good intentions, as I had reason to know thereafter.And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I was born had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-respect and happiness. At those times, I would decide conclusively that my disaffection to dear old Joe and the forge was gone, and that I was growing up in a fair way to be partners with Joe and to keep company with Biddy⁠—when all in a moment some confounding remembrance of the Havisham days would fall upon me like a destructive missile, and scatter my wits again. Scattered wits take a long time picking up; and often before I had got them well together, they would be dispersed in all directions by one stray thought, that perhaps after all Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune when my time was out.If my time had run out, it would have left me still at the height of my perplexities, I dare say. It never did run out, however, but was brought to a premature end, as I proceed to relate. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit greatexpectations.substack.com

Ms. Havisham has been left at the altar. As the seconds slip by, her mind cracks. If only someone could stop the clocks. Written, directed and edited by David Grimes Performed by Sarah-Louise Cairney

Welcome to Ms. Havisham's house of fun and oblivion! Which would you choose, and which will tempt Fil? Can she find delight in the West's first 'computer game', or leap into the eternal purgatory of the Black Darkness? A stand-alone audio adventure, colourfully revivifying Dickens's non-Western classic. Great Big Expectations was written and directed by Ben Swithen. Starring Hannah Goudie-Hunter as Fil and Sandra Baker Donnelly as Ms Havisham, with Charlotte Creasey as Beatrice Pocket, Sarah and Angus Goudie as the Joes and Tim Packer as Pumblechook.   cw: threats of violence, despair, family strife, imprisonment and furries

durée : 00:30:40 - Les Nuits de France Culture - par : Philippe Garbit, Albane Penaranda, Antoine Dhulster - Nuit Dickens 1/2 - Entretien 2/4 avec Clémence Folléa qui explique comment Charles Dickens a crée une multitude de personnages excentriques, à la fois symptomatiques de leur époque mais aussi de l'art et de la ruse de l'écrivain pour captiver ses lecteurs… - réalisation : Virginie Mourthé

The episode of Bridgerton where Simon and Daphne have to marry, can’t marry, and then do marry, wouldn’t be complete without an orgy, a big sex ed fail, and more of the Netflix show’s lavish costumes and drama. Lydia & Tay compare the show adaptation to the original book and explain how the episode fits into the romance genre. Come for our slightly silly recap of the episode, stay for the rant about the episode’s portrayal of sex. Next week: Episode 6, “Swish”Our recs!Lorraine Heath, The Viscount and the Vixen (The Hellions of Havisham #3)Elizabeth Hoyt, To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)"White Collar""The Nanny"Support Independent Bookstores!Black Garnet Books, online/popup store based in MN https://www.blackgarnetbooks.com/ Bridge Street Books, DC https://bookshop.org/shop/bridgestreetbooks Also:1810 Yorkshire farmer’s diary mentioned: https://www.bbc.com/news/education-51385884 Thanks for listening! You can find us on Instagram and Facebook @callingcardspod, on Twitter @CardsCalling, on our website, https://www.callingcards.wixsite.com/callingcardspod, or by emailing us at callingcardspod@gmail.com. Theme music by PASTACAT, @pastacatmusic on Instagram.

It feels like an oxymoron to say this package from Mr. Havisham was unlike any other I received - And yet, it was.  What do you know about the Trinity Test? Or the New Mexico Exclusion Zone? Apparently, I know less than I thought.    Created by Ben Counter Andrew Moss- Ben Counter Caroline Beckman - Erin Evans Walker Title Music - Tom Rory Parsons Sound Design - Pacific S. Obadiah   Website: https://midnightdisease.net/ Learn More: https://midnightdisease.net/#/out-of-place/ Support Our Show: https://midnightdisease.net/join

durée : 00:30:40 - Les Nuits de France Culture - par : Philippe Garbit, Albane Penaranda, Mathilde Wagman - Nuit Dickens 1/2 - Entretien 2/4 avec Clémence Folléa qui explique comment Charles Dickens a crée une multitude de personnages excentriques, à la fois symptomatiques de leur époque mais aussi de l'art et de la ruse de l'écrivain pour captiver ses lecteurs... - réalisation : Virginie Mourthé - invités : Clémence Folléa Maîtresse de conférence en langue anglophone à l’Université de Paris, spécialiste de l'oeuvre de Charles Dickens

A freight elevator. A loading dock. Who knew the Carruthers Institute had both those things? And who knew the next package from Mr. Havisham would come from there. It was a big thing, an ugly box I had to pry open. The thing inside turned out to be even more hideous.  Support Our Show   Created by Ben Counter Andrew Moss- Ben Counter Music - Tom Rory Parsons Sound Design - Pacific S. Obadiah   Website: https://midnightdisease.net/ Learn More: https://midnightdisease.net/#/out-of-place/ Support Our Show: https://midnightdisease.net/join

We're back and excited to talk about Love at the Christmas Table (or A Christmas Love Story as it was released in the UK). Hannah finds the best place to buy your girlfriend an amazing purse and Naomi discovers the perils of going full Havisham!

The wonder thing about an ALL TIGER SHIP is that we're releasing this kind of, not really Tiger King themed episode months late! Find out who's the real Tiger King top when we ship TIGGER (Winnie the Pooh) with HOBBES (Calvin & Hobbes). Then let's dig into some real literature as we ship GOLLUM (LOTR) with MRS. HAVISHAM (Great Expectations). All that and more with our guest Nikki Urban!

Havisham is home alone as Maids One and Two are sent on a business trip. A flash fiction podcast by Cat Loud.

Havisham has her own scheme in the works, and she hopes it'll be the talk of the town. A flash fiction podcast by Cat Loud.

Havisham gives a fan business advice and makes her own plans for a new stage venture. Views on marriage are Miss H's own and do not in any way reflect the opinions of Cat Loud.

Havisham learns the hard way what happens when you don't check the strength of your beans. A flash fiction podcast by Cat Loud.

As part of the extracurricular programme of events on offer to students of English and/or Theatre Studies at WIT, staff and students attended a production of Gone Full Havisham at Garter Lane Arts Centre. The play documents the wedding night of Emily Halloran, who has been jilted at the altar and is live streaming the fallout via social media. Written and performed by Irene Kelleher and directed by Regina Crowley, it uses innovative staging techniques and challenges the audience to think about their own complicity as they enjoy the spectacle that unfolds. Dr. Jenny O'Connor is joined in the studio by Dr. Kate McCarthy, lecturer in Theatre Studies and English, and third year students Grainne Kavanagh and John Power who were in attendance on the night. Link to Irene Kelleher's Mary and Me: https://www.rte.ie/culture/2019/0220/1031653-mary-and-me-listen-to-irene-kellehers-drama-on-one-play/

Now that it’s pumpkin spice and sweater weather, we have a spooky selection for Halloween! Come with us to Havisham Hall where a ghost is rumored to haunt the surrounding moors! We've got clocks that don't tick, a Mad Marquess, and a ghost of dead mother’s past. Our hero has sworn to never open his heart to love but our heroine is not the title hunter he was expecting. Will Havisham remain the dusty memorial of lost love or will new love also bring new life? We're reading The Viscount and the Vixen by Lorraine Heath! **Spoopy story spoilers!** TW: Rape (in our opening discussion relating to a previous episode).

We're in the spooky season, so let's talk about spooky things. Shelby and Amy discuss women that just want to be left alone. (We get it.) Shelby shares the inspiration for Dickens' Mrs. Havisham in Great Expectations - Eliza Emily Donnithorne. Amy tells the INSANE tale of New York socialite Ida Mayfield Wood. Shut the doors and draw the curtains while you listen.

We're in the spooky season, so let's talk about spooky things. Shelby and Amy discuss women that just want to be left alone. (We get it.) Shelby shares the inspiration for Dickens' Mrs. Havisham in Great Expectations - Eliza Emily Donnithorne. Amy tells the INSANE tale of New York socialite Ida Mayfield Wood. Shut the doors and draw the curtains while you listen.

durée : 00:24:41 - Fictions / Le Feuilleton - Où Pip découvre jusqu’où peut aller la vengeance d’une femme blessée.

durée : 00:24:51 - Fictions / Le Feuilleton - Où le chemin du jeune Pip croise celui de la jeune Estella, aussi ravissante qu'arrogante.

durée : 00:24:51 - Fictions / Le Feuilleton - Où le chemin du jeune Pip croise celui de la jeune Estella, aussi ravissante qu'arrogante.

durée : 00:24:41 - Fictions / Le Feuilleton - Où Pip découvre jusqu’où peut aller la vengeance d’une femme blessée.

Still reeling from Mrs. Havisham's death, Scott makes a big change ensuring her legacy lives on. Meanwhile, his time as a paper boy comes to an end, he faces exclusion from school and his dad turns vigilante during a local crime spree. Around the table, Lizzie and Scott talk high school bullying, sexy sleepovers and the age old tradition of Soggy Biscuit.

Scott recounts the dying moments of Mrs. Havisham, the French language comes under scrutiny and a big change in the school canteen has kids gagging for the white stuff. Elsewhere, Scott and Lizzie discuss how babies are made, bizarre school punishments and the etiquette of female sexuality in high school.

Gather around my pretties... listen to the time Gizzard was almost "Havisham-ed". This is a rough one. It might trigger nauseau and hatred if you've ever been in a relationship with a total turdface.  All jokes aside. I can tell this story , I came out of this with mental stability thanks to the love and support of some of the most amazing people that i'm lucky enough to call friends and family. This might have killed a weaker woman. Luckily my life force is fueled by hate , spite and determination to invoke regret.  I hope you can appreciate this story. A cautionary tale of almost marrying the wrong man .   *mature audiences, we aren't licensed professionals . call your mom.  We hope you enjoy. If you do, Please subscribe, rate and review. A written review ,We really appreciate it and it helps us become more visible .Thank you ! Follow us on Instagram @_why_im_single , Twitter @SinglePodcast , Facebook Group & Page @whyimsinglepodcast , email us at whyimsinglepodcast@gmail.com    Thank you , hugs and kisses & remember, don't be a douchebag :)  

Welcome to Havisham! You can see galaxies from here. Starring 
DAN STOKES (twitter.com/danstkes)
 REBECCA DAY (twitter.com/reb_day) with BENJAMIN COOK (twitter.com/benjamin_cook) Theme by JENNIFER WALTON (@the-buffy) Artwork by KAT (instagram.com/katkedi) Edited by DAN STOKES "Strangetown" by JAMES MISSIN

Welcome to Havisham! Why didn’t you save me? Follow Havisham Council: twitter.com/HavishamCouncil Starring 
DAN STOKES (twitter.com/danstkes) REBECCA DAY (twitter.com/reb_day) with KEVIN CHEMUKA (https://twitter.com/KChemuka) and OLIVER MOULDEN 
 Theme by JENNIFER WALTON (@the-buffy) Artwork by KAT (instagram.com/katkedi) Edited by DAN STOKES

Welcome to Havisham! Send in the clowns. And plague control. Starring DAN STOKES (twitter.com/danstkes)
 REBECCA DAY (twitter.com/reb_day) Theme by JENNIFER WALTON (@the-buffy)
 Artwork by KAT (instagram.com/katkedi)
 Edited by DAN STOKES and BENJAMIN COOK (twitter.com/benjamin_cook) 
Thanks to EWAN MCINTOSH (twitter.com/Ewan_McIntosh) and MICHAEL DEAN (twitter.com/FilmmakerMike)

Mariella Frostrup talks to Rachel Johnson about Winter Games, her book set across two time zones. She looks at the challenges of writing prequels and sequels with Ronald Frame who has written Havisham, a prequel of Dickens' famous jilted bride in Great Expectations, and Geraldine McCaughrean who wrote the authorised sequel to JM Barrie's Peter Pan. And a readers' guide to the famous detective fiction writer Dashiell Hammett.