Podcasts about Miss Havisham

Però l'anello non c'è L'immagine sullo schermo ritrae Miss Havisham in un'illustrazione di Harry Furniss all rights reserved. La clip in sottofondo è un breve estratto di “Flowers” cantata da Miley Cyrus etichetta Columbia 2023 all rights reserved

Lei senza marito, io senza maritozzo La clip è tratta dall'audiolibro “Grandi speranze” di Charles Dickens letto da Piero Baldini su RaiPlaySound all rights reserved. L'immagine è un ritratto di Miss Havisham in un'illustrazione di Harry Furniss all rights reserved

Buy Caroline's book here. The Blurb: From the single ladies of Beyoncé and Taylor Swift songs to Phoebe Waller-Bridge's irreverent television series Fleabag (2016–2019) to as far back as Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, the stereotype of the damaged single woman has long pervaded music, books, television, and Hollywood movies. Spinster tropes, witch burnings, and nineteenth-century diagnoses of hysteria have reflected and continue to inform the stories told about society's singletons, most notoriously in the original bunny boiler, Fatal Attraction (1987), and popularized in Single White Female (1992) and Promising Young Woman (2020). In Single & Psycho, author Caroline Young explores how broader social trends such as the antifeminist backlash of the 1980s, contemporary debates about tradwives and childless cat ladies, and the absence of single women of color on-screen shape the way women are (mis)perceived and (mis)treated. Young weaves the history of a stereotype with her own fight against stigma as a single woman as well as her struggles with infertility, infusing incisive analysis with personal experience in this approachable, savvy exposé of one of mainstream media's most enduring clichés. Single & Psycho: How Pop Culture Created the Unstable Single Woman is a dynamic addition to the ongoing dialogue surrounding the #MeToo movement and societal expectations of women. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Buy Caroline's book here. The Blurb: From the single ladies of Beyoncé and Taylor Swift songs to Phoebe Waller-Bridge's irreverent television series Fleabag (2016–2019) to as far back as Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, the stereotype of the damaged single woman has long pervaded music, books, television, and Hollywood movies. Spinster tropes, witch burnings, and nineteenth-century diagnoses of hysteria have reflected and continue to inform the stories told about society's singletons, most notoriously in the original bunny boiler, Fatal Attraction (1987), and popularized in Single White Female (1992) and Promising Young Woman (2020). In Single & Psycho, author Caroline Young explores how broader social trends such as the antifeminist backlash of the 1980s, contemporary debates about tradwives and childless cat ladies, and the absence of single women of color on-screen shape the way women are (mis)perceived and (mis)treated. Young weaves the history of a stereotype with her own fight against stigma as a single woman as well as her struggles with infertility, infusing incisive analysis with personal experience in this approachable, savvy exposé of one of mainstream media's most enduring clichés. Single & Psycho: How Pop Culture Created the Unstable Single Woman is a dynamic addition to the ongoing dialogue surrounding the #MeToo movement and societal expectations of women. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Tonight's sleep story is the continuation of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Support the podcast and enjoy ad-free and bonus episodes. Try FREE for 7 days on Apple Podcasts. For other podcast platforms go to https://justsleeppodcast.com/supportOr, you can support with a one time donation at buymeacoffee.com/justsleeppodOrder your copy of the Just Sleep book! https://www.justsleeppodcast.com/book/If you like this episode, please remember to follow on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or your favourite podcast app. Also, share with any family or friends that might have trouble drifting off.Goodnight! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Tune in to hear:What can Miss Havisham, the Charles Dickens' character, teach us about the dangers of fleeing our pain?How is Miss Havisham, on some fundamental level, a potent metaphor for our own lives?What does Dr. Crosby mean by “emotional graying” and why are its effects so insidious?What did author Khalil Gibran have to say about why running from pain can also mean running from joy?Why do vulnerability and greatness often go hand-in-hand?LinksThe Soul of WealthConnect with UsMeet Dr. Daniel CrosbyCheck Out All of Orion's PodcastsPower Your Growth with OrionCompliance Code: 0988-U-25094

Fall asleep fast to the continuation of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Pip pays another visit to Miss Havisham. Support the podcast and enjoy ad-free and bonus episodes. Try FREE for 7 days on Apple Podcasts. For other podcast platforms go to https://justsleeppodcast.com/supportOr, you can support with a one time donation at buymeacoffee.com/justsleeppodIf you like this episode, please remember to follow on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or your favourite podcast app. Also, share with any family or friends that might have trouble drifting off.Goodnight! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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

Steven's taken up card reading with his eyes closed, Richard's throwing a guest star over Miss Havisham's wedding spread, and Brendan's setting up Patrick Macnee's latest headshots on a Lazy Susan. It's a bonus episode for the festive season, as we discover whether one can ever really have Too Many Christmas Trees. Steven wants everyone to know there really is a Santa Claus, specifically this terrifying one played by Alexei Sayle. The Three Handed Game is an Australian commentary podcast for the 1960s television classic, The Avengers. NEXT EPISODE: The Pop Explosion concludes with the most dangerous Game. Please drop us a review on Apple Podcasts, and send us your thoughts via ⁠Bluesky⁠, ⁠Facebook⁠, ⁠X⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠, or by email at thethreehandedgame@gmail.com. Music Credits Faster Does It Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com) Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 License http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/

There's life and health outside the dark, musty walls of hurt and bitterness.

Mentre il velo che separa i mondi va assottigliandosi, è proprio attraverso un velo che gli occhi del mostro di oggi ci guardano. Un velo nuziale, ma spettrale. La funerea figura della Sposa Cadavere ha origini antiche, sebbene in molti la conoscano per la sua apparizione più recente e famosa, la versione del film di Tim Burton. In questa puntata allungheremo il nostro sguardo da indagatori del mostruoso verso motivi e tematiche che vanno oltre la figura della sposa cadavere in senso stretto, partendo da una versione del racconto scritta da Schulze ma seguendo poi sentieri che suggeriscono intriganti collegamenti tra sposa, morte, spettralità e mostruosità. A farci compagnia, un'ospite d'eccezione, Federica Perazzini, anglista, professoressa di letteratura inglese esperta di gotico, che in un'ottica trasversale e transmediale rivelerà numerose diramazioni del nostro tema; da Bertha Mason a Miss Havisham, da Lucy Westenra alle spose di Frankenstein, tra promesse infrante, vite interrotte, inganni, desideri andati in fumo e vendetta. 

Feeling stressed? Relax with tonight's bedtime story, the continuation of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. In this episode, Pip meets Miss Havisham and later tells his sister and Mr Pumblechook about his encounter. Support the podcast and enjoy ad-free and bonus episodes. Try FREE for 7 days on Apple Podcasts. For other podcast platforms go to https://justsleeppodcast.com/supportOr, you can support with a one time donation at buymeacoffee.com/justsleeppodIf you like this episode, please remember to follow on Apple Podcasts or your favourite podcast app. Also, share with any family or friends that might have trouble drifting off.Goodnight! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

If you've ever seen the film Stepbrothers then the behaviour exhibited by man-children Ferrell and C. Reilly isn't so far removed from today's Made Up Game. A very simple premise is put through the wringer, testing Producer Dave to his limits.There's also accusations of inter-show ideas transfer, a goat chop half marathon and Elis is slap bang in his wheelhouse for these week's global Dave.If there's anything you want to contribute to the show then your options are as follows: elisandjohn@bbc.co.uk on email or 07974 293 022 on Whatsapp.

Arnie Witkin is a seasoned investment manager and private equity professional, has led a multifaceted career. After retiring, he transitioned into a speechwriter, executive coach, and mentor. For over six decades, he diligently recorded his thoughts, and around the age of 80, he decided to compile them into a book for his grandchildren. From there it gained momentum and he decided to self-publish a book, titled It's Not a Big Thing in Life, which is a guide on how to get from anxiety to action. The book caught the attention of Portia Smit from the Western Cape Education Department, who described it as a ‘genuine blessing' for her parenting journey” and it is now part of the Department's curriculum for Life Orientation .In an interview with Biznews, Witkin said that his main philosophy is that you are responsible for yourself, no matter what your circumstances are. His silver bullet to stop being like the Charles Dickens character, Miss Havisham is to put your thoughts down on paper to transform worries into tangible steps forward. Additionally, he shares strategies for navigating social media and emphasises the importance of humour in coping with challenges.

The strange midnight mass held for ghosts and the inspiration for the Charles Dickens character Miss Havisham

The strange midnight mass held for ghosts and the inspiration for the Charles Dickens character Miss Havisham

"Dracula the Damned" is a 1960 British supernatural horror film produced by Hammer Film Productions starring ‘Big' Christopher Lee… Scratch that…Rather, the original sequel to the first Hammer Dracula film was cancelled without explanation, although Christopher Lee's decision not to return due to fear of typecasting probably led to The Brides of Dracula taking its place. #BigChrisLee did return five years later, however, when he starred in Dracula, Prince of Darkness.The Brides of Dracula is a 1960 British supernatural horror film produced by Hammer Film Productions. Directed by Terence Fisher, the film stars Peter Cushing, David Peel (who wore lifts in his shoes to make him the same height as actor Peter Cushing in the film. Peel, according to his bio at the time, was 5 foot 10. Cushing was six feet tall. To make his vampire look distinguishable from Christopher Lee's, Peel wore a full blonde hairpiece), Yvonne Monlaur, Andrée Melly, Miles Malleson (the hearse driver in the Ealing chiller compendium Dead of Night), Martita Hunt (known for her rich cluster of queens, dowagers, shrews, and evildoers—but it was her brilliant performance as the mad, reclusive Miss Havisham in the classic Great Expectations that earned her international recognition), and Freda Jackson (also an alumna of Great Expectations). Although, the character of Count Dracula does not appear in the film, and is instead mentioned only twice.After the success of Dracula, Hammer commissioned Jimmy Sangster to write a sequel titled Disciple of Dracula, about an acolyte of the vampire, with Count Dracula himself only making a cameo appearance. Sangster's script was rewritten by Peter Bryan to remove references to Dracula, while adding the character of Van Helsing. The screenplay was then further revised by Edward Percy. Filming began on January 16, 1960, at Bray Studios, and the film premiered at the Odeon Marble Arch on July 6. It was distributed theatrically on a double bill with The Leech Woman.The ending was originally planned to have the vampires destroyed by a swarm of bats, but this proved too expensive to stage and shoot, and was also vetoed by Peter Cushing, who did not think his character would perform the black magic required to summon the bats. However, the idea was recycled three years later for the climax of Hammer's The Kiss of the Vampire. The prop department put a lot of effort into making a realistic model bat, but it was lost and had to be replaced on short notice. This explains the unconvincing model bat in the movie.The front doors of Oakely Court served as the main entrance to Meinster Castle. Oakley Court has been featured in a number of classic horror films, including The Curse of Frankenstein, The Horror of Dracula, The Evil of Frankenstein, Die, Monster, Die, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show.$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$Just in case anyone has too much money and wants to give a bit to us to help with our hosting n stuff. It would be amazing if you fancied sending us some pennies - thank you.https://supporter.acast.com/general-witchfinders$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£$£ Get bonus content on PatreonSupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/general-witchfinders. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Eliza Donnithorne (1821-1886) was an infamous recluse. Legend has it she was abandoned on her wedding day, and she never recovered. Her story may have inspired one of literature's most famous scorned brides: Miss Havisham of Dickens' Great Expectations. This month, we're talking about Folk Heroes. People whose lives and stories took on mythic proportions. History classes can get a bad rap, and sometimes for good reason. When we were students, we couldn't help wondering... where were all the ladies at? Why were so many incredible stories missing from the typical curriculum? Enter, Womanica. On this Wonder Media Network podcast we explore the lives of inspiring women in history you may not know about, but definitely should. Every weekday, listeners explore the trials, tragedies, and triumphs of groundbreaking women throughout history who have dramatically shaped the world around us. In each 5 minute episode, we'll dive into the story behind one woman listeners may or may not know–but definitely should. These diverse women from across space and time are grouped into easily accessible and engaging monthly themes like Educators, Villains, Indigenous Storytellers, Activists, and many more.  Womanica is hosted by WMN co-founder and award-winning journalist Jenny Kaplan. The bite-sized episodes pack painstakingly researched content into fun, entertaining, and addictive daily adventures.  Womanica was created by Liz Kaplan and Jenny Kaplan, executive produced by Jenny Kaplan, and produced by Grace Lynch, Maddy Foley, Brittany Martinez, Edie Allard, Lindsey Kratochwill, Adesuwa Agbonile, Carmen Borca-Carrillo, Taylor Williamson, Ale Tejeda, Sara Schleede, and Abbey Delk. Special thanks to Shira Atkins. Original theme music composed by Miles Moran. Follow Wonder Media Network: Website Instagram Twitter See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Azzi is known as the perfumer for the world's biggest celebrities. Her creations help Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom get into character for movie roles and serve as personal fragrances for Kylie Minogue and Cindy Crawford. Her bespoke work starts at £15,000, but for the first time, she is making her scents more widely available with The Perfumer's Story, a limited-edition collection launching on Scentbird in October 2023.In this episode, Azzi sits down with Mariya Nurislamova, Scentbird's co-founder and CEO. She takes us behind the scenes of what it's like to work with iconic stars to develop their scents. She talks about launching the Agent Provocateur fragrance back in the early 2000s, how she bottled the smell of rain on earth, and a tip to increase your pheromones.Highlights:• The celebrity that calls Azzi a “white witch”• A behind-the-scenes look into bespoke perfumery for celebrities• What Johnny Depp is like one on one• The “stinky” fragrance that helped Helena Bonham Carter get into character• The fragrance that helped Johnny Depp play a 200-year-old vampire in a Tim Burton movie• The surprising scent for Helena Bonham Carter to play Miss Havisham in “Great Expectations”• How Azzi approaches scent creation (hint: it's not through fragrance families)• The fragrance based on poisonous flowers• Does Azzi have psychic powers?• Why creating a bespoke perfume for Cindy Crawford was a challenge• Blood, sweat, and fecal matter: the fragrance for Jude Law to play Henry VIII• Early scent memories: England, India, and the smell of rain on earth• The opposite of trendy: bringing the Agent Provocateur fragrance to life• Azzi's all-time favorite scent notes (and combinations) • The intimate dinner at Kylie Minogue's house• The celebrity that motivated Azzi to start her own brand• The story behind The Perfumer's Story• Bringing heritage and edginess to the brand's design• Why it's hard to find a perfume that truly matches you• Scent Spotlight: Sequoia Wood, Twisted Iris, and Amber Molecule• “People stop me on the streets to ask what this scent is…”• The packaging and why you'll want to keep it forever• The fragrance for fun-loving, bohemian, and eccentric people• Azzi's tips for wearing fragrance: spots, sweat, and pheromones• How to smell like Kaia Jordan Gerber• The scent Azzi used to wear for bedtime stories to her kids• Scent Connection, All-Time Favorites Edition• The scent that Benedict Cumberbatch loves: “it tells a thousand stories”• What's next for AzziFeatured Fragrances:Sequoia WoodTwisted IrisAmber MoleculeOld BooksSoak in all of our audio and video content at https://podcast.scentbird.com.

Fiction can be a historian's greatest source of contemporary information if used correctly, and the study of fashion history is no different... Bridal fashion in particular! In this episode of Silhouettes I explore: How and why we can use fiction, books, short stories, poems and more to get first-hand accounts of what people were wearing in history. The ways we can use these same skills to explore the wedding fashion of eras from the 18th century all the way to the mid century, from fictional weddings to fictional brides. The wedding fashion some of fictions most iconic brides; from Miss Havisham to the Bride of Frankenstien, in both their true novelized icarnrtions to their modern media re-imaginings. “Our mad dream is only half realized. Alone, you have created the man. Now, together, we will create his mate.” Bride of Frankenstien, 1935 Become a Patreon subscriber to support the podcast and gain access to bonus content: https://www.patreon.com/silhouettespodcast Become a Spotify Subscriber in 3 clicks to access bonus content: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/silhouettes/subscribe Thanks for listening, and stay fab everyone. Follow the show on Instagram @Silhouettespodcast for more updates

This episode is bringing the drama… Sarel and Candice return to the closet to discuss the whirlwind story of Candice's wedding dress tailor, the hamster wheel of life and why you should NEVER let your job run you into the ground. We've also got a listener confessions from ‘Miss Havisham' (don't worry, the girls skipped that GCSE lesson too, they do explain who this is…) which leads the closet girlies into talking about losing your identity as a stay-at-home-mum, how society determines breadwinners, and why your man should 100% be your biggest supporter. Don't forget, what's said in the closet, stays in the closet and send your anonymous confessions in here: forms.gle/isf8odGDSn1S3FSz7 Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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.

Writer and director Steven Knight, whose work includes Peaky Blinders and SAS Rogue Heroes, discusses his new BBC adaptation of Great Expectations which stars Olivia Coleman as Miss Havisham. Tom Sutcliffe is joined by critics Ben Luke and Isabel Stevens to review some of the week's cultural highlights including Spanish film The Beasts, the After Impressionism exhibition at the National Gallery and the return of TV drama Succession. Presenter: Tom Sutcliffe Producer: Sarah Johnson

Dominic is joined by the inimitable actor and Dickens descendant Harry Lloyd. Together they discuss their first impressions of  FX's new Great Expectations and Harry's experience of playing Dickens characters in previous BBC dramatisations of his Great Great Great Grandfather's works, and his career more widely.This podcast is supported by FX's Great Expectations. From executive producers Ridley Scott, Tom Hardy and Steven Knight and starring Olivia Colman and Fionn Whitehead, the series follows Pip, an orphan who yearns for a greater lot in life, until a twist of fate and the evil machinations of the mysterious and eccentric Miss Havisham, show him a dark world of possibilities. FX's Great Expectations premieres in the U.S. Sunday, March 26, only on Hulu. The series is produced Support the showIf you like to make a donation to support the costs of producing this series you can buy 'coffees' right here https://www.buymeacoffee.com/dominicgerrardHost: Dominic GerrardSeries Artwork: Léna GibertOriginal Music: Dominic GerrardThank you for listening!

Dominic is joined by the inimitable broadcaster & historian Alice Loxton who takes us on a journey into the frenzied and scandalous world of London society in the Georgian Period ...Alice is a celebrated presenter on History Hit  and her new book UPROAR! takes a look at the movers and shakers of the time as seen through the eyes of  caricaturists such as James Gillray, Thomas Rowlandson & Isaac CruikshankYou can also follow Alice on Twitter, Instagram and TikTokThis podcast is supported by FX's Great Expectations. From executive producers Ridley Scott, Tom Hardy and Steven Knight and starring Olivia Colman and Fionn Whitehead, the series follows Pip, an orphan who yearns for a greater lot in life, until a twist of fate and the evil machinations of the mysterious and eccentric Miss Havisham, show him a dark world of possibilities. FX's Great Expectations premieres in the U.S. Sunday, March 26, only on Hulu. The series is produced Support the showIf you like to make a donation to support the costs of producing this series you can buy 'coffees' right here https://www.buymeacoffee.com/dominicgerrardHost: Dominic GerrardSeries Artwork: Léna GibertOriginal Music: Dominic GerrardThank you for listening!

Ghosts and Wedding Dresses.Miss Havisham is one of Charles Dickens most complex and unforgettable characters in all of literature. When we meet her in his novel Great Expectations, she has literally become mummified in her tattered wedding dress and in her love for the man who left her jilted at the marriage altar. The clocks in her decaying mansion stopped to the exact moment when she received the news of her groom-to-be's betrayal. The wedding cake still on the table, uneaten, no doubt decaying with rot like her skin, which has not felt the warmth of the sun in many years. Her suffering is operatic. It is one of the anchors of the book's angst-filled love story between Pip and Estella. Miss Havisham is both ghoul and tragic angel, heroine and antagonist, ultimately consumed in the flames of her lost love. It's the New Year. And we are all being inundated with memes, quotes, and advice on how we are supposed to step into 2023 with a new mojo. How we are supposed to embrace a new perspective on how we are supposed to live old lives. How this year is going to be different from all the other new years past. How our best lives are ahead of us if only we could… What? Step out of the past hurts and disappointments (I wanted to say failures, but they are making a comeback as things we should experience)? Forgive that person who we've been harboring a grudge against for years (a missing father, a cheating lover, an untrue friend)? Chase the dreams we've sacrificed for convenience and comfort sakes (write that novel, leave that soul-numbing corporate job, take salsa dancing lessons)? Marsha-Ann Donaldson-Brown breaks it down in this one phrase. “At the end of the day, know this, all you have is this one life. And you are deserving of living it fully, with intention, with peace, love, and joy unspeakable. And nothing or no one is worth it for you to be dragging through life broken.” She gives us two stark choices. We can either have a life of joy unspeakable (which somehow feels more potent than unspeakable joy when she says it), or we can drag through life broken, like Miss Havisham, our wedding finery turned into widows' weeds.  And we better make a choice because it isn't about living our best lives. What we are walking through, either asleep or awake, is our only life, and time unmercifully marches on. Marsha-Ann's call is not a placid, genteel nudge into mindfulness and self-acceptance. She disruptively advocates for acts of radical self-interest, radical self-love, and radical self-awareness. The alternative she paints is too difficult to contemplate. “If we're not careful, we'll live life in a time-capsule, trapped in the dogma of what society says, or what has been said to us. I'm on a mission now to embrace that within this season we occupy that we're living it fully.”Ultimately, Marsha-Ann invites us to a life of liberation and a different kind of “wokeness.” Where we shed the imprisoning decay of expectations, self-doubt, and things past that hold us back. Deliverance. Freedom. So that we can soar like an eagle with the delicacy of a butterfly. For more information contact Patrick at patrick@patrickhueyleadership.com

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

In one of Charles Dickens' most beloved stories, Philip Pirrip, known as “Pip”, narrates his own journey, from the hindsight of 50 years.Pip grows up with his older sister after losing his parents at a very early age. His sister, a tough unloving woman, rules Pip and her gentle husband Joe with an iron hand. During Pip's 7th year, while playing in the marshes, he is accosted by an escaped criminal whom he decides to help by stealing food from his own home. But the convict is caught and returned to prison.Miss Havisham, an eccentric, rich recluse, sends for Pip to come to her house to play with Estella, a haughty and rude girl about his age. Although Pip is ashamed of himself as a poor uneducated boy, he is fascinated by Estella. A few years later, he becomes apprenticed to Joe, a blacksmith, but dreams of becoming rich and clever and marrying Estella. A stranger, Mr. Jaggers, arrives to inform him that he has come into a handsome property, and will be removed from his present home to be brought up as a gentleman. The benefactor is kept secret, but Pip is sure it must be Miss Havisham.In London, he acquires a tutor, grand new clothes and the lifestyle he always wanted. However, life is complicated as a gentleman in society, and he finds himself very unhappy, as Estella remains indifferent to him, involved with someone else. Pip begins overspending his generous allowance, and worse, spurns his old friends. Then unexpected problems from his past arise, and begin to transform his attitude.Advertising Inquiries: https://redcircle.com/brandsPrivacy & Opt-Out: https://redcircle.com/privacy

This episode talks about Vell's great expectations vs great responsibility. The Good Read for this episode is Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Perhaps Dickens's best-loved work, Great Expectations tells the story of Pip, a young man with few prospects for advancement until a mysterious benefactor allows him to escape the Kent marshes for a more promising life in London. Despite his good fortune, Pip is haunted by figures from his past—the escaped convict Magwitch, the time-withered Miss Havisham, and her proud and beautiful ward, Estella—and in time uncovers not just the origins of his great expectations but the mystery of his own heart. A powerful and moving novel, Great Expectations is suffused with Dickens's memories of the past and its grip on the present, and it raises disturbing questions about the extent to which individuals affect each other's lives. What's Popping in Vell's World consist of Sweetie Pie's Trial, Serena retires, Bank of America launched a pilot program and more. Follow on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @VellsWorldPodcast Email vellsworldpodcast@ldmonger.com with any comments, questions, or concerns you would like mentioned in our upcoming episodes. To sponsor an episode send us an email. Don't forget to subscribe, tell a friend, and follow on all social media platforms. You can leave a voice message and become a monetary supporter for as little as .99 cent on the anchor.fm. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/vellsworldpodcast/message Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/vellsworldpodcast/support

Join the ladies and the incomparable Robert Gwaltney as the discus his break-out debut novel The Cicada Tree. https://robertlgwaltney.com/ A graduate of Florida State University, I presently reside in Atlanta Georgia with my partner. By day, I serve as Vice President of Easter Seals North Georgia, Inc., a non-profit organization strengthening children and their families at the most critical times in their development. Through my non-profit work, I am a champion for early childhood literacy. In all the hours between, I write. Raised alongside three feral, younger brothers in the rash-inducing, subtropical climate of Cairo Georgia, I am a lifelong resident of the South. A circumstance, no doubt, leaving an indelible mark upon my voice as a writer. Aside from sense of place, my writing is influenced and inspired by the literary work of others. As a boy, it was with great obsession, I turned the well-worn pages of Charlotte Brontë's, Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights? Yes, another source of adoration. And Truman Capote's debut novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms, I admire with equal reverence along with everything ever written by Tennessee Williams. Charles Dickens' Miss Havisham is one of my all-time favorite characters. Many hours I spent playing her, wrapped in an old lace tablecloth borrowed from my mother's linen closet—my tattered, makeshift wedding dress. Locked away in my boyhood room, I haunted the place, plotting revenge, shooing rats from the wedding cake. “Break their hearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy,” I would whisper into the impressionable ear of my lovely Estella. Break their hearts. As an adult, my literary palate is diverse, reading everyone from the sublime Michael Cunningham to the gifted Jesmyn Ward to the incomparable Ron Rash. Though my tastes have evolved through the years, one constant remains: the impact of literature and art and music upon my writing. And my unrelenting quest to make and find beauty in this world. Hosts: author Nola Nash https://nolanash.com and author Laura Kemp https://laurakempbooks.com/ Thanks to Pam Stack - Executive Producer - Authors on the Air Global Radio Network www.authorsontheair.com @Copyrighted by Authors on the Air Global Radio Network LLC.

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

When I reached home, my sister was very curious to know all about Miss Havisham's, and asked a number of questions. And I soon found myself getting heavily bumped from behind in the nape of the neck and the small of the back, and having my face ignominiously shoved against the kitchen wall, because I did not answer those questions at sufficient length.If a dread of not being understood be hidden in the breasts of other young people to anything like the extent to which it used to be hidden in mine⁠—which I consider probable, as I have no particular reason to suspect myself of having been a monstrosity⁠—it is the key to many reservations. I felt convinced that if I described Miss Havisham's as my eyes had seen it, I should not be understood. Not only that, but I felt convinced that Miss Havisham too would not be understood; and although she was perfectly incomprehensible to me, I entertained an impression that there would be something coarse and treacherous in my dragging her as she really was (to say nothing of Miss Estella) before the contemplation of Mrs. Joe. Consequently, I said as little as I could, and had my face shoved against the kitchen wall.The worst of it was that that bullying old Pumblechook, preyed upon by a devouring curiosity to be informed of all I had seen and heard, came gaping over in his chaise-cart at teatime, to have the details divulged to him. And the mere sight of the torment, with his fishy eyes and mouth open, his sandy hair inquisitively on end, and his waistcoat heaving with windy arithmetic, made me vicious in my reticence.“Well, boy,” Uncle Pumblechook began, as soon as he was seated in the chair of honor by the fire. “How did you get on up town?”I answered, “Pretty well, sir,” and my sister shook her fist at me.“Pretty well?” Mr. Pumblechook repeated. “Pretty well is no answer. Tell us what you mean by pretty well, boy?”Whitewash on the forehead hardens the brain into a state of obstinacy perhaps. Anyhow, with whitewash from the wall on my forehead, my obstinacy was adamantine. I reflected for some time, and then answered as if I had discovered a new idea, “I mean pretty well.”My sister with an exclamation of impatience was going to fly at me⁠—I had no shadow of defence, for Joe was busy in the forge⁠—when Mr. Pumblechook interposed with “No! Don't lose your temper. Leave this lad to me, ma'am; leave this lad to me.” Mr. Pumblechook then turned me towards him, as if he were going to cut my hair, and said⁠—“First (to get our thoughts in order): Forty-three pence?”I calculated the consequences of replying “Four Hundred Pound,” and finding them against me, went as near the answer as I could⁠—which was somewhere about eightpence off. Mr. Pumblechook then put me through my pence-table from “twelve pence make one shilling,” up to “forty pence make three and fourpence,” and then triumphantly demanded, as if he had done for me, “Now! How much is forty-three pence?” To which I replied, after a long interval of reflection, “I don't know.” And I was so aggravated that I almost doubt if I did know.Mr. Pumblechook worked his head like a screw to screw it out of me, and said, “Is forty-three pence seven and sixpence three fardens, for instance?”“Yes!” said I. And although my sister instantly boxed my ears, it was highly gratifying to me to see that the answer spoilt his joke, and brought him to a dead stop.“Boy! What like is Miss Havisham?” Mr. Pumblechook began again when he had recovered; folding his arms tight on his chest and applying the screw.“Very tall and dark,” I told him.“Is she, uncle?” asked my sister.Mr. Pumblechook winked assent; from which I at once inferred that he had never seen Miss Havisham, for she was nothing of the kind.“Good!” said Mr. Pumblechook conceitedly. (“This is the way to have him! We are beginning to hold our own, I think, Mum?”)“I am sure, uncle,” returned Mrs. Joe, “I wish you had him always; you know so well how to deal with him.”“Now, boy! What was she a doing of, when you went in today?” asked Mr. Pumblechook.“She was sitting,” I answered, “in a black velvet coach.”Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another⁠—as they well might⁠—and both repeated, “In a black velvet coach?”“Yes,” said I. “And Miss Estella⁠—that's her niece, I think⁠—handed her in cake and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate. And we all had cake and wine on gold plates. And I got up behind the coach to eat mine, because she told me to.”“Was anybody else there?” asked Mr. Pumblechook.“Four dogs,” said I.“Large or small?”“Immense,” said I. “And they fought for veal-cutlets out of a silver basket.”Mr. Pumblechook and Mrs. Joe stared at one another again, in utter amazement. I was perfectly frantic⁠—a reckless witness under the torture⁠—and would have told them anything.“Where was this coach, in the name of gracious?” asked my sister.“In Miss Havisham's room.” They stared again. “But there weren't any horses to it.” I added this saving clause, in the moment of rejecting four richly caparisoned coursers which I had had wild thoughts of harnessing.“Can this be possible, uncle?” asked Mrs. Joe. “What can the boy mean?”“I'll tell you, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “My opinion is, it's a sedan-chair. She's flighty, you know⁠—very flighty⁠—quite flighty enough to pass her days in a sedan-chair.”“Did you ever see her in it, uncle?” asked Mrs. Joe.“How could I,” he returned, forced to the admission, “when I never see her in my life? Never clapped eyes upon her!”“Goodness, uncle! And yet you have spoken to her?”“Why, don't you know,” said Mr. Pumblechook, testily, “that when I have been there, I have been took up to the outside of her door, and the door has stood ajar, and she has spoke to me that way. Don't say you don't know that, Mum. Howsever, the boy went there to play. What did you play at, boy?”“We played with flags,” I said. (I beg to observe that I think of myself with amazement, when I recall the lies I told on this occasion.)“Flags!” echoed my sister.“Yes,” said I. “Estella waved a blue flag, and I waved a red one, and Miss Havisham waved one sprinkled all over with little gold stars, out at the coach-window. And then we all waved our swords and hurrahed.”“Swords!” repeated my sister. “Where did you get swords from?”“Out of a cupboard,” said I. “And I saw pistols in it⁠—and jam⁠—and pills. And there was no daylight in the room, but it was all lighted up with candles.”“That's true, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook, with a grave nod. “That's the state of the case, for that much I've seen myself.” And then they both stared at me, and I, with an obtrusive show of artlessness on my countenance, stared at them, and plaited the right leg of my trousers with my right hand.If they had asked me any more questions, I should undoubtedly have betrayed myself, for I was even then on the point of mentioning that there was a balloon in the yard, and should have hazarded the statement but for my invention being divided between that phenomenon and a bear in the brewery. They were so much occupied, however, in discussing the marvels I had already presented for their consideration, that I escaped. The subject still held them when Joe came in from his work to have a cup of tea. To whom my sister, more for the relief of her own mind than for the gratification of his, related my pretended experiences.Now, when I saw Joe open his blue eyes and roll them all round the kitchen in helpless amazement, I was overtaken by penitence; but only as regarded him⁠—not in the least as regarded the other two. Towards Joe, and Joe only, I considered myself a young monster, while they sat debating what results would come to me from Miss Havisham's acquaintance and favor. They had no doubt that Miss Havisham would “do something” for me; their doubts related to the form that something would take. My sister stood out for “property.” Mr. Pumblechook was in favor of a handsome premium for binding me apprentice to some genteel trade⁠—say, the corn and seed trade, for instance. Joe fell into the deepest disgrace with both, for offering the bright suggestion that I might only be presented with one of the dogs who had fought for the veal-cutlets. “If a fool's head can't express better opinions than that,” said my sister, “and you have got any work to do, you had better go and do it.” So he went.After Mr. Pumblechook had driven off, and when my sister was washing up, I stole into the forge to Joe, and remained by him until he had done for the night. Then I said, “Before the fire goes out, Joe, I should like to tell you something.”“Should you, Pip?” said Joe, drawing his shoeing-stool near the forge. “Then tell us. What is it, Pip?”“Joe,” said I, taking hold of his rolled-up shirt sleeve, and twisting it between my finger and thumb, “you remember all that about Miss Havisham's?”“Remember?” said Joe. “I believe you! Wonderful!”“It's a terrible thing, Joe; it ain't true.”“What are you telling of, Pip?” cried Joe, falling back in the greatest amazement. “You don't mean to say it's⁠—”“Yes I do; it's lies, Joe.”“But not all of it? Why sure you don't mean to say, Pip, that there was no black welwet co⁠—eh?” For, I stood shaking my head. “But at least there was dogs, Pip? Come, Pip,” said Joe, persuasively, “if there warn't no weal-cutlets, at least there was dogs?”“No, Joe.”“A dog?” said Joe. “A puppy? Come?”“No, Joe, there was nothing at all of the kind.”As I fixed my eyes hopelessly on Joe, Joe contemplated me in dismay. “Pip, old chap! This won't do, old fellow! I say! Where do you expect to go to?”“It's terrible, Joe; ain't it?”“Terrible?” cried Joe. “Awful! What possessed you?”“I don't know what possessed me, Joe,” I replied, letting his shirt sleeve go, and sitting down in the ashes at his feet, hanging my head; “but I wish you hadn't taught me to call Knaves at cards Jacks; and I wish my boots weren't so thick nor my hands so coarse.”And then I told Joe that I felt very miserable, and that I hadn't been able to explain myself to Mrs. Joe and Pumblechook, who were so rude to me, and that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham's who was dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that I knew I was common, and that I wished I was not common, and that the lies had come of it somehow, though I didn't know how.This was a case of metaphysics, at least as difficult for Joe to deal with as for me. But Joe took the case altogether out of the region of metaphysics, and by that means vanquished it.“There's one thing you may be sure of, Pip,” said Joe, after some rumination, “namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn't ought to come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to the same. Don't you tell no more of 'em, Pip. That ain't the way to get out of being common, old chap. And as to being common, I don't make it out at all clear. You are oncommon in some things. You're oncommon small. Likewise you're a oncommon scholar.”“No, I am ignorant and backward, Joe.”“Why, see what a letter you wrote last night! Wrote in print even! I've seen letters⁠—Ah! and from gentlefolks!⁠—that I'll swear weren't wrote in print,” said Joe.“I have learnt next to nothing, Joe. You think much of me. It's only that.”“Well, Pip,” said Joe, “be it so or be it son't, you must be a common scholar afore you can be a oncommon one, I should hope! The king upon his throne, with his crown upon his ed, can't sit and write his acts of Parliament in print, without having begun, when he were a unpromoted Prince, with the alphabet.⁠—Ah!” added Joe, with a shake of the head that was full of meaning, “and begun at A too, and worked his way to Z. And I know what that is to do, though I can't say I've exactly done it.”There was some hope in this piece of wisdom, and it rather encouraged me.“Whether common ones as to callings and earnings,” pursued Joe, reflectively, “mightn't be the better of continuing for to keep company with common ones, instead of going out to play with oncommon ones⁠—which reminds me to hope that there were a flag, perhaps?”“No, Joe.”“(I'm sorry there weren't a flag, Pip). Whether that might be or mightn't be, is a thing as can't be looked into now, without putting your sister on the rampage; and that's a thing not to be thought of as being done intentional. Lookee here, Pip, at what is said to you by a true friend. Which this to you the true friend say. If you can't get to be oncommon through going straight, you'll never get to do it through going crooked. So don't tell no more on 'em, Pip, and live well and die happy.”“You are not angry with me, Joe?”“No, old chap. But bearing in mind that them were which I meantersay of a stunning and outdacious sort⁠—alluding to them which bordered on weal-cutlets and dog-fighting⁠—a sincere well-wisher would adwise, Pip, their being dropped into your meditations, when you go upstairs to bed. That's all, old chap, and don't never do it no more.”When I got up to my little room and said my prayers, I did not forget Joe's recommendation, and yet my young mind was in that disturbed and unthankful state, that I thought long after I laid me down, how common Estella would consider Joe, a mere blacksmith; how thick his boots, and how coarse his hands. I thought how Joe and my sister were then sitting in the kitchen, and how I had come up to bed from the kitchen, and how Miss Havisham and Estella never sat in a kitchen, but were far above the level of such common doings. I fell asleep recalling what I “used to do” when I was at Miss Havisham's; as though I had been there weeks or months, instead of hours; and as though it were quite an old subject of remembrance, instead of one that had arisen only that day.That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. This is a public episode. 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It was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship to Joe, and it was a Saturday night. There was a group assembled round the fire at the Three Jolly Bargemen, attentive to Mr. Wopsle as he read the newspaper aloud. Of that group I was one.A highly popular murder had been committed, and Mr. Wopsle was imbrued in blood to the eyebrows. He gloated over every abhorrent adjective in the description, and identified himself with every witness at the Inquest. He faintly moaned, “I am done for,” as the victim, and he barbarously bellowed, “I'll serve you out,” as the murderer. He gave the medical testimony, in pointed imitation of our local practitioner; and he piped and shook, as the aged turnpike-keeper who had heard blows, to an extent so very paralytic as to suggest a doubt regarding the mental competency of that witness. The coroner, in Mr. Wopsle's hands, became Timon of Athens; the beadle, Coriolanus. He enjoyed himself thoroughly, and we all enjoyed ourselves, and were delightfully comfortable. In this cosy state of mind we came to the verdict Wilful Murder.Then, and not sooner, I became aware of a strange gentleman leaning over the back of the settle opposite me, looking on. There was an expression of contempt on his face, and he bit the side of a great forefinger as he watched the group of faces.“Well!” said the stranger to Mr. Wopsle, when the reading was done, “you have settled it all to your own satisfaction, I have no doubt?”Everybody started and looked up, as if it were the murderer. He looked at everybody coldly and sarcastically.“Guilty, of course?” said he. “Out with it. Come!”“Sir,” returned Mr. Wopsle, “without having the honor of your acquaintance, I do say Guilty.” Upon this we all took courage to unite in a confirmatory murmur.“I know you do,” said the stranger; “I knew you would. I told you so. But now I'll ask you a question. Do you know, or do you not know, that the law of England supposes every man to be innocent, until he is proved⁠—proved⁠—to be guilty?”“Sir,” Mr. Wopsle began to reply, “as an Englishman myself, I⁠—”“Come!” said the stranger, biting his forefinger at him. “Don't evade the question. Either you know it, or you don't know it. Which is it to be?”He stood with his head on one side and himself on one side, in a bullying, interrogative manner, and he threw his forefinger at Mr. Wopsle⁠—as it were to mark him out⁠—before biting it again.“Now!” said he. “Do you know it, or don't you know it?”“Certainly I know it,” replied Mr. Wopsle.“Certainly you know it. Then why didn't you say so at first? Now, I'll ask you another question,”⁠—taking possession of Mr. Wopsle, as if he had a right to him⁠—“do you know that none of these witnesses have yet been cross-examined?”Mr. Wopsle was beginning, “I can only say⁠—” when the stranger stopped him.“What? You won't answer the question, yes or no? Now, I'll try you again.” Throwing his finger at him again. “Attend to me. Are you aware, or are you not aware, that none of these witnesses have yet been cross-examined? Come, I only want one word from you. Yes, or no?”Mr. Wopsle hesitated, and we all began to conceive rather a poor opinion of him.“Come!” said the stranger, “I'll help you. You don't deserve help, but I'll help you. Look at that paper you hold in your hand. What is it?”“What is it?” repeated Mr. Wopsle, eyeing it, much at a loss.“Is it,” pursued the stranger in his most sarcastic and suspicious manner, “the printed paper you have just been reading from?”“Undoubtedly.”“Undoubtedly. Now, turn to that paper, and tell me whether it distinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that his legal advisers instructed him altogether to reserve his defence?”“I read that just now,” Mr. Wopsle pleaded.“Never mind what you read just now, sir; I don't ask you what you read just now. You may read the Lord's Prayer backwards, if you like⁠—and, perhaps, have done it before today. Turn to the paper. No, no, no my friend; not to the top of the column; you know better than that; to the bottom, to the bottom.” (We all began to think Mr. Wopsle full of subterfuge.) “Well? Have you found it?”“Here it is,” said Mr. Wopsle.“Now, follow that passage with your eye, and tell me whether it distinctly states that the prisoner expressly said that he was instructed by his legal advisers wholly to reserve his defence? Come! Do you make that of it?”Mr. Wopsle answered, “Those are not the exact words.”“Not the exact words!” repeated the gentleman bitterly. “Is that the exact substance?”“Yes,” said Mr. Wopsle.“Yes,” repeated the stranger, looking round at the rest of the company with his right hand extended towards the witness, Wopsle. “And now I ask you what you say to the conscience of that man who, with that passage before his eyes, can lay his head upon his pillow after having pronounced a fellow-creature guilty, unheard?”We all began to suspect that Mr. Wopsle was not the man we had thought him, and that he was beginning to be found out.“And that same man, remember,” pursued the gentleman, throwing his finger at Mr. Wopsle heavily⁠—“that same man might be summoned as a juryman upon this very trial, and, having thus deeply committed himself, might return to the bosom of his family and lay his head upon his pillow, after deliberately swearing that he would well and truly try the issue joined between Our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the bar, and would a true verdict give according to the evidence, so help him God!”We were all deeply persuaded that the unfortunate Wopsle had gone too far, and had better stop in his reckless career while there was yet time.The strange gentleman, with an air of authority not to be disputed, and with a manner expressive of knowing something secret about everyone of us that would effectually do for each individual if he chose to disclose it, left the back of the settle, and came into the space between the two settles, in front of the fire, where he remained standing, his left hand in his pocket, and he biting the forefinger of his right.“From information I have received,” said he, looking round at us as we all quailed before him, “I have reason to believe there is a blacksmith among you, by name Joseph⁠—or Joe⁠—Gargery. Which is the man?”“Here is the man,” said Joe.The strange gentleman beckoned him out of his place, and Joe went.“You have an apprentice,” pursued the stranger, “commonly known as Pip? Is he here?”“I am here!” I cried.The stranger did not recognize me, but I recognized him as the gentleman I had met on the stairs, on the occasion of my second visit to Miss Havisham. I had known him the moment I saw him looking over the settle, and now that I stood confronting him with his hand upon my shoulder, I checked off again in detail his large head, his dark complexion, his deep-set eyes, his bushy black eyebrows, his large watch-chain, his strong black dots of beard and whisker, and even the smell of scented soap on his great hand.“I wish to have a private conference with you two,” said he, when he had surveyed me at his leisure. “It will take a little time. Perhaps we had better go to your place of residence. I prefer not to anticipate my communication here; you will impart as much or as little of it as you please to your friends afterwards; I have nothing to do with that.”Amidst a wondering silence, we three walked out of the Jolly Bargemen, and in a wondering silence walked home. While going along, the strange gentleman occasionally looked at me, and occasionally bit the side of his finger. As we neared home, Joe vaguely acknowledging the occasion as an impressive and ceremonious one, went on ahead to open the front door. Our conference was held in the state parlor, which was feebly lighted by one candle.It began with the strange gentleman's sitting down at the table, drawing the candle to him, and looking over some entries in his pocketbook. He then put up the pocketbook and set the candle a little aside, after peering round it into the darkness at Joe and me, to ascertain which was which.“My name,” he said, “is Jaggers, and I am a lawyer in London. I am pretty well known. I have unusual business to transact with you, and I commence by explaining that it is not of my originating. If my advice had been asked, I should not have been here. It was not asked, and you see me here. What I have to do as the confidential agent of another, I do. No less, no more.”Finding that he could not see us very well from where he sat, he got up, and threw one leg over the back of a chair and leaned upon it; thus having one foot on the seat of the chair, and one foot on the ground.“Now, Joseph Gargery, I am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of this young fellow your apprentice. You would not object to cancel his indentures at his request and for his good? You would want nothing for so doing?”“Lord forbid that I should want anything for not standing in Pip's way,” said Joe, staring.“Lord forbidding is pious, but not to the purpose,” returned Mr. Jaggers. “The question is, Would you want anything? Do you want anything?”“The answer is,” returned Joe, sternly, “No.”I thought Mr. Jaggers glanced at Joe, as if he considered him a fool for his disinterestedness. But I was too much bewildered between breathless curiosity and surprise, to be sure of it.“Very well,” said Mr. Jaggers. “Recollect the admission you have made, and don't try to go from it presently.”“Who's a going to try?” retorted Joe.“I don't say anybody is. Do you keep a dog?”“Yes, I do keep a dog.”“Bear in mind then, that Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better. Bear that in mind, will you?” repeated Mr. Jaggers, shutting his eyes and nodding his head at Joe, as if he were forgiving him something. “Now, I return to this young fellow. And the communication I have got to make is, that he has great expectations.”Joe and I gasped, and looked at one another.“I am instructed to communicate to him,” said Mr. Jaggers, throwing his finger at me sideways, “that he will come into a handsome property. Further, that it is the desire of the present possessor of that property, that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of life and from this place, and be brought up as a gentleman⁠—in a word, as a young fellow of great expectations.”My dream was out; my wild fancy was surpassed by sober reality; Miss Havisham was going to make my fortune on a grand scale.“Now, Mr. Pip,” pursued the lawyer, “I address the rest of what I have to say, to you. You are to understand, first, that it is the request of the person from whom I take my instructions that you always bear the name of Pip. You will have no objection, I dare say, to your great expectations being encumbered with that easy condition. But if you have any objection, this is the time to mention it.”My heart was beating so fast, and there was such a singing in my ears, that I could scarcely stammer I had no objection.“I should think not! Now you are to understand, secondly, Mr. Pip, that the name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a profound secret, until the person chooses to reveal it. I am empowered to mention that it is the intention of the person to reveal it at first hand by word of mouth to yourself. When or where that intention may be carried out, I cannot say; no one can say. It may be years hence. Now, you are distinctly to understand that you are most positively prohibited from making any inquiry on this head, or any allusion or reference, however distant, to any individual whomsoever as the individual, in all the communications you may have with me. If you have a suspicion in your own breast, keep that suspicion in your own breast. It is not the least to the purpose what the reasons of this prohibition are; they may be the strongest and gravest reasons, or they may be mere whim. This is not for you to inquire into. The condition is laid down. Your acceptance of it, and your observance of it as binding, is the only remaining condition that I am charged with, by the person from whom I take my instructions, and for whom I am not otherwise responsible. That person is the person from whom you derive your expectations, and the secret is solely held by that person and by me. Again, not a very difficult condition with which to encumber such a rise in fortune; but if you have any objection to it, this is the time to mention it. Speak out.”Once more, I stammered with difficulty that I had no objection.“I should think not! Now, Mr. Pip, I have done with stipulations.” Though he called me Mr. Pip, and began rather to make up to me, he still could not get rid of a certain air of bullying suspicion; and even now he occasionally shut his eyes and threw his finger at me while he spoke, as much as to express that he knew all kinds of things to my disparagement, if he only chose to mention them. “We come next, to mere details of arrangement. You must know that, although I have used the term ‘expectations' more than once, you are not endowed with expectations only. There is already lodged in my hands a sum of money amply sufficient for your suitable education and maintenance. You will please consider me your guardian. Oh!” for I was going to thank him, “I tell you at once, I am paid for my services, or I shouldn't render them. It is considered that you must be better educated, in accordance with your altered position, and that you will be alive to the importance and necessity of at once entering on that advantage.”I said I had always longed for it.“Never mind what you have always longed for, Mr. Pip,” he retorted; “keep to the record. If you long for it now, that's enough. Am I answered that you are ready to be placed at once under some proper tutor? Is that it?”I stammered yes, that was it.“Good. Now, your inclinations are to be consulted. I don't think that wise, mind, but it's my trust. Have you ever heard of any tutor whom you would prefer to another?”I had never heard of any tutor but Biddy and Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt; so, I replied in the negative.“There is a certain tutor, of whom I have some knowledge, who I think might suit the purpose,” said Mr. Jaggers. “I don't recommend him, observe; because I never recommend anybody. The gentleman I speak of is one Mr. Matthew Pocket.”Ah! I caught at the name directly. Miss Havisham's relation. The Matthew whom Mr. and Mrs. Camilla had spoken of. The Matthew whose place was to be at Miss Havisham's head, when she lay dead, in her bride's dress on the bride's table.“You know the name?” said Mr. Jaggers, looking shrewdly at me, and then shutting up his eyes while he waited for my answer.My answer was, that I had heard of the name.“Oh!” said he. “You have heard of the name. But the question is, what do you say of it?”I said, or tried to say, that I was much obliged to him for his recommendation⁠—“No, my young friend!” he interrupted, shaking his great head very slowly. “Recollect yourself!”Not recollecting myself, I began again that I was much obliged to him for his recommendation⁠—“No, my young friend,” he interrupted, shaking his head and frowning and smiling both at once⁠—“no, no, no; it's very well done, but it won't do; you are too young to fix me with it. Recommendation is not the word, Mr. Pip. Try another.”Correcting myself, I said that I was much obliged to him for his mention of Mr. Matthew Pocket⁠—“That's more like it!” cried Mr. Jaggers.⁠—And (I added), I would gladly try that gentleman.“Good. You had better try him in his own house. The way shall be prepared for you, and you can see his son first, who is in London. When will you come to London?”I said (glancing at Joe, who stood looking on, motionless), that I supposed I could come directly.“First,” said Mr. Jaggers, “you should have some new clothes to come in, and they should not be working-clothes. Say this day week. You'll want some money. Shall I leave you twenty guineas?”He produced a long purse, with the greatest coolness, and counted them out on the table and pushed them over to me. This was the first time he had taken his leg from the chair. He sat astride of the chair when he had pushed the money over, and sat swinging his purse and eyeing Joe.“Well, Joseph Gargery? You look dumbfoundered?”“I am!” said Joe, in a very decided manner.“It was understood that you wanted nothing for yourself, remember?”“It were understood,” said Joe. “And it are understood. And it ever will be similar according.”“But what,” said Mr. Jaggers, swinging his purse⁠—“what if it was in my instructions to make you a present, as compensation?”“As compensation what for?” Joe demanded.“For the loss of his services.”Joe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman. I have often thought him since, like the steam-hammer that can crush a man or pat an eggshell, in his combination of strength with gentleness. “Pip is that hearty welcome,” said Joe, “to go free with his services, to honor and fortun', as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money can make compensation to me for the loss of the little child⁠—what come to the forge⁠—and ever the best of friends!⁠—”O dear good Joe, whom I was so ready to leave and so unthankful to, I see you again, with your muscular blacksmith's arm before your eyes, and your broad chest heaving, and your voice dying away. O dear good faithful tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my arm, as solemnly this day as if it had been the rustle of an angel's wing!But I encouraged Joe at the time. I was lost in the mazes of my future fortunes, and could not retrace the bypaths we had trodden together. I begged Joe to be comforted, for (as he said) we had ever been the best of friends, and (as I said) we ever would be so. Joe scooped his eyes with his disengaged wrist, as if he were bent on gouging himself, but said not another word.Mr. Jaggers had looked on at this, as one who recognized in Joe the village idiot, and in me his keeper. When it was over, he said, weighing in his hand the purse he had ceased to swing:⁠—“Now, Joseph Gargery, I warn you this is your last chance. No half measures with me. If you mean to take a present that I have it in charge to make you, speak out, and you shall have it. If on the contrary you mean to say⁠—” Here, to his great amazement, he was stopped by Joe's suddenly working round him with every demonstration of a fell pugilistic purpose.“Which I meantersay,” cried Joe, “that if you come into my place bull-baiting and badgering me, come out! Which I meantersay as sech if you're a man, come on! Which I meantersay that what I say, I meantersay and stand or fall by!”I drew Joe away, and he immediately became placable; merely stating to me, in an obliging manner and as a polite expostulatory notice to anyone whom it might happen to concern, that he were not a going to be bull-baited and badgered in his own place. Mr. Jaggers had risen when Joe demonstrated, and had backed near the door. Without evincing any inclination to come in again, he there delivered his valedictory remarks. They were these.“Well, Mr. Pip, I think the sooner you leave here⁠—as you are to be a gentleman⁠—the better. Let it stand for this day week, and you shall receive my printed address in the meantime. You can take a hackney-coach at the stagecoach office in London, and come straight to me. Understand, that I express no opinion, one way or other, on the trust I undertake. I am paid for undertaking it, and I do so. Now, understand that, finally. Understand that!”He was throwing his finger at both of us, and I think would have gone on, but for his seeming to think Joe dangerous, and going off.Something came into my head which induced me to run after him, as he was going down to the Jolly Bargemen, where he had left a hired carriage.“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jaggers.”“Halloa!” said he, facing round, “what's the matter?”“I wish to be quite right, Mr. Jaggers, and to keep to your directions; so I thought I had better ask. Would there be any objection to my taking leave of anyone I know, about here, before I go away?”“No,” said he, looking as if he hardly understood me.“I don't mean in the village only, but up town?”“No,” said he. “No objection.”I thanked him and ran home again, and there I found that Joe had already locked the front door and vacated the state parlor, and was seated by the kitchen fire with a hand on each knee, gazing intently at the burning coals. I too sat down before the fire and gazed at the coals, and nothing was said for a long time.My sister was in her cushioned chair in her corner, and Biddy sat at her needlework before the fire, and Joe sat next Biddy, and I sat next Joe in the corner opposite my sister. The more I looked into the glowing coals, the more incapable I became of looking at Joe; the longer the silence lasted, the more unable I felt to speak.At length I got out, “Joe, have you told Biddy?”“No, Pip,” returned Joe, still looking at the fire, and holding his knees tight, as if he had private information that they intended to make off somewhere, “which I left it to yourself, Pip.”“I would rather you told, Joe.”“Pip's a gentleman of fortun' then,” said Joe, “and God bless him in it!”Biddy dropped her work, and looked at me. Joe held his knees and looked at me. I looked at both of them. After a pause, they both heartily congratulated me; but there was a certain touch of sadness in their congratulations that I rather resented.I took it upon myself to impress Biddy (and through Biddy, Joe) with the grave obligation I considered my friends under, to know nothing and say nothing about the maker of my fortune. It would all come out in good time, I observed, and in the meanwhile nothing was to be said, save that I had come into great expectations from a mysterious patron. Biddy nodded her head thoughtfully at the fire as she took up her work again, and said she would be very particular; and Joe, still detaining his knees, said, “Ay, ay, I'll be ekervally partickler, Pip;” and then they congratulated me again, and went on to express so much wonder at the notion of my being a gentleman that I didn't half like it.Infinite pains were then taken by Biddy to convey to my sister some idea of what had happened. To the best of my belief, those efforts entirely failed. She laughed and nodded her head a great many times, and even repeated after Biddy, the words “Pip” and “Property.” But I doubt if they had more meaning in them than an election cry, and I cannot suggest a darker picture of her state of mind.I never could have believed it without experience, but as Joe and Biddy became more at their cheerful ease again, I became quite gloomy. Dissatisfied with my fortune, of course I could not be; but it is possible that I may have been, without quite knowing it, dissatisfied with myself.Anyhow, I sat with my elbow on my knee and my face upon my hand, looking into the fire, as those two talked about my going away, and about what they should do without me, and all that. And whenever I caught one of them looking at me, though never so pleasantly (and they often looked at me⁠—particularly Biddy), I felt offended: as if they were expressing some mistrust of me. Though Heaven knows they never did by word or sign.At those times I would get up and look out at the door; for our kitchen door opened at once upon the night, and stood open on summer evenings to air the room. The very stars to which I then raised my eyes, I am afraid I took to be but poor and humble stars for glittering on the rustic objects among which I had passed my life.“Saturday night,” said I, when we sat at our supper of bread and cheese and beer. “Five more days, and then the day before the day! They'll soon go.”“Yes, Pip,” observed Joe, whose voice sounded hollow in his beer-mug. “They'll soon go.”“Soon, soon go,” said Biddy.“I have been thinking, Joe, that when I go down town on Monday, and order my new clothes, I shall tell the tailor that I'll come and put them on there, or that I'll have them sent to Mr. Pumblechook's. It would be very disagreeable to be stared at by all the people here.”“Mr. and Mrs. Hubble might like to see you in your new genteel figure too, Pip,” said Joe, industriously cutting his bread, with his cheese on it, in the palm of his left hand, and glancing at my untasted supper as if he thought of the time when we used to compare slices. “So might Wopsle. And the Jolly Bargemen might take it as a compliment.”“That's just what I don't want, Joe. They would make such a business of it⁠—such a coarse and common business⁠—that I couldn't bear myself.”“Ah, that indeed, Pip!” said Joe. “If you couldn't abear yourself⁠—”Biddy asked me here, as she sat holding my sister's plate, “Have you thought about when you'll show yourself to Mr. Gargery, and your sister and me? You will show yourself to us; won't you?”“Biddy,” I returned with some resentment, “you are so exceedingly quick that it's difficult to keep up with you.”(“She always were quick,” observed Joe.)“If you had waited another moment, Biddy, you would have heard me say that I shall bring my clothes here in a bundle one evening⁠—most likely on the evening before I go away.”Biddy said no more. Handsomely forgiving her, I soon exchanged an affectionate good night with her and Joe, and went up to bed. When I got into my little room, I sat down and took a long look at it, as a mean little room that I should soon be parted from and raised above, forever. It was furnished with fresh young remembrances too, and even at the same moment I fell into much the same confused division of mind between it and the better rooms to which I was going, as I had been in so often between the forge and Miss Havisham's, and Biddy and Estella.The sun had been shining brightly all day on the roof of my attic, and the room was warm. As I put the window open and stood looking out, I saw Joe come slowly forth at the dark door, below, and take a turn or two in the air; and then I saw Biddy come, and bring him a pipe and light it for him. He never smoked so late, and it seemed to hint to me that he wanted comforting, for some reason or other.He presently stood at the door immediately beneath me, smoking his pipe, and Biddy stood there too, quietly talking to him, and I knew that they talked of me, for I heard my name mentioned in an endearing tone by both of them more than once. I would not have listened for more, if I could have heard more; so I drew away from the window, and sat down in my one chair by the bedside, feeling it very sorrowful and strange that this first night of my bright fortunes should be the loneliest I had ever known.Looking towards the open window, I saw light wreaths from Joe's pipe floating there, and I fancied it was like a blessing from Joe⁠—not obtruded on me or paraded before me, but pervading the air we shared together. I put my light out, and crept into bed; and it was an uneasy bed now, and I never slept the old sound sleep in it any more. 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

As I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's room, my education under that preposterous female terminated. Not, however, until Biddy had imparted to me everything she knew, from the little catalogue of prices, to a comic song she had once bought for a halfpenny. Although the only coherent part of the latter piece of literature were the opening lines,When I went to Lunnon town sirs,Too rul loo rulToo rul loo rulWasn't I done very brown sirs?Too rul loo rulToo rul loo rul—still, in my desire to be wiser, I got this composition by heart with the utmost gravity; nor do I recollect that I questioned its merit, except that I thought (as I still do) the amount of Too rul somewhat in excess of the poetry. In my hunger for information, I made proposals to Mr. Wopsle to bestow some intellectual crumbs upon me, with which he kindly complied. As it turned out, however, that he only wanted me for a dramatic lay-figure, to be contradicted and embraced and wept over and bullied and clutched and stabbed and knocked about in a variety of ways, I soon declined that course of instruction; though not until Mr. Wopsle in his poetic fury had severely mauled me.Whatever I acquired, I tried to impart to Joe. This statement sounds so well, that I cannot in my conscience let it pass unexplained. I wanted to make Joe less ignorant and common, that he might be worthier of my society and less open to Estella's reproach.The old battery out on the marshes was our place of study, and a broken slate and a short piece of slate-pencil were our educational implements: to which Joe always added a pipe of tobacco. I never knew Joe to remember anything from one Sunday to another, or to acquire, under my tuition, any piece of information whatever. Yet he would smoke his pipe at the battery with a far more sagacious air than anywhere else⁠—even with a learned air⁠—as if he considered himself to be advancing immensely. Dear fellow, I hope he did.It was pleasant and quiet, out there with the sails on the river passing beyond the earthwork, and sometimes, when the tide was low, looking as if they belonged to sunken ships that were still sailing on at the bottom of the water. Whenever I watched the vessels standing out to sea with their white sails spread, I somehow thought of Miss Havisham and Estella; and whenever the light struck aslant, afar off, upon a cloud or sail or green hillside or waterline, it was just the same.⁠—Miss Havisham and Estella and the strange house and the strange life appeared to have something to do with everything that was picturesque.One Sunday when Joe, greatly enjoying his pipe, had so plumed himself on being “most awful dull,” that I had given him up for the day, I lay on the earthwork for some time with my chin on my hand, descrying traces of Miss Havisham and Estella all over the prospect, in the sky and in the water, until at last I resolved to mention a thought concerning them that had been much in my head.“Joe,” said I; “don't you think I ought to make Miss Havisham a visit?”“Well, Pip,” returned Joe, slowly considering. “What for?”“What for, Joe? What is any visit made for?”“There is some wisits p'r'aps,” said Joe, “as forever remains open to the question, Pip. But in regard to wisiting Miss Havisham. She might think you wanted something⁠—expected something of her.”“Don't you think I might say that I did not, Joe?”“You might, old chap,” said Joe. “And she might credit it. Similarly she mightn't.”Joe felt, as I did, that he had made a point there, and he pulled hard at his pipe to keep himself from weakening it by repetition.“You see, Pip,” Joe pursued, as soon as he was past that danger, “Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you. When Miss Havisham done the handsome thing by you, she called me back to say to me as that were all.”“Yes, Joe. I heard her.”“All,” Joe repeated, very emphatically.“Yes, Joe. I tell you, I heard her.”“Which I meantersay, Pip, it might be that her meaning were⁠—Make a end on it!⁠—As you was!⁠—Me to the North, and you to the South!⁠—Keep in sunders!”I had thought of that too, and it was very far from comforting to me to find that he had thought of it; for it seemed to render it more probable.“But, Joe.”“Yes, old chap.”“Here am I, getting on in the first year of my time, and, since the day of my being bound, I have never thanked Miss Havisham, or asked after her, or shown that I remember her.”“That's true, Pip; and unless you was to turn her out a set of shoes all four round⁠—and which I meantersay as even a set of shoes all four round might not be acceptable as a present, in a total wacancy of hoofs⁠—”“I don't mean that sort of remembrance, Joe; I don't mean a present.”But Joe had got the idea of a present in his head and must harp upon it. “Or even,” said he, “if you was helped to knocking her up a new chain for the front door⁠—or say a gross or two of shark-headed screws for general use⁠—or some light fancy article, such as a toasting-fork when she took her muffins⁠—or a gridiron when she took a sprat or suchlike⁠—”“I don't mean any present at all, Joe,” I interposed.“Well,” said Joe, still harping on it as though I had particularly pressed it, “if I was yourself, Pip, I wouldn't. No, I would not. For what's a door-chain when she's got one always up? And shark-headers is open to misrepresentations. And if it was a toasting-fork, you'd go into brass and do yourself no credit. And the oncommonest workman can't show himself oncommon in a gridiron⁠—for a gridiron is a gridiron,” said Joe, steadfastly impressing it upon me, as if he were endeavouring to rouse me from a fixed delusion, “and you may haim at what you like, but a gridiron it will come out, either by your leave or again your leave, and you can't help yourself⁠—”“My dear Joe,” I cried, in desperation, taking hold of his coat, “don't go on in that way. I never thought of making Miss Havisham any present.”“No, Pip,” Joe assented, as if he had been contending for that, all along; “and what I say to you is, you are right, Pip.”“Yes, Joe; but what I wanted to say, was, that as we are rather slack just now, if you would give me a half-holiday tomorrow, I think I would go uptown and make a call on Miss Est⁠—Havisham.”“Which her name,” said Joe, gravely, “ain't Estavisham, Pip, unless she have been rechris'ened.”“I know, Joe, I know. It was a slip of mine. What do you think of it, Joe?”In brief, Joe thought that if I thought well of it, he thought well of it. But, he was particular in stipulating that if I were not received with cordiality, or if I were not encouraged to repeat my visit as a visit which had no ulterior object but was simply one of gratitude for a favor received, then this experimental trip should have no successor. By these conditions I promised to abide.Now, Joe kept a journeyman at weekly wages whose name was Orlick. He pretended that his Christian name was Dolge⁠—a clear Impossibility⁠—but he was a fellow of that obstinate disposition that I believe him to have been the prey of no delusion in this particular, but wilfully to have imposed that name upon the village as an affront to its understanding. He was a broadshouldered loose-limbed swarthy fellow of great strength, never in a hurry, and always slouching. He never even seemed to come to his work on purpose, but would slouch in as if by mere accident; and when he went to the Jolly Bargemen to eat his dinner, or went away at night, he would slouch out, like Cain or the Wandering Jew, as if he had no idea where he was going and no intention of ever coming back. He lodged at a sluice-keeper's out on the marshes, and on working-days would come slouching from his hermitage, with his hands in his pockets and his dinner loosely tied in a bundle round his neck and dangling on his back. On Sundays he mostly lay all day on the sluice-gates, or stood against ricks and barns. He always slouched, locomotively, with his eyes on the ground; and, when accosted or otherwise required to raise them, he looked up in a half-resentful, half-puzzled way, as though the only thought he ever had was, that it was rather an odd and injurious fact that he should never be thinking.This morose journeyman had no liking for me. When I was very small and timid, he gave me to understand that the Devil lived in a black corner of the forge, and that he knew the fiend very well: also that it was necessary to make up the fire, once in seven years, with a live boy, and that I might consider myself fuel. When I became Joe's 'prentice, Orlick was perhaps confirmed in some suspicion that I should displace him; howbeit, he liked me still less. Not that he ever said anything, or did anything, openly importing hostility; I only noticed that he always beat his sparks in my direction, and that whenever I sang Old Clem, he came in out of time.Dolge Orlick was at work and present, next day, when I reminded Joe of my half-holiday. He said nothing at the moment, for he and Joe had just got a piece of hot iron between them, and I was at the bellows; but by and by he said, leaning on his hammer⁠—“Now, master! Sure you're not a going to favor only one of us. If Young Pip has a half-holiday, do as much for Old Orlick.” I suppose he was about five-and-twenty, but he usually spoke of himself as an ancient person.“Why, what'll you do with a half-holiday, if you get it?” said Joe.“What'll I do with it! What'll he do with it? I'll do as much with it as him,” said Orlick.“As to Pip, he's going up town,” said Joe.“Well then, as to Old Orlick, he's a going up town,” retorted that worthy. “Two can go up town. Tain't only one wot can go up town.”“Don't lose your temper,” said Joe.“Shall if I like,” growled Orlick. “Some and their uptowning! Now, master! Come. No favoring in this shop. Be a man!”The master refusing to entertain the subject until the journeyman was in a better temper, Orlick plunged at the furnace, drew out a red-hot bar, made at me with it as if he were going to run it through my body, whisked it round my head, laid it on the anvil, hammered it out⁠—as if it were I, I thought, and the sparks were my spirting blood⁠—and finally said, when he had hammered himself hot and the iron cold, and he again leaned on his hammer⁠—“Now, master!”“Are you all right now?” demanded Joe.“Ah! I am all right,” said gruff Old Orlick.“Then, as in general you stick to your work as well as most men,” said Joe, “let it be a half-holiday for all.”My sister had been standing silent in the yard, within hearing⁠—she was a most unscrupulous spy and listener⁠—and she instantly looked in at one of the windows.“Like you, you fool!” said she to Joe, “giving holidays to great idle hulkers like that. You are a rich man, upon my life, to waste wages in that way. I wish I was his master!”“You'd be everybody's master, if you durst,” retorted Orlick, with an ill-favored grin.(“Let her alone,” said Joe.)“I'd be a match for all noodles and all rogues,” returned my sister, beginning to work herself into a mighty rage. “And I couldn't be a match for the noodles, without being a match for your master, who's the dunder-headed king of the noodles. And I couldn't be a match for the rogues, without being a match for you, who are the blackest-looking and the worst rogue between this and France. Now!”“You're a foul shrew, Mother Gargery,” growled the journeyman. “If that makes a judge of rogues, you ought to be a good'un.”(“Let her alone, will you?” said Joe.)“What did you say?” cried my sister, beginning to scream. “What did you say? What did that fellow Orlick say to me, Pip? What did he call me, with my husband standing by? Oh! oh! oh!” Each of these exclamations was a shriek; and I must remark of my sister, what is equally true of all the violent women I have ever seen, that passion was no excuse for her, because it is undeniable that instead of lapsing into passion, she consciously and deliberately took extraordinary pains to force herself into it, and became blindly furious by regular stages; “what was the name he gave me before the base man who swore to defend me? Oh! Hold me! Oh!”“Ah-h-h!” growled the journeyman, between his teeth, “I'd hold you, if you was my wife. I'd hold you under the pump, and choke it out of you.”(“I tell you, let her alone,” said Joe.)“Oh! To hear him!” cried my sister, with a clap of her hands and a scream together⁠—which was her next stage. “To hear the names he's giving me! That Orlick! In my own house! Me, a married woman! With my husband standing by! Oh! Oh!” Here my sister, after a fit of clappings and screamings, beat her hands upon her bosom and upon her knees, and threw her cap off, and pulled her hair down⁠—which were the last stages on her road to frenzy. Being by this time a perfect Fury and a complete success, she made a dash at the door which I had fortunately locked.What could the wretched Joe do now, after his disregarded parenthetical interruptions, but stand up to his journeyman, and ask him what he meant by interfering betwixt himself and Mrs. Joe; and further whether he was man enough to come on? Old Orlick felt that the situation admitted of nothing less than coming on, and was on his defence straightway; so, without so much as pulling off their singed and burnt aprons, they went at one another, like two giants. But, if any man in that neighborhood could stand uplong against Joe, I never saw the man. Orlick, as if he had been of no more account than the pale young gentleman, was very soon among the coal dust, and in no hurry to come out of it. Then Joe unlocked the door and picked up my sister, who had dropped insensible at the window (but who had seen the fight first, I think), and who was carried into the house and laid down, and who was recommended to revive, and would do nothing but struggle and clench her hands in Joe's hair. Then came that singular calm and silence which succeed all uproars; and then, with the vague sensation which I have always connected with such a lull⁠—namely, that it was Sunday, and somebody was dead⁠—I went upstairs to dress myself.When I came down again, I found Joe and Orlick sweeping up, without any other traces of discomposure than a slit in one of Orlick's nostrils, which was neither expressive nor ornamental. A pot of beer had appeared from the Jolly Bargemen, and they were sharing it by turns in a peaceable manner. The lull had a sedative and philosophical influence on Joe, who followed me out into the road to say, as a parting observation that might do me good, “On the rampage, Pip, and off the rampage, Pip:⁠—such is Life!”With what absurd emotions (for we think the feelings that are very serious in a man quite comical in a boy) I found myself again going to Miss Havisham's, matters little here. Nor, how I passed and repassed the gate many times before I could make up my mind to ring. Nor, how I debated whether I should go away without ringing; nor, how I should undoubtedly have gone, if my time had been my own, to come back.Miss Sarah Pocket came to the gate. No Estella.“How, then? You here again?” said Miss Pocket. “What do you want?”When I said that I only came to see how Miss Havisham was, Sarah evidently deliberated whether or no she should send me about my business. But unwilling to hazard the responsibility, she let me in, and presently brought the sharp message that I was to “come up.”Everything was unchanged, and Miss Havisham was alone.“Well?” said she, fixing her eyes upon me. “I hope you want nothing? You'll get nothing.”“No indeed, Miss Havisham. I only wanted you to know that I am doing very well in my apprenticeship, and am always much obliged to you.”“There, there!” with the old restless fingers. “Come now and then; come on your birthday.⁠—Ay!” she cried suddenly, turning herself and her chair towards me, “You are looking round for Estella? Hey?”I had been looking round⁠—in fact, for Estella⁠—and I stammered that I hoped she was well.“Abroad,” said Miss Havisham; “educating for a lady; far out of reach; prettier than ever; admired by all who see her. Do you feel that you have lost her?”There was such a malignant enjoyment in her utterance of the last words, and she broke into such a disagreeable laugh, that I was at a loss what to say. She spared me the trouble of considering, by dismissing me. When the gate was closed upon me by Sarah of the walnut-shell countenance, I felt more than ever dissatisfied with my home and with my trade and with everything; and that was all I took by that motion.As I was loitering along the High Street, looking in disconsolately at the shop windows, and thinking what I would buy if I were a gentleman, who should come out of the bookshop but Mr. Wopsle. Mr. Wopsle had in his hand the affecting tragedy of George Barnwell, in which he had that moment invested sixpence, with the view of heaping every word of it on the head of Pumblechook, with whom he was going to drink tea. No sooner did he see me, than he appeared to consider that a special Providence had put a 'prentice in his way to be read at; and he laid hold of me, and insisted on my accompanying him to the Pumblechookian parlor. As I knew it would be miserable at home, and as the nights were dark and the way was dreary, and almost any companionship on the road was better than none, I made no great resistance; consequently, we turned into Pumblechook's just as the street and the shops were lighting up.As I never assisted at any other representation of George Barnwell, I don't know how long it may usually take; but I know very well that it took until half-past nine o' clock that night, and that when Mr. Wopsle got into Newgate, I thought he never would go to the scaffold, he became so much slower than at any former period of his disgraceful career. I thought it a little too much that he should complain of being cut short in his flower after all, as if he had not been running to seed, leaf after leaf, ever since his course began. This, however, was a mere question of length and wearisomeness. What stung me, was the identification of the whole affair with my unoffending self. When Barnwell began to go wrong, I declare that I felt positively apologetic, Pumblechook's indignant stare so taxed me with it. Wopsle, too, took pains to present me in the worst light. At once ferocious and maudlin, I was made to murder my uncle with no extenuating circumstances whatever; Millwood put me down in argument, on every occasion; it became sheer monomania in my master's daughter to care a button for me; and all I can say for my gasping and procrastinating conduct on the fatal morning, is, that it was worthy of the general feebleness of my character. Even after I was happily hanged and Wopsle had closed the book, Pumblechook sat staring at me, and shaking his head, and saying, “Take warning, boy, take warning!” as if it were a well-known fact that I contemplated murdering a near relation, provided I could only induce one to have the weakness to become my benefactor.It was a very dark night when it was all over, and when I set out with Mr. Wopsle on the walk home. Beyond town, we found a heavy mist out, and it fell wet and thick. The turnpike lamp was a blur, quite out of the lamp's usual place apparently, and its rays looked solid substance on the fog. We were noticing this, and saying how that the mist rose with a change of wind from a certain quarter of our marshes, when we came upon a man, slouching under the lee of the turnpike house.“Halloa!” we said, stopping. “Orlick there?”“Ah!” he answered, slouching out. “I was standing by a minute, on the chance of company.”“You are late,” I remarked.Orlick not unnaturally answered, “Well? And you're late.”“We have been,” said Mr. Wopsle, exalted with his late performance⁠—“we have been indulging, Mr. Orlick, in an intellectual evening.”Old Orlick growled, as if he had nothing to say about that, and we all went on together. I asked him presently whether he had been spending his half-holiday up and down town?“Yes,” said he, “all of it. I come in behind yourself. I didn't see you, but I must have been pretty close behind you. By the by, the guns is going again.”“At the hulks?” said I.“Ay! There's some of the birds flown from the cages. The guns have been going since dark, about. You'll hear one presently.”In effect, we had not walked many yards further, when the well-remembered boom came towards us, deadened by the mist, and heavily rolled away along the low grounds by the river, as if it were pursuing and threatening the fugitives.“A good night for cutting off in,” said Orlick. “We'd be puzzled how to bring down a jailbird on the wing, tonight.”The subject was a suggestive one to me, and I thought about it in silence. Mr. Wopsle, as the ill-requited uncle of the evening's tragedy, fell to meditating aloud in his garden at Camberwell. Orlick, with his hands in his pockets, slouched heavily at my side. It was very dark, very wet, very muddy, and so we splashed along. Now and then, the sound of the signal cannon broke upon us again, and again rolled sulkily along the course of the river. I kept myself to myself and my thoughts. Mr. Wopsle died amiably at Camberwell, and exceedingly game on Bosworth Field, and in the greatest agonies at Glastonbury. Orlick sometimes growled, “Beat it out, beat it out⁠—Old Clem! With a clink for the stout⁠—Old Clem!” I thought he had been drinking, but he was not drunk.Thus, we came to the village. The way by which we approached it took us past the Three Jolly Bargemen, which we were surprised to find⁠—it being eleven o'clock⁠—in a state of commotion, with the door wide open, and unwonted lights that had been hastily caught up and put down scattered about. Mr. Wopsle dropped in to ask what was the matter (surmising that a convict had been taken), but came running out in a great hurry.“There's something wrong,” said he, without stopping, “up at your place, Pip. Run all!”“What is it?” I asked, keeping up with him. So did Orlick, at my side.“I can't quite understand. The house seems to have been violently entered when Joe Gargery was out. Supposed by convicts. Somebody has been attacked and hurt.”We were running too fast to admit of more being said, and we made no stop until we got into our kitchen. It was full of people; the whole village was there, or in the yard; and there was a surgeon, and there was Joe, and there were a group of women, all on the floor in the midst of the kitchen. The unemployed bystanders drew back when they saw me, and so I became aware of my sister⁠—lying without sense or movement on the bare boards where she had been knocked down by a tremendous blow on the back of the head, dealt by some unknown hand when her face was turned towards the fire⁠—destined never to be on the rampage again, while she was the wife of Joe. 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

The dramatic moments are high in these latest chapters of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. In the video I discuss chapters 47-50 and a lot of plot points and questions I had earlier in the novel get answered. Find out what happens as Pip finds out about Estella's history, Miss Havisham's history, Magwitch's history... pretty much everyone's backstory. So buckle up and get ready, this one is a roller coaster ride! Find Me online:Voxer: @artbookshelfodyssey   Discord: https://discord.gg/8MFceV2NFe   Facebook Group Page: @thebookshelfodysseyTwitter: @odyssey_podcastInstagram: @bookshelfodysseypodcastYoutube: https://www.youtube.com/c/ArtBookshelfOdysseyEmail: bookshelfodysseypodcast@gmail.comI'm now a bookshop.org affiliate - check out my shop and find your next great read! https://bookshop.org/shop/bookshelfodyssey https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bookshelfpod Reading Schedule: May 23: Chapters 51-54 May 30: Chapters 55-59

 Welcome to part 10 of our Great Expectations read along book club as we talk about chapters 30-34. And I'm joined again this week with Carol! Today's chapters we discuss whether or not a barrel of oysters was a good gift for Pip to give Joe, we scratch our heads over Pip's experience of Hamlet as played by Mr. Wopsle, talk about Pip's constant connections to convicts and prison imagery, and then we make ourselves sad as we think about who is controlling Pip's destiny and the effects it has on both Estella and Pip. It's not all tears though, so come on in, make yourself at home, and join in on the discussion! Timestamps: 01:50 What is love?… thoughts on love and discussion of Miss Havisham's character and trauma that she is working through. 06:00 Part 19 Chapter 30 in which we get sidetracked talking about oysters… and somehow, I manage to reference A Christmas Carol. Twice. 17:45 Part 19 Chapter 31 - in which we go to the theater for a ham-fisted performance of Hamlet 23:47 Part 20 Chapter 32 - in which we visit a prison and Pip reflects on the large number of convicts connected to his life. Also I get sidetracked on trying to figure out what familiar ghost of a shadow that Pip is seeing in Estella. This might be an inconsequential thing but it's nagging me. 31:06 Part 20 Chapter 33 - in which Pip and Estella talk and see London, and we make ourselves sad thinking about the line… "We have no choice, you and I, but to obey our instructions. We are not free to follow our own devices, you and I.” 42:00 Wrapping it Up Satis House Coffee Mug: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1081083637/miss-havishams-satis-house-coffee-mug?click_key=ad977957c321cf37273ba58f73ce218f25d14920%3A1081083637&click_sum=988d69aa&ref=shop_home_active_7 Find Me online: Voxer: @artbookshelfodyssey Discord: https://discord.gg/8MFceV2NFe Facebook Group Page: @thebookshelfodyssey Twitter: @odyssey_podcast Instagram: @bookshelfodysseypodcast Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/c/ArtBookshelfOdyssey Email: bookshelfodysseypodcast@gmail.com I'm now a bookshop.org affiliate - check out my shop and find your next great read! https://bookshop.org/shop/bookshelfodyssey https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bookshelfpod #books #booktube #bookclub Reading Schedule April 11: Chapters 38-39 - End of Stage 2 April 18: Break and Catch up April 25: Chapters 40-42 May 2: Chapters 43-46 May 9 : Chapters 47-50 May 16: Chapters 51-53 May 23: Chapters 54-56 May 30: Chapters 57-59 

 In the chapters we discuss today, Pip reunites with Joe (yay!) but it's super awkward, and Pip is a bit rude (boo!) Then, Pip is invited to Satis House to have a reunion with a grown up Estella (awkward!). Also, I'm not sure why but the last 10 seconds of the video has no picture, just audio (confused?) I give us a couple of questions to think about after these chapters, so I'd love to hear what you think. Comment below or come find us on voxer! Satis House Coffee Mug: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1081083637/miss-havishams-satis-house-coffee-mug?click_key=ad977957c321cf37273ba58f73ce218f25d14920%3A1081083637&click_sum=988d69aa&ref=shop_home_active_7 Find Me online: Voxer: @artbookshelfodyssey Discord: https://discord.gg/8MFceV2NFe Facebook Group Page: @thebookshelfodyssey Twitter: @odyssey_podcast Instagram: @bookshelfodysseypodcast Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/c/ArtBookshelfOdyssey Email: bookshelfodysseypodcast@gmail.com I'm now a bookshop.org affiliate - check out my shop and find your next great read! https://bookshop.org/shop/bookshelfodyssey https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bookshelfpod #books #booktube #bookclub 

Bio: A graduate of Florida State University, I presently reside in Atlanta Georgia with my partner. By day, I serve as Vice President of Easter Seals North Georgia, Inc., a non-profit organization strengthening children and their families at the most critical times in their development. Through my non-profit work, I am a champion for early childhood literacy. In all the hours between, I write. Raised alongside three feral, younger brothers in the rash-inducing, subtropical climate of Cairo Georgia, I am a lifelong resident of the South. A circumstance, no doubt, leaving an indelible mark upon my voice as a writer. Aside from sense of place, my writing is influenced and inspired by the literary work of others. As a boy, it was with great obsession, I turned the well-worn pages of Charlotte Brontë's, Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights? Yes, another source of adoration. And Truman Capote's debut novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms, I admire with equal reverence along with everything ever written by Tennessee Williams. Charles Dickens' Miss Havisham is one of my all-time favorite characters. Many hours I spent playing her, wrapped in an old lace tablecloth borrowed from my mother's linen closet—my tattered, makeshift wedding dress. Locked away in my boyhood room, I haunted the place, plotting revenge, shooing rats from the wedding cake. “Break their hearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy,” I would whisper into the impressionable ear of my lovely Estella. Break their hearts. As an adult, my literary palate is diverse, reading everyone from the sublime Michael Cunningham to the gifted Jesmyn Ward to the incomparable Ron Rash. Though my tastes have evolved through the years, one constant remains: the impact of literature and art and music upon my writing. And my unrelenting quest to make and find beauty in this world. https://robertlgwaltney.com VOX VOMITUS: Sometimes, it's not what goes right in the writing process, it's what goes horribly wrong. Host/Literary horror novelist Jennifer Anne Gordon with help from her co-host/author Allison Martine, chat with some of the best authors of the day. www.jenniferannegordon.com www.afictionalhubbard.com #RobertGwaltney #CicadaTree #voxvomitus #voxvixens #jenniferannegordon #Jennifergordon #allisonmartinehubbard #allisonmartine #podcast #interview #books #hotelseries #bourbonbooks --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/voxvomitus/support

A graduate of Florida State University, I presently reside in Atlanta Georgia with my partner. By day, I serve as Vice President of Easter Seals North Georgia, Inc., a non-profit organization strengthening children and their families at the most critical times in their development. Through my non-profit work, I am a champion for early childhood literacy. In all the hours between, I write. Raised alongside three feral, younger brothers in the rash-inducing, subtropical climate of Cairo Georgia, I am a lifelong resident of the South. A circumstance, no doubt, leaving an indelible mark upon my voice as a writer. Aside from sense of place, my writing is influenced and inspired by the literary work of others. As a boy, it was with great obsession, I turned the well-worn pages of Charlotte Brontë's, Jane Eyre. Wuthering Heights? Yes, another source of adoration. And Truman Capote's debut novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms, I admire with equal reverence along with everything ever written by Tennessee Williams. Charles Dickens' Miss Havisham is one of my all-time favorite characters. Many hours I spent playing her, wrapped in an old lace tablecloth borrowed from my mother's linen closet—my tattered, makeshift wedding dress. Locked away in my boyhood room, I haunted the place, plotting revenge, shooing rats from the wedding cake. “Break their hearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy,” I would whisper into the impressionable ear of my lovely Estella. Break their hearts. As an adult, my literary palate is diverse, reading everyone from the sublime Michael Cunningham to the gifted Jesmyn Ward to the incomparable Ron Rash. Though my tastes have evolved through the years, one constant remains: the impact of literature and art and music upon my writing. And my unrelenting quest to make and find beauty in this world. https://robertlgwaltney.com VOX VOMITUS: Sometimes, it's not what goes right in the writing process, it's what goes horribly wrong. Host/Literary horror novelist Jennifer Anne Gordon with help from her co-host/author Allison Martine, chat with some of the best authors of the day. www.jenniferannegordon.com www.afictionalhubbard.com #RobertGwaltney #CicadaTree #voxvomitus #voxvixens #jenniferannegordon #Jennifergordon #allisonmartinehubbard #allisonmartine #podcast #interview #books #hotelseries #bourbonbooks --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/voxvomitus/support

 We follow Pip on several trips to Satis House... and I'm only left with more questions. Pip meets 6 new characters. Estella continues to be haughty and disdainful of Pip, and Miss Havisham wants to meet with Joe Gargery. Find out what happens next as we read the Victorian classic, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens! 00:00 Intro and What I'm Drinking 02:53 Follow Up on last Weeks video 05:50 Part 7 Chapter 11 19:35 Part 8 Chapter 12 23:55 Part 8 Chapter 13 32:45 The Spoiler Zone! Today's episode is brought to you by the Satis House Bed and Breakfast... :-) Buy a mug! https://www.etsy.com/listing/1081083637/miss-havishams-satis-house-coffee-mug?click_key=765112c8a246daa3bf94b2a2b91760164bf35a61%3A1081083637&click_sum=c285aaa6&ref=shop_home_active_7 Find Me online: Voxer: @artbookshelfodyssey Discord: https://discord.gg/8MFceV2NFe Facebook Group Page: @thebookshelfodyssey Twitter: @odyssey_podcast Instagram: @bookshelfodysseypodcast Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/c/ArtBookshelfOdyssey Email: bookshelfodysseypodcast@gmail.com I'm now a bookshop.org affiliate - check out my shop and find your next great read! https://bookshop.org/shop/bookshelfodyssey https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bookshelfpod#charlesdickens #bookclub #booktube #books #victorianlit #reading 

 Today we talk about chapters 8-10 of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations. We meet the icy cold Estella, the mysterious Miss Havisham, and Pip receives some very wise advice from Joe. All this and more! 00:00 Introductory thoughts 01:20 Part 5: Chapter 8 16:16 Part 6: Chapter 9 25:45 Part 6: Chapter 10 32:30 Final thoughts on the section 36:22 What's next Find Me online: Voxer: @artbookshelfodyssey Facebook Group Page: @thebookshelfodyssey Twitter: @odyssey_podcast Instagram: @bookshelfodysseypodcast Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/c/ArtBookshelfOdyssey Email: bookshelfodysseypodcast@gmail.com I'm now a bookshop.org affiliate - check out my shop and find your next great read! https://bookshop.org/shop/bookshelfodyssey https://www.buymeacoffee.com/bookshelfpod Reading the Week of: Feb 7: Chapters 11-13 Feb 14th: Chapters 14-17 Feb 21st: Chapters 18-19 Feb 28th: Chapters 20-22 March 7th: Chapters 23-26 March 14: Chapters 27-29 March 21: Chapters 30-33 March 28: Chapters 34-37 April 4: Chapters 38-39 April 11: Chapters 40-42 April 18: Chapters 43-46 April 25: Chapters 47-50 May 2: Chapters 51-53 May 9: Chapters 54-56 May 16: Chapters 57-59 

This time of the year always seems to be Charles Dickens's time in the spotlight - but we figure a different Dickens classic deserves a little attention this week. For sources, visit understudiescast.wordpress.com! Follow the show on Twitter @UnderCast for updates. --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/understudiescast/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/understudiescast/support

S02E19: Mrs. Margaret Smith-Wilkinson, nicknamed the Countess of Monte Cristo, and Lady Jane Lewson, the possible real life inspiration for Miss Havisham.   Come meet a hotel mogul turned high society con artist (who probably wasn't a black widow), and the enigmatic walking fire hazard that might have inspired Dickens' fictional jilted bride; two women whose actual lives are truly the stuff of fiction. Show notes:  https://www.bonesandbobbins.com/2021/09/17/season-2-episode-19