Podcasts about Miss Havisham

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 131:15

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part I.

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 160:04

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part II.

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 150:53

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part III.

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 154:14

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part IV.

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 141:05

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part V.

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 167:53

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part VI.

Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 153:55

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

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Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Part VII.

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Play Episode Listen Later Oct 31, 2022 153:12

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

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Great Expectations

Vell's World Podcast

Play Episode Listen Later Sep 16, 2022 17:03

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

BYOB With Authors Nola Nash And Laura Kemp Featuring Robert Gwaltney

Authors on the Air Global Radio Network

Play Episode Listen Later Aug 26, 2022 25:48

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.

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Chapter 22

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 2, 2022 30:53

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

Chapter 17

time fall in love curious pursuing daylight scattered pip theoretically dissatisfied miss havisham havisham

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 21:31

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

Chapter 8

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 31:20

Mr. Pumblechook's premises in the High Street of the market town, were of a peppercorny and farinaceous character, as the premises of a cornchandler and seedsman should be. It appeared to me that he must be a very happy man indeed, to have so many little drawers in his shop; and I wondered when I peeped into one or two on the lower tiers, and saw the tied-up brown paper packets inside, whether the flower-seeds and bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of those jails, and bloom.It was in the early morning after my arrival that I entertained this speculation. On the previous night, I had been sent straight to bed in an attic with a sloping roof, which was so low in the corner where the bedstead was, that I calculated the tiles as being within a foot of my eyebrows. In the same early morning, I discovered a singular affinity between seeds and corduroys. Mr. Pumblechook wore corduroys, and so did his shopman; and somehow, there was a general air and flavor about the corduroys, so much in the nature of seeds, and a general air and flavor about the seeds, so much in the nature of corduroys, that I hardly knew which was which. The same opportunity served me for noticing that Mr. Pumblechook appeared to conduct his business by looking across the street at the saddler, who appeared to transact his business by keeping his eye on the coachmaker, who appeared to get on in life by putting his hands in his pockets and contemplating the baker, who in his turn folded his arms and stared at the grocer, who stood at his door and yawned at the chemist. The watchmaker, always poring over a little desk with a magnifying glass at his eye, and always inspected by a group of smock-frocks poring over him through the glass of his shopwindow, seemed to be about the only person in the High Street whose trade engaged his attention.Mr. Pumblechook and I breakfasted at eight o'clock in the parlor behind the shop, while the shopman took his mug of tea and hunch of bread and butter on a sack of peas in the front premises. I considered Mr. Pumblechook wretched company. Besides being possessed by my sister's idea that a mortifying and penitential character ought to be imparted to my diet⁠—besides giving me as much crumb as possible in combination with as little butter, and putting such a quantity of warm water into my milk that it would have been more candid to have left the milk out altogether⁠—his conversation consisted of nothing but arithmetic. On my politely bidding him Good morning, he said, pompously, “Seven times nine, boy?” And how should I be able to answer, dodged in that way, in a strange place, on an empty stomach! I was hungry, but before I had swallowed a morsel, he began a running sum that lasted all through the breakfast. “Seven?” “And four?” “And eight?” “And six?” “And two?” “And ten?” And so on. And after each figure was disposed of, it was as much as I could do to get a bite or a sup, before the next came; while he sat at his ease guessing nothing, and eating bacon and hot roll, in (if I may be allowed the expression) a gorging and gormandizing manner.For such reasons, I was very glad when ten o'clock came and we started for Miss Havisham's; though I was not at all at my ease regarding the manner in which I should acquit myself under that lady's roof. Within a quarter of an hour we came to Miss Havisham's house, which was of old brick, and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the windows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were rustily barred. There was a courtyard in front, and that was barred; so we had to wait, after ringing the bell, until someone should come to open it. While we waited at the gate, I peeped in (even then Mr. Pumblechook said, “And fourteen?” but I pretended not to hear him), and saw that at the side of the house there was a large brewery. No brewing was going on in it, and none seemed to have gone on for a long long time.A window was raised, and a clear voice demanded “What name?” To which my conductor replied, “Pumblechook.” The voice returned, “Quite right,” and the window was shut again, and a young lady came across the courtyard, with keys in her hand.“This,” said Mr. Pumblechook, “is Pip.”“This is Pip, is it?” returned the young lady, who was very pretty and seemed very proud; “come in, Pip.”Mr. Pumblechook was coming in also, when she stopped him with the gate.“Oh!” she said. “Did you wish to see Miss Havisham?”“If Miss Havisham wished to see me,” returned Mr. Pumblechook, discomfited.“Ah!” said the girl; “but you see she don't.”She said it so finally, and in such an undiscussible way, that Mr. Pumblechook, though in a condition of ruffled dignity, could not protest. But he eyed me severely⁠—as if I had done anything to him!⁠—and departed with the words reproachfully delivered: “Boy! Let your behavior here be a credit unto them which brought you up by hand!” I was not free from apprehension that he would come back to propound through the gate, “And sixteen?” But he didn't.My young conductress locked the gate, and we went across the courtyard. It was paved and clean, but grass was growing in every crevice. The brewery buildings had a little lane of communication with it, and the wooden gates of that lane stood open, and all the brewery beyond stood open, away to the high enclosing wall; and all was empty and disused. The cold wind seemed to blow colder there than outside the gate; and it made a shrill noise in howling in and out at the open sides of the brewery, like the noise of wind in the rigging of a ship at sea.She saw me looking at it, and she said, “You could drink without hurt all the strong beer that's brewed there now, boy.”“I should think I could, miss,” said I, in a shy way.“Better not try to brew beer there now, or it would turn out sour, boy; don't you think so?”“It looks like it, miss.”“Not that anybody means to try,” she added, “for that's all done with, and the place will stand as idle as it is till it falls. As to strong beer, there's enough of it in the cellars already, to drown the Manor House.”“Is that the name of this house, miss?”“One of its names, boy.”“It has more than one, then, miss?”“One more. Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three⁠—or all one to me⁠—for enough.”“Enough House,” said I; “that's a curious name, miss.”“Yes,” she replied; “but it meant more than it said. It meant, when it was given, that whoever had this house could want nothing else. They must have been easily satisfied in those days, I should think. But don't loiter, boy.”Though she called me “boy” so often, and with a carelessness that was far from complimentary, she was of about my own age. She seemed much older than I, of course, being a girl, and beautiful and self-possessed; and she was as scornful of me as if she had been one-and-twenty, and a queen.We went into the house by a side door, the great front entrance had two chains across it outside⁠—and the first thing I noticed was, that the passages were all dark, and that she had left a candle burning there. She took it up, and we went through more passages and up a staircase, and still it was all dark, and only the candle lighted us.At last we came to the door of a room, and she said, “Go in.”I answered, more in shyness than politeness, “After you, miss.”To this she returned: “Don't be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in.” And scornfully walked away, and⁠—what was worse⁠—took the candle with her.This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told from within to enter. I entered, therefore, and found myself in a pretty large room, well lighted with wax candles. No glimpse of daylight was to be seen in it. It was a dressing-room, as I supposed from the furniture, though much of it was of forms and uses then quite unknown to me. But prominent in it was a draped table with a gilded looking glass, and that I made out at first sight to be a fine lady's dressing-table.Whether I should have made out this object so soon if there had been no fine lady sitting at it, I cannot say. In an armchair, with an elbow resting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.She was dressed in rich materials⁠—satins, and lace, and silks⁠—all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on⁠—the other was on the table near her hand⁠—her veil was but half arranged, her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a prayer book all confusedly heaped about the looking glass.It was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose had shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could.“Who is it?” said the lady at the table.“Pip, ma'am.”“Pip?”“Mr. Pumblechook's boy, ma'am. Come⁠—to play.”“Come nearer; let me look at you. Come close.”It was when I stood before her, avoiding her eyes, that I took note of the surrounding objects in detail, and saw that her watch had stopped at twenty minutes to nine, and that a clock in the room had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.“Look at me,” said Miss Havisham. “You are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?”I regret to state that I was not afraid of telling the enormous lie comprehended in the answer “No.”“Do you know what I touch here?” she said, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side.“Yes, ma'am.” (It made me think of the young man.)“What do I touch?”“Your heart.”“Broken!”She uttered the word with an eager look, and with strong emphasis, and with a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it. Afterwards she kept her hands there for a little while, and slowly took them away as if they were heavy.“I am tired,” said Miss Havisham. “I want diversion, and I have done with men and women. Play.”I think it will be conceded by my most disputatious reader, that she could hardly have directed an unfortunate boy to do anything in the wide world more difficult to be done under the circumstances.“I sometimes have sick fancies,” she went on, “and I have a sick fancy that I want to see some play. There, there!” with an impatient movement of the fingers of her right hand; “play, play, play!”For a moment, with the fear of my sister's working me before my eyes, I had a desperate idea of starting round the room in the assumed character of Mr. Pumblechook's chaise-cart. But I felt myself so unequal to the performance that I gave it up, and stood looking at Miss Havisham in what I suppose she took for a dogged manner, inasmuch as she said, when we had taken a good look at each other⁠—“Are you sullen and obstinate?”“No, ma'am, I am very sorry for you, and very sorry I can't play just now. If you complain of me I shall get into trouble with my sister, so I would do it if I could; but it's so new here, and so strange, and so fine⁠—and melancholy⁠—.” I stopped, fearing I might say too much, or had already said it, and we took another look at each other.Before she spoke again, she turned her eyes from me, and looked at the dress she wore, and at the dressing-table, and finally at herself in the looking glass.“So new to him,” she muttered, “so old to me; so strange to him, so familiar to me; so melancholy to both of us! Call Estella.”As she was still looking at the reflection of herself, I thought she was still talking to herself, and kept quiet.“Call Estella,” she repeated, flashing a look at me. “You can do that. Call Estella. At the door.”To stand in the dark in a mysterious passage of an unknown house, bawling Estella to a scornful young lady neither visible nor responsive, and feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name, was almost as bad as playing to order. But she answered at last, and her light came along the dark passage like a star.Miss Havisham beckoned her to come close, and took up a jewel from the table, and tried its effect upon her fair young bosom and against her pretty brown hair. “Your own, one day, my dear, and you will use it well. Let me see you play cards with this boy.”“With this boy? Why, he is a common laboring boy!”I thought I overheard Miss Havisham answer⁠—only it seemed so unlikely⁠—“Well? You can break his heart.”“What do you play, boy?” asked Estella of myself, with the greatest disdain.“Nothing but beggar my neighbor, miss.”“Beggar him,” said Miss Havisham to Estella. So we sat down to cards.It was then I began to understand that everything in the room had stopped, like the watch and the clock, a long time ago. I noticed that Miss Havisham put down the jewel exactly on the spot from which she had taken it up. As Estella dealt the cards, I glanced at the dressing-table again, and saw that the shoe upon it, once white, now yellow, had never been worn. I glanced down at the foot from which the shoe was absent, and saw that the silk stocking on it, once white, now yellow, had been trodden ragged. Without this arrest of everything, this standing still of all the pale decayed objects, not even the withered bridal dress on the collapsed form could have looked so like grave-clothes, or the long veil so like a shroud.So she sat, corpse-like, as we played at cards; the frillings and trimmings on her bridal dress, looking like earthy paper. I knew nothing then of the discoveries that are occasionally made of bodies buried in ancient times, which fall to powder in the moment of being distinctly seen; but, I have often thought since, that she must have looked as if the admission of the natural light of day would have struck her to dust.“He calls the knaves Jacks, this boy!” said Estella with disdain, before our first game was out. “And what coarse hands he has! And what thick boots!”I had never thought of being ashamed of my hands before; but I began to consider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so strong, that it became infectious, and I caught it.She won the game, and I dealt. I misdealt, as was only natural, when I knew she was lying in wait for me to do wrong; and she denounced me for a stupid, clumsy laboring-boy.“You say nothing of her,” remarked Miss Havisham to me, as she looked on. “She says many hard things of you, but you say nothing of her. What do you think of her?”“I don't like to say,” I stammered.“Tell me in my ear,” said Miss Havisham, bending down.“I think she is very proud,” I replied, in a whisper.“Anything else?”“I think she is very pretty.”“Anything else?”“I think she is very insulting.” (She was looking at me then with a look of supreme aversion.)“Anything else?”“I think I should like to go home.”“And never see her again, though she is so pretty?”“I am not sure that I shouldn't like to see her again, but I should like to go home now.”“You shall go soon,” said Miss Havisham, aloud. “Play the game out.”Saving for the one weird smile at first, I should have felt almost sure that Miss Havisham's face could not smile. It had dropped into a watchful and brooding expression⁠—most likely when all the things about her had become transfixed⁠—and it looked as if nothing could ever lift it up again. Her chest had dropped, so that she stooped; and her voice had dropped, so that she spoke low, and with a dead lull upon her; altogether, she had the appearance of having dropped body and soul, within and without, under the weight of a crushing blow.I played the game to an end with Estella, and she beggared me. She threw the cards down on the table when she had won them all, as if she despised them for having been won of me.“When shall I have you here again?” said Miss Havisham. “Let me think.”I was beginning to remind her that today was Wednesday, when she checked me with her former impatient movement of the fingers of her right hand.“There, there! I know nothing of days of the week; I know nothing of weeks of the year. Come again after six days. You hear?”“Yes, ma'am.”“Estella, take him down. Let him have something to eat, and let him roam and look about him while he eats. Go, Pip.”I followed the candle down, as I had followed the candle up, and she stood it in the place where we had found it. Until she opened the side entrance, I had fancied, without thinking about it, that it must necessarily be nighttime. The rush of the daylight quite confounded me, and made me feel as if I had been in the candlelight of the strange room many hours.“You are to wait here, you boy,” said Estella; and disappeared and closed the door.I took the opportunity of being alone in the courtyard to look at my coarse hands and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was not favorable. They had never troubled me before, but they troubled me now, as vulgar appendages. I determined to ask Joe why he had ever taught me to call those picture-cards Jacks, which ought to be called knaves. I wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and then I should have been so too.She came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She put the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and meat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in disgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry⁠—I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart⁠—God knows what its name was⁠—that tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there, the girl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of them. This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so, she gave a contemptuous toss⁠—but with a sense, I thought, of having made too sure that I was so wounded⁠—and left me.But when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face in, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my sleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried. As I cried, I kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so bitter were my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name, that needed counteraction.My sister's bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in which children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt as injustice. It may be only small injustice that the child can be exposed to; but the child is small, and its world is small, and its rocking horse stands as many hands high, according to scale, as a big-boned Irish hunter. Within myself, I had sustained, from my babyhood, a perpetual conflict with injustice. I had known, from the time when I could speak, that my sister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me. I had cherished a profound conviction that her bringing me up by hand gave her no right to bring me up by jerks. Through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts, and vigils, and other penitential performances, I had nursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it, in a solitary and unprotected way, I in great part refer the fact that I was morally timid and very sensitive.I got rid of my injured feelings for the time by kicking them into the brewery wall, and twisting them out of my hair, and then I smoothed my face with my sleeve, and came from behind the gate. The bread and meat were acceptable, and the beer was warming and tingling, and I was soon in spirits to look about me.To be sure, it was a deserted place, down to the pigeon-house in the brewery-yard, which had been blown crooked on its pole by some high wind, and would have made the pigeons think themselves at sea, if there had been any pigeons there to be rocked by it. But there were no pigeons in the dove-cot, no horses in the stable, no pigs in the sty, no malt in the storehouse, no smells of grains and beer in the copper or the vat. All the uses and scents of the brewery might have evaporated with its last reek of smoke. In a by-yard, there was a wilderness of empty casks, which had a certain sour remembrance of better days lingering about them; but it was too sour to be accepted as a sample of the beer that was gone⁠—and in this respect I remember those recluses as being like most others.Behind the furthest end of the brewery, was a rank garden with an old wall; not so high but that I could struggle up and hold on long enough to look over it, and see that the rank garden was the garden of the house, and that it was overgrown with tangled weeds, but that there was a track upon the green and yellow paths, as if someone sometimes walked there, and that Estella was walking away from me even then. But she seemed to be everywhere. For when I yielded to the temptation presented by the casks, and began to walk on them, I saw her walking on them at the end of the yard of casks. She had her back towards me, and held her pretty brown hair spread out in her two hands, and never looked round, and passed out of my view directly. So, in the brewery itself⁠—by which I mean the large paved lofty place in which they used to make the beer, and where the brewing utensils still were. When I first went into it, and, rather oppressed by its gloom, stood near the door looking about me, I saw her pass among the extinguished fires, and ascend some light iron stairs, and go out by a gallery high overhead, as if she were going out into the sky.It was in this place, and at this moment, that a strange thing happened to my fancy. I thought it a strange thing then, and I thought it a stranger thing long afterwards. I turned my eyes⁠—a little dimmed by looking up at the frosty light⁠—towards a great wooden beam in a low nook of the building near me on my right hand, and I saw a figure hanging there by the neck. A figure all in yellow white, with but one shoe to the feet; and it hung so, that I could see that the faded trimmings of the dress were like earthy paper, and that the face was Miss Havisham's, with a movement going over the whole countenance as if she were trying to call to me. In the terror of seeing the figure, and in the terror of being certain that it had not been there a moment before, I at first ran from it, and then ran towards it. And my terror was greatest of all when I found no figure there.Nothing less than the frosty light of the cheerful sky, the sight of people passing beyond the bars of the courtyard gate, and the reviving influence of the rest of the bread and meat and beer, would have brought me round. Even with those aids, I might not have come to myself as soon as I did, but that I saw Estella approaching with the keys, to let me out. She would have some fair reason for looking down upon me, I thought, if she saw me frightened; and she would have no fair reason.She gave me a triumphant glance in passing me, as if she rejoiced that my hands were so coarse and my boots were so thick, and she opened the gate, and stood holding it. I was passing out without looking at her, when she touched me with a taunting hand.“Why don't you cry?”“Because I don't want to.”“You do,” said she. “You have been crying till you are half blind, and you are near crying again now.”She laughed contemptuously, pushed me out, and locked the gate upon me. I went straight to Mr. Pumblechook's, and was immensely relieved to find him not at home. So, leaving word with the shopman on what day I was wanted at Miss Havisham's again, I set off on the four-mile walk to our forge; pondering, as I went along, on all I had seen, and deeply revolving that I was a common laboring-boy; that my hands were coarse; that my boots were thick; that I had fallen into a despicable habit of calling knaves Jacks; that I was much more ignorant than I had considered myself last night, and generally that I was in a low-lived bad way. 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

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Chapter 12

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 14:35

My mind grew very uneasy on the subject of the pale young gentleman. The more I thought of the fight, and recalled the pale young gentleman on his back in various stages of puffy and incrimsoned countenance, the more certain it appeared that something would be done to me. I felt that the pale young gentleman's blood was on my head, and that the Law would avenge it. Without having any definite idea of the penalties I had incurred, it was clear to me that village boys could not go stalking about the country, ravaging the houses of gentlefolks and pitching into the studious youth of England, without laying themselves open to severe punishment. For some days, I even kept close at home, and looked out at the kitchen door with the greatest caution and trepidation before going on an errand, lest the officers of the County Jail should pounce upon me. The pale young gentleman's nose had stained my trousers, and I tried to wash out that evidence of my guilt in the dead of night. I had cut my knuckles against the pale young gentleman's teeth, and I twisted my imagination into a thousand tangles, as I devised incredible ways of accounting for that damnatory circumstance when I should be haled before the Judges.When the day came round for my return to the scene of the deed of violence, my terrors reached their height. Whether myrmidons of Justice, specially sent down from London, would be lying in ambush behind the gate;⁠—whether Miss Havisham, preferring to take personal vengeance for an outrage done to her house, might rise in those grave-clothes of hers, draw a pistol, and shoot me dead:⁠—whether suborned boys⁠—a numerous band of mercenaries⁠—might be engaged to fall upon me in the brewery, and cuff me until I was no more;⁠—it was high testimony to my confidence in the spirit of the pale young gentleman, that I never imagined him accessory to these retaliations; they always came into my mind as the acts of injudicious relatives of his, goaded on by the state of his visage and an indignant sympathy with the family features.However, go to Miss Havisham's I must, and go I did. And behold! nothing came of the late struggle. It was not alluded to in anyway, and no pale young gentleman was to be discovered on the premises. I found the same gate open, and I explored the garden, and even looked in at the windows of the detached house; but my view was suddenly stopped by the closed shutters within, and all was lifeless. Only in the corner where the combat had taken place could I detect any evidence of the young gentleman's existence. There were traces of his gore in that spot, and I covered them with garden-mould from the eye of man.On the broad landing between Miss Havisham's own room and that other room in which the long table was laid out, I saw a garden-chair⁠—a light chair on wheels, that you pushed from behind. It had been placed there since my last visit, and I entered, that same day, on a regular occupation of pushing Miss Havisham in this chair (when she was tired of walking with her hand upon my shoulder) round her own room, and across the landing, and round the other room. Over and over and over again, we would make these journeys, and sometimes they would last as long as three hours at a stretch. I insensibly fall into a general mention of these journeys as numerous, because it was at once settled that I should return every alternate day at noon for these purposes, and because I am now going to sum up a period of at least eight or ten months.As we began to be more used to one another, Miss Havisham talked more to me, and asked me such questions as what had I learnt and what was I going to be? I told her I was going to be apprenticed to Joe, I believed; and I enlarged upon my knowing nothing and wanting to know everything, in the hope that she might offer some help towards that desirable end. But she did not; on the contrary, she seemed to prefer my being ignorant. Neither did she ever give me any money⁠—or anything but my daily dinner⁠—nor ever stipulate that I should be paid for my services.Estella was always about, and always let me in and out, but never told me I might kiss her again. Sometimes, she would coldly tolerate me; sometimes, she would condescend to me; sometimes, she would be quite familiar with me; sometimes, she would tell me energetically that she hated me. Miss Havisham would often ask me in a whisper, or when we were alone, “Does she grow prettier and prettier, Pip?” And when I said yes (for indeed she did), would seem to enjoy it greedily. Also, when we played at cards Miss Havisham would look on, with a miserly relish of Estella's moods, whatever they were. And sometimes, when her moods were so many and so contradictory of one another that I was puzzled what to say or do, Miss Havisham would embrace her with lavish fondness, murmuring something in her ear that sounded like “Break their hearts my pride and hope, break their hearts and have no mercy!”There was a song Joe used to hum fragments of at the forge, of which the burden was Old Clem. This was not a very ceremonious way of rendering homage to a patron saint, but I believe Old Clem stood in that relation towards smiths. It was a song that imitated the measure of beating upon iron, and was a mere lyrical excuse for the introduction of Old Clem's respected name. Thus, you were to hammer boys round⁠—Old Clem! With a thump and a sound⁠—Old Clem! Beat it out, beat it out⁠—Old Clem! With a clink for the stout⁠—Old Clem! Blow the fire, blow the fire⁠—Old Clem! Roaring dryer, soaring higher⁠—Old Clem! One day soon after the appearance of the chair, Miss Havisham suddenly saying to me, with the impatient movement of her fingers, “There, there, there! Sing!” I was surprised into crooning this ditty as I pushed her over the floor. It happened so to catch her fancy that she took it up in a low brooding voice as if she were singing in her sleep. After that, it became customary with us to have it as we moved about, and Estella would often join in; though the whole strain was so subdued, even when there were three of us, that it made less noise in the grim old house than the lightest breath of wind.What could I become with these surroundings? How could my character fail to be influenced by them? Is it to be wondered at if my thoughts were dazed, as my eyes were, when I came out into the natural light from the misty yellow rooms?Perhaps I might have told Joe about the pale young gentleman, if I had not previously been betrayed into those enormous inventions to which I had confessed. Under the circumstances, I felt that Joe could hardly fail to discern in the pale young gentleman, an appropriate passenger to be put into the black velvet coach; therefore, I said nothing of him. Besides, that shrinking from having Miss Havisham and Estella discussed, which had come upon me in the beginning, grew much more potent as time went on. I reposed complete confidence in no one but Biddy; but I told poor Biddy everything. Why it came natural to me to do so, and why Biddy had a deep concern in everything I told her, I did not know then, though I think I know now.Meanwhile, councils went on in the kitchen at home, fraught with almost insupportable aggravation to my exasperated spirit. That ass, Pumblechook, used often to come over of a night for the purpose of discussing my prospects with my sister; and I really do believe (to this hour with less penitence than I ought to feel), that if these hands could have taken a linchpin out of his chaise-cart, they would have done it. The miserable man was a man of that confined stolidity of mind, that he could not discuss my prospects without having me before him⁠—as it were, to operate upon⁠—and he would drag me up from my stool (usually by the collar) where I was quiet in a corner, and, putting me before the fire as if I were going to be cooked, would begin by saying, “Now, Mum, here is this boy! Here is this boy which you brought up by hand. Hold up your head, boy, and be forever grateful unto them which so did do. Now, Mum, with respections to this boy!” And then he would rumple my hair the wrong way⁠—which from my earliest remembrance, as already hinted, I have in my soul denied the right of any fellow-creature to do⁠—and would hold me before him by the sleeve⁠—a spectacle of imbecility only to be equalled by himself.Then, he and my sister would pair off in such nonsensical speculations about Miss Havisham, and about what she would do with me and for me, that I used to want⁠—quite painfully⁠—to burst into spiteful tears, fly at Pumblechook, and pummel him all over. In these dialogues, my sister spoke to me as if she were morally wrenching one of my teeth out at every reference; while Pumblechook himself, self-constituted my patron, would sit supervising me with a depreciatory eye, like the architect of my fortunes who thought himself engaged on a very unremunerative job.In these discussions, Joe bore no part. But he was often talked at, while they were in progress, by reason of Mrs. Joe's perceiving that he was not favorable to my being taken from the forge. I was fully old enough now to be apprenticed to Joe; and when Joe sat with the poker on his knees thoughtfully raking out the ashes between the lower bars, my sister would so distinctly construe that innocent action into opposition on his part, that she would dive at him, take the poker out of his hands, shake him, and put it away. There was a most irritating end to everyone of these debates. All in a moment, with nothing to lead up to it, my sister would stop herself in a yawn, and catching sight of me as it were incidentally, would swoop upon me with, “Come! there's enough of you! You get along to bed; you've given trouble enough for one night, I hope!” As if I had besought them as a favor to bother my life out.We went on in this way for a long time, and it seemed likely that we should continue to go on in this way for a long time, when one day Miss Havisham stopped short as she and I were walking, she leaning on my shoulder; and said with some displeasure⁠—“You are growing tall, Pip!”I thought it best to hint, through the medium of a meditative look, that this might be occasioned by circumstances over which I had no control.She said no more at the time; but she presently stopped and looked at me again; and presently again; and after that, looked frowning and moody. On the next day of my attendance, when our usual exercise was over, and I had landed her at her dressing-table, she stayed me with a movement of her impatient fingers:⁠—“Tell me the name again of that blacksmith of yours.”“Joe Gargery, ma'am.”“Meaning the master you were to be apprenticed to?”“Yes, Miss Havisham.”“You had better be apprenticed at once. Would Gargery come here with you, and bring your indentures, do you think?”I signified that I had no doubt he would take it as an honor to be asked.“Then let him come.”“At any particular time, Miss Havisham?”“There, there! I know nothing about times. Let him come soon, and come along with you.”When I got home at night, and delivered this message for Joe, my sister “went on the rampage,” in a more alarming degree than at any previous period. She asked me and Joe whether we supposed she was doormats under our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we graciously thought she was fit for? When she had exhausted a torrent of such inquiries, she threw a candlestick at Joe, burst into a loud sobbing, got out the dustpan⁠—which was always a very bad sign⁠—put on her coarse apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not satisfied with a dry cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing brush, and cleaned us out of house and home, so that we stood shivering in the backyard. It was ten o'clock at night before we ventured to creep in again, and then she asked Joe why he hadn't married a Negress Slave at once? Joe offered no answer, poor fellow, but stood feeling his whisker and looking dejectedly at me, as if he thought it really might have been a better speculation. 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

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Chapter 11

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 34:24

At the appointed time I returned to Miss Havisham's, and my hesitating ring at the gate brought out Estella. She locked it after admitting me, as she had done before, and again preceded me into the dark passage where her candle stood. She took no notice of me until she had the candle in her hand, when she looked over her shoulder, superciliously saying, “You are to come this way today,” and took me to quite another part of the house.The passage was a long one, and seemed to pervade the whole square basement of the Manor House. We traversed but one side of the square, however, and at the end of it she stopped, and put her candle down and opened a door. Here, the daylight reappeared, and I found myself in a small paved courtyard, the opposite side of which was formed by a detached dwelling-house, that looked as if it had once belonged to the manager or head clerk of the extinct brewery. There was a clock in the outer wall of this house. Like the clock in Miss Havisham's room, and like Miss Havisham's watch, it had stopped at twenty minutes to nine.We went in at the door, which stood open, and into a gloomy room with a low ceiling, on the ground-floor at the back. There was some company in the room, and Estella said to me as she joined it, “You are to go and stand there boy, till you are wanted.” “There,” being the window, I crossed to it, and stood “there,” in a very uncomfortable state of mind, looking out.It opened to the ground, and looked into a most miserable corner of the neglected garden, upon a rank ruin of cabbage-stalks, and one box-tree that had been clipped round long ago, like a pudding, and had a new growth at the top of it, out of shape and of a different color, as if that part of the pudding had stuck to the saucepan and got burnt. This was my homely thought, as I contemplated the box-tree. There had been some light snow, overnight, and it lay nowhere else to my knowledge; but, it had not quite melted from the cold shadow of this bit of garden, and the wind caught it up in little eddies and threw it at the window, as if it pelted me for coming there.I divined that my coming had stopped conversation in the room, and that its other occupants were looking at me. I could see nothing of the room except the shining of the fire in the window-glass, but I stiffened in all my joints with the consciousness that I was under close inspection.There were three ladies in the room and one gentleman. Before I had been standing at the window five minutes, they somehow conveyed to me that they were all toadies and humbugs, but that each of them pretended not to know that the others were toadies and humbugs: because the admission that he or she did know it, would have made him or her out to be a toady and humbug.They all had a listless and dreary air of waiting somebody's pleasure, and the most talkative of the ladies had to speak quite rigidly to repress a yawn. This lady, whose name was Camilla, very much reminded me of my sister, with the difference that she was older, and (as I found when I caught sight of her) of a blunter cast of features. Indeed, when I knew her better I began to think it was a Mercy she had any features at all, so very blank and high was the dead wall of her face.“Poor dear soul!” said this lady, with an abruptness of manner quite my sister's. “Nobody's enemy but his own!”“It would be much more commendable to be somebody else's enemy,” said the gentleman; “far more natural.”“Cousin Raymond,” observed another lady, “we are to love our neighbor.”“Sarah Pocket,” returned Cousin Raymond, “if a man is not his own neighbor, who is?”Miss Pocket laughed, and Camilla laughed and said (checking a yawn), “The idea!” But I thought they seemed to think it rather a good idea too. The other lady, who had not spoken yet, said gravely and emphatically, “Very true!”“Poor soul!” Camilla presently went on (I knew they had all been looking at me in the meantime), “he is so very strange! Would anyone believe that when Tom's wife died, he actually could not be induced to see the importance of the children's having the deepest of trimmings to their mourning? ‘Good Lord!' says he, ‘Camilla, what can it signify so long as the poor bereaved little things are in black?' So like Matthew! The idea!”“Good points in him, good points in him,” said Cousin Raymond; “Heaven forbid I should deny good points in him; but he never had, and he never will have, any sense of the proprieties.”“You know I was obliged,” said Camilla⁠—“I was obliged to be firm. I said, ‘It will not do, for the credit of the family.' I told him that, without deep trimmings, the family was disgraced. I cried about it from breakfast till dinner. I injured my digestion. And at last he flung out in his violent way, and said, with a D, ‘Then do as you like.' Thank Goodness it will always be a consolation to me to know that I instantly went out in a pouring rain and bought the things.”“He paid for them, did he not?” asked Estella.“It's not the question, my dear child, who paid for them,” returned Camilla. “I bought them. And I shall often think of that with peace, when I wake up in the night.”The ringing of a distant bell, combined with the echoing of some cry or call along the passage by which I had come, interrupted the conversation and caused Estella to say to me, “Now, boy!” On my turning round, they all looked at me with the utmost contempt, and, as I went out, I heard Sarah Pocket say, “Well I am sure! What next!” and Camilla add, with indignation, “Was there ever such a fancy! The i-de-a!”As we were going with our candle along the dark passage, Estella stopped all of a sudden, and, facing round, said in her taunting manner, with her face quite close to mine⁠—“Well?”“Well, miss?” I answered, almost falling over her and checking myself.She stood looking at me, and, of course, I stood looking at her.“Am I pretty?”“Yes; I think you are very pretty.”“Am I insulting?”“Not so much so as you were last time,” said I.“Not so much so?”“No.”She fired when she asked the last question, and she slapped my face with such force as she had, when I answered it.“Now?” said she. “You little coarse monster, what do you think of me now?”“I shall not tell you.”“Because you are going to tell upstairs. Is that it?”“No,” said I, “that's not it.”“Why don't you cry again, you little wretch?”“Because I'll never cry for you again,” said I. Which was, I suppose, as false a declaration as ever was made; for I was inwardly crying for her then, and I know what I know of the pain she cost me afterwards.We went on our way upstairs after this episode; and, as we were going up, we met a gentleman groping his way down.“Whom have we here?” asked the gentleman, stopping and looking at me.“A boy,” said Estella.He was a burly man of an exceedingly dark complexion, with an exceedingly large head, and a corresponding large hand. He took my chin in his large hand and turned up my face to have a look at me by the light of the candle. He was prematurely bald on the top of his head, and had bushy black eyebrows that wouldn't lie down but stood up bristling. His eyes were set very deep in his head, and were disagreeably sharp and suspicious. He had a large watch-chain, and strong black dots where his beard and whiskers would have been if he had let them. He was nothing to me, and I could have had no foresight then, that he ever would be anything to me, but it happened that I had this opportunity of observing him well.“Boy of the neighborhood? Hey?” said he.“Yes, sir,” said I.“How do you come here?”“Miss Havisham sent for me, sir,” I explained.“Well! Behave yourself. I have a pretty large experience of boys, and you're a bad set of fellows. Now mind!” said he, biting the side of his great forefinger as he frowned at me, “you behave yourself!”With those words, he released me⁠—which I was glad of, for his hand smelt of scented soap⁠—and went his way downstairs. I wondered whether he could be a doctor; but no, I thought; he couldn't be a doctor, or he would have a quieter and more persuasive manner. There was not much time to consider the subject, for we were soon in Miss Havisham's room, where she and everything else were just as I had left them. Estella left me standing near the door, and I stood there until Miss Havisham cast her eyes upon me from the dressing-table.“So!” she said, without being startled or surprised: “the days have worn away, have they?”“Yes, ma'am. Today is⁠—”“There, there, there!” with the impatient movement of her fingers. “I don't want to know. Are you ready to play?”I was obliged to answer in some confusion, “I don't think I am, ma'am.”“Not at cards again?” she demanded, with a searching look.“Yes, ma'am; I could do that, if I was wanted.”“Since this house strikes you old and grave, boy,” said Miss Havisham, impatiently, “and you are unwilling to play, are you willing to work?”I could answer this inquiry with a better heart than I had been able to find for the other question, and I said I was quite willing.“Then go into that opposite room,” said she, pointing at the door behind me with her withered hand, “and wait there till I come.”I crossed the staircase landing, and entered the room she indicated. From that room, too, the daylight was completely excluded, and it had an airless smell that was oppressive. A fire had been lately kindled in the damp old-fashioned grate, and it was more disposed to go out than to burn up, and the reluctant smoke which hung in the room seemed colder than the clearer air⁠—like our own marsh mist. Certain wintry branches of candles on the high chimneypiece faintly lighted the chamber; or it would be more expressive to say, faintly troubled its darkness. It was spacious, and I dare say had once been handsome, but every discernible thing in it was covered with dust and mould, and dropping to pieces. The most prominent object was a long table with a tablecloth spread on it, as if a feast had been in preparation when the house and the clocks all stopped together. An epergne or centrepiece of some kind was in the middle of this cloth; it was so heavily overhung with cobwebs that its form was quite undistinguishable; and, as I looked along the yellow expanse out of which I remember its seeming to grow, like a black fungus, I saw speckle-legged spiders with blotchy bodies running home to it, and running out from it, as if some circumstances of the greatest public importance had just transpired in the spider community.I heard the mice too, rattling behind the panels, as if the same occurrence were important to their interests. But the black beetles took no notice of the agitation, and groped about the hearth in a ponderous elderly way, as if they were shortsighted and hard of hearing, and not on terms with one another.These crawling things had fascinated my attention, and I was watching them from a distance, when Miss Havisham laid a hand upon my shoulder. In her other hand she had a crutch-headed stick on which she leaned, and she looked like the Witch of the place.“This,” said she, pointing to the long table with her stick, “is where I will be laid when I am dead. They shall come and look at me here.”With some vague misgiving that she might get upon the table then and there and die at once, the complete realization of the ghastly waxwork at the Fair, I shrank under her touch.“What do you think that is?” she asked me, again pointing with her stick; “that, where those cobwebs are?”“I can't guess what it is, ma'am.”“It's a great cake. A bride-cake. Mine!”She looked all round the room in a glaring manner, and then said, leaning on me while her hand twitched my shoulder, “Come, come, come! Walk me, walk me!”I made out from this, that the work I had to do, was to walk Miss Havisham round and round the room. Accordingly, I started at once, and she leaned upon my shoulder, and we went away at a pace that might have been an imitation (founded on my first impulse under that roof) of Mr. Pumblechook's chaise-cart.She was not physically strong, and after a little time said, “Slower!” Still, we went at an impatient fitful speed, and as we went, she twitched the hand upon my shoulder, and worked her mouth, and led me to believe that we were going fast because her thoughts went fast. After a while she said, “Call Estella!” so I went out on the landing and roared that name as I had done on the previous occasion. When her light appeared, I returned to Miss Havisham, and we started away again round and round the room.If only Estella had come to be a spectator of our proceedings, I should have felt sufficiently discontented; but as she brought with her the three ladies and the gentleman whom I had seen below, I didn't know what to do. In my politeness, I would have stopped; but Miss Havisham twitched my shoulder, and we posted on⁠—with a shamefaced consciousness on my part that they would think it was all my doing.“Dear Miss Havisham,” said Miss Sarah Pocket. “How well you look!”“I do not,” returned Miss Havisham. “I am yellow skin and bone.”Camilla brightened when Miss Pocket met with this rebuff; and she murmured, as she plaintively contemplated Miss Havisham, “Poor dear soul! Certainly not to be expected to look well, poor thing. The idea!”“And how are you?” said Miss Havisham to Camilla. As we were close to Camilla then, I would have stopped as a matter of course, only Miss Havisham wouldn't stop. We swept on, and I felt that I was highly obnoxious to Camilla.“Thank you, Miss Havisham,” she returned, “I am as well as can be expected.”“Why, what's the matter with you?” asked Miss Havisham, with exceeding sharpness.“Nothing worth mentioning,” replied Camilla. “I don't wish to make a display of my feelings, but I have habitually thought of you more in the night than I am quite equal to.”“Then don't think of me,” retorted Miss Havisham.“Very easily said!” remarked Camilla, amiably repressing a sob, while a hitch came into her upper lip, and her tears overflowed. “Raymond is a witness what ginger and sal volatile I am obliged to take in the night. Raymond is a witness what nervous jerkings I have in my legs. Chokings and nervous jerkings, however, are nothing new to me when I think with anxiety of those I love. If I could be less affectionate and sensitive, I should have a better digestion and an iron set of nerves. I am sure I wish it could be so. But as to not thinking of you in the night⁠—The idea!” Here, a burst of tears.The Raymond referred to, I understood to be the gentleman present, and him I understood to be Mr. Camilla. He came to the rescue at this point, and said in a consolatory and complimentary voice, “Camilla, my dear, it is well known that your family feelings are gradually undermining you to the extent of making one of your legs shorter than the other.”“I am not aware,” observed the grave lady whose voice I had heard but once, “that to think of any person is to make a great claim upon that person, my dear.”Miss Sarah Pocket, whom I now saw to be a little dry, brown, corrugated old woman, with a small face that might have been made of walnut-shells, and a large mouth like a cat's without the whiskers, supported this position by saying, “No, indeed, my dear. Hem!”“Thinking is easy enough,” said the grave lady.“What is easier, you know?” assented Miss Sarah Pocket.“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Camilla, whose fermenting feelings appeared to rise from her legs to her bosom. “It's all very true! It's a weakness to be so affectionate, but I can't help it. No doubt my health would be much better if it was otherwise, still I wouldn't change my disposition if I could. It's the cause of much suffering, but it's a consolation to know I posses it, when I wake up in the night.” Here another burst of feeling.Miss Havisham and I had never stopped all this time, but kept going round and round the room; now brushing against the skirts of the visitors, now giving them the whole length of the dismal chamber.“There's Matthew!” said Camilla. “Never mixing with any natural ties, never coming here to see how Miss Havisham is! I have taken to the sofa with my staylace cut, and have lain there hours insensible, with my head over the side, and my hair all down, and my feet I don't know where⁠—”(“Much higher than your head, my love,” said Mr. Camilla.)“I have gone off into that state, hours and hours, on account of Matthew's strange and inexplicable conduct, and nobody has thanked me.”“Really I must say I should think not!” interposed the grave lady.“You see, my dear,” added Miss Sarah Pocket (a blandly vicious personage), “the question to put to yourself is, who did you expect to thank you, my love?”“Without expecting any thanks, or anything of the sort,” resumed Camilla, “I have remained in that state, hours and hours, and Raymond is a witness of the extent to which I have choked, and what the total inefficacy of ginger has been, and I have been heard at the pianoforte tuner's across the street, where the poor mistaken children have even supposed it to be pigeons cooing at a distance⁠—and now to be told⁠—” Here Camilla put her hand to her throat, and began to be quite chemical as to the formation of new combinations there.When this same Matthew was mentioned, Miss Havisham stopped me and herself, and stood looking at the speaker. This change had a great influence in bringing Camilla's chemistry to a sudden end.“Matthew will come and see me at last,” said Miss Havisham, sternly, “when I am laid on that table. That will be his place⁠—there,” striking the table with her stick, “at my head! And yours will be there! And your husband's there! And Sarah Pocket's there! And Georgiana's there! Now you all know where to take your stations when you come to feast upon me. And now go!”At the mention of each name, she had struck the table with her stick in a new place. She now said, “Walk me, walk me!” and we went on again.“I suppose there's nothing to be done,” exclaimed Camilla, “but comply and depart. It's something to have seen the object of one's love and duty for even so short a time. I shall think of it with a melancholy satisfaction when I wake up in the night. I wish Matthew could have that comfort, but he sets it at defiance. I am determined not to make a display of my feelings, but it's very hard to be told one wants to feast on one's relations⁠—as if one was a Giant⁠—and to be told to go. The bare idea!”Mr. Camilla interposing, as Mrs. Camilla laid her hand upon her heaving bosom, that lady assumed an unnatural fortitude of manner which I supposed to be expressive of an intention to drop and choke when out of view, and kissing her hand to Miss Havisham, was escorted forth. Sarah Pocket and Georgiana contended who should remain last; but Sarah was too knowing to be outdone, and ambled round Georgiana with that artful slipperiness that the latter was obliged to take precedence. Sarah Pocket then made her separate effect of departing with, “Bless you, Miss Havisham dear!” and with a smile of forgiving pity on her walnut-shell countenance for the weaknesses of the rest.While Estella was away lighting them down, Miss Havisham still walked with her hand on my shoulder, but more and more slowly. At last she stopped before the fire, and said, after muttering and looking at it some seconds⁠—“This is my birthday, Pip.”I was going to wish her many happy returns, when she lifted her stick.“I don't suffer it to be spoken of. I don't suffer those who were here just now, or anyone to speak of it. They come here on the day, but they dare not refer to it.”Of course I made no further effort to refer to it.“On this day of the year, long before you were born, this heap of decay,” stabbing with her crutched stick at the pile of cobwebs on the table, but not touching it, “was brought here. It and I have worn away together. The mice have gnawed at it, and sharper teeth than teeth of mice have gnawed at me.”She held the head of her stick against her heart as she stood looking at the table; she in her once white dress, all yellow and withered; the once white cloth all yellow and withered; everything around in a state to crumble under a touch.“When the ruin is complete,” said she, with a ghastly look, “and when they lay me dead, in my bride's dress on the bride's table⁠—which shall be done, and which will be the finished curse upon him⁠—so much the better if it is done on this day!”She stood looking at the table as if she stood looking at her own figure lying there. I remained quiet. Estella returned, and she too remained quiet. It seemed to me that we continued thus for a long time. In the heavy air of the room, and the heavy darkness that brooded in its remoter corners, I even had an alarming fancy that Estella and I might presently begin to decay.At length, not coming out of her distraught state by degrees, but in an instant, Miss Havisham said, “Let me see you two play cards; why have you not begun?” With that, we returned to her room, and sat down as before; I was beggared, as before; and again, as before, Miss Havisham watched us all the time, directed my attention to Estella's beauty, and made me notice it the more by trying her jewels on Estella's breast and hair.Estella, for her part, likewise treated me as before, except that she did not condescend to speak. When we had played some half-dozen games, a day was appointed for my return, and I was taken down into the yard to be fed in the former doglike manner. There, too, I was again left to wander about as I liked.It is not much to the purpose whether a gate in that garden wall which I had scrambled up to peep over on the last occasion was, on that last occasion, open or shut. Enough that I saw no gate then, and that I saw one now. As it stood open, and as I knew that Estella had let the visitors out⁠—for she had returned with the keys in her hand⁠—I strolled into the garden, and strolled all over it. It was quite a wilderness, and there were old melon-frames and cucumber-frames in it, which seemed in their decline to have produced a spontaneous growth of weak attempts at pieces of old hats and boots, with now and then a weedy offshoot into the likeness of a battered saucepan.When I had exhausted the garden and a greenhouse with nothing in it but a fallen-down grapevine and some bottles, I found myself in the dismal corner upon which I had looked out of the window. Never questioning for a moment that the house was now empty, I looked in at another window, and found myself, to my great surprise, exchanging a broad stare with a pale young gentleman with red eyelids and light hair.This pale young gentleman quickly disappeared, and reappeared beside me. He had been at his books when I had found myself staring at him, and I now saw that he was inky.“Halloa!” said he, “young fellow!”Halloa being a general observation which I had usually observed to be best answered by itself, I said, “Halloa!” politely omitting young fellow.“Who let you in?” said he.“Miss Estella.”“Who gave you leave to prowl about?”“Miss Estella.”“Come and fight,” said the pale young gentleman.What could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question since; but what else could I do? His manner was so final, and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell.“Stop a minute, though,” he said, wheeling round before we had gone many paces. “I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is!” In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach.The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestionably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him and was going to hit out again, when he said, “Aha! Would you?” and began dancing backwards and forwards in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited experience.“Laws of the game!” said he. Here, he skipped from his left leg on to his right. “Regular rules!” Here, he skipped from his right leg on to his left. “Come to the ground, and go through the preliminaries!” Here, he dodged backwards and forwards, and did all sorts of things while I looked helplessly at him.I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him without a word, to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satisfied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to absent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar. “Available for both,” he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once lighthearted, businesslike, and bloodthirsty.Although he did not look very healthy⁠—having pimples on his face, and a breaking out at his mouth⁠—these dreadful preparations quite appalled me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and he had a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For the rest, he was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of the rest of him as to development.My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every demonstration of mechanical nicety, and eyeing my anatomy as if he were minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life, as I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, looking up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly foreshortened.But, he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at me out of a black eye.His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drinking out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and a show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit him; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head against the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up: at the same time panting out, “That means you have won.”He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the contest, I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so far as to hope that I regarded myself while dressing as a species of savage young wolf or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, “Can I help you?” and he said “No thankee,” and I said “Good afternoon,” and he said “Same to you.”When I got into the courtyard, I found Estella waiting with the keys. But she neither asked me where I had been, nor why I had kept her waiting; and there was a bright flush upon her face, as though something had happened to delight her. Instead of going straight to the gate, too, she stepped back into the passage, and beckoned me.“Come here! You may kiss me, if you like.”I kissed her cheek as she turned it to me. I think I would have gone through a great deal to kiss her cheek. But I felt that the kiss was given to the coarse common boy as a piece of money might have been, and that it was worth nothing.What with the birthday visitors, and what with the cards, and what with the fight, my stay had lasted so long, that when I neared home the light on the spit of sand off the point on the marshes was gleaming against a black night-sky, and Joe's furnace was flinging a path of fire across the road. 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

walk thinking poor witches laws mine giant boy regular bless aha pip behave slower hem good lord thank goodness manor house miss havisham

Chapter 9

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 18:35

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. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit greatexpectations.substack.com

large boy terrible goodness parliament mum forty awful flags swords pip jacks immense whitewash miss havisham knaves after mr lookee

Chapter 13

england court goodness bound arms goodbye mum impostors town hall commercials positively compliments straw handsome pip astonishing justices tumblers great seal miss havisham

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 20:01

It was a trial to my feelings, on the next day but one, to see Joe arraying himself in his Sunday clothes to accompany me to Miss Havisham's. However, as he thought his court-suit necessary to the occasion, it was not for me to tell him that he looked far better in his working-dress; the rather, because I knew he made himself so dreadfully uncomfortable, entirely on my account, and that it was for me he pulled up his shirt-collar so very high behind, that it made the hair on the crown of his head stand up like a tuft of feathers.At breakfast-time my sister declared her intention of going to town with us, and being left at Uncle Pumblechook's and called for “when we had done with our fine ladies”⁠—a way of putting the case, from which Joe appeared inclined to augur the worst. The forge was shut up for the day, and Joe inscribed in chalk upon the door (as it was his custom to do on the very rare occasions when he was not at work) the monosyllable hout, accompanied by a sketch of an arrow supposed to be flying in the direction he had taken.We walked to town, my sister leading the way in a very large beaver bonnet, and carrying a basket like the Great Seal of England in plaited Straw, a pair of pattens, a spare shawl, and an umbrella, though it was a fine bright day. I am not quite clear whether these articles were carried penitentially or ostentatiously; but I rather think they were displayed as articles of property⁠—much as Cleopatra or any other sovereign lady on the rampage might exhibit her wealth in a pageant or procession.When we came to Pumblechook's, my sister bounced in and left us. As it was almost noon, Joe and I held straight on to Miss Havisham's house. Estella opened the gate as usual, and, the moment she appeared, Joe took his hat off and stood weighing it by the brim in both his hands; as if he had some urgent reason in his mind for being particular to half a quarter of an ounce.Estella took no notice of either of us, but led us the way that I knew so well. I followed next to her, and Joe came last. When I looked back at Joe in the long passage, he was still weighing his hat with the greatest care, and was coming after us in long strides on the tips of his toes.Estella told me we were both to go in, so I took Joe by the coat-cuff and conducted him into Miss Havisham's presence. She was seated at her dressing-table, and looked round at us immediately.“Oh!” said she to Joe. “You are the husband of the sister of this boy?”I could hardly have imagined dear old Joe looking so unlike himself or so like some extraordinary bird; standing as he did speechless, with his tuft of feathers ruffled, and his mouth open as if he wanted a worm.“You are the husband,” repeated Miss Havisham, “of the sister of this boy?”It was very aggravating; but, throughout the interview, Joe persisted in addressing Me instead of Miss Havisham.“Which I meantersay, Pip,” Joe now observed in a manner that was at once expressive of forcible argumentation, strict confidence, and great politeness, “as I hup and married your sister, and I were at the time what you might call (if you was anyways inclined) a single man.”“Well!” said Miss Havisham. “And you have reared the boy, with the intention of taking him for your apprentice; is that so, Mr. Gargery?”“You know, Pip,” replied Joe, “as you and me were ever friends, and it were looked for'ard to betwixt us, as being calc'lated to lead to larks. Not but what, Pip, if you had ever made objections to the business⁠—such as its being open to black and sut, or suchlike⁠—not but what they would have been attended to, don't you see?”“Has the boy,” said Miss Havisham, “ever made any objection? Does he like the trade?”“Which it is well beknown to yourself, Pip,” returned Joe, strengthening his former mixture of argumentation, confidence, and politeness, “that it were the wish of your own hart.” (I saw the idea suddenly break upon him that he would adapt his epitaph to the occasion, before he went on to say) “And there weren't no objection on your part, and Pip it were the great wish of your hart!”It was quite in vain for me to endeavor to make him sensible that he ought to speak to Miss Havisham. The more I made faces and gestures to him to do it, the more confidential, argumentative, and polite, he persisted in being to Me.“Have you brought his indentures with you?” asked Miss Havisham.“Well, Pip, you know,” replied Joe, as if that were a little unreasonable, “you yourself see me put 'em in my 'at, and therefore you know as they are here.” With which he took them out, and gave them, not to Miss Havisham, but to me. I am afraid I was ashamed of the dear good fellow⁠—I know I was ashamed of him⁠—when I saw that Estella stood at the back of Miss Havisham's chair, and that her eyes laughed mischievously. I took the indentures out of his hand and gave them to Miss Havisham.“You expected,” said Miss Havisham, as she looked them over, “no premium with the boy?”“Joe!” I remonstrated, for he made no reply at all. “Why don't you answer⁠—”“Pip,” returned Joe, cutting me short as if he were hurt, “which I meantersay that were not a question requiring a answer betwixt yourself and me, and which you know the answer to be full well No. You know it to be No, Pip, and wherefore should I say it?”Miss Havisham glanced at him as if she understood what he really was better than I had thought possible, seeing what he was there; and took up a little bag from the table beside her.“Pip has earned a premium here,” she said, “and here it is. There are five-and-twenty guineas in this bag. Give it to your master, Pip.”As if he were absolutely out of his mind with the wonder awakened in him by her strange figure and the strange room, Joe, even at this pass, persisted in addressing me.“This is wery liberal on your part, Pip,” said Joe, “and it is as such received and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near, nor nowheres. And now, old chap,” said Joe, conveying to me a sensation, first of burning and then of freezing, for I felt as if that familiar expression were applied to Miss Havisham⁠—“and now, old chap, may we do our duty! May you and me do our duty, both on us, by one and another, and by them which your liberal present⁠—have-conweyed⁠—to be⁠—for the satisfaction of mind-of⁠—them as never⁠—” here Joe showed that he felt he had fallen into frightful difficulties, until he triumphantly rescued himself with the words, “and from myself far be it!” These words had such a round and convincing sound for him that he said them twice.“Goodbye, Pip!” said Miss Havisham. “Let them out, Estella.”“Am I to come again, Miss Havisham?” I asked.“No. Gargery is your master now. Gargery! One word!”Thus calling him back as I went out of the door, I heard her say to Joe in a distinct emphatic voice, “The boy has been a good boy here, and that is his reward. Of course, as an honest man, you will expect no other and no more.”How Joe got out of the room, I have never been able to determine; but I know that when he did get out he was steadily proceeding upstairs instead of coming down, and was deaf to all remonstrances until I went after him and laid hold of him. In another minute we were outside the gate, and it was locked, and Estella was gone. When we stood in the daylight alone again, Joe backed up against a wall, and said to me, “Astonishing!” And there he remained so long saying, “Astonishing” at intervals, so often, that I began to think his senses were never coming back. At length he prolonged his remark into “Pip, I do assure you this is as-ton-ishing!” and so, by degrees, became conversational and able to walk away.I have reason to think that Joe's intellects were brightened by the encounter they had passed through, and that on our way to Pumblechook's he invented a subtle and deep design. My reason is to be found in what took place in Mr. Pumblechook's parlor: where, on our presenting ourselves, my sister sat in conference with that detested seedsman.“Well?” cried my sister, addressing us both at once. “And what's happened to you? I wonder you condescend to come back to such poor society as this, I am sure I do!”“Miss Havisham,” said Joe, with a fixed look at me, like an effort of remembrance, “made it wery partick'ler that we should give her⁠—were it compliments or respects, Pip?”“Compliments,” I said.“Which that were my own belief,” answered Joe; “her compliments to Mrs. J. Gargery⁠—”“Much good they'll do me!” observed my sister; but rather gratified too.“And wishing,” pursued Joe, with another fixed look at me, like another effort of remembrance, “that the state of Miss Havisham's elth were sitch as would have⁠—allowed, were it, Pip?”“Of her having the pleasure,” I added.“Of ladies' company,” said Joe. And drew a long breath.“Well!” cried my sister, with a mollified glance at Mr. Pumblechook. “She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but it's better late than never. And what did she give young Rantipole here?”“She giv' him,” said Joe, “nothing.”Mrs. Joe was going to break out, but Joe went on.“What she giv',” said Joe, “she giv' to his friends. ‘And by his friends,' were her explanation, ‘I mean into the hands of his sister Mrs. J. Gargery.' Them were her words; ‘Mrs. J. Gargery.' She mayn't have know'd,” added Joe, with an appearance of reflection, “whether it were Joe, or Jorge.”My sister looked at Pumblechook: who smoothed the elbows of his wooden armchair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all about it beforehand.“And how much have you got?” asked my sister, laughing. Positively laughing!“What would present company say to ten pound?” demanded Joe.“They'd say,” returned my sister, curtly, “pretty well. Not too much, but pretty well.”“It's more than that, then,” said Joe.That fearful Impostor, Pumblechook, immediately nodded, and said, as he rubbed the arms of his chair, “It's more than that, Mum.”“Why, you don't mean to say⁠—” began my sister.“Yes I do, Mum,” said Pumblechook; “but wait a bit. Go on, Joseph. Good in you! Go on!”“What would present company say,” proceeded Joe, “to twenty pound?”“Handsome would be the word,” returned my sister.“Well, then,” said Joe, “It's more than twenty pound.”That abject hypocrite, Pumblechook, nodded again, and said, with a patronizing laugh, “It's more than that, Mum. Good again! Follow her up, Joseph!”“Then to make an end of it,” said Joe, delightedly handing the bag to my sister; “it's five-and-twenty pound.”“It's five-and-twenty pound, Mum,” echoed that basest of swindlers, Pumblechook, rising to shake hands with her; “and it's no more than your merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy of the money!”If the villain had stopped here, his case would have been sufficiently awful, but he blackened his guilt by proceeding to take me into custody, with a right of patronage that left all his former criminality far behind.“Now you see, Joseph and wife,” said Pumblechook, as he took me by the arm above the elbow, “I am one of them that always go right through with what they've begun. This boy must be bound, out of hand. That's my way. Bound out of hand.”“Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook,” said my sister (grasping the money), “we're deeply beholden to you.”“Never mind me, Mum,” returned that diabolical cornchandler. “A pleasure's a pleasure all the world over. But this boy, you know; we must have him bound. I said I'd see to it⁠—to tell you the truth.”The Justices were sitting in the Town Hall near at hand, and we at once went over to have me bound apprentice to Joe in the Magisterial presence. I say we went over, but I was pushed over by Pumblechook, exactly as if I had that moment picked a pocket or fired a rick; indeed, it was the general impression in Court that I had been taken red-handed; for, as Pumblechook shoved me before him through the crowd, I heard some people say, “What's he done?” and others, “He's a young 'un, too, but looks bad, don't he?” One person of mild and benevolent aspect even gave me a tract ornamented with a woodcut of a malevolent young man fitted up with a perfect sausage-shop of fetters, and entitled To Be Read in My Cell.The Hall was a queer place, I thought, with higher pews in it than a church⁠—and with people hanging over the pews looking on⁠—and with mighty Justices (one with a powdered head) leaning back in chairs, with folded arms, or taking snuff, or going to sleep, or writing, or reading the newspapers⁠—and with some shining black portraits on the walls, which my unartistic eye regarded as a composition of hardbake and sticking-plaster. Here, in a corner my indentures were duly signed and attested, and I was “bound”; Mr. Pumblechook holding me all the while as if we had looked in on our way to the scaffold, to have those little preliminaries disposed of.When we had come out again, and had got rid of the boys who had been put into great spirits by the expectation of seeing me publicly tortured, and who were much disappointed to find that my friends were merely rallying round me, we went back to Pumblechook's. And there my sister became so excited by the twenty-five guineas, that nothing would serve her but we must have a dinner out of that windfall at the Blue Boar, and that Pumblechook must go over in his chaise-cart, and bring the Hubbles and Mr. Wopsle.It was agreed to be done; and a most melancholy day I passed. For, it inscrutably appeared to stand to reason, in the minds of the whole company, that I was an excrescence on the entertainment. And to make it worse, they all asked me from time to time⁠—in short, whenever they had nothing else to do⁠—why I didn't enjoy myself? And what could I possibly do then, but say I was enjoying myself⁠—when I wasn't!However, they were grown up and had their own way, and they made the most of it. That swindling Pumblechook, exalted into the beneficent contriver of the whole occasion, actually took the top of the table; and, when he addressed them on the subject of my being bound, and had fiendishly congratulated them on my being liable to imprisonment if I played at cards, drank strong liquors, kept late hours or bad company, or indulged in other vagaries which the form of my indentures appeared to contemplate as next to inevitable, he placed me standing on a chair beside him to illustrate his remarks.My only other remembrances of the great festival are, That they wouldn't let me go to sleep, but whenever they saw me dropping off, woke me up and told me to enjoy myself. That, rather late in the evening Mr. Wopsle gave us Collins's ode, and threw his bloodstained sword in thunder down, with such effect, that a waiter came in and said, “The Commercials underneath sent up their compliments, and it wasn't the Tumblers' Arms.” That, they were all in excellent spirits on the road home, and sang, O Lady Fair! Mr. Wopsle taking the bass, and asserting with a tremendously strong voice (in reply to the inquisitive bore who leads that piece of music in a most impertinent manner, by wanting to know all about everybody's private affairs) that he was the man with his white locks flowing, and that he was upon the whole the weakest pilgrim going.Finally, I remember that when I got into my little bedroom, I was truly wretched, and had a strong conviction on me that I should never like Joe's trade. I had liked it once, but once was not now. 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

Chapter 7

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 27:06

At the time when I stood in the churchyard reading the family tombstones, I had just enough learning to be able to spell them out. My construction even of their simple meaning was not very correct, for I read “wife of the Above” as a complimentary reference to my father's exaltation to a better world; and if any one of my deceased relations had been referred to as “Below,” I have no doubt I should have formed the worst opinions of that member of the family. Neither were my notions of the theological positions to which my Catechism bound me, at all accurate; for, I have a lively remembrance that I supposed my declaration that I was to “walk in the same all the days of my life,” laid me under an obligation always to go through the village from our house in one particular direction, and never to vary it by turning down by the wheelwright's or up by the mill.When I was old enough, I was to be apprenticed to Joe, and until I could assume that dignity I was not to be what Mrs. Joe called “Pompeyed,” or (as I render it) pampered. Therefore, I was not only odd-boy about the forge, but if any neighbor happened to want an extra boy to frighten birds, or pick up stones, or do any such job, I was favored with the employment. In order, however, that our superior position might not be compromised thereby, a money box was kept on the kitchen mantel shelf, into which it was publicly made known that all my earnings were dropped. I have an impression that they were to be contributed eventually towards the liquidation of the National Debt, but I know I had no hope of any personal participation in the treasure.Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt kept an evening school in the village; that is to say, she was a ridiculous old woman of limited means and unlimited infirmity, who used to go to sleep from six to seven every evening, in the society of youth who paid two pence per week each, for the improving opportunity of seeing her do it. She rented a small cottage, and Mr. Wopsle had the room upstairs, where we students used to overhear him reading aloud in a most dignified and terrific manner, and occasionally bumping on the ceiling. There was a fiction that Mr. Wopsle “examined” the scholars once a quarter. What he did on those occasions was to turn up his cuffs, stick up his hair, and give us Mark Antony's oration over the body of Caesar. This was always followed by Collins's Ode on the Passions, wherein I particularly venerated Mr. Wopsle as Revenge throwing his bloodstained sword in thunder down, and taking the War-denouncing trumpet with a withering look. It was not with me then, as it was in later life, when I fell into the society of the Passions, and compared them with Collins and Wopsle, rather to the disadvantage of both gentlemen.Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt, besides keeping this educational institution, kept in the same room⁠—a little general shop. She had no idea what stock she had, or what the price of anything in it was; but there was a little greasy memorandum-book kept in a drawer, which served as a Catalogue of Prices, and by this oracle Biddy arranged all the shop transactions. Biddy was Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt's granddaughter; I confess myself quite unequal to the working out of the problem, what relation she was to Mr. Wopsle. She was an orphan like myself; like me, too, had been brought up by hand. She was most noticeable, I thought, in respect of her extremities; for, her hair always wanted brushing, her hands always wanted washing, and her shoes always wanted mending and pulling up at heel. This description must be received with a weekday limitation. On Sundays, she went to church elaborated.Much of my unassisted self, and more by the help of Biddy than of Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt, I struggled through the alphabet as if it had been a bramble-bush; getting considerably worried and scratched by every letter. After that I fell among those thieves, the nine figures, who seemed every evening to do something new to disguise themselves and baffle recognition. But, at last I began, in a purblind groping way, to read, write, and cipher, on the very smallest scale.One night I was sitting in the chimney corner with my slate, expending great efforts on the production of a letter to Joe. I think it must have been a full year after our hunt upon the marshes, for it was a long time after, and it was winter and a hard frost. With an alphabet on the hearth at my feet for reference, I contrived in an hour or two to print and smear this epistle:mI deEr JO i opE U r krWitE wEll i opE i shAl soN B haBelL 4 2 teeDge U JO aN theN wE shOrl b sO glOdd aN wEn i M preNgtD 2 u JO woT larX an blEvE ME inF xn PiP.There was no indispensable necessity for my communicating with Joe by letter, inasmuch as he sat beside me and we were alone. But I delivered this written communication (slate and all) with my own hand, and Joe received it as a miracle of erudition.“I say, Pip, old chap!” cried Joe, opening his blue eyes wide, “what a scholar you are! An't you?”“I should like to be,” said I, glancing at the slate as he held it; with a misgiving that the writing was rather hilly.“Why, here's a J,” said Joe, “and a O equal to anythink! Here's a J and a O, Pip, and a J-O, Joe.”I had never heard Joe read aloud to any greater extent than this monosyllable, and I had observed at church last Sunday, when I accidentally held our prayer book upside down, that it seemed to suit his convenience quite as well as if it had been all right. Wishing to embrace the present occasion of finding out whether in teaching Joe, I should have to begin quite at the beginning, I said, “Ah! But read the rest, Jo.”“The rest, eh, Pip?” said Joe, looking at it with a slow, searching eye, “One, two, three. Why, here's three Js, and three Os, and three J-O, Joes in it, Pip!”I leaned over Joe, and, with the aid of my forefinger read him the whole letter.“Astonishing!” said Joe, when I had finished. “You are a scholar.”“How do you spell Gargery, Joe?” I asked him, with a modest patronage.“I don't spell it at all,” said Joe.“But supposing you did?”“It can't be supposed,” said Joe. “Though I'm uncommon fond of reading, too.”“Are you, Joe?”“On-common. Give me,” said Joe, “a good book, or a good newspaper, and sit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better. Lord!” he continued, after rubbing his knees a little, “when you do come to a J and a O, and says you, ‘Here, at last, is a J-O, Joe,' how interesting reading is!”I derived from this, that Joe's education, like Steam, was yet in its infancy. Pursuing the subject, I inquired⁠—“Didn't you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?”“No, Pip.”“Why didn't you ever go to school, Joe, when you were as little as me?”“Well, Pip,” said Joe, taking up the poker, and settling himself to his usual occupation when he was thoughtful, of slowly raking the fire between the lower bars; “I'll tell you. My father, Pip, he were given to drink, and when he were overtook with drink, he hammered away at my mother, most onmerciful. It were a'most the only hammering he did, indeed, 'xcepting at myself. And he hammered at me with a wigor only to be equalled by the wigor with which he didn't hammer at his anwil.⁠—You're a listening and understanding, Pip?”“Yes, Joe.”“ 'Consequence, my mother and me we ran away from my father several times; and then my mother she'd go out to work, and she'd say, ‘Joe,' she'd say, ‘now, please God, you shall have some schooling, child,' and she'd put me to school. But my father were that good in his hart that he couldn't abear to be without us. So, he'd come with a most tremenjous crowd and make such a row at the doors of the houses where we was, that they used to be obligated to have no more to do with us and to give us up to him. And then he took us home and hammered us. Which, you see, Pip,” said Joe, pausing in his meditative raking of the fire, and looking at me, “were a drawback on my learning.”“Certainly, poor Joe!”“Though mind you, Pip,” said Joe, with a judicial touch or two of the poker on the top bar, “rendering unto all their doo, and maintaining equal justice betwixt man and man, my father were that good in his hart, don't you see?”I didn't see; but I didn't say so.“Well!” Joe pursued, “somebody must keep the pot a biling, Pip, or the pot won't bile, don't you know?”I saw that, and said so.“ 'Consequence, my father didn't make objections to my going to work; so I went to work at my present calling, which were his too, if he would have followed it, and I worked tolerable hard, I assure you, Pip. In time I were able to keep him, and I kep him till he went off in a purple leptic fit. And it were my intentions to have had put upon his tombstone that, Whatsume'er the failings on his part, Remember reader he were that good in his heart.”Joe recited this couplet with such manifest pride and careful perspicuity, that I asked him if he had made it himself.“I made it,” said Joe, “my own self. I made it in a moment. It was like striking out a horseshoe complete, in a single blow. I never was so much surprised in all my life⁠—couldn't credit my own ed⁠—to tell you the truth, hardly believed it were my own ed. As I was saying, Pip, it were my intentions to have had it cut over him; but poetry costs money, cut it how you will, small or large, and it were not done. Not to mention bearers, all the money that could be spared were wanted for my mother. She were in poor elth, and quite broke. She weren't long of following, poor soul, and her share of peace come round at last.”Joe's blue eyes turned a little watery; he rubbed first one of them, and then the other, in a most uncongenial and uncomfortable manner, with the round knob on the top of the poker.“It were but lonesome then,” said Joe, “living here alone, and I got acquainted with your sister. Now, Pip,”⁠—Joe looked firmly at me as if he knew I was not going to agree with him;⁠—“your sister is a fine figure of a woman.”I could not help looking at the fire, in an obvious state of doubt.“Whatever family opinions, or whatever the world's opinions, on that subject may be, Pip, your sister is,” Joe tapped the top bar with the poker after every word following, “a-fine-figure⁠—of⁠—a⁠—woman!”I could think of nothing better to say than “I am glad you think so, Joe.”“So am I,” returned Joe, catching me up. “I am glad I think so, Pip. A little redness or a little matter of bone, here or there, what does it signify to me?”I sagaciously observed, if it didn't signify to him, to whom did it signify?“Certainly!” assented Joe. “That's it. You're right, old chap! When I got acquainted with your sister, it were the talk how she was bringing you up by hand. Very kind of her too, all the folks said, and I said, along with all the folks. As to you,” Joe pursued with a countenance expressive of seeing something very nasty indeed, “if you could have been aware how small and flabby and mean you was, dear me, you'd have formed the most contemptible opinion of yourself!”Not exactly relishing this, I said, “Never mind me, Joe.”“But I did mind you, Pip,” he returned with tender simplicity. “When I offered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at such times as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to her, ‘And bring the poor little child. God bless the poor little child,' I said to your sister, ‘there's room for him at the forge!' ”I broke out crying and begging pardon, and hugged Joe round the neck: who dropped the poker to hug me, and to say, “Ever the best of friends; an't us, Pip? Don't cry, old chap!”When this little interruption was over, Joe resumed:⁠—“Well, you see, Pip, and here we are! That's about where it lights; here we are! Now, when you take me in hand in my learning, Pip (and I tell you beforehand I am awful dull, most awful dull), Mrs. Joe mustn't see too much of what we're up to. It must be done, as I may say, on the sly. And why on the sly? I'll tell you why, Pip.”He had taken up the poker again; without which, I doubt if he could have proceeded in his demonstration.“Your sister is given to government.”“Given to government, Joe?” I was startled, for I had some shadowy idea (and I am afraid I must add, hope) that Joe had divorced her in a favor of the Lords of the Admiralty, or Treasury.“Given to government,” said Joe. “Which I meantersay the government of you and myself.”“Oh!”“And she an't over partial to having scholars on the premises,” Joe continued, “and in partickler would not be over partial to my being a scholar, for fear as I might rise. Like a sort of rebel, don't you see?”I was going to retort with an inquiry, and had got as far as “Why⁠—” when Joe stopped me.“Stay a bit. I know what you're a going to say, Pip; stay a bit! I don't deny that your sister comes the Mogul over us, now and again. I don't deny that she do throw us back-falls, and that she do drop down upon us heavy. At such times as when your sister is on the rampage, Pip,” Joe sank his voice to a whisper and glanced at the door, “candor compels fur to admit that she is a buster.”Joe pronounced this word, as if it began with at least twelve capital Bs.“Why don't I rise? That were your observation when I broke it off, Pip?”“Yes, Joe.”“Well,” said Joe, passing the poker into his left hand, that he might feel his whisker; and I had no hope of him whenever he took to that placid occupation; “your sister's a mastermind. A mastermind.”“What's that?” I asked, in some hope of bringing him to a stand. But Joe was readier with his definition than I had expected, and completely stopped me by arguing circularly, and answering with a fixed look, “Her.”“And I ain't a mastermind,” Joe resumed, when he had unfixed his look, and got back to his whisker. “And last of all, Pip⁠—and this I want to say very serious to you, old chap⁠—I see so much in my poor mother, of a woman drudging and slaving and breaking her honest hart and never getting no peace in her mortal days, that I'm dead afeerd of going wrong in the way of not doing what's right by a woman, and I'd fur rather of the two go wrong the t'other way, and be a little ill-conwenienced myself. I wish it was only me that got put out, Pip; I wish there warn't no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I could take it all on myself; but this is the up-and-down-and-straight on it, Pip, and I hope you'll overlook shortcomings.”Young as I was, I believe that I dated a new admiration of Joe from that night. We were equals afterwards, as we had been before; but, afterwards at quiet times when I sat looking at Joe and thinking about him, I had a new sensation of feeling conscious that I was looking up to Joe in my heart.“However,” said Joe, rising to replenish the fire; “here's the Dutch clock a working himself up to being equal to strike eight of 'em, and she's not come home yet! I hope Uncle Pumblechook's mare mayn't have set a forefoot on a piece o' ice, and gone down.”Mrs. Joe made occasional trips with Uncle Pumblechook on market days, to assist him in buying such household stuffs and goods as required a woman's judgment; Uncle Pumblechook being a bachelor and reposing no confidences in his domestic servant. This was market day, and Mrs. Joe was out on one of these expeditions.Joe made the fire and swept the hearth, and then we went to the door to listen for the chaise-cart. It was a dry cold night, and the wind blew keenly, and the frost was white and hard. A man would die tonight of lying out on the marshes, I thought. And then I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.“Here comes the mare,” said Joe, “ringing like a peal of bells!”The sound of her iron shoes upon the hard road was quite musical, as she came along at a much brisker trot than usual. We got a chair out, ready for Mrs. Joe's alighting, and stirred up the fire that they might see a bright window, and took a final survey of the kitchen that nothing might be out of its place. When we had completed these preparations, they drove up, wrapped to the eyes. Mrs. Joe was soon landed, and Uncle Pumblechook was soon down too, covering the mare with a cloth, and we were soon all in the kitchen, carrying so much cold air in with us that it seemed to drive all the heat out of the fire.“Now,” said Mrs. Joe, unwrapping herself with haste and excitement, and throwing her bonnet back on her shoulders where it hung by the strings, “if this boy ain't grateful this night, he never will be!”I looked as grateful as any boy possibly could, who was wholly uninformed why he ought to assume that expression.“It's only to be hoped,” said my sister, “that he won't be Pompeyed. But I have my fears.”“She ain't in that line, Mum,” said Mr. Pumblechook. “She knows better.”She? I looked at Joe, making the motion with my lips and eyebrows, “She?” Joe looked at me, making the motion with his lips and eyebrows, “She?” My sister catching him in the act, he drew the back of his hand across his nose with his usual conciliatory air on such occasions, and looked at her.“Well?” said my sister, in her snappish way. “What are you staring at? Is the house afire?”“⁠—Which some individual,” Joe politely hinted, “mentioned⁠—she.”“And she is a she, I suppose?” said my sister. “Unless you call Miss Havisham a he. And I doubt if even you'll go so far as that.”“Miss Havisham, up town?” said Joe.“Is there any Miss Havisham down town?” returned my sister.“She wants this boy to go and play there. And of course he's going. And he had better play there,” said my sister, shaking her head at me as an encouragement to be extremely light and sportive, “or I'll work him.”I had heard of Miss Havisham up town⁠—everybody for miles round had heard of Miss Havisham up town⁠—as an immensely rich and grim lady who lived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who led a life of seclusion.“Well to be sure!” said Joe, astounded. “I wonder how she come to know Pip!”“Noodle!” cried my sister. “Who said she knew him?”“⁠—Which some individual,” Joe again politely hinted, “mentioned that she wanted him to go and play there.”“And couldn't she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? Isn't it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be a tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes⁠—we won't say quarterly or half-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you⁠—but sometimes⁠—go there to pay his rent? And couldn't she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn't Uncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for us⁠—though you may not think it, Joseph,” in a tone of the deepest reproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews, “then mention this boy, standing Prancing here”⁠—which I solemnly declare I was not doing⁠—“that I have forever been a willing slave to?”“Good again!” cried Uncle Pumblechook. “Well put! Prettily pointed! Good indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case.”“No, Joseph,” said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe apologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose, “you do not yet⁠—though you may not think it⁠—know the case. You may consider that you do, but you do not, Joseph. For you do not know that Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell, this boy's fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham's, has offered to take him into town tonight in his own chaise-cart, and to keep him tonight, and to take him with his own hands to Miss Havisham's tomorrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!” cried my sister, casting off her bonnet in sudden desperation, “here I stand talking to mere Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching cold at the door, and the boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair of his head to the sole of his foot!”With that, she pounced upon me, like an eagle on a lamb, and my face was squeezed into wooden bowls in sinks, and my head was put under taps of water-butts, and I was soaped, and kneaded, and towelled, and thumped, and harrowed, and rasped, until I really was quite beside myself. (I may here remark that I suppose myself to be better acquainted than any living authority, with the ridgy effect of a wedding ring, passing unsympathetically over the human countenance.)When my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the stiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was trussed up in my tightest and fearfullest suit. I was then delivered over to Mr. Pumblechook, who formally received me as if he were the Sheriff, and who let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been dying to make all along: “Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but especially unto them which brought you up by hand!”“Goodbye, Joe!”“God bless you, Pip, old chap!”I had never parted from him before, and what with my feelings and what with soapsuds, I could at first see no stars from the chaise-cart. But they twinkled out one by one, without throwing any light on the questions why on earth I was going to play at Miss Havisham's, and what on earth I was expected to play at. 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

Chapter 18

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 33:10

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

Chapter 19

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 36:56

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

Chapter 14

state home temple miss havisham

Play Episode Listen Later Jul 1, 2022 5:35

It is a most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home. There may be black ingratitude in the thing, and the punishment may be retributive and well deserved; but that it is a miserable thing, I can testify.Home had never been a very pleasant place to me, because of my sister's temper. But, Joe had sanctified it, and I had believed in it. I had believed in the best parlor as a most elegant saloon; I had believed in the front door, as a mysterious portal of the Temple of State whose solemn opening was attended with a sacrifice of roast fowls; I had believed in the kitchen as a chaste though not magnificent apartment; I had believed in the forge as the glowing road to manhood and independence. Within a single year all this was changed. Now it was all coarse and common, and I would not have had Miss Havisham and Estella see it on any account.How much of my ungracious condition of mind may have been my own fault, how much Miss Havisham's, how much my sister's, is now of no moment to me or to anyone. The change was made in me; the thing was done. Well or ill done, excusably or inexcusably, it was done.Once, it had seemed to me that when I should at last roll up my shirtsleeves and go into the forge, Joe's 'prentice, I should be distinguished and happy. Now the reality was in my hold, I only felt that I was dusty with the dust of small-coal, and that I had a weight upon my daily remembrance to which the anvil was a feather. There have been occasions in my later life (I suppose as in most lives) when I have felt for a time as if a thick curtain had fallen on all its interest and romance, to shut me out from anything save dull endurance any more. Never has that curtain dropped so heavy and blank, as when my way in life lay stretched out straight before me through the newly entered road of apprenticeship to Joe.I remember that at a later period of my “time,” I used to stand about the churchyard on Sunday evenings when night was falling, comparing my own perspective with the windy marsh view, and making out some likeness between them by thinking how flat and low both were, and how on both there came an unknown way and a dark mist and then the sea. I was quite as dejected on the first working-day of my apprenticeship as in that after-time; but I am glad to know that I never breathed a murmur to Joe while my indentures lasted. It is about the only thing I am glad to know of myself in that connection.For, though it includes what I proceed to add, all the merit of what I proceed to add was Joe's. It was not because I was faithful, but because Joe was faithful, that I never ran away and went for a soldier or a sailor. It was not because I had a strong sense of the virtue of industry, but because Joe had a strong sense of the virtue of industry, that I worked with tolerable zeal against the grain. It is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable honest-hearted duty-doing man flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it has touched one's self in going by, and I know right well that any good that intermixed itself with my apprenticeship came of plain contented Joe, and not of restlessly aspiring discontented me.What I wanted, who can say? How can I say, when I never knew? What I dreaded was, that in some unlucky hour I, being at my grimiest and commonest, should lift up my eyes and see Estella looking in at one of the wooden windows of the forge. I was haunted by the fear that she would, sooner or later, find me out, with a black face and hands, doing the coarsest part of my work, and would exult over me and despise me. Often after dark, when I was pulling the bellows for Joe, and we were singing Old Clem, and when the thought how we used to sing it at Miss Havisham's would seem to show me Estella's face in the fire, with her pretty hair fluttering in the wind and her eyes scorning me⁠—often at such a time I would look towards those panels of black night in the wall which the wooden windows then were, and would fancy that I saw her just drawing her face away, and would believe that she had come at last.After that, when we went in to supper, the place and the meal would have a more homely look than ever, and I would feel more ashamed of home than ever, in my own ungracious breast. 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

Hello Mother, Hello Father... Dickens Book Club: Great Expectations ch. 47-50

Play Episode Listen Later May 22, 2022 23:25

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

Great Expectations Read Along 10: Oysters, Theaters, and Prisons... oh my!

Play Episode Listen Later Apr 7, 2022 44:11

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

Home Sweet Home? Great Expectations Read Along, Chapters 27-29

stories books podcasts reading discord chapters victorian book club classics charles dickens gothic great expectations pip home sweet home voxer book study read along victorian literature miss havisham

Play Episode Listen Later Mar 31, 2022 33:51

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

Robert Gwaltney, author on the "Cicada Tree"

Vox Vomitus

Play Episode Listen Later Mar 24, 2022 43:45

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

Vox Vomitus - Robert Gwaltney, author on the "Cicada Tree"

Vox Vomitus

Play Episode Listen Later Mar 11, 2022 43:41

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

vice president south tree raised charles dickens locked florida state university atlanta georgia cicada jane eyre wuthering heights tennessee williams charlotte bront jesmyn ward michael cunningham other voices miss havisham ron rash gwaltney jennifer anne gordon vox vomitus cicada tree allison martine vox vomitus sometimes

Intrigue at Satis House: Deep Dive into Dickens 4: Great Expectations, Ch. 11-13

Play Episode Listen Later Feb 15, 2022 35:14

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

Welcome to Satis House: Deep Dive into Dickens 3: Great Expectations, Ch. 8-10