Podcasts about Miss Havisham

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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