In the threefold capacity, of the gentleman from outside who had been accidentally locked in on the night of his first appearance, of the gentleman from outside who had inquired into the affairs of the Father of the Marshalsea with the stupendous idea of getting him out, and of the gentleman from outside who took an interest in the child of the Marshalsea, Clennam soon became a visitor of mark. He was not surprised by the attentions he received from Mr Chivery when that officer was on the lock, for he made little distinction between Mr Chivery’s politeness and that of the other turnkeys. It was on one particular afternoon that Mr Chivery surprised him all at once, and stood forth8 from his companions in bold relief.
Mr Chivery, by some artful exercise of his power of clearing the Lodge9, had contrived10 to rid it of all sauntering Collegians; so that Clennam, coming out of the prison, should find him on duty alone.
‘(Private) I ask your pardon, sir,’ said Mr Chivery in a secret manner; ‘but which way might you be going?’
‘I am going over the Bridge.’ He saw in Mr Chivery, with some astonishment11, quite an Allegory of Silence, as he stood with his key on his lips.
‘(Private) I ask your pardon again,’ said Mr Chivery, ‘but could you go round by Horsemonger Lane? Could you by any means find time to look in at that address?’ handing him a little card, printed for circulation among the connection of Chivery and Co., Tobacconists, Importers of pure Havannah Cigars, Bengal Cheroots, and fine-flavoured Cubas, Dealers12 in Fancy Snuffs, &c. &c.
‘(Private) It an’t tobacco business,’ said Mr Chivery. ‘The truth is, it’s my wife. She’s wishful to say a word to you, sir, upon a point respecting—yes,’ said Mr Chivery, answering Clennam’s look of apprehension13 with a nod, ‘respecting her.’
‘I will make a point of seeing your wife directly.’
‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged. It an’t above ten minutes out of your way. Please to ask for Mrs Chivery!’ These instructions, Mr Chivery, who had already let him out, cautiously called through a little slide in the outer door, which he could draw back from within for the inspection14 of visitors when it pleased him.
Arthur Clennam, with the card in his hand, betook himself to the address set forth upon it, and speedily arrived there. It was a very small establishment, wherein a decent woman sat behind the counter working at her needle. Little jars of tobacco, little boxes of cigars, a little assortment15 of pipes, a little jar or two of snuff, and a little instrument like a shoeing horn for serving it out, composed the retail16 stock in trade.
Arthur mentioned his name, and his having promised to call, on the solicitation17 of Mr Chivery. About something relating to Miss Dorrit, he believed. Mrs Chivery at once laid aside her work, rose up from her seat behind the counter, and deploringly18 shook her head.
‘You may see him now,’ said she, ‘if you’ll condescend19 to take a peep.’
With these mysterious words, she preceded the visitor into a little parlour behind the shop, with a little window in it commanding a very little dull back-yard. In this yard a wash of sheets and table-cloths tried (in vain, for want of air) to get itself dried on a line or two; and among those flapping articles was sitting in a chair, like the last mariner20 left alive on the deck of a damp ship without the power of furling the sails, a little woe-begone young man.
‘Our John,’ said Mrs Chivery.
‘It’s the only change he takes,’ said Mrs Chivery, shaking her head afresh. ‘He won’t go out, even in the back-yard, when there’s no linen22; but when there’s linen to keep the neighbours’ eyes off, he’ll sit there, hours. Hours he will. Says he feels as if it was groves23!’ Mrs Chivery shook her head again, put her apron24 in a motherly way to her eyes, and reconducted her visitor into the regions of the business.
‘Please to take a seat, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Miss Dorrit is the matter with Our John, sir; he’s a breaking his heart for her, and I would wish to take the liberty to ask how it’s to be made good to his parents when bust25?’
Mrs Chivery, who was a comfortable-looking woman much respected about Horsemonger Lane for her feelings and her conversation, uttered this speech with fell composure, and immediately afterwards began again to shake her head and dry her eyes.
‘Sir,’ said she in continuation, ‘you are acquainted with the family, and have interested yourself with the family, and are influential26 with the family. If you can promote views calculated to make two young people happy, let me, for Our John’s sake, and for both their sakes, implore27 you so to do!’
‘I have been so habituated,’ returned Arthur, at a loss, ‘during the short time I have known her, to consider Little—I have been so habituated to consider Miss Dorrit in a light altogether removed from that in which you present her to me, that you quite take me by surprise. Does she know your son?’
‘Brought up together, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery. ‘Played together.’
‘Does she know your son as her admirer?’
‘Oh! bless you, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, with a sort of triumphant28 shiver, ‘she never could have seen him on a Sunday without knowing he was that. His cane29 alone would have told it long ago, if nothing else had. Young men like John don’t take to ivory hands a pinting, for nothing. How did I first know it myself? Similarly.’
‘Perhaps Miss Dorrit may not be so ready as you, you see.’
‘Then she knows it, sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘by word of mouth.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sir,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘sure and certain as in this house I am. I see my son go out with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I see my son come in with my own eyes when in this house I was, and I know he done it!’ Mrs Chivery derived30 a surprising force of emphasis from the foregoing circumstantiality and repetition.
‘May I ask you how he came to fall into the desponding state which causes you so much uneasiness?’
‘That,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘took place on that same day when to this house I see that John with these eyes return. Never been himself in this house since. Never was like what he has been since, not from the hour when to this house seven year ago me and his father, as tenants31 by the quarter, came!’ An effect in the nature of an affidavit32 was gained from this speech by Mrs Chivery’s peculiar33 power of construction.
‘May I venture to inquire what is your version of the matter?’
‘You may,’ said Mrs Chivery, ‘and I will give it to you in honour and in word as true as in this shop I stand. Our John has every one’s good word and every one’s good wish. He played with her as a child when in that yard a child she played. He has known her ever since. He went out upon the Sunday afternoon when in this very parlour he had dined, and met her, with appointment or without appointment; which, I do not pretend to say. He made his offer to her. Her brother and sister is high in their views, and against Our John. Her father is all for himself in his views and against sharing her with any one. Under which circumstances she has answered Our John, “No, John, I cannot have you, I cannot have any husband, it is not my intentions ever to become a wife, it is my intentions to be always a sacrifice, farewell, find another worthy34 of you, and forget me!” This is the way in which she is doomed35 to be a constant slave to them that are not worthy that a constant slave she unto them should be. This is the way in which Our John has come to find no pleasure but in taking cold among the linen, and in showing in that yard, as in that yard I have myself shown you, a broken-down ruin that goes home to his mother’s heart!’ Here the good woman pointed36 to the little window, whence her son might be seen sitting disconsolate37 in the tuneless groves; and again shook her head and wiped her eyes, and besought39 him, for the united sakes of both the young people, to exercise his influence towards the bright reversal of these dismal40 events.
She was so confident in her exposition of the case, and it was so undeniably founded on correct premises41 in so far as the relative positions of Little Dorrit and her family were concerned, that Clennam could not feel positive on the other side. He had come to attach to Little Dorrit an interest so peculiar—an interest that removed her from, while it grew out of, the common and coarse things surrounding her—that he found it disappointing, disagreeable, almost painful, to suppose her in love with young Mr Chivery in the back-yard, or any such person. On the other hand, he reasoned with himself that she was just as good and just as true in love with him, as not in love with him; and that to make a kind of domesticated42 fairy of her, on the penalty of isolation43 at heart from the only people she knew, would be but a weakness of his own fancy, and not a kind one. Still, her youthful and ethereal appearance, her timid manner, the charm of her sensitive voice and eyes, the very many respects in which she had interested him out of her own individuality, and the strong difference between herself and those about her, were not in unison44, and were determined45 not to be in unison, with this newly presented idea.
He told the worthy Mrs Chivery, after turning these things over in his mind—he did that, indeed, while she was yet speaking—that he might be relied upon to do his utmost at all times to promote the happiness of Miss Dorrit, and to further the wishes of her heart if it were in his power to do so, and if he could discover what they were. At the same time he cautioned her against assumptions and appearances; enjoined46 strict silence and secrecy47, lest Miss Dorrit should be made unhappy; and particularly advised her to endeavour to win her son’s confidence and so to make quite sure of the state of the case. Mrs Chivery considered the latter precaution superfluous48, but said she would try. She shook her head as if she had not derived all the comfort she had fondly expected from this interview, but thanked him nevertheless for the trouble he had kindly49 taken. They then parted good friends, and Arthur walked away.
The crowd in the street jostling the crowd in his mind, and the two crowds making a confusion, he avoided London Bridge, and turned off in the quieter direction of the Iron Bridge. He had scarcely set foot upon it, when he saw Little Dorrit walking on before him. It was a pleasant day, with a light breeze blowing, and she seemed to have that minute come there for air. He had left her in her father’s room within an hour.
It was a timely chance, favourable50 to his wish of observing her face and manner when no one else was by. He quickened his pace; but before he reached her, she turned her head.
‘Have I startled you?’ he asked.
‘I thought I knew the step,’ she answered, hesitating.
‘And did you know it, Little Dorrit? You could hardly have expected mine.’
‘I did not expect any. But when I heard a step, I thought it—sounded like yours.’
‘Are you going further?’
‘No, sir, I am only walking here for a little change.’
They walked together, and she recovered her confiding51 manner with him, and looked up in his face as she said, after glancing around:
‘It is so strange. Perhaps you can hardly understand it. I sometimes have a sensation as if it was almost unfeeling to walk here.’
‘Unfeeling?’
‘To see the river, and so much sky, and so many objects, and such change and motion. Then to go back, you know, and find him in the same cramped52 place.’
‘Ah yes! But going back, you must remember that you take with you the spirit and influence of such things to cheer him.’
‘Do I? I hope I may! I am afraid you fancy too much, sir, and make me out too powerful. If you were in prison, could I bring such comfort to you?’
‘Yes, Little Dorrit, I am sure of it.’
He gathered from a tremor53 on her lip, and a passing shadow of great agitation54 on her face, that her mind was with her father. He remained silent for a few moments, that she might regain55 her composure. The Little Dorrit, trembling on his arm, was less in unison than ever with Mrs Chivery’s theory, and yet was not irreconcilable56 with a new fancy which sprung up within him, that there might be some one else in the hopeless—newer fancy still—in the hopeless unattainable distance.
They turned, and Clennam said, Here was Maggy coming! Little Dorrit looked up, surprised, and they confronted Maggy, who brought herself at sight of them to a dead stop. She had been trotting57 along, so preoccupied58 and busy that she had not recognised them until they turned upon her. She was now in a moment so conscience-stricken that her very basket partook of the change.
‘Maggy, you promised me to stop near father.’
‘So I would, Little Mother, only he wouldn’t let me. If he takes and sends me out I must go. If he takes and says, “Maggy, you hurry away and back with that letter, and you shall have a sixpence if the answer’s a good ‘un,” I must take it. Lor, Little Mother, what’s a poor thing of ten year old to do? And if Mr Tip—if he happens to be a coming in as I come out, and if he says “Where are you going, Maggy?” and if I says, “I’m a going So and So,” and if he says, “I’ll have a Try too,” and if he goes into the George and writes a letter and if he gives it me and says, “Take that one to the same place, and if the answer’s a good ‘un I’ll give you a shilling,” it ain’t my fault, mother!’
Arthur read, in Little Dorrit’s downcast eyes, to whom she foresaw that the letters were addressed.
‘I’m a going So and So. There! That’s where I am a going to,’ said Maggy. ‘I’m a going So and So. It ain’t you, Little Mother, that’s got anything to do with it—it’s you, you know,’ said Maggy, addressing Arthur. ‘You’d better come, So and So, and let me take and give ‘em to you.’
‘We will not be so particular as that, Maggy. Give them me here,’ said Clennam in a low voice.
‘Well, then, come across the road,’ answered Maggy in a very loud whisper. ‘Little Mother wasn’t to know nothing of it, and she would never have known nothing of it if you had only gone So and So, instead of bothering and loitering about. It ain’t my fault. I must do what I am told. They ought to be ashamed of themselves for telling me.’
Clennam crossed to the other side, and hurriedly opened the letters. That from the father mentioned that most unexpectedly finding himself in the novel position of having been disappointed of a remittance59 from the City on which he had confidently counted, he took up his pen, being restrained by the unhappy circumstance of his incarceration60 during three-and-twenty years (doubly underlined), from coming himself, as he would otherwise certainly have done—took up his pen to entreat61 Mr Clennam to advance him the sum of Three Pounds Ten Shillings upon his I.O.U., which he begged to enclose. That from the son set forth that Mr Clennam would, he knew, be gratified to hear that he had at length obtained permanent employment of a highly satisfactory nature, accompanied with every prospect62 of complete success in life; but that the temporary inability of his employer to pay him his arrears63 of salary to that date (in which condition said employer had appealed to that generous forbearance in which he trusted he should never be wanting towards a fellow-creature), combined with the fraudulent conduct of a false friend and the present high price of provisions, had reduced him to the verge64 of ruin, unless he could by a quarter before six that evening raise the sum of eight pounds. This sum, Mr Clennam would be happy to learn, he had, through the promptitude of several friends who had a lively confidence in his probity65, already raised, with the exception of a trifling66 balance of one pound seventeen and fourpence; the loan of which balance, for the period of one month, would be fraught67 with the usual beneficent consequences.
These letters Clennam answered with the aid of his pencil and pocket-book, on the spot; sending the father what he asked for, and excusing himself from compliance68 with the demand of the son. He then commissioned Maggy to return with his replies, and gave her the shilling of which the failure of her supplemental enterprise would have disappointed her otherwise.
When he rejoined Little Dorrit, and they had begun walking as before, she said all at once:
‘I think I had better go. I had better go home.’
‘Don’t be distressed69,’ said Clennam, ‘I have answered the letters. They were nothing. You know what they were. They were nothing.’
‘But I am afraid,’ she returned, ‘to leave him, I am afraid to leave any of them. When I am gone, they pervert—but they don’t mean it—even Maggy.’
‘It was a very innocent commission that she undertook, poor thing. And in keeping it secret from you, she supposed, no doubt, that she was only saving you uneasiness.’
‘Yes, I hope so, I hope so. But I had better go home! It was but the other day that my sister told me I had become so used to the prison that I had its tone and character. It must be so. I am sure it must be when I see these things. My place is there. I am better there, it is unfeeling in me to be here, when I can do the least thing there. Good-bye. I had far better stay at home!’
The agonised way in which she poured this out, as if it burst of itself from her suppressed heart, made it difficult for Clennam to keep the tears from his eyes as he saw and heard her.
‘Don’t call it home, my child!’ he entreated70. ‘It is always painful to me to hear you call it home.’
‘But it is home! What else can I call home? Why should I ever forget it for a single moment?’
‘You never do, dear Little Dorrit, in any good and true service.’
‘I hope not, O I hope not! But it is better for me to stay there; much better, much more dutiful, much happier. Please don’t go with me, let me go by myself. Good-bye, God bless you. Thank you, thank you.’
He felt that it was better to respect her entreaty71, and did not move while her slight form went quickly away from him. When it had fluttered out of sight, he turned his face towards the water and stood thinking.
She would have been distressed at any time by this discovery of the letters; but so much so, and in that unrestrainable way?
No.
When she had seen her father begging with his threadbare disguise on, when she had entreated him not to give her father money, she had been distressed, but not like this. Something had made her keenly and additionally sensitive just now. Now, was there some one in the hopeless unattainable distance? Or had the suspicion been brought into his mind, by his own associations of the troubled river running beneath the bridge with the same river higher up, its changeless tune38 upon the prow72 of the ferry-boat, so many miles an hour the peaceful flowing of the stream, here the rushes, there the lilies, nothing uncertain or unquiet?
He thought of his poor child, Little Dorrit, for a long time there; he thought of her going home; he thought of her in the night; he thought of her when the day came round again. And the poor child Little Dorrit thought of him—too faithfully, ah, too faithfully!—in the shadow of the Marshalsea wall.
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1
obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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3
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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deploringly
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| 探索性的 | |
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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affidavit
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| n.宣誓书 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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52
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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53
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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54
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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55
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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57
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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59
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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60
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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63
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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66
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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67
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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