The interval1 had been short, but he had greatly complained of its length, and had been imperious with Mr Rugg touching2 the delay. He had been high with Mr Rugg, and had threatened to employ some one else. He had requested Mr Rugg not to presume upon the place in which he found him, but to do his duty, sir, and to do it with promptitude. He had told Mr Rugg that he knew what lawyers and agents were, and that he would not submit to imposition. On that gentleman’s humbly3 representing that he exerted himself to the utmost, Miss Fanny was very short with him; desiring to know what less he could do, when he had been told a dozen times that money was no object, and expressing her suspicion that he forgot whom he talked to.
Towards the Marshal, who was a Marshal of many years’ standing4, and with whom he had never had any previous difference, Mr Dorrit comported5 himself with severity. That officer, on personally tendering his congratulations, offered the free use of two rooms in his house for Mr Dorrit’s occupation until his departure. Mr Dorrit thanked him at the moment, and replied that he would think of it; but the Marshal was no sooner gone than he sat down and wrote him a cutting note, in which he remarked that he had never on any former occasion had the honour of receiving his congratulations (which was true, though indeed there had not been anything particular to congratulate him upon), and that he begged, on behalf of himself and family, to repudiate6 the Marshal’s offer, with all those thanks which its disinterested7 character and its perfect independence of all worldly considerations demanded.
Although his brother showed so dim a glimmering8 of interest in their altered fortunes that it was very doubtful whether he understood them, Mr Dorrit caused him to be measured for new raiment by the hosiers, tailors, hatters, and bootmakers whom he called in for himself; and ordered that his old clothes should be taken from him and burned. Miss Fanny and Mr Tip required no direction in making an appearance of great fashion and elegance9; and the three passed this interval together at the best hotel in the neighbourhood—though truly, as Miss Fanny said, the best was very indifferent. In connection with that establishment, Mr Tip hired a cabriolet, horse, and groom10, a very neat turn out, which was usually to be observed for two or three hours at a time gracing the Borough11 High Street, outside the Marshalsea court-yard. A modest little hired chariot and pair was also frequently to be seen there; in alighting from and entering which vehicle, Miss Fanny fluttered the Marshal’s daughters by the display of inaccessible12 bonnets13.
A great deal of business was transacted14 in this short period. Among other items, Messrs Peddle15 and Pool, solicitors16, of Monument Yard, were instructed by their client Edward Dorrit, Esquire, to address a letter to Mr Arthur Clennam, enclosing the sum of twenty-four pounds nine shillings and eightpence, being the amount of principal and interest computed17 at the rate of five per cent. per annum, in which their client believed himself to be indebted to Mr Clennam. In making this communication and remittance18, Messrs Peddle and Pool were further instructed by their client to remind Mr Clennam that the favour of the advance now repaid (including gate-fees) had not been asked of him, and to inform him that it would not have been accepted if it had been openly proffered19 in his name. With which they requested a stamped receipt, and remained his obedient servants. A great deal of business had likewise to be done, within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned Marshalsea, by Mr Dorrit so long its Father, chiefly arising out of applications made to him by Collegians for small sums of money. To these he responded with the greatest liberality, and with no lack of formality; always first writing to appoint a time at which the applicant21 might wait upon him in his room, and then receiving him in the midst of a vast accumulation of documents, and accompanying his donation (for he said in every such case, ‘it is a donation, not a loan’) with a great deal of good counsel: to the effect that he, the expiring Father of the Marshalsea, hoped to be long remembered, as an example that a man might preserve his own and the general respect even there.
The Collegians were not envious22. Besides that they had a personal and traditional regard for a Collegian of so many years’ standing, the event was creditable to the College, and made it famous in the newspapers. Perhaps more of them thought, too, than were quite aware of it, that the thing might in the lottery23 of chances have happened to themselves, or that something of the sort might yet happen to themselves some day or other. They took it very well. A few were low at the thought of being left behind, and being left poor; but even these did not grudge24 the family their brilliant reverse. There might have been much more envy in politer places. It seems probable that mediocrity of fortune would have been disposed to be less magnanimous than the Collegians, who lived from hand to mouth—from the pawnbroker’s hand to the day’s dinner.
They got up an address to him, which they presented in a neat frame and glass (though it was not afterwards displayed in the family mansion25 or preserved among the family papers); and to which he returned a gracious answer. In that document he assured them, in a Royal manner, that he received the profession of their attachment26 with a full conviction of its sincerity27; and again generally exhorted28 them to follow his example—which, at least in so far as coming into a great property was concerned, there is no doubt they would have gladly imitated. He took the same occasion of inviting29 them to a comprehensive entertainment, to be given to the whole College in the yard, and at which he signified he would have the honour of taking a parting glass to the health and happiness of all those whom he was about to leave behind.
He did not in person dine at this public repast (it took place at two in the afternoon, and his dinners now came in from the hotel at six), but his son was so good as to take the head of the principal table, and to be very free and engaging. He himself went about among the company, and took notice of individuals, and saw that the viands30 were of the quality he had ordered, and that all were served. On the whole, he was like a baron31 of the olden time in a rare good humour. At the conclusion of the repast, he pledged his guests in a bumper32 of old Madeira; and told them that he hoped they had enjoyed themselves, and what was more, that they would enjoy themselves for the rest of the evening; that he wished them well; and that he bade them welcome. His health being drunk with acclamations, he was not so baronial after all but that in trying to return thanks he broke down, in the manner of a mere33 serf with a heart in his breast, and wept before them all. After this great success, which he supposed to be a failure, he gave them ‘Mr Chivery and his brother officers;’ whom he had beforehand presented with ten pounds each, and who were all in attendance. Mr Chivery spoke34 to the toast, saying, What you undertake to lock up, lock up; but remember that you are, in the words of the fettered35 African, a man and a brother ever. The list of toasts disposed of, Mr Dorrit urbanely36 went through the motions of playing a game of skittles with the Collegian who was the next oldest inhabitant to himself; and left the tenantry to their diversions.
But all these occurrences preceded the final day. And now the day arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever, and when the stones of its much-trodden pavement were to know them no more.
Noon was the hour appointed for the departure. As it approached, there was not a Collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent. The latter class of gentlemen appeared in their Sunday clothes, and the greater part of the Collegians were brightened up as much as circumstances allowed. Two or three flags were even displayed, and the children put on odds37 and ends of ribbon. Mr Dorrit himself, at this trying time, preserved a serious but graceful38 dignity. Much of his great attention was given to his brother, as to whose bearing on the great occasion he felt anxious.
‘My dear Frederick,’ said he, ‘if you will give me your arm we will pass among our friends together. I think it is right that we should go out arm in arm, my dear Frederick.’
‘Hah!’ said Frederick. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
‘And if, my dear Frederick—if you could, without putting any great constraint39 upon yourself, throw a little (pray excuse me, Frederick), a little polish into your usual demeanour—’
‘William, William,’ said the other, shaking his head, ‘it’s for you to do all that. I don’t know how. All forgotten, forgotten!’
‘But, my dear fellow,’ returned William, ‘for that very reason, if for no other, you must positively40 try to rouse yourself. What you have forgotten you must now begin to recall, my dear Frederick. Your position—’
‘Eh?’ said Frederick.
‘Your position, my dear Frederick.’
‘Mine?’ He looked first at his own figure, and then at his brother’s, and then, drawing a long breath, cried, ‘Hah, to be sure! Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Your position, my dear Frederick, is now a fine one. Your position, as my brother, is a very fine one. And I know that it belongs to your conscientious41 nature to try to become worthy42 of it, my dear Frederick, and to try to adorn43 it. To be no discredit44 to it, but to adorn it.’
‘William,’ said the other weakly, and with a sigh, ‘I will do anything you wish, my brother, provided it lies in my power. Pray be so kind as to recollect45 what a limited power mine is. What would you wish me to do to-day, brother? Say what it is, only say what it is.’
‘My dearest Frederick, nothing. It is not worth troubling so good a heart as yours with.’
‘Pray trouble it,’ returned the other. ‘It finds it no trouble, William, to do anything it can for you.’
William passed his hand across his eyes, and murmured with august satisfaction, ‘Blessings on your attachment, my poor dear fellow!’ Then he said aloud, ‘Well, my dear Frederick, if you will only try, as we walk out, to show that you are alive to the occasion—that you think about it—’
‘What would you advise me to think about it?’ returned his submissive brother.
‘Oh! my dear Frederick, how can I answer you? I can only say what, in leaving these good people, I think myself.’
‘That’s it!’ cried his brother. ‘That will help me.’
‘I find that I think, my dear Frederick, and with mixed emotions in which a softened46 compassion47 predominates, What will they do without me!’
‘True,’ returned his brother. ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes. I’ll think that as we go, What will they do without my brother! Poor things! What will they do without him!’
Twelve o’clock having just struck, and the carriage being reported ready in the outer court-yard, the brothers proceeded down-stairs arm-in-arm. Edward Dorrit, Esquire (once Tip), and his sister Fanny followed, also arm-in-arm; Mr Plornish and Maggy, to whom had been entrusted48 the removal of such of the family effects as were considered worth removing, followed, bearing bundles and burdens to be packed in a cart.
0381m
Original
In the yard, were the Collegians and turnkeys. In the yard, were Mr Pancks and Mr Rugg, come to see the last touch given to their work. In the yard, was Young John making a new epitaph for himself, on the occasion of his dying of a broken heart. In the yard, was the Patriarchal Casby, looking so tremendously benevolent49 that many enthusiastic Collegians grasped him fervently50 by the hand, and the wives and female relatives of many more Collegians kissed his hand, nothing doubting that he had done it all. In the yard, was the man with the shadowy grievance51 respecting the Fund which the Marshal embezzled52, who had got up at five in the morning to complete the copying of a perfectly53 unintelligible54 history of that transaction, which he had committed to Mr Dorrit’s care, as a document of the last importance, calculated to stun55 the Government and effect the Marshal’s downfall. In the yard, was the insolvent56 whose utmost energies were always set on getting into debt, who broke into prison with as much pains as other men have broken out of it, and who was always being cleared and complimented; while the insolvent at his elbow—a mere little, snivelling, striving tradesman, half dead of anxious efforts to keep out of debt—found it a hard matter, indeed, to get a Commissioner57 to release him with much reproof58 and reproach. In the yard, was the man of many children and many burdens, whose failure astonished everybody; in the yard, was the man of no children and large resources, whose failure astonished nobody. There, were the people who were always going out to-morrow, and always putting it off; there, were the people who had come in yesterday, and who were much more jealous and resentful of this freak of fortune than the seasoned birds. There, were some who, in pure meanness of spirit, cringed and bowed before the enriched Collegian and his family; there, were others who did so really because their eyes, accustomed to the gloom of their imprisonment59 and poverty, could not support the light of such bright sunshine. There, were many whose shillings had gone into his pocket to buy him meat and drink; but none who were now obtrusively60 Hail fellow well met! with him, on the strength of that assistance. It was rather to be remarked of the caged birds, that they were a little shy of the bird about to be so grandly free, and that they had a tendency to withdraw themselves towards the bars, and seem a little fluttered as he passed.
Through these spectators the little procession, headed by the two brothers, moved slowly to the gate. Mr Dorrit, yielding to the vast speculation61 how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed. He patted children on the head like Sir Roger de Coverley going to church, he spoke to people in the background by their Christian62 names, he condescended63 to all present, and seemed for their consolation64 to walk encircled by the legend in golden characters, ‘Be comforted, my people! Bear it!’
At last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and that the Marshalsea was an orphan20. Before they had ceased to ring in the echoes of the prison walls, the family had got into their carriage, and the attendant had the steps in his hand.
Then, and not before, ‘Good Gracious!’ cried Miss Fanny all at once, ‘Where’s Amy!’
Her father had thought she was with her sister. Her sister had thought she was ‘somewhere or other.’ They had all trusted to finding her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment. This going away was perhaps the very first action of their joint65 lives that they had got through without her.
A minute might have been consumed in the ascertaining66 of these points, when Miss Fanny, who, from her seat in the carriage, commanded the long narrow passage leading to the Lodge67, flushed indignantly.
‘Now I do say, Pa,’ cried she, ‘that this is disgraceful!’
‘What is disgraceful, Fanny?’
‘I do say,’ she repeated, ‘this is perfectly infamous68! Really almost enough, even at such a time as this, to make one wish one was dead! Here is that child Amy, in her ugly old shabby dress, which she was so obstinate69 about, Pa, which I over and over again begged and prayed her to change, and which she over and over again objected to, and promised to change to-day, saying she wished to wear it as long as ever she remained in there with you—which was absolutely romantic nonsense of the lowest kind—here is that child Amy disgracing us to the last moment and at the last moment, by being carried out in that dress after all. And by that Mr Clennam too!’
The offence was proved, as she delivered the indictment70. Clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in his arms.
‘She has been forgotten,’ he said, in a tone of pity not free from reproach. ‘I ran up to her room (which Mr Chivery showed me) and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor, dear child. She appeared to have gone to change her dress, and to have sunk down overpowered. It may have been the cheering, or it may have happened sooner. Take care of this poor cold hand, Miss Dorrit. Don’t let it fall.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ returned Miss Dorrit, bursting into tears. ‘I believe I know what to do, if you will give me leave. Dear Amy, open your eyes, that’s a love! Oh, Amy, Amy, I really am so vexed71 and ashamed! Do rouse yourself, darling! Oh, why are they not driving on! Pray, Pa, do drive on!’
The attendant, getting between Clennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp ‘By your leave, sir!’ bundled up the steps, and they drove away.
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1
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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comported
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| v.表现( comport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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13
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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peddle
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| vt.(沿街)叫卖，兜售；宣传，散播 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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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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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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50
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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51
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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52
embezzled
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| v.贪污，盗用（公款）( embezzle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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55
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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57
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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62
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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63
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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67
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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68
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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69
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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70
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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71
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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