The habit, too, of seeking some sort of recompense in the discontented boast of being disappointed, is a habit fraught4 with degeneracy. A certain idle carelessness and recklessness of consistency5 soon comes of it. To bring deserving things down by setting undeserving things up is one of its perverted6 delights; and there is no playing fast and loose with the truth, in any game, without growing the worse for it.
In his expressed opinions of all performances in the Art of painting that were completely destitute7 of merit, Gowan was the most liberal fellow on earth. He would declare such a man to have more power in his little finger (provided he had none), than such another had (provided he had much) in his whole mind and body. If the objection were taken that the thing commended was trash, he would reply, on behalf of his art, ‘My good fellow, what do we all turn out but trash? I turn out nothing else, and I make you a present of the confession8.’
To make a vaunt of being poor was another of the incidents of his splenetic state, though this may have had the design in it of showing that he ought to be rich; just as he would publicly laud9 and decry10 the Barnacles, lest it should be forgotten that he belonged to the family. Howbeit, these two subjects were very often on his lips; and he managed them so well that he might have praised himself by the month together, and not have made himself out half so important a man as he did by his light disparagement11 of his claims on anybody’s consideration.
Out of this same airy talk of his, it always soon came to be understood, wherever he and his wife went, that he had married against the wishes of his exalted12 relations, and had had much ado to prevail on them to countenance13 her. He never made the representation, on the contrary seemed to laugh the idea to scorn; but it did happen that, with all his pains to depreciate14 himself, he was always in the superior position. From the days of their honeymoon15, Minnie Gowan felt sensible of being usually regarded as the wife of a man who had made a descent in marrying her, but whose chivalrous16 love for her had cancelled that inequality.
To Venice they had been accompanied by Monsieur Blandois of Paris, and at Venice Monsieur Blandois of Paris was very much in the society of Gowan. When they had first met this gallant17 gentleman at Geneva, Gowan had been undecided whether to kick him or encourage him; and had remained for about four-and-twenty hours, so troubled to settle the point to his satisfaction, that he had thought of tossing up a five-franc piece on the terms, ‘Tails, kick; heads, encourage,’ and abiding19 by the voice of the oracle20. It chanced, however, that his wife expressed a dislike to the engaging Blandois, and that the balance of feeling in the hotel was against him. Upon it, Gowan resolved to encourage him.
Why this perversity21, if it were not in a generous fit?—which it was not. Why should Gowan, very much the superior of Blandois of Paris, and very well able to pull that prepossessing gentleman to pieces and find out the stuff he was made of, take up with such a man? In the first place, he opposed the first separate wish he observed in his wife, because her father had paid his debts and it was desirable to take an early opportunity of asserting his independence. In the second place, he opposed the prevalent feeling, because with many capacities of being otherwise, he was an ill-conditioned man. He found a pleasure in declaring that a courtier with the refined manners of Blandois ought to rise to the greatest distinction in any polished country. He found a pleasure in setting up Blandois as the type of elegance22, and making him a satire23 upon others who piqued24 themselves on personal graces. He seriously protested that the bow of Blandois was perfect, that the address of Blandois was irresistible25, and that the picturesque26 ease of Blandois would be cheaply purchased (if it were not a gift, and unpurchasable) for a hundred thousand francs. That exaggeration in the manner of the man which has been noticed as appertaining to him and to every such man, whatever his original breeding, as certainly as the sun belongs to this system, was acceptable to Gowan as a caricature, which he found it a humorous resource to have at hand for the ridiculing27 of numbers of people who necessarily did more or less of what Blandois overdid28. Thus he had taken up with him; and thus, negligently29 strengthening these inclinations30 with habit, and idly deriving32 some amusement from his talk, he had glided33 into a way of having him for a companion. This, though he supposed him to live by his wits at play-tables and the like; though he suspected him to be a coward, while he himself was daring and courageous34; though he thoroughly35 knew him to be disliked by Minnie; and though he cared so little for him, after all, that if he had given her any tangible36 personal cause to regard him with aversion, he would have had no compunction whatever in flinging him out of the highest window in Venice into the deepest water of the city.
Little Dorrit would have been glad to make her visit to Mrs Gowan, alone; but as Fanny, who had not yet recovered from her Uncle’s protest, though it was four-and-twenty hours of age, pressingly offered her company, the two sisters stepped together into one of the gondolas37 under Mr Dorrit’s window, and, with the courier in attendance, were taken in high state to Mrs Gowan’s lodging39. In truth, their state was rather too high for the lodging, which was, as Fanny complained, ‘fearfully out of the way,’ and which took them through a complexity40 of narrow streets of water, which the same lady disparaged41 as ‘mere ditches.’
The house, on a little desert island, looked as if it had broken away from somewhere else, and had floated by chance into its present anchorage in company with a vine almost as much in want of training as the poor wretches42 who were lying under its leaves. The features of the surrounding picture were, a church with hoarding43 and scaffolding about it, which had been under suppositious repair so long that the means of repair looked a hundred years old, and had themselves fallen into decay; a quantity of washed linen44, spread to dry in the sun; a number of houses at odds45 with one another and grotesquely46 out of the perpendicular47, like rotten pre-Adamite cheeses cut into fantastic shapes and full of mites48; and a feverish49 bewilderment of windows, with their lattice-blinds all hanging askew50, and something draggled and dirty dangling51 out of most of them.
On the first-floor of the house was a Bank—a surprising experience for any gentleman of commercial pursuits bringing laws for all mankind from a British city—where two spare clerks, like dried dragoons, in green velvet52 caps adorned53 with golden tassels54, stood, bearded, behind a small counter in a small room, containing no other visible objects than an empty iron-safe with the door open, a jug56 of water, and a papering of garland of roses; but who, on lawful57 requisition, by merely dipping their hands out of sight, could produce exhaustless mounds58 of five-franc pieces. Below the Bank was a suite59 of three or four rooms with barred windows, which had the appearance of a jail for criminal rats. Above the Bank was Mrs Gowan’s residence.
Notwithstanding that its walls were blotched, as if missionary61 maps were bursting out of them to impart geographical62 knowledge; notwithstanding that its weird63 furniture was forlornly faded and musty, and that the prevailing64 Venetian odour of bilge water and an ebb65 tide on a weedy shore was very strong; the place was better within, than it promised. The door was opened by a smiling man like a reformed assassin—a temporary servant—who ushered66 them into the room where Mrs Gowan sat, with the announcement that two beautiful English ladies were come to see the mistress.
Mrs Gowan, who was engaged in needlework, put her work aside in a covered basket, and rose, a little hurriedly. Miss Fanny was excessively courteous67 to her, and said the usual nothings with the skill of a veteran.
‘Papa was extremely sorry,’ proceeded Fanny, ‘to be engaged to-day (he is so much engaged here, our acquaintance being so wretchedly large!); and particularly requested me to bring his card for Mr Gowan. That I may be sure to acquit68 myself of a commission which he impressed upon me at least a dozen times, allow me to relieve my conscience by placing it on the table at once.’
Which she did with veteran ease.
‘We have been,’ said Fanny, ‘charmed to understand that you know the Merdles. We hope it may be another means of bringing us together.’
‘They are friends,’ said Mrs Gowan, ‘of Mr Gowan’s family. I have not yet had the pleasure of a personal introduction to Mrs Merdle, but I suppose I shall be presented to her at Rome.’
‘Indeed?’ returned Fanny, with an appearance of amiably69 quenching70 her own superiority. ‘I think you’ll like her.’
‘You know her very well?’
‘Why, you see,’ said Fanny, with a frank action of her pretty shoulders, ‘in London one knows every one. We met her on our way here, and, to say the truth, papa was at first rather cross with her for taking one of the rooms that our people had ordered for us. However, of course, that soon blew over, and we were all good friends again.’
Although the visit had as yet given Little Dorrit no opportunity of conversing71 with Mrs Gowan, there was a silent understanding between them, which did as well. She looked at Mrs Gowan with keen and unabated interest; the sound of her voice was thrilling to her; nothing that was near her, or about her, or at all concerned her, escaped Little Dorrit. She was quicker to perceive the slightest matter here, than in any other case—but one.
‘You have been quite well,’ she now said, ‘since that night?’
‘Quite, my dear. And you?’
‘Oh! I am always well,’ said Little Dorrit, timidly. ‘I—yes, thank you.’
There was no reason for her faltering72 and breaking off, other than that Mrs Gowan had touched her hand in speaking to her, and their looks had met. Something thoughtfully apprehensive73 in the large, soft eyes, had checked Little Dorrit in an instant.
‘You don’t know that you are a favourite of my husband’s, and that I am almost bound to be jealous of you?’ said Mrs Gowan.
Little Dorrit, blushing, shook her head.
‘He will tell you, if he tells you what he tells me, that you are quieter and quicker of resource than any one he ever saw.’
‘He speaks far too well of me,’ said Little Dorrit.
‘I doubt that; but I don’t at all doubt that I must tell him you are here. I should never be forgiven, if I were to let you—and Miss Dorrit—go, without doing so. May I? You can excuse the disorder74 and discomfort75 of a painter’s studio?’
The inquiries76 were addressed to Miss Fanny, who graciously replied that she would be beyond anything interested and enchanted77. Mrs Gowan went to a door, looked in beyond it, and came back. ‘Do Henry the favour to come in,’ said she, ‘I knew he would be pleased!’
The first object that confronted Little Dorrit, entering first, was Blandois of Paris in a great cloak and a furtive78 slouched hat, standing60 on a throne platform in a corner, as he had stood on the Great Saint Bernard, when the warning arms seemed to be all pointing up at him. She recoiled79 from this figure, as it smiled at her.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said Gowan, coming from his easel behind the door. ‘It’s only Blandois. He is doing duty as a model to-day. I am making a study of him. It saves me money to turn him to some use. We poor painters have none to spare.’
Blandois of Paris pulled off his slouched hat, and saluted80 the ladies without coming out of his corner.
‘A thousand pardons!’ said he. ‘But the Professore here is so inexorable with me, that I am afraid to stir.’
‘Don’t stir, then,’ said Gowan coolly, as the sisters approached the easel. ‘Let the ladies at least see the original of the daub, that they may know what it’s meant for. There he stands, you see. A bravo waiting for his prey81, a distinguished82 noble waiting to save his country, the common enemy waiting to do somebody a bad turn, an angelic messenger waiting to do somebody a good turn—whatever you think he looks most like!’
‘Say, Professore Mio, a poor gentleman waiting to do homage83 to elegance and beauty,’ remarked Blandois.
‘Or say, Cattivo Soggetto Mio,’ returned Gowan, touching84 the painted face with his brush in the part where the real face had moved, ‘a murderer after the fact. Show that white hand of yours, Blandois. Put it outside the cloak. Keep it still.’
Blandois’ hand was unsteady; but he laughed, and that would naturally shake it.
‘He was formerly85 in some scuffle with another murderer, or with a victim, you observe,’ said Gowan, putting in the markings of the hand with a quick, impatient, unskilful touch, ‘and these are the tokens of it. Outside the cloak, man!—Corpo di San Marco, what are you thinking of?’
Blandois of Paris shook with a laugh again, so that his hand shook more; now he raised it to twist his moustache, which had a damp appearance; and now he stood in the required position, with a little new swagger.
His face was so directed in reference to the spot where Little Dorrit stood by the easel, that throughout he looked at her. Once attracted by his peculiar86 eyes, she could not remove her own, and they had looked at each other all the time. She trembled now; Gowan, feeling it, and supposing her to be alarmed by the large dog beside him, whose head she caressed87 in her hand, and who had just uttered a low growl88, glanced at her to say, ‘He won’t hurt you, Miss Dorrit.’
‘I am not afraid of him,’ she returned in the same breath; ‘but will you look at him?’
In a moment Gowan had thrown down his brush, and seized the dog with both hands by the collar.
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‘Blandois! How can you be such a fool as to provoke him! By Heaven, and the other place too, he’ll tear you to bits! Lie down! Lion! Do you hear my voice, you rebel!’
The great dog, regardless of being half-choked by his collar, was obdurately89 pulling with his dead weight against his master, resolved to get across the room. He had been crouching90 for a spring at the moment when his master caught him.
‘Lion! Lion!’ He was up on his hind55 legs, and it was a wrestle91 between master and dog. ‘Get back! Down, Lion! Get out of his sight, Blandois! What devil have you conjured92 into the dog?’
‘I have done nothing to him.’
‘Get out of his sight or I can’t hold the wild beast! Get out of the room! By my soul, he’ll kill you!’
The dog, with a ferocious93 bark, made one other struggle as Blandois vanished; then, in the moment of the dog’s submission94, the master, little less angry than the dog, felled him with a blow on the head, and standing over him, struck him many times severely95 with the heel of his boot, so that his mouth was presently bloody96.
‘Now get you into that corner and lie down,’ said Gowan, ‘or I’ll take you out and shoot you.’
Lion did as he was ordered, and lay down licking his mouth and chest. Lion’s master stopped for a moment to take breath, and then, recovering his usual coolness of manner, turned to speak to his frightened wife and her visitors. Probably the whole occurrence had not occupied two minutes.
‘Come, come, Minnie! You know he is always good-humoured and tractable97. Blandois must have irritated him,—made faces at him. The dog has his likings and dislikings, and Blandois is no great favourite of his; but I am sure you will give him a character, Minnie, for never having been like this before.’
Minnie was too much disturbed to say anything connected in reply; Little Dorrit was already occupied in soothing98 her; Fanny, who had cried out twice or thrice, held Gowan’s arm for protection; Lion, deeply ashamed of having caused them this alarm, came trailing himself along the ground to the feet of his mistress.
‘You furious brute,’ said Gowan, striking him with his foot again. ‘You shall do penance99 for this.’ And he struck him again, and yet again.
‘O, pray don’t punish him any more,’ cried Little Dorrit. ‘Don’t hurt him. See how gentle he is!’ At her entreaty100, Gowan spared him; and he deserved her intercession, for truly he was as submissive, and as sorry, and as wretched as a dog could be.
It was not easy to recover this shock and make the visit unrestrained, even though Fanny had not been, under the best of circumstances, the least trifle in the way. In such further communication as passed among them before the sisters took their departure, Little Dorrit fancied it was revealed to her that Mr Gowan treated his wife, even in his very fondness, too much like a beautiful child. He seemed so unsuspicious of the depths of feeling which she knew must lie below that surface, that she doubted if there could be any such depths in himself. She wondered whether his want of earnestness might be the natural result of his want of such qualities, and whether it was with people as with ships, that, in too shallow and rocky waters, their anchors had no hold, and they drifted anywhere.
He attended them down the staircase, jocosely101 apologising for the poor quarters to which such poor fellows as himself were limited, and remarking that when the high and mighty102 Barnacles, his relatives, who would be dreadfully ashamed of them, presented him with better, he would live in better to oblige them. At the water’s edge they were saluted by Blandois, who looked white enough after his late adventure, but who made very light of it notwithstanding,—laughing at the mention of Lion.
Leaving the two together under the scrap103 of vine upon the causeway, Gowan idly scattering104 the leaves from it into the water, and Blandois lighting105 a cigarette, the sisters were paddled away in state as they had come. They had not glided on for many minutes, when Little Dorrit became aware that Fanny was more showy in manner than the occasion appeared to require, and, looking about for the cause through the window and through the open door, saw another gondola38 evidently in waiting on them.
As this gondola attended their progress in various artful ways; sometimes shooting on a-head, and stopping to let them pass; sometimes, when the way was broad enough, skimming along side by side with them; and sometimes following close astern; and as Fanny gradually made no disguise that she was playing off graces upon somebody within it, of whom she at the same time feigned106 to be unconscious; Little Dorrit at length asked who it was?
To which Fanny made the short answer, ‘That gaby.’
‘Who?’ said Little Dorrit.
‘My dear child,’ returned Fanny (in a tone suggesting that before her Uncle’s protest she might have said, You little fool, instead), ‘how slow you are! Young Sparkler.’
She lowered the window on her side, and, leaning back and resting her elbow on it negligently, fanned herself with a rich Spanish fan of black and gold. The attendant gondola, having skimmed forward again, with some swift trace of an eye in the window, Fanny laughed coquettishly and said, ‘Did you ever see such a fool, my love?’
‘Do you think he means to follow you all the way?’ asked Little Dorrit.
‘My precious child,’ returned Fanny, ‘I can’t possibly answer for what an idiot in a state of desperation may do, but I should think it highly probable. It’s not such an enormous distance. All Venice would scarcely be that, I imagine, if he’s dying for a glimpse of me.’
‘And is he?’ asked Little Dorrit in perfect simplicity107.
‘Well, my love, that really is an awkward question for me to answer,’ said her sister. ‘I believe he is. You had better ask Edward. He tells Edward he is, I believe. I understand he makes a perfect spectacle of himself at the Casino, and that sort of places, by going on about me. But you had better ask Edward if you want to know.’
‘I wonder he doesn’t call,’ said Little Dorrit after thinking a moment.
‘My dear Amy, your wonder will soon cease, if I am rightly informed. I should not be at all surprised if he called to-day. The creature has only been waiting to get his courage up, I suspect.’
‘Will you see him?’
‘Indeed, my darling,’ said Fanny, ‘that’s just as it may happen. Here he is again. Look at him. O, you simpleton!’
Mr Sparkler had, undeniably, a weak appearance; with his eye in the window like a knot in the glass, and no reason on earth for stopping his bark suddenly, except the real reason.
‘When you asked me if I will see him, my dear,’ said Fanny, almost as well composed in the graceful108 indifference109 of her attitude as Mrs Merdle herself, ‘what do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Little Dorrit—‘I think I rather mean what do you mean, dear Fanny?’
Fanny laughed again, in a manner at once condescending110, arch, and affable; and said, putting her arm round her sister in a playfully affectionate way:
‘Now tell me, my little pet. When we saw that woman at Martigny, how did you think she carried it off? Did you see what she decided18 on in a moment?’
‘No, Fanny.’
‘Then I’ll tell you, Amy. She settled with herself, now I’ll never refer to that meeting under such different circumstances, and I’ll never pretend to have any idea that these are the same girls. That’s her way out of a difficulty. What did I tell you when we came away from Harley Street that time? She is as insolent112 and false as any woman in the world. But in the first capacity, my love, she may find people who can match her.’
A significant turn of the Spanish fan towards Fanny’s bosom113, indicated with great expression where one of these people was to be found.
‘Not only that,’ pursued Fanny, ‘but she gives the same charge to Young Sparkler; and doesn’t let him come after me until she has got it thoroughly into his most ridiculous of all ridiculous noddles (for one really can’t call it a head), that he is to pretend to have been first struck with me in that Inn Yard.’
‘Why?’ asked Little Dorrit.
‘Why? Good gracious, my love!’ (again very much in the tone of You stupid little creature) ‘how can you ask? Don’t you see that I may have become a rather desirable match for a noddle? And don’t you see that she puts the deception114 upon us, and makes a pretence115, while she shifts it from her own shoulders (very good shoulders they are too, I must say),’ observed Miss Fanny, glancing complacently116 at herself, ‘of considering our feelings?’
‘But we can always go back to the plain truth.’
‘Yes, but if you please we won’t,’ retorted Fanny. ‘No; I am not going to have that done, Amy. The pretext117 is none of mine; it’s hers, and she shall have enough of it.’
In the triumphant118 exaltation of her feelings, Miss Fanny, using her Spanish fan with one hand, squeezed her sister’s waist with the other, as if she were crushing Mrs Merdle.
‘No,’ repeated Fanny. ‘She shall find me go her way. She took it, and I’ll follow it. And, with the blessing119 of fate and fortune, I’ll go on improving that woman’s acquaintance until I have given her maid, before her eyes, things from my dressmaker’s ten times as handsome and expensive as she once gave me from hers!’
Little Dorrit was silent; sensible that she was not to be heard on any question affecting the family dignity, and unwilling120 to lose to no purpose her sister’s newly and unexpectedly restored favour. She could not concur121, but she was silent. Fanny well knew what she was thinking of; so well, that she soon asked her.
Her reply was, ‘Do you mean to encourage Mr Sparkler, Fanny?’
‘Encourage him, my dear?’ said her sister, smiling contemptuously, ‘that depends upon what you call encourage. No, I don’t mean to encourage him. But I’ll make a slave of him.’
Little Dorrit glanced seriously and doubtfully in her face, but Fanny was not to be so brought to a check. She furled her fan of black and gold, and used it to tap her sister’s nose; with the air of a proud beauty and a great spirit, who toyed with and playfully instructed a homely122 companion.
‘I shall make him fetch and carry, my dear, and I shall make him subject to me. And if I don’t make his mother subject to me, too, it shall not be my fault.’
‘Do you think—dear Fanny, don’t be offended, we are so comfortable together now—that you can quite see the end of that course?’
‘I can’t say I have so much as looked for it yet, my dear,’ answered Fanny, with supreme123 indifference; ‘all in good time. Such are my intentions. And really they have taken me so long to develop, that here we are at home. And Young Sparkler at the door, inquiring who is within. By the merest accident, of course!’
In effect, the swain was standing up in his gondola, card-case in hand, affecting to put the question to a servant. This conjunction of circumstances led to his immediately afterwards presenting himself before the young ladies in a posture124, which in ancient times would not have been considered one of favourable125 augury126 for his suit; since the gondoliers of the young ladies, having been put to some inconvenience by the chase, so neatly127 brought their own boat in the gentlest collision with the bark of Mr Sparkler, as to tip that gentleman over like a larger species of ninepin, and cause him to exhibit the soles of his shoes to the object of his dearest wishes: while the nobler portions of his anatomy128 struggled at the bottom of his boat in the arms of one of his men.
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However, as Miss Fanny called out with much concern, Was the gentleman hurt, Mr Sparkler rose more restored than might have been expected, and stammered129 for himself with blushes, ‘Not at all so.’ Miss Fanny had no recollection of having ever seen him before, and was passing on, with a distant inclination31 of her head, when he announced himself by name. Even then she was in a difficulty from being unable to call it to mind, until he explained that he had had the honour of seeing her at Martigny. Then she remembered him, and hoped his lady-mother was well.
‘Thank you,’ stammered Mr Sparkler, ‘she’s uncommonly130 well—at least, poorly.’
‘In Venice?’ said Miss Fanny.
‘In Rome,’ Mr Sparkler answered. ‘I am here by myself, myself. I came to call upon Mr Edward Dorrit myself. Indeed, upon Mr Dorrit likewise. In fact, upon the family.’
Turning graciously to the attendants, Miss Fanny inquired whether her papa or brother was within? The reply being that they were both within, Mr Sparkler humbly131 offered his arm. Miss Fanny accepting it, was squired up the great staircase by Mr Sparkler, who, if he still believed (which there is not any reason to doubt) that she had no nonsense about her, rather deceived himself.
Arrived in a mouldering132 reception-room, where the faded hangings, of a sad sea-green, had worn and withered133 until they looked as if they might have claimed kindred with the waifs of seaweed drifting under the windows, or clinging to the walls and weeping for their imprisoned134 relations, Miss Fanny despatched emissaries for her father and brother. Pending135 whose appearance, she showed to great advantage on a sofa, completing Mr Sparkler’s conquest with some remarks upon Dante—known to that gentleman as an eccentric man in the nature of an Old File, who used to put leaves round his head, and sit upon a stool for some unaccountable purpose, outside the cathedral at Florence.
Mr Dorrit welcomed the visitor with the highest urbanity, and most courtly manners. He inquired particularly after Mrs Merdle. He inquired particularly after Mr Merdle. Mr Sparkler said, or rather twitched136 out of himself in small pieces by the shirt-collar, that Mrs Merdle having completely used up her place in the country, and also her house at Brighton, and being, of course, unable, don’t you see, to remain in London when there wasn’t a soul there, and not feeling herself this year quite up to visiting about at people’s places, had resolved to have a touch at Rome, where a woman like herself, with a proverbially fine appearance, and with no nonsense about her, couldn’t fail to be a great acquisition. As to Mr Merdle, he was so much wanted by the men in the City and the rest of those places, and was such a doosed extraordinary phenomenon in Buying and Banking137 and that, that Mr Sparkler doubted if the monetary138 system of the country would be able to spare him; though that his work was occasionally one too many for him, and that he would be all the better for a temporary shy at an entirely139 new scene and climate, Mr Sparkler did not conceal140. As to himself, Mr Sparkler conveyed to the Dorrit family that he was going, on rather particular business, wherever they were going.
This immense conversational141 achievement required time, but was effected. Being effected, Mr Dorrit expressed his hope that Mr Sparkler would shortly dine with them. Mr Sparkler received the idea so kindly142 that Mr Dorrit asked what he was going to do that day, for instance? As he was going to do nothing that day (his usual occupation, and one for which he was particularly qualified), he was secured without postponement143; being further bound over to accompany the ladies to the Opera in the evening.
At dinner-time Mr Sparkler rose out of the sea, like Venus’s son taking after his mother, and made a splendid appearance ascending144 the great staircase. If Fanny had been charming in the morning, she was now thrice charming, very becomingly dressed in her most suitable colours, and with an air of negligence145 upon her that doubled Mr Sparkler’s fetters146, and riveted147 them.
‘I hear you are acquainted, Mr Sparkler,’ said his host at dinner, ‘with—ha—Mr Gowan. Mr Henry Gowan?’
‘Perfectly, sir,’ returned Mr Sparkler. ‘His mother and my mother are cronies in fact.’
‘If I had thought of it, Amy,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a patronage148 as magnificent as that of Lord Decimus himself, ‘you should have despatched a note to them, asking them to dine to-day. Some of our people could have—ha—fetched them, and taken them home. We could have spared a—hum—gondola for that purpose. I am sorry to have forgotten this. Pray remind me of them to-morrow.’
Little Dorrit was not without doubts how Mr Henry Gowan might take their patronage; but she promised not to fail in the reminder149.
‘Pray, does Mr Henry Gowan paint—ha—Portraits?’ inquired Mr Dorrit.
Mr Sparkler opined that he painted anything, if he could get the job.
‘He has no particular walk?’ said Mr Dorrit.
Mr Sparkler, stimulated150 by Love to brilliancy, replied that for a particular walk a man ought to have a particular pair of shoes; as, for example, shooting, shooting-shoes; cricket, cricket-shoes. Whereas, he believed that Henry Gowan had no particular pair of shoes.
‘No speciality?’ said Mr Dorrit.
This being a very long word for Mr Sparkler, and his mind being exhausted151 by his late effort, he replied, ‘No, thank you. I seldom take it.’
‘Well!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘It would be very agreeable to me to present a gentleman so connected, with some—ha—Testimonial of my desire to further his interests, and develop the—hum—germs of his genius. I think I must engage Mr Gowan to paint my picture. If the result should be—ha—mutually satisfactory, I might afterwards engage him to try his hand upon my family.’
The exquisitely152 bold and original thought presented itself to Mr Sparkler, that there was an opening here for saying there were some of the family (emphasising ‘some’ in a marked manner) to whom no painter could render justice. But, for want of a form of words in which to express the idea, it returned to the skies.
This was the more to be regretted as Miss Fanny greatly applauded the notion of the portrait, and urged her papa to act upon it. She surmised153, she said, that Mr Gowan had lost better and higher opportunities by marrying his pretty wife; and Love in a cottage, painting pictures for dinner, was so delightfully154 interesting, that she begged her papa to give him the commission whether he could paint a likeness155 or not: though indeed both she and Amy knew he could, from having seen a speaking likeness on his easel that day, and having had the opportunity of comparing it with the original. These remarks made Mr Sparkler (as perhaps they were intended to do) nearly distracted; for while on the one hand they expressed Miss Fanny’s susceptibility of the tender passion, she herself showed such an innocent unconsciousness of his admiration156 that his eyes goggled157 in his head with jealousy158 of an unknown rival.
Descending111 into the sea again after dinner, and ascending out of it at the Opera staircase, preceded by one of their gondoliers, like an attendant Merman, with a great linen lantern, they entered their box, and Mr Sparkler entered on an evening of agony. The theatre being dark, and the box light, several visitors lounged in during the representation; in whom Fanny was so interested, and in conversation with whom she fell into such charming attitudes, as she had little confidences with them, and little disputes concerning the identity of people in distant boxes, that the wretched Sparkler hated all mankind. But he had two consolations159 at the close of the performance. She gave him her fan to hold while she adjusted her cloak, and it was his blessed privilege to give her his arm down-stairs again. These crumbs160 of encouragement, Mr Sparkler thought, would just keep him going; and it is not impossible that Miss Dorrit thought so too.
The Merman with his light was ready at the box-door, and other Mermen with other lights were ready at many of the doors. The Dorrit Merman held his lantern low, to show the steps, and Mr Sparkler put on another heavy set of fetters over his former set, as he watched her radiant feet twinkling down the stairs beside him. Among the loiterers here, was Blandois of Paris. He spoke161, and moved forward beside Fanny.
Little Dorrit was in front with her brother and Mrs General (Mr Dorrit had remained at home), but on the brink162 of the quay163 they all came together. She started again to find Blandois close to her, handing Fanny into the boat.
‘Gowan has had a loss,’ he said, ‘since he was made happy to-day by a visit from fair ladies.’
‘A loss,’ said Blandois. ‘His dog Lion.’
Little Dorrit’s hand was in his, as he spoke.
‘He is dead,’ said Blandois.
‘Dead?’ echoed Little Dorrit. ‘That noble dog?’
‘Faith, dear ladies!’ said Blandois, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, ‘somebody has poisoned that noble dog. He is as dead as the Doges!’
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1
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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subtraction
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| n.减法，减去 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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6
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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7
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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8
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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9
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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10
decry
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| v.危难，谴责 | |
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11
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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12
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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13
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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14
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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15
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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16
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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17
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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19
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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20
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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21
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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22
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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23
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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24
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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28
overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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29
negligently
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30
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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32
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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33
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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34
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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35
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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37
gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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39
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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40
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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41
disparaged
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| v.轻视( disparage的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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42
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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43
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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44
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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45
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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46
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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47
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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48
mites
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| n.（尤指令人怜悯的）小孩( mite的名词复数 )；一点点；一文钱；螨 | |
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49
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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50
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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51
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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52
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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53
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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54
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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55
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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56
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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57
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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58
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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59
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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60
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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61
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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62
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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63
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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64
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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65
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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66
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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68
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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69
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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70
quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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71
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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72
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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73
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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74
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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75
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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76
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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77
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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78
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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79
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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80
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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81
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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82
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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83
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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84
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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85
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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86
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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87
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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89
obdurately
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| adv.顽固地，执拗地 | |
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90
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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91
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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92
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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93
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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94
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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95
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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96
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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97
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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98
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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99
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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100
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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101
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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102
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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103
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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104
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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105
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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106
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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107
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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108
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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109
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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110
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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111
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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112
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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113
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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114
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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115
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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116
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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117
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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118
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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119
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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120
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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121
concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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122
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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123
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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124
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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125
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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126
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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127
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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128
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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129
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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131
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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132
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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133
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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134
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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136
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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137
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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138
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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139
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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140
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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142
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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143
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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144
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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145
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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146
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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147
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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148
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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150
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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151
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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153
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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154
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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155
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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156
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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157
goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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159
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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160
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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161
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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162
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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163
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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164
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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165
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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