The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit in a most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her youth and beauty, a certain weight of self-sustainment as if she had been married twenty years. He felt that he could leave her with a quiet mind to tread the paths of distinction, and wished—but without abatement8 of patronage9, and without prejudice to the retiring virtues10 of his favourite child—that he had such another daughter.
‘My dear,’ he told her at parting, ‘our family looks to you to—ha—assert its dignity and—hum—maintain its importance. I know you will never disappoint it.’
‘No, papa,’ said Fanny, ‘you may rely upon that, I think. My best love to dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.’
‘Shall I convey any message to—ha—anybody else?’ asked Mr Dorrit, in an insinuating11 manner.
‘Papa,’ said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed12, ‘no, I thank you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There is no other message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at all agreeable to you to take.’
They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited on his lady, and dutifully bided13 his time for shaking hands. When Mr Sparkler was admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping in with not much more appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he had been the twin brother of Miss Biffin, and insisted on escorting Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit’s protestations being in vain, he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the hall-door by this distinguished14 man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands on the step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during this memorable15 visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage with a swelling16 breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had come to take leave in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of beholding17 the grandeur18 of his departure.
The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at his hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel servants, he was passing through the hall with a serene19 magnificence, when lo! a sight presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. John Chivery, in his best clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his ivory-handled cane20 genteelly embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!
‘Now, young man,’ said the porter. ‘This is the gentleman. This young man has persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.’
Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of tones, ‘Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Young John.
‘I—ha—thought it was Young John!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘The young man may come up,’ turning to the attendants, as he passed on: ‘oh yes, he may come up. Let Young John follow. I will speak to him above.’
Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit’s rooms were reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.
‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the collar when they were safely alone. ‘What do you mean by this?’
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The amazement21 and horror depicted22 in the unfortunate John’s face—for he had rather expected to be embraced next—were of that powerfully expressive23 nature that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at him.
‘How dare you do this?’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘How do you presume to come here? How dare you insult me?’
‘I insult you, sir?’ cried Young John. ‘Oh!’
‘Yes, sir,’ returned Mr Dorrit. ‘Insult me. Your coming here is an affront24, an impertinence, an audacity25. You are not wanted here. Who sent you here? What—ha—the Devil do you do here?’
‘I thought, sir,’ said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as ever had been turned to Mr Dorrit’s in his life—even in his College life: ‘I thought, sir, you mightn’t object to have the goodness to accept a bundle—’
‘Damn your bundle, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage. ‘I—hum—don’t smoke.’
John Chivery backed to the door.
‘Stop, sir!’ cried Mr Dorrit. ‘Stop! Sit down. Confound you sit down!’
John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit walked up and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once, he went to the window, and stood there with his forehead against the glass. All of a sudden, he turned and said:
‘What else did you come for, Sir?’
‘Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I hoped you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?’
‘What’s that to you, sir?’ retorted Mr Dorrit.
‘It’s nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening28 the distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it’s a liberty, sir, but I never thought you’d have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,’ said Young John, with emotion, ‘in my poor way, I am too proud to have come, I assure you, if I had thought so.’
Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his forehead against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his handkerchief in his hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and he looked tired and ill.
‘Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but—ha—some remembrances are not happy remembrances, and—hum—you shouldn’t have come.’
‘I feel that now, sir,’ returned John Chivery; ‘but I didn’t before, and Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.’
‘No. No,’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘I am—hum—sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand, Young John, give me your hand.’
Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and nothing could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.
‘There!’ said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. ‘Sit down again, Young John.’
‘Thank you, sir—but I’d rather stand.’
Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little while, he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:
‘And how is your father, Young John? How—ha—how are they all, Young John?’
‘Thank you, sir, They’re all pretty well, sir. They’re not any ways complaining.’
‘Hum. You are in your—ha—old business I see, John?’ said Mr Dorrit, with a glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.
‘Partly, sir. I am in my’—John hesitated a little—‘father’s business likewise.’
‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr Dorrit. ‘Do you—ha hum—go upon the ha—’
‘Lock, sir? Yes, sir.’
‘Much to do, John?’
‘Yes, sir; we’re pretty heavy at present. I don’t know how it is, but we generally are pretty heavy.’
‘At this time of the year, Young John?’
‘Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don’t know the time that makes much difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.’
‘Stay a moment, John—ha—stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John, I—ha—beg.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.
‘Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a—ha—a gratification to me to send a little—hum—Testimonial, by such a trusty messenger, to be divided among—ha hum—them—them—according to their wants. Would you object to take it, John?’
‘Not in any ways, sir. There’s many of them, I’m sure, that would be the better for it.’
‘Thank you, John. I—ha—I’ll write it, John.’
His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in a tremulous scrawl29 at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He folded it up, put it in Young John’s hand, and pressed the hand in his.
‘I hope you’ll—ha—overlook—hum—what has passed, John.’
But nothing while John was there could change John’s face to its natural colour and expression, or restore John’s natural manner.
‘And, John,’ said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and releasing it, ‘I hope we—ha—agree that we have spoken together in confidence; and that you will abstain31, in going out, from saying anything to any one that might—hum—suggest that—ha—once I—’
‘Oh! I assure you, sir,’ returned John Chivery, ‘in my poor humble32 way, sir, I’m too proud and honourable33 to do it, sir.’
Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that he might ascertain34 for himself whether John really went straight out, or lingered to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went direct out at the door, and away down the street with a quick step. After remaining alone for an hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier, who found him with his chair on the hearth-rug, sitting with his back towards him and his face to the fire. ‘You can take that bundle of cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,’ said Mr Dorrit, with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Ha—brought by—hum—little offering from—ha—son of old tenant35 of mine.’
Next morning’s sun saw Mr Dorrit’s equipage upon the Dover road, where every red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established for the unmerciful plundering36 of travellers. The whole business of the human race, between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was waylaid37 at Dartford, pillaged38 at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced at Sittingbourne, and sacked at Canterbury. However, it being the Courier’s business to get him out of the hands of the banditti, the Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the red-jackets went gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling to a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug39 corner and the next chalky rise in the dusty highway.
Another day’s sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel between himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find that the foreign air was lighter40 to breathe than the air of England.
On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered his equanimity41, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building as he rode along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in hand. All day long he was running towers up, taking towers down, adding a wing here, putting on a battlement there, looking to the walls, strengthening the defences, giving ornamental42 touches to the interior, making in all respects a superb castle of it. His preoccupied43 face so clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged, that every cripple at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered44 tin-box in at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in the name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well what work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it himself, though he had made that English traveller the subject of a special physiognomical treatise45.
Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled much about the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and particularly the jewellers’ windows. Ultimately, he went into the most famous jeweller’s, and said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.
It was a charming little woman to whom he said it—a sprightly46 little woman, dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet47 bower48 to attend upon him, from posting up some dainty little books of account which one could hardly suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles more commercial than kisses, at a dainty little shining desk which looked in itself like a sweetmeat.
For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did Monsieur desire? A love-gift?
Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?
Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted49 to show him many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness to observe that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial50 gifts. For example, these ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to correspond, were what one called a love-gift. These brooches and these rings, of a beauty so gracious and celestial51, were what one called, with the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.
Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with the nuptial offering?
Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her two little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that would be a special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with gifts would find them irresistible52.
Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little woman was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of each sort, and paid handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel afterwards, he carried his head high: having plainly got up his castle now to a much loftier altitude than the two square towers of Notre Dame53.
Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles. Building on, building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling asleep, and leaving great blocks of building materials dangling54 in the air; waking again, to resume work and get them into their places. What time the Courier in the rumble55, smoking Young John’s best cigars, left a little thread of thin light smoke behind—perhaps as he built a castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit’s money.
Not a fortified56 town that they passed in all their journey was as strong, not a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit’s castle. Neither the Saone nor the Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless building; nor was the Mediterranean57 deeper than its foundations; nor were the distant landscapes on the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr Dorrit and his matchless castle were disembarked among the dirty white houses and dirtier felons58 of Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled59 on to Rome as they could, through the filth60 that festered on the way.
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1
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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3
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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4
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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5
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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6
plumbed
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| v.经历( plumb的过去式和过去分词 )；探究；用铅垂线校正；用铅锤测量 | |
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7
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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8
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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9
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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10
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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11
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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12
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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13
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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14
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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15
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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16
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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17
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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18
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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19
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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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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21
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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22
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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23
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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24
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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25
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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26
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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27
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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28
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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29
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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30
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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32
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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33
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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34
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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35
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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36
plundering
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| 掠夺，抢劫( plunder的现在分词 ) | |
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waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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40
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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41
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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42
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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43
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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44
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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45
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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46
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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47
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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48
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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49
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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50
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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51
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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52
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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53
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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54
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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55
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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56
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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57
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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58
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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59
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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60
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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