Resolute6 and wild of look, rapid of foot and yet weak and uncertain, conspicuously7 dressed in its black garments and with its hurried head-covering, gaunt and of an unearthly paleness, it pressed forward, taking no more heed8 of the throng9 than a sleep-walker. More remarkable10 by being so removed from the crowd it was among than if it had been lifted on a pedestal to be seen, the figure attracted all eyes. Saunterers pricked11 up their attention to observe it; busy people, crossing it, slackened their pace and turned their heads; companions pausing and standing12 aside, whispered one another to look at this spectral13 woman who was coming by; and the sweep of the figure as it passed seemed to create a vortex, drawing the most idle and most curious after it.
0695m
Original
Made giddy by the turbulent irruption of this multitude of staring faces into her cell of years, by the confusing sensation of being in the air, and the yet more confusing sensation of being afoot, by the unexpected changes in half-remembered objects, and the want of likeness14 between the controllable pictures her imagination had often drawn15 of the life from which she was secluded16 and the overwhelming rush of the reality, she held her way as if she were environed by distracting thoughts, rather than by external humanity and observation. But, having crossed the bridge and gone some distance straight onward17, she remembered that she must ask for a direction; and it was only then, when she stopped and turned to look about her for a promising18 place of inquiry19, that she found herself surrounded by an eager glare of faces.
‘Why are you encircling me?’ she asked, trembling.
None of those who were nearest answered; but from the outer ring there arose a shrill20 cry of ‘’Cause you’re mad!’
The shrill outer circle again retorted, ‘Then that ‘ud show you was mad if nothing else did, ‘cause it’s right opposite!’
A short, mild, quiet-looking young man made his way through to her, as a whooping22 ensued on this reply, and said: ‘Was it the Marshalsea you wanted? I’m going on duty there. Come across with me.’
She laid her hand upon his arm, and he took her over the way; the crowd, rather injured by the near prospect23 of losing her, pressing before and behind and on either side, and recommending an adjournment24 to Bedlam25. After a momentary26 whirl in the outer court-yard, the prison-door opened, and shut upon them. In the Lodge27, which seemed by contrast with the outer noise a place of refuge and peace, a yellow lamp was already striving with the prison shadows.
‘Why, John!’ said the turnkey who admitted them. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, father; only this lady not knowing her way, and being badgered by the boys. Who did you want, ma’am?’
‘Miss Dorrit. Is she here?’
The young man became more interested. ‘Yes, she is here. What might your name be?’
‘Mrs Clennam.’
‘Mr Clennam’s mother?’ asked the young man.
She pressed her lips together, and hesitated. ‘Yes. She had better be told it is his mother.’
‘You see,’ said the young man, ‘the Marshal’s family living in the country at present, the Marshal has given Miss Dorrit one of the rooms in his house to use when she likes. Don’t you think you had better come up there, and let me bring Miss Dorrit?’
She signified her assent28, and he unlocked a door and conducted her up a side staircase into a dwelling-house above. He showed her into a darkening room, and left her. The room looked down into the darkening prison-yard, with its inmates29 strolling here and there, leaning out of windows communing as much apart as they could with friends who were going away, and generally wearing out their imprisonment30 as they best might that summer evening. The air was heavy and hot; the closeness of the place, oppressive; and from without there arose a rush of free sounds, like the jarring memory of such things in a headache and heartache. She stood at the window, bewildered, looking down into this prison as it were out of her own different prison, when a soft word or two of surprise made her start, and Little Dorrit stood before her.
‘Is it possible, Mrs Clennam, that you are so happily recovered as—’
Little Dorrit stopped, for there was neither happiness nor health in the face that turned to her.
‘This is not recovery; it is not strength; I don’t know what it is.’ With an agitated31 wave of her hand, she put all that aside. ‘You have a packet left with you which you were to give to Arthur, if it was not reclaimed32 before this place closed to-night.’
‘Yes.’
Little Dorrit took it from her bosom34, and gave it into her hand, which remained stretched out after receiving it.
‘Have you any idea of its contents?’
Frightened by her being there with that new power Of Movement in her, which, as she said herself, was not strength, and which was unreal to look upon, as though a picture or statue had been animated35, Little Dorrit answered ‘No.’
‘Read them.’
Little Dorrit took the packet from the still outstretched hand, and broke the seal. Mrs Clennam then gave her the inner packet that was addressed to herself, and held the other. The shadow of the wall and of the prison buildings, which made the room sombre at noon, made it too dark to read there, with the dusk deepening apace, save in the window. In the window, where a little of the bright summer evening sky could shine upon her, Little Dorrit stood, and read. After a broken exclamation36 or so of wonder and of terror, she read in silence. When she had finished, she looked round, and her old mistress bowed herself before her.
‘You know, now, what I have done.’
‘I think so. I am afraid so; though my mind is so hurried, and so sorry, and has so much to pity that it has not been able to follow all I have read,’ said Little Dorrit tremulously.
‘I can, and Heaven knows I do! Do not kiss my dress and kneel to me; you are too old to kneel to me; I forgive you freely without that.’
‘I have more yet to ask.’
‘Not in that posture,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘It is unnatural38 to see your grey hair lower than mine. Pray rise; let me help you.’ With that she raised her up, and stood rather shrinking from her, but looking at her earnestly.
‘The great petition that I make to you (there is another which grows out of it), the great supplication39 that I address to your merciful and gentle heart, is, that you will not disclose this to Arthur until I am dead. If you think, when you have had time for consideration, that it can do him any good to know it while I am yet alive, then tell him. But you will not think that; and in such case, will you promise me to spare me until I am dead?’
‘I am so sorry, and what I have read has so confused my thoughts,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘that I can scarcely give you a steady answer. If I should be quite sure that to be acquainted with it will do Mr Clennam no good—’
‘I know you are attached to him, and will make him the first consideration. It is right that he should be the first consideration. I ask that. But, having regarded him, and still finding that you may spare me for the little time I shall remain on earth, will you do it?’
‘I will.’
‘GOD bless you!’
She stood in the shadow so that she was only a veiled form to Little Dorrit in the light; but the sound of her voice, in saying those three grateful words, was at once fervent41 and broken—broken by emotion as unfamiliar42 to her frozen eyes as action to her frozen limbs.
‘You will wonder, perhaps,’ she said in a stronger tone, ‘that I can better bear to be known to you whom I have wronged, than to the son of my enemy who wronged me.—For she did wrong me! She not only sinned grievously against the Lord, but she wronged me. What Arthur’s father was to me, she made him. From our marriage day I was his dread43, and that she made me. I was the scourge44 of both, and that is referable to her. You love Arthur (I can see the blush upon your face; may it be the dawn of happier days to both of you!), and you will have thought already that he is as merciful and kind as you, and why do I not trust myself to him as soon as to you. Have you not thought so?’
‘No thought,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘can be quite a stranger to my heart, that springs out of the knowledge that Mr Clennam is always to be relied upon for being kind and generous and good.’
‘I do not doubt it. Yet Arthur is, of the whole world, the one person from whom I would conceal45 this, while I am in it. I kept over him as a child, in the days of his first remembrance, my restraining and correcting hand. I was stern with him, knowing that the transgressions46 of the parents are visited on their offspring, and that there was an angry mark upon him at his birth. I have sat with him and his father, seeing the weakness of his father yearning47 to unbend to him; and forcing it back, that the child might work out his release in bondage48 and hardship. I have seen him, with his mother’s face, looking up at me in awe49 from his little books, and trying to soften50 me with his mother’s ways that hardened me.’
The shrinking of her auditress stopped her for a moment in her flow of words, delivered in a retrospective gloomy voice.
‘For his good. Not for the satisfaction of my injury. What was I, and what was the worth of that, before the curse of Heaven! I have seen that child grow up; not to be pious51 in a chosen way (his mother’s influence lay too heavy on him for that), but still to be just and upright, and to be submissive to me. He never loved me, as I once half-hoped he might—so frail52 we are, and so do the corrupt53 affections of the flesh war with our trusts and tasks; but he always respected me and ordered himself dutifully to me. He does to this hour. With an empty place in his heart that he has never known the meaning of, he has turned away from me and gone his separate road; but even that he has done considerately and with deference54. These have been his relations towards me. Yours have been of a much slighter kind, spread over a much shorter time. When you have sat at your needle in my room, you have been in fear of me, but you have supposed me to have been doing you a kindness; you are better informed now, and know me to have done you an injury. Your misconstruction and misunderstanding of the cause in which, and the motives56 with which, I have worked out this work, is lighter55 to endure than his would be. I would not, for any worldly recompense I can imagine, have him in a moment, however blindly, throw me down from the station I have held before him all his life, and change me altogether into something he would cast out of his respect, and think detected and exposed. Let him do it, if it must be done, when I am not here to see it. Let me never feel, while I am still alive, that I die before his face, and utterly57 perish away from him, like one consumed by lightning and swallowed by an earthquake.’
Her pride was very strong in her, the pain of it and of her old passions was very sharp with her, when she thus expressed herself. Not less so, when she added:
‘Even now, I see you shrink from me, as if I had been cruel.’
Little Dorrit could not gainsay58 it. She tried not to show it, but she recoiled59 with dread from the state of mind that had burnt so fiercely and lasted so long. It presented itself to her, with no sophistry60 upon it, in its own plain nature.
‘I have done,’ said Mrs Clennam, ‘what it was given to me to do. I have set myself against evil; not against good. I have been an instrument of severity against sin. Have not mere61 sinners like myself been commissioned to lay it low in all time?’
‘In all time?’ repeated Little Dorrit.
‘Even if my own wrong had prevailed with me, and my own vengeance62 had moved me, could I have found no justification63? None in the old days when the innocent perished with the guilty, a thousand to one? When the wrath64 of the hater of the unrighteous was not slaked65 even in blood, and yet found favour?’
‘O, Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘angry feelings and unforgiving deeds are no comfort and no guide to you and me. My life has been passed in this poor prison, and my teaching has been very defective66; but let me implore67 you to remember later and better days. Be guided only by the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the friend of all who were afflicted68 and forlorn, the patient Master who shed tears of compassion69 for our infirmities. We cannot but be right if we put all the rest away, and do everything in remembrance of Him. There is no vengeance and no infliction70 of suffering in His life, I am sure. There can be no confusion in following Him, and seeking for no other footsteps, I am certain.’
In the softened71 light of the window, looking from the scene of her early trials to the shining sky, she was not in stronger opposition72 to the black figure in the shade than the life and doctrine73 on which she rested were to that figure’s history. It bent74 its head low again, and said not a word. It remained thus, until the first warning bell began to ring.
‘Hark!’ cried Mrs Clennam starting, ‘I said I had another petition. It is one that does not admit of delay. The man who brought you this packet and possesses these proofs, is now waiting at my house to be bought off. I can keep this from Arthur, only by buying him off. He asks a large sum; more than I can get together to pay him without having time. He refuses to make any abatement75, because his threat is, that if he fails with me, he will come to you. Will you return with me and show him that you already know it? Will you return with me and try to prevail with him? Will you come and help me with him? Do not refuse what I ask in Arthur’s name, though I dare not ask it for Arthur’s sake!’
Little Dorrit yielded willingly. She glided76 away into the prison for a few moments, returned, and said she was ready to go. They went out by another staircase, avoiding the lodge; and coming into the front court-yard, now all quiet and deserted77, gained the street.
It was one of those summer evenings when there is no greater darkness than a long twilight. The vista78 of street and bridge was plain to see, and the sky was serene79 and beautiful. People stood and sat at their doors, playing with children and enjoying the evening; numbers were walking for air; the worry of the day had almost worried itself out, and few but themselves were hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear steeples of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out of the murk that usually enshrouded them, and come much nearer. The smoke that rose into the sky had lost its dingy80 hue81 and taken a brightness upon it. The beauties of the sunset had not faded from the long light films of cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a radiant centre, over the whole length and breadth of the tranquil82 firmament83, great shoots of light streamed among the early stars, like signs of the blessed later covenant84 of peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a glory.
Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it was darker, Mrs Clennam hurried on at Little Dorrit’s side, unmolested. They left the great thoroughfare at the turning by which she had entered it, and wound their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets. Their feet were at the gateway85, when there was a sudden noise like thunder.
‘What was that! Let us make haste in,’ cried Mrs Clennam.
They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a piercing cry, held her back.
In one swift instant the old house was before them, with the man lying smoking in the window; another thundering sound, and it heaved, surged outward, opened asunder86 in fifty places, collapsed87, and fell. Deafened88 by the noise, stifled89, choked, and blinded by the dust, they hid their faces and stood rooted to the spot. The dust storm, driving between them and the placid90 sky, parted for a moment and showed them the stars. As they looked up, wildly crying for help, the great pile of chimneys, which was then alone left standing like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, broke, and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as if every tumbling fragment were intent on burying the crushed wretch91 deeper.
So blackened by the flying particles of rubbish as to be unrecognisable, they ran back from the gateway into the street, crying and shrieking92. There, Mrs Clennam dropped upon the stones; and she never from that hour moved so much as a finger again, or had the power to speak one word. For upwards93 of three years she reclined in a wheeled chair, looking attentively94 at those about her and appearing to understand what they said; but the rigid95 silence she had so long held was evermore enforced upon her, and except that she could move her eyes and faintly express a negative and affirmative with her head, she lived and died a statue.
Affery had been looking for them at the prison, and had caught sight of them at a distance on the bridge. She came up to receive her old mistress in her arms, to help to carry her into a neighbouring house, and to be faithful to her. The mystery of the noises was out now; Affery, like greater people, had always been right in her facts, and always wrong in the theories she deduced from them.
When the storm of dust had cleared away and the summer night was calm again, numbers of people choked up every avenue of access, and parties of diggers were formed to relieve one another in digging among the ruins. There had been a hundred people in the house at the time of its fall, there had been fifty, there had been fifteen, there had been two. Rumour96 finally settled the number at two; the foreigner and Mr Flintwinch.
The diggers dug all through the short night by flaring97 pipes of gas, and on a level with the early sun, and deeper and deeper below it as it rose into its zenith, and aslant98 of it as it declined, and on a level with it again as it departed. Sturdy digging, and shovelling99, and carrying away, in carts, barrows, and baskets, went on without intermission, by night and by day; but it was night for the second time when they found the dirty heap of rubbish that had been the foreigner before his head had been shivered to atoms, like so much glass, by the great beam that lay upon him, crushing him.
Still, they had not come upon Flintwinch yet; so the sturdy digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission by night and by day. It got about that the old house had had famous cellarage (which indeed was true), and that Flintwinch had been in a cellar at the moment, or had had time to escape into one, and that he was safe under its strong arch, and even that he had been heard to cry, in hollow, subterranean100, suffocated101 notes, ‘Here I am!’ At the opposite extremity102 of the town it was even known that the excavators had been able to open a communication with him through a pipe, and that he had received both soup and brandy by that channel, and that he had said with admirable fortitude103 that he was All right, my lads, with the exception of his collar-bone. But the digging and shovelling and carrying away went on without intermission, until the ruins were all dug out, and the cellars opened to the light; and still no Flintwinch, living or dead, all right or all wrong, had been turned up by pick or spade.
It began then to be perceived that Flintwinch had not been there at the time of the fall; and it began then to be perceived that he had been rather busy elsewhere, converting securities into as much money as could be got for them on the shortest notice, and turning to his own exclusive account his authority to act for the Firm. Affery, remembering that the clever one had said he would explain himself further in four-and-twenty hours’ time, determined104 for her part that his taking himself off within that period with all he could get, was the final satisfactory sum and substance of his promised explanation; but she held her peace, devoutly105 thankful to be quit of him. As it seemed reasonable to conclude that a man who had never been buried could not be unburied, the diggers gave him up when their task was done, and did not dig down for him into the depths of the earth.
This was taken in ill part by a great many people, who persisted in believing that Flintwinch was lying somewhere among the London geological formation. Nor was their belief much shaken by repeated intelligence which came over in course of time, that an old man who wore the tie of his neckcloth under one ear, and who was very well known to be an Englishman, consorted106 with the Dutchmen on the quaint40 banks of the canals of the Hague and in the drinking-shops of Amsterdam, under the style and designation of Mynheer von Flyntevynge.
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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6
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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8
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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9
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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11
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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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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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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adjournment
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| 休会； 延期； 休会期； 休庭期 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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32
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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40
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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41
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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42
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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43
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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44
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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45
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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46
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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47
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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48
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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49
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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50
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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51
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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52
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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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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sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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slaked
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| v.满足( slake的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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deafened
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| 使聋( deafen的过去式和过去分词 )； 使隔音 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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102
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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103
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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104
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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105
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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106
consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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