I have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portionof these pages, for I know I am not clever. I always knew that. Ican remember, when I was a very little girl indeed, I used to sayto my doll when we were alone together, "Now, Dolly, I am notclever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like adear!" And so she used to sit propped1 up in a great arm-chair,with her beautiful complexion2 and rosy3 lips, staring at me--or notso much at me, I think, as at nothing--while I busily stitched awayand told her every one of my secrets.
My dear old doll! I was such a shy little thing that I seldomdared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybodyelse. It almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to beto me when I came home from school of a day to run upstairs to myroom and say, "Oh, you dear faithful Dolly, I knew you would beexpecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on theelbow of her great chair, and tell her all I had noticed since weparted. I had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh,no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking Ishould like to understand it better. I have not by any means aquick understanding. When I love a person very tenderly indeed, itseems to brighten. But even that may be my vanity.
I was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of theprincesses in the fairy stories, only I was not charming--by mygodmother. At least, I only knew her as such. She was a good,good woman! She went to church three times every Sunday, and tomorning prayers on Wednesdays and Fridays, and to lectures wheneverthere were lectures; and never missed. She was handsome; and ifshe had ever smiled, would have been (I used to think) like anangel--but she never smiled. She was always grave and strict. Shewas so very good herself, I thought, that the badness of otherpeople made her frown all her life. I felt so different from her,even making every allowance for the differences between a child anda woman; I felt so poor, so trifling5, and so far off that I nevercould be unrestrained with her--no, could never even love her as Iwished. It made me very sorry to consider how good she was and howunworthy of her I was, and I used ardently6 to hope that I mighthave a better heart; and I talked it over very often with the dearold doll, but I never loved my godmother as I ought to have lovedher and as I felt I must have loved her if I had been a bettergirl.
This made me, I dare say, more timid and retiring than I naturallywas and cast me upon Dolly as the only friend with whom I felt atease. But something happened when I was still quite a little thingthat helped it very much.
I had never heard my mama spoken of. I had never heard of my papaeither, but I felt more interested about my mama. I had never worna black frock, that I could recollect8. I had never been shown mymama's grave. I had never been told where it was. Yet I had neverbeen taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. I had morethan once approached this subject of my thoughts with Mrs. Rachael,our only servant, who took my light away when I was in bed (anothervery good woman, but austere9 to me), and she had only said,"Esther, good night!" and gone away and left me.
Although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where Iwas a day boarder, and although they called me little EstherSummerson, I knew none of them at home. All of them were olderthan I, to be sure (I was the youngest there by a good deal), butthere seemed to be some other separation between us besides that,and besides their being far more clever than I was and knowing muchmore than I did. One of them in the first week of my going to theschool (I remember it very well) invited me home to a little party,to my great joy. But my godmother wrote a stiff letter decliningfor me, and I never went. I never went out at all.
It was my birthday. There were holidays at school on otherbirthdays--none on mine. There were rejoicings at home on otherbirthdays, as I knew from what I heard the girls relate to oneanother--there were none on mine. My birthday was the mostmelancholy day at home in the whole year.
I have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as I knowit may, for I may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeedI don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. Mydisposition is very affectionate, and perhaps I might still feelsuch a wound if such a wound could be received more than once withthe quickness of that birthday.
Dinner was over, and my godmother and I were sitting at the tablebefore the fire. The clock ticked, the fire clicked; not anothersound had been heard in the room or in the house for I don't knowhow long. I happened to look timidly up from my stitching, acrossthe table at my godmother, and I saw in her face, looking gloomilyat me, "It would have been far better, little Esther, that you hadhad no birthday, that you had never been born!"I broke out crying and sobbing10, and I said, "Oh, dear godmother,tell me, pray do tell me, did Mama die on my birthday?""No," she returned. "Ask me no more, child!""Oh, do pray tell me something of her. Do now, at last, deargodmother, if you please! What did I do to her? How did I loseher? Why am I so different from other children, and why is it myfault, dear godmother? No, no, no, don't go away. Oh, speak tome!"I was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and I caught hold of herdress and was kneeling to her. She had been saying all the while,"Let me go!" But now she stood still.
Her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in themidst of my vehemence12. I put up my trembling little hand to clasphers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness I might, butwithdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my flutteringheart. She raised me, sat in her chair, and standing4 me beforeher, said slowly in a cold, low voice--I see her knitted brow andpointed finger--"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and youwere hers. The time will come--and soon enough--when you willunderstand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a womancan. I have forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrongshe did to me, and I say no more of it, though it was greater thanyou will ever know--than any one will ever know but I, thesufferer. For yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned14 and degradedfrom the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that thesins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what iswritten. Forget your mother and leave all other people to forgether who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. Now,go!"She checked me, however, as I was about to depart from her--sofrozen as I was!--and added this, "Submission16, self-denial,diligent17 work, are the preparations for a life begun with such ashadow on it. You are different from other children, Esther,because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness andwrath. You are set apart."I went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheekagainst mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary18 friend uponmy bosom19, cried myself to sleep. Imperfect as my understanding ofmy sorrow was, I knew that I had brought no joy at any time toanybody's heart and that I was to no one upon earth what Dolly wasto me.
Dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone togetherafterwards, and how often I repeated to the doll the story of mybirthday and confided22 to her that I would try as hard as ever Icould to repair the fault I had been born with (of which Iconfessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as Igrew up to be industrious24, contented25, and kind-hearted and to dosome good to some one, and win some love to myself if I could. Ihope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as I think of it.
I am very thankful, I am very cheerful, but I cannot quite helptheir coming to my eyes.
There! I have wiped them away now and can go on again properly.
I felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much moreafter the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in herhouse which ought to have been empty, that I found her moredifficult of approach, though I was fervently26 grateful to her in myheart, than ever. I felt in the same way towards my schoolcompanions; I felt in the same way towards Mrs. Rachael, who was awidow; and oh, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, whocame to see her once a fortnight! I was very retired27 and quiet,and tried to be very diligent.
One sunny afternoon when I had come home from school with my booksand portfolio28, watching my long shadow at my side, and as I wasgliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out ofthe parlour-door and called me back. Sitting with her, I found--which was very unusual indeed--a stranger. A portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat29, largegold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ringupon his little finger.
"This," said my godmother in an undertone, "is the child." Thenshe said in her naturally stern way of speaking, "This is Esther,sir."The gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, "Comehere, my dear!" He shook hands with me and asked me to take off mybonnet, looking at me all the while. When I had complied, he said,"Ah!" and afterwards "Yes!" And then, taking off his eye-glassesand folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair,turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother anod. Upon that, my godmother said, "You may go upstairs, Esther!"And I made him my curtsy and left him.
It must have been two years afterwards, and I was almost fourteen,when one dreadful night my godmother and I sat at the fireside. Iwas reading aloud, and she was listening. I had come down at nineo'clock as I always did to read the Bible to her, and was readingfrom St. John how our Saviour31 stooped down, writing with his fingerin the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him.
"'So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and saidunto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast astone at her!'"I was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to herhead, and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part ofthe book, "'Watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find yousleeping. And what I say unto you, I say unto all, Watch!'"In an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, shefell down on the floor. I had no need to cry out; her voice hadsounded through the house and been heard in the street.
She was laid upon her bed. For more than a week she lay there,little altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute32 frown thatI so well knew carved upon her face. Many and many a time, in theday and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that mywhispers might be plainer to her, I kissed her, thanked her, prayedfor her, asked her for her blessing33 and forgiveness, entreated34 herto give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. No, no, no.
Her face was immovable. To the very last, and even afterwards, herfrown remained unsoftened.
On the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentlemanin black with the white neckcloth reappeared. I was sent for byMrs. Rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had nevergone away.
"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; Kengeand Carboy, Lincoln's Inn."I replied that I remembered to have seen him once before.
"Pray be seated--here near me. Don't distress35 yourself; it's of nouse. Mrs. Rachael, I needn't inform you who were acquainted withthe late Miss Barbary's affairs, that her means die with her andthat this young lady, now her aunt is dead--""My aunt, sir!""It is really of no use carrying on a deception36 when no object isto be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge smoothly37, "Aunt in fact, thoughnot in law. Don't distress yourself! Don't weep! Don't tremble!
Mrs. Rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a--Jarndyce and Jarndyce.""Never," said Mrs. Rachael.
"Is it possible," pursued Mr. Kenge, putting up his eye-glasses,"that our young friend--I BEG you won't distress yourself!--neverheard of Jarndyce and Jarndyce!"I shook my head, wondering even what it was.
"Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce?" said Mr. Kenge, looking over hisglasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if hewere petting something. "Not of one of the greatest Chancery suitsknown? Not of Jarndyce and Jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monumentof Chancery practice. In which (I would say) every difficulty,every contingency38, every masterly fiction, every form of procedureknown in that court, is represented over and over again? It is acause that could not exist out of this free and great country. Ishould say that the aggregate39 of costs in Jarndyce and Jarndyce,Mrs. Rachael"--I was afraid he addressed himself to her because Iappeared inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from SIX-tyto SEVEN-ty THOUSAND POUNDS!" said Mr. Kenge, leaning back in hischair.
I felt very ignorant, but what could I do? I was so entirelyunacquainted with the subject that I understood nothing about iteven then.
"And she really never heard of the cause!" said Mr. Kenge.
"Surprising!""Miss Barbary, sir," returned Mrs. Rachael, "who is now among theSeraphim--""I hope so, I am sure," said Mr. Kenge politely.
"--Wished Esther only to know what would be serviceable to her.
And she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more.""Well!" said Mr. Kenge. "Upon the whole, very proper. Now to thepoint," addressing me. "Miss Barbary, your sole relation (in factthat is, for I am bound to observe that in law you had none) beingdeceased and it naturally not being to be expected that Mrs.
Rachael--""Oh, dear no!" said Mrs. Rachael quickly.
"Quite so," assented40 Mr. Kenge; "--that Mrs. Rachael should chargeherself with your maintenance and support (I beg you won't distressyourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal41 of an offerwhich I was instructed to make to Miss Barbary some two years agoand which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewableunder the lamentable42 circumstances that have since occurred. Now,if I avow44 that I represent, in Jarndyce and Jarndyce and otherwise,a highly humane45, but at the same time singular, man, shall Icompromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" saidMr. Kenge, leaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at usboth.
He appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice.
I couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow46 and full and gavegreat importance to every word he uttered. He listened to himselfwith obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his ownmusic with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. I wasvery much impressed by him--even then, before I knew that he formedhimself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that hewas generally called Conversation Kenge.
"Mr. Jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--I would say,desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at afirst-rate establishment where her education shall be completed,where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wantsshall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently47 qualified48 todischarge her duty in that station of life unto which it haspleased--shall I say Providence49?--to call her."My heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by hisaffecting manner of saying it, that I was not able to speak, thoughI tried.
"Mr. Jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition beyond expressinghis expectation that our young friend will not at any time removeherself from the establishment in question without his knowledgeand concurrence50. That she will faithfully apply herself to theacquisition of those accomplishments51, upon the exercise of whichshe will be ultimately dependent. That she will tread in the pathsof virtue52 and honour, and--the--a--so forth53."I was still less able to speak than before.
"Now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded Mr, Kenge. "Taketime, take time! I pause for her reply. But take time!"What the destitute54 subject of such an offer tried to say, I neednot repeat. What she did say, I could more easily tell, if it wereworth the telling. What she felt, and will feel to her dying hour,I could never relate.
This interview took place at Windsor, where I had passed (as far asI knew) my whole life. On that day week, amply provided with allnecessaries, I left it, inside the stagecoach55, for Reading.
Mrs. Rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but I wasnot so good, and wept bitterly. I thought that I ought to haveknown her better after so many years and ought to have made myselfenough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. When shegave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-dropfrom the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--I felt so miserableand self-reproachful that I clung to her and told her it was myfault, I knew, that she could say good-bye so easily!
"No, Esther!" she returned. "It is your misfortune!"The coach was at the little lawn-gate--we had not come out until weheard the wheels--and thus I left her, with a sorrowful heart. Shewent in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut thedoor. As long as I could see the house, I looked back at it fromthe window through my tears. My godmother had left Mrs. Rachaelall the little property she possessed56; and there was to be a sale;and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to methe first thing in the world I had ever seen, was hanging outsidein the frost and snow. A day or two before, I had wrapped the dearold doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her--I am half ashamedto tell it--in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my oldwindow. I had no companion left but my bird, and him I carriedwith me in his cage.
When the house was out of sight, I sat, with my bird-cage in thestraw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the highwindow, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful piecesof spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night'ssnow, and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice,dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snowaway. There was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the oppositeseat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he satgazing out of the other window and took no notice of me.
I thought of my dead godmother, of the night when I read to her, ofher frowning so fixedly57 and sternly in her bed, of the strangeplace I was going to, of the people I should find there, and whatthey would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice inthe coach gave me a terrible start.
It said, "What the de-vil are you crying for?"I was so frightened that I lost my voice and could only answer in awhisper, "Me, sir?" For of course I knew it must have been thegentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still lookingout of his window.
"Yes, you," he said, turning round.
"I didn't know I was crying, sir," I faltered58.
"But you are!" said the gentleman. "Look here!" He came quiteopposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one ofhis large furry59 cuffs60 across my eyes (but without hurting me), andshowed me that it was wet.
"There! Now you know you are," he said. "Don't you?""Yes, sir," I said.
"And what are you crying for?" said the genfleman, "Don't you wantto go there?""Where, sir?""Where? Why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman.
"I am very glad to go there, sir," I answered.
"Well, then! Look glad!" said the gentleman.
I thought he was very strange, or at least that what I could see ofhim was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and hisface was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps61 at theside of his head fastened under his chin; but I was composed again,and not afraid of him. So I told him that I thought I must havebeen crying because of my godmother's death and because of Mrs.
Rachael's not being sorry to part with me.
"Confound Mrs. Rachael!" said the gentleman. "Let her fly away ina high wind on a broomstick!"I began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with thegreatest astonishment62. But I thought that he had pleasant eyes,although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner andcalling Mrs. Rachael names.
After a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared tome large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm downinto a deep pocket in the side.
"Now, look here!" he said. "In this paper," which was nicelyfolded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got formoney--sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on muttonchops. Here's a little pie (a gem63 this is, both for size andquality), made in France. And what do you suppose it's made of?
Livers of fat geese. There's a pie! Now let's see you eat 'em.""Thank you, sir," I replied; "thank you very much indeed, but Ihope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me.""Floored again!" said the gentleman, which I didn't at allunderstand, and threw them both out of window.
He did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach alittle way short of Reading, when he advised me to be a good girland to be studious, and shook hands with me. I must say I wasrelieved by his departure. We left him at a milestone64. I oftenwalked past it afterwards, and never for a long time withoutthinking of him and half expecting to meet him. But I never did;and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind.
When the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the windowand said, "Miss Donny.""No, ma'am, Esther Summerson.""That is quite right," said the lady, "Miss Donny."I now understood that she introduced herself by that name, andbegged Miss Donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed13 out my boxesat her request. Under the direction of a very neat maid, they wereput outside a very small green carriage; and then Miss Donny, themaid, and I got inside and were driven away.
"Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny, "and thescheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance withthe wishes of your guardian65, Mr. Jarndyce.""Of--did you say, ma'am?""Of your guardian, Mr. Jarndyce," said Miss Donny.
I was so bewildered that Miss Donny thought the cold had been toosevere for me and lent me her smelling-bottle.
"Do you know my--guardian, Mr. Jarndyce, ma'am?" I asked after agood deal of hesitation66.
"Not personally, Esther," said Miss Donny; "merely through hissolicitors, Messrs. Kenge and Carboy, of London. A very superiorgentleman, Mr. Kenge. Truly eloquent67 indeed. Some of his periodsquite majestic68!"I felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it.
Our speedy arrival at our destination, before I had time to recovermyself, increased my confusion, and I never shall forget theuncertain and the unreal air of everything at Greenleaf (MissDonny's house) that afternoon!
But I soon became used to it. I was so adapted to the routine ofGreenleaf before long that I seemed to have been there a greatwhile and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my oldlife at my godmother's. Nothing could be more precise, exact, andorderly than Greenleaf. There was a time for everything all roundthe dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointedmoment.
We were twelve boarders, and there were two Miss Donnys, twins. Itwas understood that I would have to depend, by and by, on myqualifications as a governess, and I was not only instructed ineverything that was taught at Greenleaf, but was very soon engagedin helping70 to instruct others. Although I was treated in everyother respect like the rest of the school, this single differencewas made in my case from the first. As I began to know more, Itaught more, and so in course of time I had plenty to do, which Iwas very fond of doing because it made the dear girls fond of me.
At last, whenever a new pupil came who was a little downcast andunhappy, she was so sure--indeed I don't know why--to make a friendof me that all new-comers were confided to my care. They said Iwas so gentle, but I am sure THEY were! I often thought of theresolution I had made on my birthday to try to be industrious,contented, and true-hearted and to do some good to some one and winsome71 love if I could; and indeed, indeed, I felt almost ashamed tohave done so little and have won so much.
I passed at Greenleaf six happy, quiet years. I never saw in anyface there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have beenbetter if I had never been born. When the day came round, itbrought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my roomwas beautiful with them from New Year's Day to Christmas.
In those six years I had never been away except on visits atholiday time in the neighbourhood. After the first six months orso I had taken Miss Donny's advice in reference to the propriety72 ofwriting to Mr. Kenge to say that I was happy and grateful, and withher approval I had written such a letter. I had received a formalanswer acknowledging its receipt and saying, "We note the contentsthereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client." Afterthat I sometimes heard Miss Donny and her sister mention howregular my accounts were paid, and about twice a year I ventured towrite a similar letter. I always received by return of postexactly the same answer in the same round hand, with the signatureof Kenge and Carboy in another writing, which I supposed to be Mr.
Kenge's.
It seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this aboutmyself! As if this narrative73 were the narrative of MY life! Butmy little body will soon fall into the background now.
Six quiet years (I find I am saying it for the second time) I hadpassed at Greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in alooking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when,one November morning, I received this letter. I omit the date.
Old Square, Lincoln's InnMadam,Jarndyce and JarndyceOur clt Mr. Jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under anOrder of the Ct of Chy, a Ward20 of the Ct in this cause, for whom hewishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that hewill be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity.
We have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eighto'clock coach from Reading, on Monday morning next, to White HorseCellar, Piccadilly, London, where one of our clks will be inwaiting to convey you to our offe as above.
We are, Madam, Your obedt Servts,Kenge and CarboyMiss Esther SummersonOh, never, never, never shall I forget the emotion this lettercaused in the house! It was so tender in them to care so much forme, it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me tohave made my orphan15 way so smooth and easy and to have inclined somany youthful natures towards me, that I could hardly bear it. Notthat I would have had them less sorry--I am afraid not; but thepleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it,and the humble74 regret of it were so blended that my heart seemedalmost breaking while it was full of rapture75.
The letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. Whenevery minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that weregiven me in those five days, and when at last the morning came andwhen they took me through all the rooms that I might see them forthe last time, and when some cried, "Esther, dear, say good-bye tome here at my bedside, where you first spoke7 so kindly76 to me!" andwhen others asked me only to write their names, "With Esther'slove," and when they all surrounded me with their parting presentsand clung to me weeping and cried, "What shall we do when dear,dear Esther's gone!" and when I tried to tell them how forbearingand how good they had all been to me and how I blessed and thankedthem every one, what a heart I had!
And when the two Miss Donnys grieved as much to part with me as theleast among them, and when the maids said, "Bless you, miss,wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame43 old gardener, who Ithought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came pantingafter the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums and toldme I had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!--what a heart I had then!
And could I help it if with all this, and the coming to the littleschool, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outsidewaving their hats and bonnets77 to me, and of a grey-haired gentlemanand lady whose daughter I had helped to teach and at whose house Ihad visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all thatcountry), caring for nothing but calling out, "Good-bye, Esther.
May you be very happy!"--could I help it if I was quite bowed downin the coach by myself and said "Oh, I am so thankful, I am sothankful!" many times over!
But of course I soon considered that I must not take tears where Iwas going after all that had been done for me. Therefore, ofcourse, I made myself sob11 less and persuaded myself to be quiet bysaying very often, "Esther, now you really must! This WILL NOTdo!" I cheered myself up pretty well at last, though I am afraid Iwas longer about it than I ought to have been; and when I hadcooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch forLondon.
I was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten milesoff, and when we really were there, that we should never get there.
However, when we began to jolt78 upon a stone pavement, andparticularly when every other conveyance79 seemed to be running intous, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, Ibegan to believe that we really were approaching the end of ourjourney. Very soon afterwards we stopped.
A young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed mefrom the pavement and said, "I am from Kenge and Carboy's, miss, ofLincoln's Inn.""If you please, sir," said I.
He was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly aftersuperintending the removal of my boxes, I asked him whether therewas a great fire anywhere? For the streets were so full of densebrown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen.
"Oh, dear no, miss," he said. "This is a London particular."I had never heard of such a thing.
"A fog, miss," said the young gentleman.
"Oh, indeed!" said I.
We drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that everwere seen in the world (I thought) and in such a distracting stateof confusion that I wondered how the people kept their senses,until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway80 and droveon through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in acorner, where there was an entrance up a steep, broad flight ofstairs, like an entrance to a church. And there really was achurchyard outside under some cloisters81, for I saw the gravestonesfrom the staircase window.
This was Kenge and Carboy's. The young gentleman showed me throughan outer office into Mr. Kenge's room--there was no one in it--andpolitely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. He then called myattention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one sideof the chimney-piece.
"In case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after thejourney, as you're going before the Chancellor82. Not that it'srequisite, I am sure," said the young gentleman civilly.
"Going before the Chancellor?" I said, startled for a moment.
"Only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman. "Mr.
Kenge is in court now. He left his compliments, and would youpartake of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter ofwine on a small table--"and look over the paper," which the younggentleman gave me as he spoke. He then stirred the fire and leftme.
Everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in theday-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking rawand cold--that I read the words in the newspaper without knowingwhat they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly.
As it was of no use going on in that way, I put the paper down,took a peep at my bonnet30 in the glass to see if it was neat, andlooked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby,dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase fullof the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything tosay for themselves. Then I went on, thinking, thinking, thinking;and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candleswent on flickering83 and guttering84, and there were no snuffers--untilthe young gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for twohours.
At last Mr. Kenge came. HE was not altered, but he was surprisedto see how altered I was and appeared quite pleased. "As you aregoing to be the companion of the young lady who is now in theChancellor's private room, Miss Summerson," he said, "we thought itwell that you should be in attendance also. You will not bediscomposed by the Lord Chancellor, I dare say?""No, sir," I said, "I don't think I shall," really not seeing onconsideration why I should be.
So Mr. Kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under acolonnade, and in at a side door. And so we came, along a passage,into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a younggentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. A screenwas interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on thescreen, talking.
They both looked up when I came in, and I saw in the young lady,with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! With suchrich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent,trusting face!
"Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, "this is Miss Summerson."She came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended,but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me. In short,she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in a fewminutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of thefire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be.
What a load off my mind! It was so delightful86 to know that shecould confide23 in me and like me! It was so good of her, and soencouraging to me!
The young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and hisname Richard Carstone. He was a handsome youth with an ingenuousface and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up towhere we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talkinggaily, like a light-hearted boy. He was very young, not more thannineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older thanshe was. They were both orphans87 and (what was very unexpected andcurious to me) had never met before that day. Our all three comingtogether for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing totalk about, and we talked about it; and the fire, which had leftoff roaring, winked88 its red eyes at us--as Richard said--like adrowsy old Chancery lion.
We conversed89 in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in abag wig90 frequenfly came in and out, and when he did so, we couldhear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of thecounsel in our case addressing the Lord Chancellor. He told Mr.
Kenge that the Chancellor would be up in five minutes; andpresently we heard a bustle91 and a tread of feet, and Mr. Kenge saidthat the Court had risen and his lordship was in the next room.
The gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly andrequested Mr. Kenge to come in. Upon that, we all went into thenext room, Mr. Kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to menow that I can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed inblack and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was hislordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrownupon another chair. He gave us a searching look as we entered, buthis manner was both courtly and kind.
The gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on hislordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one and turnedover the leaves.
"Miss Clare," said the Lord Chancellor. "Miss Ada Clare?"Mr. Kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit downnear him. That he admired her and was interested by her even Icould see in a moment. It touched me that the home of such abeautiful young creature should be represented by that dry,official place. The Lord High Chancellor, at his best, appeared sopoor a substitute for the love and pride of parents.
"The Jarndyce in question," said the Lord Chancellor, still turningover leaves, "is Jarndyce of Bleak92 House.""Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.
"A dreary93 name," said the Lord Chancellor.
"But not a dreary place at present, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.
"And Bleak House," said his lordship, "is in--""Hertfordshire, my lord.""Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House is not married?" said his lordship.
"He is not, my lord," said Mr. Kenge.
A pause.
"Young Mr. Richard Carstone is present?" said the Lord Chancellor,glancing towards him.
Richard bowed and stepped forward.
"Hum!" said the Lord Chancellor, turning over more leaves.
"Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House, my lord," Mr. Kenge observed in a lowvoice, "if I may venture to remind your lordship, provides asuitable companion for--""For Mr. Richard Carstone?" I thought (but I am not quite sure) Iheard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile.
"For Miss Ada Clare. This is the young lady. Miss Summerson."His lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsyvery graciously.
"Miss Summerson is not related to any party in the cause, I think?""No, my lord."Mr. Kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered. Hislordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice orthrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me againuntil we were going away.
Mr. Kenge now retired, and Richard with him, to where I was, nearthe door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again I can'thelp it!) sitting near the Lord Chancellor, with whom his lordshipspoke a little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whethershe had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if shethought she would be happy under the roof of Mr. Jarndyce of BleakHouse, and why she thought so? Presently he rose courteously94 andreleased her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with RichardCarstone, not seated, but standing, and altogether with more easeand less ceremony, as if he still knew, though he WAS LordChancellor, how to go straight to the candour of a boy.
"Very well!" said his lordship aloud. "I shall make the order.
Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House has chosen, so far as I may judge," andthis was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the younglady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which thecircumstances admit."He dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obligedto him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainlylost no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some.
When we got under the colonnade85, Mr. Kenge remembered that he mustgo back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, withthe Lord Chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to comeout.
"Well!" said Richard Carstone. "THAT'S over! And where do we gonext, Miss Summerson?""Don't you know?" I said.
"Not in the least," said he.
"And don't YOU know, my love?" I asked Ada.
"No!" said she. "Don't you?""Not at all!" said I.
We looked at one another, half laughing at our being like thechildren in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezedbonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to uswith an air of great ceremony.
"Oh!" said she. "The wards21 in Jarndyce! Ve-ry happy, I am sure,to have the honour! It is a good omen69 for youth, and hope, andbeauty when they find themselves in this place, and don't knowwhat's to come of it.""Mad!" whispered Richard, not thinking she could hear him.
"Right! Mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he wasquite abashed95. "I was a ward myself. I was not mad at that time,"curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. "I hadyouth and hope. I believe, beauty. It matters very little now.
Neither of the three served or saved me. I have the honour toattend court regularly. With my documents. I expect a judgment96.
Shortly. On the Day of Judgment. I have discovered that the sixthseal mentioned in the Revelations is the Great Seal. It has beenopen a long time! Pray accept my blessing."As Ada was a little frightened, I said, to humour the poor oldlady, that we were much obliged to her.
"Ye-es!" she said mincingly97. "I imagine so. And here isConversation Kenge. With HIS documents! How does your honourableworship do?""Quite well, quite well! Now don't be troublesome, that's a goodsoul!" said Mr. Kenge, leading the way back.
"By no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with Ada and me.
"Anything but troublesome. I shall confer estates on both--whichis not being troublesome, I trust? I expect a judgment. Shortly.
On the Day of Judgment. This is a good omen for you. Accept myblessing!"She stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; butwe looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying,still with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence,"Youth. And hope. And beauty. And Chancery. And ConversationKenge! Ha! Pray accept my blessing!"
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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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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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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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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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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aggregate
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| adj.总计的，集合的；n.总数；v.合计；集合 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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stagecoach
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| n.公共马车 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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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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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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88
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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89
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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90
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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91
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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92
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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93
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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94
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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95
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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97
mincingly
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